#he is the light of my life sigh. and he has been serving with all the amazing fits lately this is truly his Dad peak era. my only beef

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FOUR.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 10k.

NOTE. whewwww so much happens in this. like a lot WAHAHAHAHAH. would love to hear your thoughts and comments, maybe even predictions HAHA. there’s a bit more violence in this than in the previous chapters, but y’all know what you’re getting into. anyhow, enjoy!

THAT DAY WAS PERHAPS THE MOST EVENTUAL DAY YOU’VE HAD AT NALKEUTTA. It’s been two weeks since then, and in the past week you’ve been plagued by contract drafts and notarizing documents, meeting with the groups new clients (i.e. victims) to trap a few more poor souls into this burning death trap, and giving legal advice to Mark Lee whenever he calls and needs.

Honestly, if this was all that your job consisted of, you’d be a pretty happy camper, especially considering the zeroes your bank account is set to accrue. No more hearings every other day. No more angry clients trying to get a slap on the wrist for attempted assault or embezzling company funds or whatever shit. Your work at present is more peaceful than expected— that is, of course, if you exclude what’s been causing you to work overtime these past two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you more often lately, attorney.”

Yeongdeungpo Police Station. Officer Jung tries to entertain you while waiting for Mark’s favorite mutt to get fished out of his cell. No shit, he’s been seeing you often. This is your third time this fucking week. “He didn’t get into any more trouble overnight, did he?”

“No, we made sure to put him in a single cell this time.” You sigh in relief. They should’ve done that the first fucking time. “Hey, attorney…this may be out of line, but—” 

“Then stay in line, officer.”

Maybe your neuroticism is finally slipping through your stiff mask. Your eyes flash up at Officer Jung. He appears taken aback at first, but nods, smiling, and maintains a respectful distance. Sure, he’s hot and all, but you have no intention of hooking up with a cop just to put your career, life, and safety in jeopardy. Mark has eyes everywhere. You’re pretty sure he even has a handful of the officers here under his control.

“Damn. My guardian angel came early today,” 

Enter the bane of your existence itself. He wears an annoying grin on his face while being escorted to you, free from handcuffs meaning he can with his hands whatever he pleases— which, unfortunately, is sticking a middle finger up in the air when the guy that he got into an altercation with passes by, and a second fight almost breaks out while you dumb ass of a, executive just cackles like a madman as the second guy gets held back by the officer escorting him.

You do nothing but yank on the sleeve of his arm, nails digging into fabric and the skin underneath. You’re not strong enough to dislocate him, but by god you wish you were. “Thank you, officer. We’re heading out now.”

Officer Jung smiles at you. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but I doubt you’d want to drive up here for the fourth time this week.”

“Haha.” It’s eight in the evening. You’re tired as fuck.

The moment you succeed in dragging him out of the station to avoid another count of misdemeanor, you wipe your hand on your blazer and quickly march to your car, not even checking if he’s following when you rip open the driver’s seat of your car and slam it back close. Unfortunately, he shoves himself into the front seat before you can lock it. 

“Whew,” he says, buckling himself in. You look at him through the mirror. He’s leaned against the window and his torso is pointed towards you. “Want me to take over the wheel?”

The rev of the engine. You hear Na Jaemin scoff and turn his head away.

“Tough crowd.” He props up an elbow on the window ledge, cheek resting on closed knuckles as you continue to drive to the office when you’ve clocked out three hours ago. “You were pretty chummy with that cop earlier. If I remember, the fucker is the same prick who jumps out of station to wag his tail in front of you whenever you drop by.” 

God, you don't have time for this. You block your ears. You continue driving. You just want to go home, but Na Jaemin isn’t done pissing you off yet.

“You’re pretty amazing aren’t’cha, attorney? That why it only takes a second for you to get us all out?”

Screeeeech!

“Whoa. You’re finally looking at me for once.”

That’s fucking it. You’re not dealing with his shit anymore.

“Get out.” With all this and that damned death threat letter you received, you haven’t exactly been in the most amicable mood. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Yet somehow, Na Jaemin just starts grinning wider in response to your death glare. “But the office is too far away, attorney.” You click your tongue, grip tightening on the steering wheel as you leer away. It’s the dead of night. You’ve pulled over next to a closed laundromat. Your body still refuses to look at the psycho next to you directly. One day, you swear you’re going to rip him apart. 

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Your car lets out a loud honk when you slam your forehead into the car horn, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night. “Ugh.” You release a breath,the sound rasping against your throat. One day, you’re going to kill him. One day.

‎*‎

“Damn, attorney. You look like shit.”

The next morning, Lee Haechan interrupts your coffee break by being an asshole. 

“There’s no one worth looking hot for in this dump.”

“Now, I think that’s what you call a hasty generali—”

“Haechan, I don’t want to fuck you.” His face is a stiff smile, just on the verge of cracking from a fatal injury. You step aside to give him space on the coffee machine, swallowing an almost scalding gulp of your drink. Come to think of it, Na Jaemin isn’t the only idiot you’ve fished out of the police station. “Hey. Hold on. I have a bone to pick with you, bitch.”

Haechan’s mug makes a rattling noise when he prematurely drops it onto the counter. You see a trail of sweat trickle down his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You nearly ran someone over the other day,” you start. “If I have to bail you out for another DUI, you’ll be seeing your car in a landfill.”

They’re so lucky that none of their victims chose to press charges. Thinly veiled threats usually allow you to settle with a compromise for the barest minimum amount for the damages they incur, but your words won’t always work. Still. It seems like Mark doesn’t mind pouring out whatever amount of money to save his valued lap dogs. These mutts are so god damned spoiled.

“Monster! Don’t you dare touch my Penelope!”

You wanna bully him for naming his porsche Penelope, but that’d make you a hypocrite. You don’t want to give up the remaining integrity you have left, so you choose to remain silent instead and finish up your coffee. 

At the same time, you notice a third presence enter the breakroom, and you make the unfortunate decision of peering back, just in time to find Lee Jeno looming behind you. You nearly choke on your coffee. “‘Scuse me,” he says, voice low, and you waste no time scrambling to the side and coughing your lungs out.

Haechan talks to him while the latter pulls out a back container from the cupboards. “Hey, man. How’s the Daeghwang contract going?”

At that question, Jeno’s brows close together and you flinch when he replies with an annoyed grunt. “Bad.” He taps the open mouth of the container against the rim of a glass of water, white powder cascading out. “Cheongang is a pain in the ass.”

“That’s rough. Well, good luck. See you later."

He starts leaving with the glass and you can finally get back to breathing. Seriously. Na Jaemin may scare you and piss you off, but this guy is just intimidation incarnate.

“Hey, what was his fucking deal?” Your voice is both fear-stricken and appalled, pointing at the break room entryway the moment Lee Jeno’s shadow disappears from the floor. “Did I do something to him? He looked like he was gonna punch my teeth out for getting in the way of him and his creatine!”

Haechan has finally finished making his coffee. Instant coffee, which he brings up to his mouth to take a sip. What was the point of giving him way to the machine? “Oh, Jeno? That’s just his face. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “He’s a nice guy, but Mark likes to bring him around when he’s out doing business. Adds to the aura.”

The fuck? Well. Now that you poke into your brain, you finally remember why Lee Jeno had seemed oddly familiar when you were introduced to him. That day you found out your (former) literati, over the bar crush was actually a fucking gang leader who’s actually kind of crazy. Jeno was the one with Mark carrying that big, suspicious duffel bag. That makes sense.

“He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually very diligent and organized. He’s basically Mark’s secretary.” 

This is very hard to wrap your head around, but maybe you’re just being too judgmental. Huh. If this is the case, then Mark has formed a pretty well rounded inner circle for him. Lee Jeno’s the one helping him make sure the oil keeps running, pretty much an all-rounder. Huang Renjun deals with Nalkeutta’s external partnerships. Now, all this makes you wonder—

“Then…what about Na Jaemin?”

There’s a flicker in Haechan’s eyes. He looks at you, eyes peeking above his coffee mug, and you don’t break your gaze. “Curious?” he hums, setting it down onto the counter behind him. “What about me? Don’t you wanna ask about what my role is?”

“I already know that you’re a desperate son of a bitch. What else do you do?”

“God damn, you never hold back.” You know he manages most of the internal affairs. Gratified HR, but you don’t want to grant him the satisfaction that you give a fourth of a shit. “Jaeminnie’s our clean-up dog. Mark knows how to put his maw to good use.”

Clean-up dog. Hah. 

“If there’s anyone Mark needs to be beaten half to death, Jaemin’s the man for the job. The guy basically lives off of the adrenaline he gets from fighting. I think the money is just secondary to him, but who knows. Mark likes to keep him busy with chasing down debtors or else he’d take it out on the nearest Nalkeutta member within arms reach. He seems like a lazy prick, but he’s actually pretty competent and meticulous. Only when blood and bruises are involved, of course.” 

Now, that makes you feel like absolute crap. Not for him, but for you— finding out that you and a psycho have been relegated to essentially the same demeaning position, one judicially and the other extrajudicially. That’s a dig into your pride. It leaves a sourly bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t even have any coffee left to wash it down.

“Well. That is until someone pisses him off. Then things get pretty messy,” Haechan continues with a drawl, checking out his fingernails. Then his eyes flicker up, tipping his head back to flash you a grin. “Which has been more than often lately. He’s been getting into a lot of unrelated fights and trouble. Wonder why.”

Your mouth folds up into a sneer. “Talk about yourself, you serial drunk driver.”

“Let me take you out on a spin with my Porsche next time, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

“And fucking die? No thanks.”

“Aww, cmon! I promise you’ll get the rush of the century, babe, you won’t regret—”

Swoosh!

Thwack!

“Ow, hey, what the the fuck!”

You jump back, gaze darting down to check out the flying object that was punted into Haechan’s temple right. You snicker. It’s a vape pen. You’re about to thank the culprit until you actually find out who it is: lo and behold, Na Jaemin at the break room entrance, looking as smug as ever, and he successfully ruins your day at nine in the morning. “Whoops,” he says, sauntering up to you both, ducking down to swipe the vape pen off the floor before holding it back up. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Haechan. “Hand slipped.”

Haechan’s expression gets twisted. “Oh, you wanna go?” The gap between them closes. Uh-oh. Time to find an opening to leave. “Been a while since our last fight, Jaems.”

“Yeah, you mean the day I used your fucking face as a windshied wiper? Was it fun? Wanna try it again, you little bitch?”

“If you idiots wanna paint the carpet red, let me leave first—”

“No, wait.”

Haechan grabs onto your arm. He beams. 

“We need a referee.”

And that’s how you got held hostage for a dog fight at the parking lot of your company building. It’s not even noon yet. These fuckers need to get sedated.

You question your existence as Haechan and Jaemin warm up, a considerable amount of distance between each other. Why are you even here? “I’ll make sure to give you a show, attorney.” You stare dead forward at the empty space in between, face not looking particularly entertained. And then he shrugs off his jacket, revealing his tank-topped chest, and you choke on your spit. His face lights up at your coughing fit. “Keep your eyes on m—”

Thwack!

“Whoops.”

Oh, what the fuck, you blink and all of a sudden Haechan has lunged forward to sock him straight in the kisser.

“Hand slipped.” Haechan draws back his arm, grinning. Oh shit. You’re unable to see the entirety of Na Jaemin’s face. His head is turned, eyes covered up by his hair. You watch as he hacks up his throat to spit out a blotch of red on the concrete ground. For a second there, you think he’s pissed.

Then he lifts up his head, revealing the crooked, blood-stained grin on his teeth.

“You been practicing for me, Donghyuckie?”

This guy just got punched. He just got punched in the face and he’s smiling. 

That’s when things start getting uglier and you’re forced to watch two grown men brawl as their favorite pastime. Wow, they’re just going at it. Haechan lands another hook into Jaemin’s jaw and he quickly jumps away before the former can grab onto him. From what you can tell, Haechan’s a very sneaky fighter, retreating after every strike— almost as if he’s buzzing around Na Jaemin and nipping at him like a mosquito 

“Oi.” Na Jaemin’s jaw is tight. “There’s no fun in this. Get over here.”

“Whoa!” Haechan manages to dodge another one of Jaemin’s attempts to grab at him. “No thanks!” 

Yeah. Now Na Jaemin is definitely getting pissed. You can almost see the vein popping out of his neck when Haechan fails to duck quick enough, allowing Jaemin to grab a fistful of his hair. Haechan lets out a pained grunt when Jaemin yanks his head down, allowing full access to his face— allowing you to witness the blood drain from Haechan’s face in real time, at the very moment.

“Quit running away, you fuckin’ rat.” 

Jaemin winds his arm back. You squeeze your eyes shut. And then you hear the sound of a fist hitting bone.

“That’s more like it.”

Jesus, his voice is nothing but pure elation. That’s it. You’ve seen enough of this demon’s madness to conclude that Haechan had just lost. This is where they differ— Na Jaemin doesn’t like fighting. He likes watching the willpower drain from his opponents eyes after each blow until they’re back and blue and have lost the will to live. A textbook sadist. The moment Na Jaemin has you in his grasp, you’re as good as a dead man. And that much is obvious with how much Haechan is struggling to get out of his grip without ripping a chunk of his hair off.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life “Grit your teeth, buddy.”

Haechan responds with a nervous laugh, dangling half on the floor. “Hey, man, I thought we were just sparring for fun, yeah? Let’s take it easy, ok— oof!”

Aaaaand, that’s your cue to stop watching. If the roles were reversed, then maybe you’d be more interested. You’ve seen this show and multiple encores back in high school already. So while they’re busy killing each other, you quietly sneak off to your car just a few parking spots away to retouch your lipstick. Maybe grab a snack from the glove compartment. Anything other than this mess, for sure.

Anything. Yeah, nevermind. Maybe not anything because the moment you reach your car, you notice something stuck on your windshield wipers.

There’s a wrinkly slip of paper there.

When you fold it open, it’s revealed to be a mortuary pamphlet. There’s scrawl all over it. Red marker. Count your fucking days, attorney. Wow. Not very up for interpretation. Does this fucker think you’re fourteen?

“Hey.”

You flinch. You turn your head back. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing here, but apparently long enough for Lee Haechan to gather a collection of blood and bruises as he tries and fails to wiggle out of Na Jaemin’s grip.

The latter isn’t even looking at him. He looks at you as he jerks Haechan back to his knees.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s only now that you notice your hands are shaking. You hiss out a swear and crumple the sheet in the tight lump and stuff it into your slack pockets. “Some bastard left their trash on my car,” you grunt, stomping away from your car and back up to them. “Anyway, are you two done playing? Unlike you two, I have a semi-normal job here and still have work to do.”

“Not until you declare the winner, attorney.”

Na Jaemin finally decides to let the poor guy go. Haechan gets dropped to the ground with a thump, groaning in obvious pain. You look down at him, sighing. “Why’d you even provoke him if you were gonna lose anyway?”

Yeah, you’re not giving Na Jaemin the satisfaction. Haechan lets out a breath and a laugh as he settles on the parking lot floor, propped up by his elbows. “I thought I’d stand a chance toda.” He cracks at you. “But it seems like my plan backfired. Too bad.”

Although you refused to declare Na Jaemin the winner, it seems like his fight with Haechan was enough to pacify him for a while.

Seems like the bastard had his fill. You didn’t get any phone calls from Mark or the station nor did you receive any more threatening death threats over the weekend. It’s great. You hit 10,000,000g in Stardew and will soon have the same amount in your bank account. Monday rolls around again though, and you have to spend the entire day out of office to join Mark and Jeno for the Daehgwang meeting. 

It’s so peaceful. The thorns in your side have been so well behaved. Haechan’s porsche got seized by the government because he forgot to pay last month, meaning he no longer has a vehicle to drive under the influence with. Na Jaemin hasn’t even gotten into another altercation.

At least not for the past three days.

On Tuesday evening, you get another ring from the station. 

“It was a 5v1,” Na Jaemin informs you, grinning with a new busted lip on top of his bruises from Haechan. “I won.”

This time, you drive off before he could even get into your car.

‎*‎

“I swear to god, Renjun, it’s like he gets off from getting handcuffed and ruining lives.”

Renjun is your favorite Nalkeutta member so far. Meaning, he’s the unfortunate soul that’s stuck with hearing your whines and complaints over a jenga game in his office. It didn’t take much to convince him into joining you to get paid for goofing around on company time— however, you didn’t exactly advertise having to be your unpaid therapist for the time being.

“Who are you talking about again?” he asks after pulling out a successful block from the tower.

“Na Jaemin.” You crane your neck, squinting at the remaining blocks for an opening. “Does he die if he can’t get into trouble with law enforcement once a week or some shit? God dammit, this tower is tight.”

You’ve always known he was a sadistic fuck since high school. But you thought that only extended to physical pain. Apparently he has a penchant for inflicting psychological pain as well. “Uh-uh, sure he got into messes before— try that one.” You prod on the block he points at until it becomes loose. “But he wasn’t always this bad.”

The block slides out. You put it back on top and sit straight. “Haechan said something like that too.” Your brows furrow. “What exactly do you guys mean by that?”

Renjun shrugs, poking around the block tower. “He’d usually get into fights outside the job like twice a month max.”

He pulls out the wrong block. The tower collapses on the coffee table.

“I think it was around the time you joined that he got worse.”

It clicks. You understand now.

“Hey, let’s play again, that was a— wait, where are you going?”

You storm out of his office and stomp into your own. Na Jaemin doesn’t get off from ruining lives in general— it seems like he gets a special kick out ruining yours in particular. Fuck’s sake. You thought he was just a lunatic for getting into bar fights thrice a week. Apparently being his high school alarm clock for two years wasn’t enough. He needs you to contract occupational depression too. 

Inside your office now. You bang a hand into your desktop keyboard because the printer is taking too long to vomit out the shitty piece of paper. You rip it out from its mouth and march into Ganghak Division, heels clicking against the tile— a sound most have already attributed to your presence, but this time so, so loudly that heads turn at each hollow clack— and the sound halts the moment you see one of his employees that you’ve flagged as a pushover the moment he’d been admitted here.

“Park Sion.” You grab him by the shoulder. “Is your dickhole of a boss in?”

He flinches and blinks his wide open eyes at you, gulping. “Y—yes?”

You grunt and push past him, printout in hand. You spot the door that has a frosted glass window in the middle. You make a beeline and kick it open with a loud bang!

“What in the name of fuck—”

The words get cut out from Na Jaemin’s throat the moment you lock eyes, and the pissed off expression on his face gets replaced by the cold splash of surprise and something you don’t give a fuck to decipher. 

“A—attorney.” He clears his throat and tries to scramble himself back together. “Wow. Came to give a little visit?”

There’s someone else in the room— another Ganghak high schooler, standing straight and firm and nervous before his desk with a deck of papers pressed to his chest. You click your tongue barrel forward, shoving yourself between them and slam the piece of paper on his desk, a huff escaping your nostrils as you stare him down with the animosity of a thousand suns. He’s still a little shell-shocked, brows uplifted and eyes blinking before he looks down and slides the paper up to him.

“I hate your fucking guts,” he reads out your message printed in Cambria 14. You smile when he looks up from the page to meet your stare. It hurts your cheeks. Then you spin your heels and may your merry way out of his office in the best mood you’ve ever been since getting here— and this change of demeanour is very much noticed by every single Nalkeutta member that you walk past, turning heads of both horror and concern as you hum back to Huang Renjun’s territory.

Renjun turns his head to the door when you knock and swing it open.

“Whew.” You fall back onto his office sofa, causing his newly built jenga tower to tumble down. “Shit, that was cathartic. I needed that.” 

He stares at his fallen tower, a somber expression on his face. “Are you gonna share it with the class?”

You do, in fact, share it with the class alongside your hypothesis that Na Jaemin hates your particular guts to the point that he’s actively making your living hell. Renjun is attentive throughout your whole rant session— nodding along to your cries and swears while he rebuilds your tower, and he places the last block on top just in time for you to finally run out of steam. “I swear to god, he has it out for me, Renjun” you finish off with a huff, sinking deeper into his sofa.

That in itself is bad, but apparently it could get worse.

“He could be doing it because he hates you, sure,” he starts, prodding into the newly built tower. “But have you considered the opposite?”

Because Huang Renjun injects a truly horrifying idea inside your head.

“What?”

He hums, locking into the middle piece at the very bottom of the stack. 

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but on the days you give Jaemin the slightest bit of tolerant attention he doesn’t act out.”

He, then, slides the piece out.

“And whenever you flat out ignore him for the entire day, I get a colorful text from you that Na Jaemin is in a holding cell again and you’re on the way driving to get him out.”

He takes it into his hand—

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention.”

—and finally sets it on top of the tower to restart the game.

“Your turn.”

You’re frozen in your seat. You carefully think back to all the times you’ve been plagued to bail him out— the first time, which was the night of the recruitment bullshit, and you did talk to him then. Granted it was to insult his smoking habits, but that completely debunks Renjun’s theory right? How about the other times— like the day after the first incident and you were far too pissed to even give him the light of day— wait. Wait. 

No fucking way. Did you see him the day you left with Mark and Jeno to deal with the Daeghwang contract? You did pass him by, but why the fuck would you have greeted him? Shit. Oh my god. This is the most depraved shit you’ve ever been cursed to consider and you’d once debated offing a man just to win a court case. 

You don’t want to believe it. There’s no fucking way.

So, you put it to the test first thing in the morning to make sure that Huang Renjun is nothing but a delusional fuck who just wants you paranoid.

You walk out of Mark’s office with him after a quick discussion on how to strengthen their loan contracts. He asks if you’ve been getting enough sleep lately and the answer to the question is in the very same hallway that you’re passing through, walking the opposite direction as the both of you.

“Jaemin-ah, good morning,” Mark greets him. The guy only stifles a grunt in reply before turning his attention to you.

You look at him. Not at him, but on the silver chain hanging around his neck because you don’t feel very brave at the moment. “Good morning, Na Jaemin-ssi.” Then you immediately scuttle away, leaving a nonplussed yet still pleasant demeanored Mark behind to catch up with you and bounce for coffee.

That entire day, you wait for a phone call from the station to arrive.

Night comes. You’re about to go to bed. Your phone does not make a single buzz. Nothing. 

You’re horrified. You’re really, truly horrified.

Listen, you’ve never been dense to a man’s advances. You’re not stupid. You know when someone has a crush on your because always a standard operating procedure, the cut and dry tactics of trying to take you out for a meal or a drink, calling you pretty, or whatever the fuck. No one fucking flirts by violating the law multiple times a week just so you’d pick him up from the police station. So, you can’t exactly be blamed when you never saw this coming.

This singular thought plagues you for the rest of the week. So much so, that you don’t exactly trust yourself driving almost an hour over the weekend to Gyeonggi to meet up with some friends from law school, so you take public transportation instead. 

The problem is, you couldn’t even enjoy your fucking brunch because they kept asking why you quit JSS, so all you could think about is all the men that have plagued you to ruination— one bastard standing out in particular.

“Seriously, is he a fucking lunatic or something?”   

“Who’s the fucking lunatic or something?”

You’d been waiting at the bus stop on the way back to Yeongdeungpo when a convertible you don’t recognize pulls over, but the person sitting in the driver’s seat definitely is. Your face sours. Then dread washes over.

“Heard from Mark that you needed a ride,” Haechan tips down his sunglasses, smiling. “Hop in. Let me take you out for a spin on my new baby, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

Oh no. Fuck. Your days of relative peace from the police are over. You need to hire someone to wreck this orange-painted nightmare before you’re forced to deal with an inevitable hit and run case. This thing is an accident waiting to happen. It needs to fucking go.

Not right now, though. You do need a ride. 

“Mind stopping by a pharmacy first? I think I’m having fucking indigestion.”

You also need to know where he parks this thing. You take a few steps back and snap your phone camera at his license plate before hopping in the car. “Why? Shitty date?” he hums, starting up the engine. “I can do you one better, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck and drive or else I’ll be needing more than just antacids.”

“Gotchu.”

It’s not that being a stuck-up bitch is your default. It’s just that you know better than to get yourself entangled into Nalkeutta more than you already are especially when the one thing you’re looking for is an out. The both of you make a stop at the nearest pharmacy in Gyeonggi and you pick up your medicine. Outside the store, Haechan spots a small hotteok stand to bribe you to hang out with him a bit more before heading back to Yeongdeungpo.

Ugh. You don’t wanna get back in there. That’s where Na Jaemin is and lately he’s been mentally perturbing you more than pissing you off or scaring you. You take a bite into the warm snack and start talking with a semi-full mouth. “By the way. Renjun told me something interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he muffles out. 

“That Na Jaemin deliberately gets into trouble to get my attention,” you flatly say, looking at the syrup you just wiped off your mouth before licking it off. “I need a dissenting opinion or else I might actually go clinically insane.”

“Oh, you just noticed?” he says, walking back to his car and you follow. “Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. It’s pretty obvious.” 

Well. No dissenting opinion. Guess you’ll have to go insane.

“I thought bringing you to our fight the other day would distract his messed up brain. But apparently the sick fuck just got more excited knowing that you were watching. He got bored when you went back into the office. I really should’ve known better.”

“Wait, if you knew that your insane friend has a fuckied up crush on me, then why have you been trying to hit on me in front of his face?”

The both of you get back into the car. Haechan spares you a glance and a grin.

“It’s funny,” he cackles. The car starts moving. Slower than you expected. It’s surprising that this guy is actually receptive to feedback, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I never get a reaction out of him otherwise. And, I gotta correct you about something, attorney. There are no friends in Nalkeutta.”

There’s a soft breeze brushing past your ears. You peer at him, a tug on your lips. “So, we’re not friends?” 

You almost snort seeing the way his shoulders flinch. The first time you speak to him without an ounce of venom, this idiot folds.

“I thought we’d gotten closer recently, Haechan.”

There’s no missing the way his ears flare up despite keeping his eyes on the road. God, this is pretty funny. The reason why you’re not as creeped out by the idea that another one of your co-workers harbors a petty crush on you despite the fact that they’re both demented and violent is simply because one has singlehandedly turned your last two years of highschool into a traumatic hell while also not giving enough of a fuck to remember the trauma he caused, and the other has not. 

Still, you’re not indulging Lee Haechan any more than this because you still have some self respect. You wanna continue dicking around with this newfound power a bit more, but your high is quickly shut down by a shiver down your spine.

You jolt in your seat. Your eyes flash to the rearview. There’s a taxi trailing behind. 

“Haha, have—have we gotten closer…? I thought you were more friends with Renjun, and—”

“Haechan, turn right.”

“What? That’s not the route ba—”

“Just fucking do it.”

With a concerned yet suspicious furrow of his brow, Haechan obliges your abrupt request, and what do you know— the moment you guys make a turn, the vehicle behind you does the same. “Now, make another right.” Your narrowed eyes remain fixed on the back mirror. “Left. Keep going.” 

Your companion isn’t dull. He notices the same thing as you do at the third nonsensical turn. You hear him click his tongue, feigning annoyance, but no form of play pretend could even attempt to hide the wicked grin sprawling on his face in excitement.

Ah, shit. You instinctively clutch onto the seat belt straps as if you’re holding onto your dear life. “Hey, attorney,” he starts, shifting pedals. “Hold on tight.”

What the hell does it look like you’re doing? 

The blazing hiss of rubber screeching against asphalt. This might very well be the day you die.

‎*‎

“C’mon, it’s been two weeks! Are you still mad?”

Yes. It’s been two weeks since your latest near death experience and it wasn’t even at the hands of your stalker, whom you managed to shake off thanks to Haechan, but the fact that these very past two weeks was spent trying to settle with his fucking hit and run victim has clearly pulverized any semblance of gratefulness you felt towards him.

Right now, he’s trying to win your forgiveness over by dropping a box of macarons from the new bakery in the district onto your lovely desk Savannah. You flip the box open as aggressively as you can and rip apart the unfortunate pink cookie with your teeth while you stare at him dead in the eye. He flinches. He tries to form a smile but it’s all crooked and nervous. “Sooo…are we good now?”

You finish up the remnants of your first victim and pull open your drawer, and Haechan watches as you take out a few staples pieces of paper before handing it to him.

“What’s this?” 

He opens his mouth first before reading. You marvel at the decline of man’s average intelligence.

“It’s a contract,” you hum. “Sign it, and I’ll hang out with you again.”

“Oh, sweet!” he enthuses and fishes out a pen from your variety assortment, setting the sheet down onto the polished mahogany surface. He’s already started the first stroke of his legally binding signature when he actually inquires into the nature of the contract. “You should’ve just given this to me days ago, damn I even went to— wait. What’s this about impounding my car?”

You quickly try to snatch the paper back, but Haechan may be dumber than you but he is stronger. He quickly flits back to the first page, squinting at the fine print very close to his face, and after a moment of realization, he jerks his arms down to release a horrified gasp.

“Evil! Evil woman!” He points an accusatory finger. “How could you attempt to do this to me and my Josephine?!”

His curses fall on deaf ears. You remove a bushel of lint from your blaze lapels and flick it off into a corner of your office. “I think it’s a fair agreement,” you languidly say. “We get to be friends for so long as you refrain from getting into another traffic accident. Otherwise, say goodbye to your dearest Josephine.”

“No!”

A knock on your door interrupts the tantrum you caused. It gets quiet. A head peeks in. It’s Mark.

“Are you two busy?” he asks, likely having heard your…conversation from outside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Immediately, you shift your attention away from the high speeding demon and straighten your back towards your boss. “Not at all. What’s the matter?”

Haechan quietly greets him as well in a grumble, stepping aside in order to surrender his spot in front of your desk to Mark. “Oh, it’s not at all a source of worry,” he assures with a hum. “It’s just that, it’s been over a month since you’ve graced Nalkeutta with your expertise, but we haven’t even thrown you a welcome party yet. Things have indeed been hectic with our clients one top with our ongoing problem with Cheongang, yet these issues aren’t justifications to prevent your warm welcome.”

There’s a smile on Mark’s face. Oh no. You know where this is going and despair befalls over your face.

See, you’re not exactly against company dinners. Back in JSS, it was a regular opportunity to get your bosses and partners blackout drunk so they don’t remember you recording their not-very-proud moments. But right now, you’re not exactly keen on going home late considering your whole stalker death threat situation.

“I already booked a bar near the bridge. Let’s all take the evening off.”

Well. Now that there’s no way out of this, all you can do is hope that today isn’t your due date yet.

Evening comes, and you’re suffered to be in Na Jaemin’s presence again. He’s in the company car that Mark ushers you into, sitting in the front seat next to Jeno and you two make a split second of eye contact through the mirror before stumbling into the car seat with an annoyed grunt. God, you’ve been so busy these past two weeks that you weren’t even given the chance to stress about him. Now you’re trapped with him for the rest of the night with little to know chance to escape.

Throughout the drive, you contemplate faking sickness again but unfortunately you never got the opportunity to set it up, so you just come up with your roster of excuses in case the amount of men inside the lounge starts becoming noxious to you.

“Cheers!”

The moment drinks start rolling in, they’re cheering for your name and title—- under duress, maybe, because it was preceded by a late welcome speech from the big boss himself. Mark pours you a drink and you’re obligated to swallow it down, burning your throat. Ugh. 

Obviously, not every Nalkeutta member is here right now. Aside from Mark and his four executives, two to three lower ranking members from each division have also been extended the invitation. You recognize Zhong Chenle from Hyeongshin and Na Jaemin’s favorite lackey, Park Jisung, held hostage by his boss in a torture chamber of shot after shot after shot.

“How are you holding up?” 

Renjun settles into the velvet seat next to you— unoccupied for the last hour because Haechan is still throwing a tantrum after your attempted vehicular slaughter, Na Jaemin maybe, finally took the eloquently worded message that you delivered the other week to heart, and the rest of Nalkeutta’s members are too intimidated to sit near the in-house lawyer that regularly stomps around in a flurry of swears throughout the office and your heel clicks harbors fear.

“Fantastic,” you deadpan, bringing the god rush you ordered to your lips. “I’m tipsy and cold and want nothing more than to knock myself out via head injury right now. You think if I announce that my period just arrived, they’d be too uncomfortable to stop me from leaving?”

“You’d probably succeed, but I don’t exactly recommend you leaving by yourself.”

“This is Nalkeutta’s territory, what kind of fucking idiot would try to jump me?”

“Well, things are precarious with Cheongang right now, and—”

You’re interrupted by a meek “Ex—excuse me,” from a Daehyeon subordinate. Lee Jeno’s subordinate. You look up and raise a brow at him. The guy’s face is embarrassed and he’s holding out a jacket. “The…the boss told me to give you this.” Your eyes flit down to the article, hanging sleeves barely brushing against the bare skin of your thighs that your pencil skirt is failing to cover, and you look up across the room to see the said co-worker conversing with Jaemin, now in a compression shirt when you could’ve sworn he was more covered up earlier. 

Again, you briefly meet eyes with Jaemin. You cough and look away, accepting the jacket with a thank you before the grunt scurries away. Then you recall Haechan’s words. He’s a nice guy. Man, if only you went to Daehyeon in high school, you’d probably be a lot saner today. 

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Renjun continues. “It’s a little dangerous right now and those guys are just across the bridge. They could be loitering around nearby.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine, I don’t go around unarmed you know.” You adjust the newly acquired cover on your lap. “Well. Maybe I do have something to worry about considering there’s a creepy stalker threatening to kill me.”

It’s like the entire room screeches into a tense halt.

“What?” Haechan finally decides to grow up and talk to you, marching up to your side of the lounge with a knitted look. “What do you mean stalker?” 

The repetition of the word attracts everyone’s attention if your first utterance hadn’t already. Drinks stop pouring. You notice eyes on you— particularly from across the room, which you promptly brush off to entertain Haechan’s question. “Oh, you know the day you ran over that grocery owner? The one I had to beg just so he wouldn’t sue you?”

“Yeah, I fucking know, but what do you mean you’re being stalk—” It hits him. “Fuck. The taxi. I thought it was just another one of my enemies training me!”

“Attorney, is this true?” Mark finally enters the conversation, uncharacteristically concerned. “And did you say this person is threatening to kill you?”

You meant to say it as a self deprecating joke. You didn’t expect these guys to actually clock your words and take you seriously.

“Attorney?”

You don’t answer verbally. Instead you grab your purse and pull out the envelope that’s been cozying up in there since you first got it. You set its contents down on the table for everyone to see, followed by the mortuary pamphlet you retrieved from your windshield. “This one was attached to my car in the company parking lot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a personal vendetta and has nothing to do with Nalkeutta, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s disappointing, but this is all you have. There are no texts or phone calls. You have nothing on this bastard but a letter and a note.

Mark’s holding up the letter. You notice the pamphlet wrinkle in between Haechan’s fingers. “When did you get this?”

“Uhhh, the day Na Jaemin beat the shit out of you?”

“God fucking dammit.” He tosses it back to the table and throws his hands in the air before stomping off in frustration. Renjun scolds him and gives the note back to you, and you promptly fold it to return to your purse, along with the letter Mark offers back to you.

“There’s security cameras there,” he says. “Have you checked them yet?”

“I did and he was masked and covered up. Same with the footage from my building. I checked in with my landlady the day after I received the note at my doorstep, and she wasn’t around when it happened.” 

“He knows where you live?!”

“Jesus,” Renjun breathes out. “You’re practically buddies with the cops at the station, why didn’t you report it?” 

You simply sigh in your seat and set your purse aside. Honestly, you’re getting annoyed. Do they think you’re fucking stupid? Do they think you’re just letting this freak run around because you want to? Fucking ridiculous. “There’s barely any evidence to identify him, much less to penalize him for anything more than a fine and a warning. I thought I’d wait until I have enough under my belt to ensure a final conviction.”

“And continue risking your life? Are you fucking stupid?”

It’s Na Jaemin who says that.

He’s still sitting in the same spot as earlier, unmoving from his seat across the lounge, staring at you with a weight that practically digs into flesh and bone. Your jaw clenches. You ignore his insult with a roll of your eyes and you down the remaining half of your cocktail.

“This isn’t something we can just take lightly, attorney,” Mark tells you as though he’s genuinely concerned, but you call bullshit. He just doesn’t like the idea of losing his safety net from the law. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your brows twitch. You firmly set the glass down on the mess of a table. “It seemed personal,” you answer, pointedly. “I didn’t think it concerned the company. That’s all.”

There’s quiet. You don’t look up from your seat, pouring yourself another drink. There’s a ticking in your ear. You’re frustrated. A groan scratches out of your throat and you quickly try to wash it down with a lean glass of whiskey, but Renjun manages to snatch it out of your hands with a disappointed click of his tongue before you succeed with your attempt. 

You snap your head at him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Maybe you should call it a night,” says, taking out his phone. “What’s your address? I’ll book an Uber.”

“He’s right, but you shouldn’t go alone,” Mark interjects. You look at him like he’s vomiting out shit from his mouth. He ignores it and instead turns back— gaze directed to the set of seats across the room. “Jaemin, make sure she makes it back home safely.”

“What?” Your voice is a shriek. You jolt onto your feet. “I understand you’re trying to look out for your employee, but why does it have to be him?”

 Na Jaemin is already pulling on a jacket. Your bite down your lip. You already have one crazy asshole knowing where you live. You don’t need another one.

“He’s the only one capable and hadn’t had anything to drink.”

“What about Renjun!”

The man in question looks the slightest bit sorry and embarrassed. “Listen, I don’t wish upon your death, attorney, but if that threat comes tonight, I can’t protect you. I already told you that I don’t fight.”

Fucking hell. You deflate like a balloon. Mark takes your lack of further complaints as surrender and nods at Jaemin, who promptly starts ushering you out of the reserved room. “I already know that you fucking hate my guts, attorney, but now’s not the time to be picky.”

“Just take your damned orders as is like a good dog and don’t fucking talk to me.”

Frankly, you’re heated right now. That entire situation was patronizing. You can’t stomach being treated like some goddamn helpless bitch who can’t handle her own dirty laundry when you’ve been cleaning up for them for most of your fucking career. You just need time. You just need enough cards and opportunities to fuck this stalker over. It’s not beyond your capabilities. It’s not something you need a dysfunctional circus gang to fix for you.

Thankfully, your guard dog doesn’t try to pick a fight throughout the uber ride home. He’s garnered enough tact this past week to figure out your sour mood.

It’s just as quiet when you finally arrive at your building. Na Jaemin follows you all the way to the entrance. The key remains slotted into the doorhole, unturned. “What are you doing?”

You hear him scoff from beside you. “Doing my fucking job like a good dog. Your stalker left the love letter on your doorstep. You think I’d stop here?” 

“Ugh. Fine.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him up to your unit. The moment you reach the door, you spin your heels to look at him without exactly looking him in the eye. “Alright, we’re here and I’m alive and not dead. Now leave me al—”

You stop. You stop because just when you’re reaching out for your doorknob— almost relieved that you can finally rest and end the day with a shower and good night’s sleep— you notice dents on the metal that weren’t there before.

Na Jaemin notices the same thing. His brows are furrowed. He brushes your hand aside and the handle rattles with a twist. It’s unlocked. You didn’t leave it unlocked this morning. 

You remain glued to the hallway floor as you watch Na Jaemin open the door. 

The moment an opening cracks, he gets smashed on the head with your wooden counter stool and you let out a squeak and yell.

“Fucking hell!” 

“W—wait, you’re not—!”

He hisses in pain but takes less than a second to recover, grabbing onto one of the chair legs to jerk the entire thing back and reach out for the extended arm of the person wielding it before he could let go. You hear a fit of fighting grunts from inside. The chair gets dropped to the ground. Na Jaemin disappears into your apartment with the thrashing culprit, exchanging threats and swears, and it takes you a moment to get back to your senses, the thumping in your ears becoming less and less deafening, and you take your few steps inside.

To say the least, your living room is a mess.

The couch is tipped over. Your rug is in tatters. This fucker was gracious enough to spare your T.V., and your wide eyes immediately dart over to the center of it all— the sight of Na Jaemin pressing the struggling culprit against your once clean floors. 

“Fuck, let— go! Get the fuck off me! Agh—!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking arms.” Na Jaemin nods his head up, not even budging. “Hey, attorney. You call the shots. What do you want me to do?”

You stare at the man underneath him— the man responsible for making the mess out of your apartment and everything that preceded this very moment. You look at his face, bunched up in rage and shame and frustration, and that’s when you recognize him: your last case at JSS. The sweet, sweet old lady you helped pen her will. The same will that disinherited her two prodigal sons. You met them before. Both of them, because your client wanted to break it to them personally even though she wasn’t legally obligated to, all because she’s such a kind person.

That same person gave birth to despicable trash like this one.

They weren’t happy to hear the news. And since their mother is still under the protection order you arranged, this guy decided that the next best thing to take his anger out on is the lawyer that helped his mother screw them over.

Na Jaemin is still waiting for your answer. The right thing to do would be to take him to the station, finally file the report so they could force an admission of guilt. There’s a CCTV camera in the hallway and even if he was covered up, there’s still clear evidence of breaking and entering on top of everything he’s done to torment you so far. That’s the right thing to do. The legal thing to do.

But right now, you’re simmering. 

No, fuck it, your blood is boiling. You shrug off your blazer and toss it as a new addition to your messed up apartment floor. You roll back your right shoulder. You take a few more steps forward, staring him down on the ground. “Hold him up,” you tell Na Jaemin. It takes a second for him to register your instruction. But when it does, you couldn’t even miss the wild grin that stretches on his face— even if you wanted to.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says with a lace of amusement, ignoring the bouts of protest from the guy when he lugs him up to his feet like a ragdoll, locking him in place with two arms, and leaving him open and vulnerable. 

The first thing you do is yank his chin up by the hair. It’s a sight to see— the sheer hatred and animosity someone is capable of mustering on their face, even when they’re at someone else’s mercy. 

It’s funny. You sneer. Then you grab the other side of his head and slam his nose into your knee.

“Fuck!”

“Son of a bitch.” You jerk his head back up, watching the blood dribble down from his nostrils. “Did you have fun pulling your dumb ass tricks?”

He lets out a pained groan, but still has the strength to shoot you a glare. You let go of his scalp to grab him by the collar so you can have a better grip of slapping him in the face.

Smack!

“Shit—”

“May life is already a living hell dealing with these Nalkeutta fuckers every single day—” 

Whack!

“And then your ugly ass rears in to make things all the more worse.”

Thwap!

“Your disinheritance is none of my fucking business.”

Slap!

“To think I was scared and paranoid for weeks and weeks and weeks because of some broke ass pathetic prick.”

Crack! Your bloodied fist draws back from his jaw. He sputters out a bubble of red. You’re practically holding him up by the stretched out collar of his shirt. 

“Hey,” you say, giving him a rattle. “What gives you the right to do all of that to me, huh? Huh?”

When he doesn’t answer, you feel a tick in your temple. You go in for another smack to his face, but it doesn’t happen.

“That’s enough.”

You’ve always thought that if Na Jaemin were to grab you by the wrist, he’d immediately snap it into two.

“You’re gonna regret it tomorrow.”

The shock from the gentle fitness of his grip sends you back to reality, and you finally feel the dull throb on the knuckles of your right hand, the sharp tingle on the skin of your palms that seeps into muscle and flesh. You let go of him. You see splotches of red all over, and the eventual sores and bruises that’ll show up by the morning. 

You call your landlady. Na Jaemin accompanies you to the station to turn your stalker in along with all the evidence you managed to acquire. Officer Jung questions the state of the perpetration, and when you chalk it up as self-defense, he doesn’t press further and simply wishes you a good rest. 

The moment you walk out into the lobby and see Na Jaemin waiting, you’re hit with an uncomfortable whiplash at the unprompted role reversal. You don’t fight him or anything when he takes you back home. All you could do was muster a quiet, “Thanks,” when he tells you that he sent over some Ganghak members to clean up the mess of your apartment in the hour and a half that you spent at the precinct.

“Mark says you don’t have to come in tomorrow,” he tells you before you go on.

“Wasn’t planning to,” is what you say before finally closing the door on him.

‎*‎

Unfortunately, Na Jaemin was right.

“Ow! Shit! Fuck me!”

You are, indeed, regretting your whole fit of violence right now— over your bathroom counter with your med kit sprawled open. Your hands are a mess. You bandage yourself up before attempting to make breakfast. The attempt ends with you hissing in pain every time you try to hold something with your right hand, so you end up ordering something to eat instead.

While waiting, you plop down on your down fixed couch to answer the flood of messages that had been coming in since last night. Mostly from Haechan. One text from Renjun checking in on you. The last few from Mark telling you to take as much time off as you need— paid, he emphasizes. His fluency in your way of communicating is starting to scare you. You tell him you’d be clocking in back to work tomorrow. 

A new notification comes in telling you that your order is almost here. You groan and peel yourself off the couch, grabbing a pair of slides from the entryway before twisting open your already unlocked door. 

The moment you breathe the hallway air, you’re met with another commotion.

“Get out! Go away!”

“Ma’am, I’m telling you I know the resident here, I’m just— ow!”

Thunk!

“Don’t you lie to me, I know Miss Attorney doesn’t have any friends or a boyfriend! Get out!”

You stop by the doorframe, taking in the sight of your middle-aged landlady beating the high and mighty Na Jaemin with a convenience store bought frying pan. He looks so distraught shielding himself with his arms, before finally noticing you, and his expression shifts. “Hey! Tell this woman to stop, I’ve been—”

Thwack!

 “Attorney!” your landlady greets you after landing another metal blow to Na Jaemin. “This weirdo has been loitering around your unit ever since I got here! Should we call the police?!”

Your eyes flit over to Jaemin. He looks annoyed and pissed and disgruntled, but apparently even someone like him won’t raise a hand against a woman old enough to be his mom. You stifle out a short sneer, then turn to your landlady with a smile. “Ahjumma, it’s alright, he’s my co-worker,” you assure. “He’s the one who helped me last night.”

You hear him scoff. “Oh,” your landlady gasps. “I’m so sorry, dear. You just looked awfully suspicious.” Then she quickly forgets about him to address you instead. “I already called a repairman to fix your broken door. They’ll be here before lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it from here!”

“Take care, dear. Have a lovely morning.”

When she goes off up the staircase, you look at the weirdo loitering around your unit. You cross your arms, brow raised. “What do you want?”

He stares you down, and you catch his mouth twitch when he lets out an incredulous huff. “Your damn landlady should get heating in the hallway. My back’s all sore and all I get in return is attitude,” he snarks. “Can’t believe you had a good night’s sleep even with your lock broken after the shit that went down. I don’t know if you’re brave or fucking stupid.”

You’re hit by a sudden pang against your chest. Oh. Oh. You notice he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You let his insult slide this time, telling him to follow you downstairs to pick up your food. It’s a good thing you ordered enough for two meals today. You don’t thank him. Instead, you invite him in for a doenjang-jjigae breakfast.

“Want coffee?”

“You gonna spit in it?” he chides from the dining table.

“Just say no, you prick,” you grunt, dragging out a pitcher of water from your fridge instead and slamming it down onto the table. You’re starting to second guess your act of gratitude. You should’ve just let your landlady beat him to death with the pan.

He pours water into the two empty glasses while you struggle to open the delivery bags and containers. You curse the plastic knot getting in the way of your doenjang-jjigae, hissing every time the plastic brushes against your still raw skin despite the bandages. Na Jaemin seems to notice your struggle because he clicks his tongue and snatches it from you to do it himself. Your face grows hot. Your pride is in tatters.

You two start eating in silence. God, this is so fucking awkward. “So, uh,” you try to crack it. “The food is…great…right…?”

“Cut the shit, attorney. Just spit it out.”

“Jeez, fine, alright,” you set your utensils down a little too aggressively, and you feel the sting deep within your palms. Your glare zeroes in on the spot on his head that you recall getting ambushed by your counter stool. “Is your head fine? It didn’t bleed or anything, right?”

He just shrugs and continues slurping down the soup. “I’ve had my head split open before. It’s no biggie.”

You stare at him. Was…was that supposed to be a brag? How many concussions has he had? Is that the reason why there’s a screw loose in there somewhere? He’s so fucking insane.

“You worried, or some shit?” He sets down his spoon to fish out a ply of tissue from the box on your table, dabbing away at the shit-eating smile on his face. “That’s cute. Does it mean you don’t hate my fucking guts anymore?”

The tofu you’re trying to eat stops midway into your throat. My god, you didn’t expect him to take that note so seriously. 

You swallow it down with water. “I just wanted to know if I had to reimburse you for any hospital bills,” you explain, somewhat defensive. “I still hate your fucking guts.” His past transgressions aside because he can’t even fucking remember them. “You were the shittiest and most stressful client I’ve ever had and I will hold this grudge until I die. I would’ve dropped your case if Mark’s very existence wasn’t a threat to my life.” All he does is cackle in response. You leer at him. “Fuck off, you treated me like crap then. I don’t get why you’ve been changing your tune lately. It’s throwing me off. Why the hell did you even help me?”

The ideas that Renjun and Haechan injected into your poor brain start to surface. Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention. Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. You hope that’s not the case. You really hope it’s not— and now’s the opportunity to finally get the real answer.

Your heart is thumping like crazy waiting for Na Jaemin to open his dumb mouth. “Ah. The visiting room,” he starts, eyes wandering up like he’s reminiscing a pleasant memory. You don’t share the same sentiment and your expression sours. “I thought you were a pushover at first and it annoyed the hell out of me. Not a big fan of spinelessness and cowardice.”

Wow. You’re speechless. He’s this close to getting kicked out.

“But then you pulled me into that room during recess in court.” 

His eyes flicker over to you— forcing the eye contact that you’d always been running away from. The look on his face forces a lump in your throat. You gulp it down and feel a rattle in your bones. What is this? What’s his deal? Is he trying to fight? What in the name of—

“And then I realized just the kind of woman I was into.”

—fuck?

“Last night, too. But it would’ve been pretty inappropriate to tell you I was turned on considering the situation.”

You blink. You gape at him. You’re not sure if your face is steaming because of anger or embarrassment, so you chalk it up as both. 

“Get out.”

This is it. This is enough. It’s time to call it a day.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’m not done eating ye—”

You grab his glass of water and douse it over half-eaten stew, some of which spills and splatters over him. “Yes, you are. Out. Now.”

Na Jaemin lifts his brows and raises his hands up in surrender as he gets up from his chair without protest, an infuriating simper playing on his face, and it just all the more pisses you off. He makes a comment about your broken door lock before you tell him to fuck off and shove him out into the hallway, his cackles finally get muted the moment you slam the door into his face.

You press your back against the wood. You suck in a deep breath before releasing it as you slide down to the floor.

“This is nuts.”

Seems like you might need another day off. You text Mark that you’ll be coming in on Thursday instead.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[madamechrissy]

Just Friends!?

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and popular F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

Warnings - Will be explicit and smutty (it's me!?) Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- his chap, mentions of sex/getting turned on, Gojo being an ass tbh, welcome back Jock Sukuna and say hi to bitchy model Samantha lol, some angst and mutual pining, lots of feelings

Based HEAVILY on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazinggg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙

<<<Part One - Masterlist - Part Three>>>

Part Two

Your POV

It was odd, being back in your hometown after years of living on your own, but when your family needed help with their bar, and with student loans piling up -  teaching did not pay very well - you couldn’t help but come back home for a bit. The shifts at the hometown bar helped, and staying with your parents for just a few months was definitely a life saver.

It’s not exactly where you saw yourself, teaching lay offs all over, now you have a preschool class here and you love it, but it’s definitely not enough to cover everything. You feel so… just upset, that you’re back here at your first job, grabbing beers for familiar faces, people who never left their hometown, and some that have, but came back like you did.

Despite it being Spring, it was freezing where you lived, some cold spurt that brought on snow in March, so many of the town were curling up by the roaring fire, bundled up laughing and drinking to stay warm. The bar had quite a cozy atmosphere, it reminded you of home, truly, you grew up here, from bussing tables and cleaning to serving drinks.

“Hey love, you look amazing.” You see Suguru and Shoko then, Shoko has a cigarette between her fingers, a familiar smile that makes you beam, as you come out from behind the bar, hugging them both.

“I missed you two oh goodness!” You receive a kiss on each cheek from them, as you hug them together.

“We heard you were back in town, how have you been?” Suguru asks softly, you sigh a bit, peering up at the tall man.

“I can’t believe I’m back here. Layoffs.” They frown then. “I heard you all run a whole dentist office!?”

“Sugu is a hot dentist.” Shoko teases, and he smirks a bit.

“Shoko runs the clinic attached to it. She outranks me.”

“Always.” You laugh with the two of them, hands on their shoulders now.

“I’m so proud of you two, what? Doctors, I can't believe that.”

“Hey now, teaching is important.” Shoko brushes your hair back softly, earning your flushed cheeks at her praise.

“They definitely don’t make enough.” Suguru says, earning your sigh.

“You’re telling me. Let me get you all drinks!” You eagerly bounce back, mixing them up drinks, Shoko loves a lemon drop from what you remember, and Suguru always enjoyed a rum and coke.

“You remember!” Shoko winks as you hand her the pretty drink, garnishing it with a little lemon swirl and grinning. The noise of the bar fills your ears, as you lean across the polished bar table, glinting under the soft lights overhead.

“Of course I remember. Gosh, it’s been four years since I’ve seen you all I think.” You all start catching up, but of course it starts to get busier, and you begin to take care of all the customers as Suguru and Shoko start tossing darts at the black and red circled board.

You smile at them, they’d always been the perfect couple, making that longing fill you too much. You fully expected to be married with kids by now, sure it was quite a homey little dream, that white picket fence, maybe two kids and some cute golden retriever, but that’s what you always dreamed of. Unfortunately, your bad taste and men did not end in high school.

“Speak of the devil…” You murmur nervously, when you see him, Ryomen Sukuna looking just as good if not better than high school, he still wears his damn letterman’s jacket from college, where he’d become an all star player, you hear now he’s even going pro.

What’s he doing back home?

He grins over now, red eyes sharp as ever, and you fully anticipate him bothering you, saying something pervy, as he walks across the crowded bar, stopping to talk to almost everyone, he was quite a name here. The only person more famous from your little town - there is a population of fourteen thousand and perhaps four stop lights- was Satoru Gojo.

You’d seen him on the damn cat walk, recently he was on the cover of Vogue, him and some other really famous model, this little smirk on his face that just doesn’t fit the boy you knew. If you thought he was cut before, his body was damn near godly, so perfect it was intimidating, and he’d only gotten prettier, not that Satoru wasn’t always so pretty.

He just didn’t know it then.

You think of him sometimes, hurt initially back when summer break hit after high school, and he refused all your calls, he refused to see or talk to anyone when you all lived so fucking close. You tried everything you could, feeling awful because it was your party and you didn’t know, could you have done more? Could you have shoved everyone out?

You were fully planning to if he’d just given you a moment. Your yearbook to this day is something you cherish, and reading his sweet words over and over, he’d taken over an entire page, with words of love you’ve never felt before. But to say it was all ‘a joke’ and leaving, never accepting a friend request, shit he didn’t even talk to Suguru or Shoko, his other best friends.

Satoru never spoke of his hometown in interviews, and when you saw his mom recently, you learned he’s never come home. You know things were hard on him, brutal even, but you wish he knew just how much you loved him, cared for him, sure it was more of a beautiful friendship, but you also were attracted to him, though you were scared to ruin that friendship.

If he just gave you a damn moment.

A friendship you built your entire life demolished, and you miss him even now, you miss the quiet mornings you two would study at the library, you miss the cup of coffee he’d have for you every morning. You missed the little sleepovers, playing pokemon games together, battling it out on the Wii, the amount of things the two of you shared, gone in a moment.

Sukuna leans across the bar, shaking you out of your reverie, his familiar, arrogant smirk just a little softer as his ruby eyes drape down your body, you’re just in some jeans and a polo, nothing too sexy for the family bar here. But he seems to take pleasure in every slow inch, murmuring your name.

“Look at you, even hotter than high school, shit.” You heat up a bit under his gaze, tilting your head and running your hand across your neck.

“Thank you, Sukuna. You look good too.” You earn his wide grin, as he swipes a hand through his pink hair, snowflakes melting just a bit as he leans his hip against the bar now.

“I’ve wondered how you were doing, aren’t you a teacher?”

“I am, but… layoffs.” Sukuna frowns a bit. “I’m teaching preschool here for now, but it’s…”

“They don’t pay shit.” On this, everyone agrees,

“Mmhmm, but it’s my passion. So here I am, working the student loans off.” You wink at him, and he softens then, resting his elbow on the bar, a hand in his chin.

“So pretty you shouldn’t be working.”

“Oh… no. Not at all.” You clear your throat, something is so different about him, he’s not the asshole you remember, or so it seems. “But just temporary, I’m finishing up a couple classes to teach higher education.”

“You always were smart, you’ll do well.”

“Oh… thank you, Sukuna.”

“Used to call me Kuna you know.” You giggle now, easing a bit, even under his gaze, which keeps darting down your body. “God you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Say that to the freshman fifteen that never left.” Sukuna chuckles then, when you turn and bend over, grabbing a beer.

“Went to your nice ass-”

“Sukuna!” You glare behind yourself, and he’s chuckling. “Here I was thinking you were all sweet.”

“I am sweet, thank you. Shit I’d love to catch up sometime?” You hand him his beer, sighing then.

“I don’t know…”

“Lunch or something?”

Satoru’s POV

Satoru’s stepping into the bustling bar with the most annoying model ever, cock hungry too, who’s clinging to his arm, looking at the little bar in disgust, while he eyes the familiar surroundings. He scoffs as he sees Sukuna’s letterman jacket, so pretentious really, and eyes everyone around, surely… your parents still run this place, he wonders, do you ever come visit?

“It’s so… quaint.” Comes Samantha’s voice next to him, running her fingers along the dusty bar, grimacing, she’s as tall as Satoru in her heels, perhaps one of the few women who he doesn’t tower over. All models were pretty tall, but typically he still had a couple inches, but Samantha was the best in her field, and maybe longer legs than Satoru Gojo himself.

“Yeah, I guess compared to LA.” He murmurs, the surroundings oddly comforting, despite how much he thought he’d hate it here. Something about shivering in the cold and then coming to this warm, bustling bar was…

Homey.

It gnaws at him, as people recognize him, and they begin to all come up, many who used to pick on him. He clings to that pretty model of his tighter, putting on a bright grin and lowering his black Gucci shades, the two of them are decked out in Saint Laurent and looking like a million bucks. Even in public, you had to make sure you were dressed to kill.

“Holy shit…” Satoru sees Suguru and Shoko then, their mouths drop as they come up to him. He's spoken to them a little here and there, but overwhelmingly has not said much since college was over. “Look at you two!”

“Look at you, all preening like a peacock.” Shoko rolls her dark eyes, sipping on a drink as she assesses him and his ‘girl’ who is clinging to him, laughing far too fake to ever be taken for as genuine, grating on his nerves.

“How cute, townies!” Samantha says, tossing blonde hair back, and Satoru scowls over at her.

“Who’s the snob?” Suguru asks boldly, making her gasp as Satoru’s muffling his laughter.

“Be nice.” Satoru warns, hands in the pockets of his red dress pants, a ruby so bright and bold it’s ridiculous for a place where people wear jeans and flannels.

“They’re not nice, Gojo. I don’t like it here!” She’s stomping her feet, and Satoru sighs, shaking his head.

“Go get a drink, hmm?” He turns her and smacks her ass, she cringes then.

“Myself!?”

“Become immersed in the small town, it’ll be good publicity, sweets.” He winks as she pouts and saunters off, ignoring the men and at one point hissing at one.

“She’s on drugs or…” Suguru trails off, and Satoru snorts.

“She’s definitely on a good Adderall / Xani combo. Shit… I missed you guys.” He ruffles Shoko’s hair, and shoves at Suguru good naturedly, Suguru smiles a bit, dark hair even longer than Satoru remembers.

“Sure you did. Come back to visit?”

“Uh… no.” He peers at his phone, sighing now. “Our suite for whatever reason isn’t available, I was stopping here and going to call Mom, since I have no reception whatsoever.”

“Why would you bring her to your mom’s, doesn’t she suffer enough with you as her kid?” Shoko earns Satoru sticking his tongue out, picking up the phone and dialing.

“Toru, sweetie!” Satoru sighs, he loves his mom, but to this day she really treats him like a child, even now.

“Hey mom, cool if I stay a few nights? I have a modeling-”

“You’re coming home!?” Satoru winces, pulling back the phone as Suguru and Shoko laugh.

“Yeah, if it’s-”

“I’ll make your favorite, baby, triple stack pancakes with sundae-”

“No, no, too many carbs.” He hears his mom’s sigh of disappointment, and clenches his jaw just a bit, looking over to see Samantha taking pictures of herself on her fancy phone, throwing up a pose now. “I guess yeah, I’ll eat pancakes.”

“My baby, oh I can’t wait, let me get started now!” His mom hangs up, and he can’t help but feel that fondness, the emptiness he’s had for so long just the tiniest bit filled by her voice.

“She’s excited.” He muses, sighing then. “I need a drink.”

Suguru and Shoko eye each other, and Satoru’s blue eyes narrow, studying their odd expressions. “Yes, you should, bartender she’s amazing.” Shoko’s smiling, and Satoru’s lips purse a bit.

“Hmm, guess I’ll see. I’ll be back.” He pats their shoulders again, heading over and passing more and more familiar faces, gosh none of them left, huh?

He leans against the bar, poking around on his phone as he hears Sukuna, asking then - 

“Lunch sometime?”

He snorts, eyeing the tall, big man who used to torment him, now eye to eye with him, and damn near his size. Sukuna blinks in surprise a bit when Satoru eyes him with humor.

“Lunch is friendzone territory, ouch.” Sukuna glares now, fists clenching on the bar, and that’s when…

You see him.

Satoru Gojo.

“Maybe I like lunch.” Your voice shocks him then, he eyes you, wide blue eyes going to the face of the girl he loved.

Your face.

You’re so pretty it makes his heart thud out of his fucking chest, you’re just like you were, maybe a bit more mature looking now, but god it was like a blast from his past, the ultimate memory of you couldn’t compare. You’re so beautiful, this fucking glow around you still, that comfort he has been craving hitting him in one instant, as he just stands there.

Satoru Gojo, who got whatever girl he wanted, was just standing there, staring at you, with his lips parted, you are heating up under his scrutiny, unsure of just what he was thinking, biting that lower lip a bit and shifting. He notices now, that you’re not fawning over him, drooling, like women did, if anything you’re glaring just a bit, your jaw set.

“I… you… here…” He can’t compute a fucking word - stupid, stupid - why did you reduce him to pathetic again, after all these years!?

“Yes, I work here again. I know, it’s not what I imagined either.” Your soft, devastated words attack him, making him feel like you punched him right in the gut, as Sukuna raises a brow at Satoru.

“Friend zone, did you just say that?” Satoru’s sputtering now, before clearing his throat, shutting his eyes and taking a breath.

He’s not some ‘nerd’ anymore.

He’s Satoru Fucking Gojo.

He smirks and leans against the bar, eyeing you slowly, pulling off pretentious shades that make you miss his tortoiseshell glasses. But when those piercing, swirling blue eyes hit you, trailing like Sukuna’s had, you feel so shy suddenly, so nervous around him, after so long. Surely he was looking down at you, surely he was so high and mighty that your life seemed sad to him.

You stand a little straighter now, while the two men, who have changed so much, both eye you, a blast from fucking high school if you ever saw one. “Look at you…” He murmurs your name softly, like a caress- shit his voice is deeper, it’s so sure, so cocky and conceited, not the sweet boy you miss. “You look great.”

“Thanks, so do you.” You manage softly, he’s in some suit worth as much as your year of work you’re sure, open with a vest showing of chest muscles, fuck he has red silk gloves, it’s so ridiculous you almost laugh.

He’s gorgeous but…

Who is he really?

“Working here again, huh?” He means it to be casual, but the way it comes off makes you straighten your shoulders, as Sukuna winces.

“All that money, all those women and you never learned.” Satoru scowls at Sukuna now, while you turn away, giving him a view of a body he’s dreamed of, fuck you’re even sexier now, those jeans sitting just right, is none of you not perfect, not beautiful?

“What can I get you, Gojo?” You ask after grabbing another beer for Sukuna, who takes it with a smile, and he tenses at that.

Gojo.

When did you ever call him anything but ‘Toru’?

But, you all are literally strangers now.

“Martini.” He says, earning Sukuna’s snort, Satoru’s scowl heads his direction once again as you start to get the ingredients together, shaking it up in the gold shaker like a pro.

“Little bitch drink.”

“Beer is disgusting, fuck that.”

Sukuna glares as he sips the drink, and you pour Satoru his martini, garnishing it and giving a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “One martini.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” You falter, at his soft voice, at the way he says everything as if it were some caress.

“You’re welcome.” He hands you far too much money then, making you blink. “It’s only ten bucks.”

“Keep the rest, love.” He winks now, and you feel your face heating up, did he think you needed it so badly? Does he pity you?

Does he care?

“Thanks… um, sure on lunch, Sukuna.” Satoru’s teeth clench, like watching history repeat itself. “Even if it’s ‘friend zone’ I’m fine with meeting up.”

“Perfect, here’s my number…” He writes it right on one of the pretty white napkins, and you take it carefully. “I’ll be in town all week.”

“Alright, sounds good.” Sukuna tips you, not the exorbitant fifty dollars Satoru just handed you, but a twenty, with a little nod of his head, as he passes Satoru now, and Samantha comes right up to him.

“Oh look at you, all star for the-” She’s flirting but Sukuna ignores her, winking at you and making you want to giggle, but you barely hold it in. “So rude! Gojo, can we please leave this shitty little bar?”

You scowl right up at the tall, beautiful model who pouts over at Satoru, clinging to his arm, he stiffens, but you see it, clearly they’re… together. “The ‘shitty little bar’ is owned by my family. And you are more than welcome to leave.”

“Oooh, you’re feisty.” She’s giggling psychotically, using her hand to make a clawing motion. “Rawr!”

“The fuck…” You shake your head, sighing as you set back to work, Samantha’s hands running down Satoru’s chest, irritating him to no end.

All he can see is you, and you’re just turning away, the girl he…

He left.

He left you.

No word, no goodbye, and he thought maybe it wouldn’t feel like this, maybe after eight years and endless women in his bed, he could stop feeling like this, stop the love he had. He tried to chalk it up to puppy love, you were the nicest person to him, of course he developed feelings, right?

Wrong.

He watches as you head out from behind the bar as Samantha’s going on and on about some Instagram post, downing the rest of his martini. “We’ll leave in a minute, go wait in the car.”

“I can’t believe we don’t even have a driver, ugh!” Satoru blinks at her, turning her now, watching as you stop and talk to Suguru and Shoko, smiling so sweet, lighting up the whole fucking room.

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh fine but…” She drags him down by his tie, whispering in his ear then- “I can suck you while you drive.”

What would once excite him doesn’t compute, he just nods and pushes the crazy woman to the entrance of the bar. “Sure whatever.”

“No pictures, please.” She throws on her sunglasses, as curious people wonder just what this woman is talking about, and Satoru feels your eyes on him then, his catch yours across the room. He watches you tense, as he steps closer, and Shoko and Suguru depart, giving you both one moment.

“Hi.” He manages to say, and for once, the pretentious rich model reminds you of him, the boy you grew up with, the one you miss so badly it feels like he’s a dream.

“Hi.” Your soft voice ends him, you’re shifting side to side, Satoru towers over you, making you feel so small then, as he presses a hand against the wall over your head, tilting your chin up with his other hand. Your eyes go wide then, breath catching, heart hammering.

“I’d love to catch up, I am here for a few days, I’ll be at mom’s.” You blink a bit then, looking down, gently taking his hand off your chin by his wrist, the contact making you both pause. For a moment he pictures it, kissing you, making every move he failed at in high school, taking your lips over.

He pictures so much, up to and including you under him, shit maybe now he’d have a chance with a girl like you, maybe he could taste your sweetness, could inhale that vanilla body spray you somehow wear eight years later. Could show you pleasure he bets you never got before, cock aching just being in your presence, he has to will it to go down.

“Your mom, I just saw her.” You ease his hand down, back resting against the wall just a bit, hair falling across your shoulders, you gasp when he brushes it back, another move he had tried and failed at back then.

That night should have been his first kiss.

You should have been his first everything, fuck.

“Could we do dinner or drinks?” His tone reminds you of what he said earlier, so you smile, a little mean glint in your eye.

“Maybe lunch.”

“Lunch!?” He’s glaring, thin white brows lowered, and you giggle.

“Coffee?”

Shit.

“Or is that too ‘friend zone’ for you, Gojo.” Satoru blinks a bit, hand falling, barely brushing your shoulder when it falls, you try to ignore how good it feels, he tries to act nonchalant, not like the fucking world is faded, aside from you. That the entire bar is just an echo, it’s just you.

And you’re furious, he can feel it. “No, no I mean it’s fine. If you want… coffee we can do coffee.” He can’t believe he’s saying this, he brushes his white locks back, winking down then. “We can do whatever you want.”

“Uh huh. Well, coffee then, if you want to catch up I’m surprised, considering it all though.” Satoru’s jaw clenches just a bit.

“I’d like to catch up.” You soften at his first vulnerable statement, the first thing that feels real. “How about in the morning, are you staying nearby?”

“I’m living with my parents for a couple months.” He frowns at that, you suddenly feel so insecure, a rich model right in front of you, just as he said that day- that he’d make it, and you all…

Would just burn out.

Maybe you did.

“Oh, you are, is something wrong?”

“Helping them a bit, big teacher layoffs nationwide.”

“You teach?” His smile is finally genuine, as you nod, so shyly, his shoulders relax, as his hands slip in his pockets once more. “You always wanted to.” Your eyes shoot up to his now, swirling beautiful blue, a hint of the sweet boy you adored.

“You remember?”

“How couldn’t I…”

“I figured you forgot us all.” Satoru gulps down the guilt, as you manage to pull yourself together, sighing. “Come by my parents in the morning, if you remember where they are.”

“How can I forget, it’s across the street.”

“All right then… I look forward to it.” He awkwardly leans down, as you wrap a friendly arm around his waist, inhaling his cologne, much different than the boy who wore axe body spray and always sucked on lifesavers. His hard body against your much softer one feels a little too good, when he rests his chin on your head.

Nothing has ever felt better than holding you in his arms.

Memories swirl for the both of you, but it’s different, Satoru seems like some bold and pretentious stranger, but for a moment you remember. You remember crying in his arms, over this breakup or that, you remember his sweet hugs during study sessions, you remember laughing and watching the dumbest movies. You exhale just a bit, as a big hand presses the small of your back.

Satoru missed you.

He doesn’t say it, he can’t say anything, pulling back and looking at you then, hand coming to cup your face, opening his mouth to speak when Samantha starts shouting “I’m bored Gojo! I’m so bored!”

The entire bar turns her direction, you fall back a bit, as Gojo internally curses, seeing the brat that is his partner crossing her arms in that fur coat. “I’m coming okay, shit!”

“Your girlfriend is bored.” You’re giggling then, you can’t help it, covering your face as Samantha glares.

“Not my girlfriend, jesus. Um… okay, the morning.” You nod, walking off now, past Samantha, who hisses at you like the psychotic bitch she is, making Satoru grimace with Suguru and Shoko walk up to Satoru.

“You fucked that intro up.” Suguru says, snorting as he puts his arm around Shoko’s waist, and she’s laughing.

“Fucked it up bad.”

“Oh like you’re any help.” They just shake their head, eyeing Satoru’s screaming model bestie.

“See you in eight more years.” Suguru’s words sting, as Satoru feels it then, the guilt eating away at him, but Samantha won’t shut up long enough for him to process, he drags her out into the cold, chilled air, seeing you climbing up into what appears to be your SUV, your eyes flicker to him for just a moment, before you shut the door.

“You like townies hmm? Can’t stop eye fucking girl next door.” Satoru’s eyes make even Samantha falter then.

“Who I like is none of your fucking concern. In.” He plops down in the rental, an audi of course, god forbid Satoru Gojo or Samantha would be seen in anything less, on that they are the same.

“You’re so cranky, she’s hot, just… gives those girl next door vibes.”

“Yeah well, she was the girl next door for me. Almost.” He feels her hand now, trailing over his thigh, she leans over and laughs in his ear, making him cringe. “How’d I get stuck with-”

“Let me make you feel so good, should I suck little Gojo?”

“Little Gojo!? It’s not little, Samantha.” He shoves her off, and she pouts again, crossing her arms.

“How’d I get stuck with you is the question, no fun. Now we have to go stay in poorville.”

“It’s the fucking suberbs.”

“Poor. Poor. Poor. Boring, boring.” Satoru almost pushes her out of the goddamn car, no blow job would be worth it, even if it would shut her up for a moment, even if his cock twitches thinking of you.

He pulls up to his home, his mother already has it opened when he walks up, hugging him tightly, kissing his face all over and making him wince. “Mom…”

“My baby, I never thought you’d come home.” She’s got tears in her pretty blue eyes, she visits LA once a year or more, but now the way tears fall from eyes that match his wracks him with guilt.

He could have come back at least once, right?

No, no he couldn’t.

“And this is…”

“Samantha.” She shakes his mom’s hand, tossing back long blonde locks and smiling. “You have such a quaint little home.”

Satoru’s mom blinks rapidly, brows together, this wasn’t a small home, it was four stories and lovely, left to them from Satoru’s dad, but he supposes to a rich, spoiled brat like Samantha, it’s ‘quaint’. “Um, thank you, and you’re staying too?”

“Unfortunately.” Satoru’s mom raises her brows, as Samantha clings to Satoru once again, grinning.

“I get to meet the mom, huh? I’m so special-”

“Let’s eat.”

Satoru finally leaves a snoring, annoying model brat Samantha alone in the guest room, when he walks inside his childhood room, frozen. Time has been frozen, his mother hasn’t changed a single fucking thing, up to and including pictures of you and him all over the walls. He gulps down his emotions, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click, undressing carefully.

He sees his old nerdy ass sweater, one you’d gotten him, still folded on his desk, like he never left. His fingers brush the fabric, as he stares at his reflection, feeling like he’s a ghost in his own room. The connections start to build, the mirror he kissed that night, the endless photos and mementos he kept. He eyes that box now, opening a letter carefully, crumbled and faded ink.

My Toru, I hope you have the best day, I can’t wait for the movies!

Toru, can you believe how the year has flown by!?

Do you want to go bowling Y or N

Your new glasses are so cute I love them!

Bad day today, sorry I’m quiet.

Tears fall down his cheeks, he only notices when the blotches form on the ink, all the times you’d write to him every day, passing little notes in class with hearts all over them, brightening his day. He’d kept every single fucking one, and there were so, so many in this tin box, stuffed inside like all of his fucking feelings.

He wipes his eyes quickly, shaking it off, pulling out his luggage with his own clothes and getting dressed in sweats for the night, curiously pushing on the cd left in the player, sighing then. Your favorite song, it’s that mixed CD he was making you, the one he never gave you. Satoru quickly turns it off, the button a resounding click, walking to the corkboard littered with you.

Knock knock knock.

“Come in, mom.” She does just that, peeking her pretty face, still so young looking, so sweet as she smiles at him. “You didn’t change any of it.”

“No, I always hoped you’d come back, at least for a day.” She walks up to Satoru now, seeing the photos he’s staring at now, Satoru and you sipping a milkshake together with two straws, in the middle of a diner. “You two were so sweet, she’s back in town you know.”

“I know… I’m seeing her in the morning.” His mom’s eyes light up, and he laughs a bit. “Don’t get excited, my life isn’t here mom.”

“Part of it will always be.” She cups his face, smiling up at him. “I hope you have fun with her, she has kept in touch all these years you know.”

“She has?”

“Yes, she… misses you. She asks about you when she visits town.” Satoru blinks back emotion, turning away now, clearing his throat.

You asked about him after all this? After he'd gone out of your life for good? What if he just heard you out, what if he…

“I’m tired, mom.” Mrs. Gojo nods, a hand on his back for a moment.

“Good night, Toru.”

“Night.” He lays in his bed, phone blowing up, his agent with details, a coordinator for the show, friends from LA teasing him on having to come back home, but he quickly turns it off, holding a photo of you, the only one he brought.

He gently touches it, sighing, wondering…

Will you like him now, could he be good enough?

While you lay in bed, tossing, turning, fuming damn near at Satoru Gojo’s audacity, sitting up finally, putting on Satoru’s favorite song, on that mixed CD you had been making him, before he disappeared. Your childhood room is the same as it always was, littered with photos of you and Satoru, your best friend that just disappeared, and came back a different person.

You touch a photo, one where he’s grinning so big with his cute little braces, holding up a science award, and you’re so overcome with emotion you have to hold back your tears, touching the polaroid gently. Was that boy in there somewhere, the boy you knew, the one who deserved the world - he seemingly got it of course.

Would he find you so boring? He hung out with celebrities, he walked runways, he’s clearly got a beautiful - batshit insane but- girl on his arm. Was it some pity, did he feel bad you were in a little bar? Your mind can’t handle it all, as you plop down in your childhood bed, mind racing.

Who was Satoru Gojo now?

Ah why'd I tear up when Satoru goes home? Next part we see just how coffee goes lol

taglist #1- @pinkyvomit @saitamaswifey @kachowness @vraiao @artbligh @psychoartiste @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @bsenpai @simp-for-wanderer @rjreins @emonaculate @myahfig4 @casua11ycrying @psycren @blushedcheri @ureuphoriasworld @frozenmallows @kanaojacksonofc @rcveriees @xlilycoco @yukimaniac @sypnasis @tokina @sharkubi @tztuoo @hyori2 @yesdere @gradmacoco @gamerhere @seikamuzu @xinsonyax @vvaoo @angie420 @ria54sworld @blue-musingss @mysticmyth @asimpinamillion @arabellasolstice @ilovebeansyay @notme000 @emochosoluvr @iv-vee @heh123321 @fushikamo @danilovesboba @spookyy-gracee @satorusleftnut @clqxuds @femaholicc

[studioeisa]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[neimaami]

6 AM (M)

SYNOPSIS: Jungkook wakes you up at 6AM for more than just morning cuddles

WARNINGS : SMUT, protected sex, dirty talk, mention of oral sex (f), rough sex, missionary, Jk kind of a freak, soft kook, first time writing smut! (constructive criticism is very much condoned), established relationship, spit kink, eye-contact kink (is that a thing?)

word count: 4.0k

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

If Jeonguk wasn’t the love of your life, you swear you would have killed him. 

If there is one thing you hate more in this world than rude, snobby rich kids, it’s being woken up in the crack ass of dawn. Seriously, your alarm hadn’t even gone off yet—that’s supposed to be an obvious universal sign for “wake me up, and I’ll end you.” But Jeonguk? He thrives on pushing your limits, of testing your patience to heights no one has ever dared to cross. If you had known moving in with Jeonguk would result in sleepless nights and early awakenings, you would have reconsidered. 

“Stop.” A sleepy mumble escapes your lips, your voice sounding ragged and throat raspy - your eyes remaining closed in your half-asleep state. The persistent finger poking against your cheek over and over again only served to agitate you even further as it dragged you back to reality from the comfort of dreamland. “Guk seriously…” An exasperated sigh fell from your lips as you lazily raised an arm to swat his hand away. 

A deep, throaty chuckle escaped him, sending shivers down your spine. You inwardly curse your body for the way it reacts to the sound of his voice. Your nipples harden embarrassingly against the thin fabric of your tank top. The wooden bed creaks softly as you shift, turning your back to him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the reaction he effortlessly draws from your body. The white sheets of your shared comforter were a wrinkled mess that reached just below your knees - it had been a warm, sticky night that left you both no choice but to kick the sheets off your bodies. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” The smug tone in his voice was apparent as you felt the bed dip even further, his chest now pressing against your back. He leaned down, mouth inches away from the shell of your ear, his breath fanning over your skin, sending yet another wave of shivers down your spine. “Did I wake you up?” He whispered, the corner of his lip curling into a smirk.

The pillow beneath your head bunches as your fingers tighten around the fabric, gripping it in your palm. “Don’t act innocent, you know for a fact you woke me up on purpose with your constant poking.” You turn your body even further away from him in retaliation. 

You heard a scoff falling from his lips. “It’s not my fault your lazy ass takes ages to wake up.” You felt his hand coming down to rest on your bare hip from where your tank top had ridden up. Leaning down, his lips dragged softly against the back of your neck. 

“No one else in the world wakes up at 6 AM on a weekend but you, Guk.” You shot back, which only earns you a snort from him. He trails soft kisses up the side of your neck, a light featherly touch that has you craving for more. 

“Who said anything about 6AM?” He presses one last kiss against your flushed cheek before pulling back. “I knew you had no sense of time, but this is just a whole new level.” He smiled that stupid smug grin of his that made you want to do nothing else but wipe it off. 

“What are you talking about?” You grumble in annoyance, not bothering to open your eyes. This was one of the rare mornings you didn’t have to drag yourself out of bed for your dreaded university lectures. Not to mention, the campus itself was a nightmare to navigate—always loud and irritating. Especially in the mornings, when all you wanted to do was to sink back into the  comfort of your warm bed.

“It’s 4PM, baby” His voice lowered to a soft rumble. Your eyes snap open. Yes you were lazy, yes you loved sleeping above anything else, but you hated being unproductive, of feeling as if you wasted an entire day lazing around in bed. As fast as lightning you’re sitting up, causing the wooden bed to creak under your added pressure. Jungkook could only smile in amusement from beside you, no doubt taking in your disheveled appearance - hair a mess, clothes wrinkled, eyes puffy from sleep. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up sooner!” You whine, reaching out for your phone on the nightstand, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the screen. The bold letters ‘6:15AM’ flash on the homescreen of your phone. Your mind dawns in realization, your head snaps towards Jungkook who lays against the wooden headboard smugly. His arms resting behind his head, sheets pooling against his waist - leaving his toned chest and delicious abs to view. If you weren’t so irritated you would have jumped his bones no doubt.

“Oh whoops, I must’ve read the time wrong.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. You launched yourself onto him in an instant, causing him to let out a ‘yelp’ in surprise. You knew his weakness, knew it like the back of your hand - tickles. It was a very effective method if you do say so yourself. 

He let out a strained, breathless laugh as your fingers mercilessly danced against the sides of his bare torso, the bed thrashed and creaked from the movements of his attempts at escape. “Stop, Stop, I’m sorry!” He chanted as he tried to get ahold of your wrists. Through many months of perfecting Jungkook’s weakness, you had become quite the expert on dodging his attempts to stop your tickling. 

“This is what you get!” Your eyes crinkled at the corners, a wide smile you made no effort to hide, appearing on your lips. To get a better angle, you swung a leg over his torso, successfully straddling his hips, your fingers never haltering their torturous movements against the sides of his ribs. He was laughing so hard you could see a vein popping out from the side of his neck from the strain. “Now you’ll know to never disrupt my sleep!” 

In a moment of distraction, he got a hold of your wrists, turning the both of you around in an instant. You let out an ‘oof’ sound as your back hit the mattress with more force than he had probably intended. The grip of his hands on your wrists only tightened as he forced them above your head, keeping them steady against the pillow. 

“Woah, whoah, whoa there, calm down pretty lady” His voice came out in a breathless chuckle, you felt a pang of pride in your chest for reducing him to such a state - even if it was just from a tickle attack. 

“Shut up Jungkook, you lied to me and made me miss on my precious and very much needed beauty sleep!” you ramble, struggling against his hold as he tightened his hands around your wrists.

“I had to get you up somehow, knowing you, nothing else would have worked.” He leaned down to start pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck, his warm tongue darting out to taste your skin. The feeling made you shiver against him.

“T-that’s not an excuse!” You weakly argue, feeling the way his bare chest pressed you down against the mattress even further. His mouth continued its assault on your senses, trailing up further against the side of your neck before his breath fanned against the shell of your ear.

“Shhh” He whispered, his hand coming up to cup one of your breasts in his warm hand, thumb brushing over one of your hard nipples and feeling it pebble even further. A small gasp escapes your lips as he starts to grind his very clear and persistent bulge against your clothed core. 

You can’t help but scoff “I can’t believe my tickles got you horny…they were supposed to be the ultimate weapon again-” Your voice was cut short when his lips pressed against yours in a sudden frenzied kiss. They were warm and soft as they moved in accordance with yours. His teeth sunk down against your bottom lip, to which you gasp at the feeling. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue into the wet cavern of your mouth, tongue intertwining with yours. 

“Guk…” You moan softly against his lips, your legs parting instinctively to feel the straining erection pressing directly against your clothed clit. You let out a breathless moan, bucking your hips up towards his, grinding yourself against him in hopes of finding much needed friction. He groaned against your lips, pushing his own hips against yours. The both of you gasp at the feeling. He pulled away from the kiss with your bottom lip caught between his teeth. He watches as it falls back into place when he lets go. He leans down to pepper kisses over your collarbone. 

You let out a strangled moan when he hooks a finger to the hem of your tank top and raises it up enough to reveal your bare breasts to his gaze, your already hardened nipples exposed to the warm air of the room. It was still early morning, the birds chirped outside and the hallways of the apartment were quiet. He wastes no time in leaning down and taking one of your rosy peaks into his mouth, his tongue lavishing over the sensitive peak, teeth grazing against your skin. “Jungkook!” Your back arches off the mattress of the bed, your hips grinding sloppily against his even faster. “P-please” You whimper, hands Intertwining between his brown locks.

He released your nipple with a soft ‘pop’ watching attentively as the skin around it reddens from his ministrations. “Please what, baby?” He mumbles lazily, leaning down to dart his tongue out and flicking it against the nub. Your toes curl into the mattress as his other hand comes up to tug and twist at your other nipple. 

“P-Please…I need you” You gasp in pleasure, in other circumstances you would’ve felt embarrassed as you felt his smirk against the valley of your breasts - but not today, not when you were this horny, not when he manages to reduce you to such a state. 

He looks up at you through hooded eyes. He shakes his head, his thumb and pointer finger pinches and tugs at your nipple even harder, causing you to whimper. “Need what? Use your words, princess. I’m not a fucking mind reader” You shiver at the authoritative tone in his voice, under other conditions you would have slapped his head upside down if he talked to you that way - today you relished in it. 

“M-mouth” your words were choppy, hoping to get away with saying the minimal possible thing. Your cheeks were already burning in embarrassment and lust. Jungkook shook his head once more, the smirk that once adorned his face was replaced by a deep scowl. 

“Are you trying to get on my nerves?” With narrowed eyes he drank in your rosy cheeks and the way your mouth was slightly parted. He sat back on his haunches, eyes trailing down the expanse of your body as he rested his hands on your hips, his thumb stroking the skin underneath the waistband of your pyjama shorts. “I’ll ask you one more time. What do you want? Tell what it is you need from me, baby”

“I need your mouth! your tongue, cock, anything!” You gasp out in desperation, only serving to deepen the red on your cheeks. You could see the way a triumphant, smug, grin broke out on his face. He wasted no time gripping the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down and off your legs - the fabric falling carelessly onto the floor. 

“Such a good girl” He cooed, leaning in to press a deep, filthy kiss against your lips - all tongue and spit. His fingers reached down between your legs to graze dangerously low on your inner thigh. Your moans were muffled by his lips against yours before he broke the kiss.

“Stop teasing me” You buck your hips up, breath catching in your throat as he shifts his thigh to rest between your legs. The added pressure to your clothed clit fueled your desires even further, hips grinding against the straining muscle with no ounce of shame. He flexed the muscle of his thigh, watching transfixed as you pleasured yourself.

“Fuck baby, look at you” He slurred with lust, his eyes darkening at the sight “So wet and needy” He chuckled when he saw a wet spot forming onto his grey sweatpants. He removed his thigh from between your legs, causing you to whine in annoyance - your protest doesn’t last long as he hooks a finger to the waistband of your soaked panties and tugs them all the way down your legs. 

He lets out a low whistle at the sight, reaching down to grip the back of your thighs and parting your legs to reveal your soaked puffy folds. You prop up on your forearms as he adjusts his head between your legs, guiding your thighs to rest over his shoulders. “So fucking wet…” His breath fanned over your glistening folds causing your hands to fist the sheets beneath you.

“Oh kookie…” You whimper softly, your eyebrows furrowed and lips parted as you watched his every movement in anticipation. He brought one of his fingers to slide up your slit, gathering the wetness onto his digit. He parts your wet folds with his pointer and middle finger, groaning at the sight before him as he eyes your pussy like a starved man. He leaned in to take a deep, eye-rolling sniff at your pussy. Your cheeks burst into literal flames. “That’s so dirty…” You whisper, biting your lip.

“What is?” He raised a brow, his hooded eyes landing on yours as he lifted his head up slightly. “Can’t a guy appreciate his woman’s pussy? Especially if it’s as sexy as yours, pink and wet…and oh so fucking deliscious…” 

He leans in and licks a bold, wet strip against your folds from your entrance all the way up your clit. You gasp at the sensation, your hand shooting out to grip his hair. He hums against your pussy, eyes closing in concentration as his tongue lavishes against your folds. You could only throw your head back in ecstasy, your mind hazy and eyes blurry. When he plops off your pussy, you furrow your eyebrows in confusion and slight annoyance. That is, until you see him gather saliva into his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he spits onto your folds.

Your mouth fell open at his action, feeling even more turned on. You buck your hips up against his mouth, curling your toes as his lips circled around your clit and gave the bundle of nerves a hard suck. Your body fell limp against the mattress. The room filled with the lewd sounds of his mouth against your wet folds. “M-more” You whimper as you felt the tip of his middle finger circle against your entrance, he then released your clit with a ‘pop’

“Look at me.” His voice booms against the walls of the fairly quiet bedroom. Your eyes snap to his at his command, biting your lip as his finger slips all the way inside you. “If you look away I’ll stop.” He promised, slowly thrusting his finger in and out of your velvety walls. Leaning down, his nose nuzzled against your clit as his tongue drew shapes against your slit, oozing out more wetness from you. 

“Oh guk…” You moan, as you tug at his hair, bucking your hips up against his fingers as he adds a second, then a third. His eyes remained locked on yours at all times, hooded and filled with unmistaken lust. “I love the way you look at me.” You say breathlessly, tightening your thighs around his head. He hums against your folds, his tongue darting out to flick against your clit before taking it into his mouth and sucking harshly onto the nub, his teeth grazing against the sensitive area. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spongey, soft area where he begins to concentrate all his efforts on, his fingers thrusting against it over and over again until you’re a moaning mess beneath him. 

“Fuck! Right there…oh Guk, don’t stop!” You moan repeatedly with no real consciousness of what you were saying - too far gone for coherent thoughts. His fingers set a fast, rough pace, causing the room to echo with the sounds of your wetness, meanwhile his mouth sucks harshly against your clit. It was more than enough to push you over the edge, your thighs trembling between his head as your orgasm washed over you. 

“Oh my god-” You choke out, your eyes rolling back in your head, hips bucking frantically against his face, riding out your mind-blowing orgasm. You fall limp against the mattress when the feeling starts to subside. Jungkook releases your clit with a last suck and slowly extracts his fingers from your soaked pussy. He brings his fingers coated with your arousal into his mouth, tongue darting out for a taste. Your cheeks burn at the sight of him humming in pleasure. 

“So deliscious…sweetest pussy ever.” His voice was thick and laced with lust, smiling down at you as he leans down to brace his forearms on either side of your head. He captures your lips with his, humming when you taste yourself on his tongue. One of his hands disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants, taking out his painfully hard cock from the confines of his boxers. Breaking the kiss, your mouth salivates at the sight, thick droplets of pre-cum sliding down his cock from the slit at the tip of his puffy cockhead. “Eyes on me.”

Your eyes snap back to him as he slowly gives his cock a couple of lazy strokes. “C-condom…” You remind him when you feel the tip of his cock slide against your folds to collect your wetness. You can feel him groan in annoyance at your reminder, a petulant pout forming on his lips. It amazed you how quick he could go from a sexy, dominant man to a cute, doe-eyed boy. 

“I thought you were on birth control.” He says as he continues to rub his cock against your slick folds - your breath coming out slightly ragged.

“I am…but you know it’s not 100% effective, it’s better safe than sorry.” You reach out towards the night stand and fish blindly for the half-empty box of condoms. It was standard procedure at this point as he takes the condom from your hand with much reluctance. 

“This is stupid…” He complains as he rips the packet open with his fingers, grabbing the rubber and placing it against his cock, rolling out the material so it fits snugly against his hard cock. He hissed at the feeling. “I hate wearing this shit” 

Before you could educate him on the importance of protection, his cock was already nudging instantly against your entrance. “Please don’t talk. It’ll ruin the mood.” you would’ve gotten offended if it weren’t for the delicious stretch of his cock sliding inside you, inch by torturous inch. You whimper at the feeling, reaching out to press his chest against yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. You both moan in unison. Your back arches as he easily slides the rest of the way inside you, his hips resting snuggly against yours.

“Shit” He curses under his breath, leaning down to bury his face in the crook of your neck. You could only whimper at the feeling of being so utterly full, stretched out by the man on top of you - your Jungkook. “You feel so fucking good…” He slurs with lust, his mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses against the side of your neck.

“P-please move kook…” At your breathy whisper Jungkook shudders, hips pulling back just enough to leave the tip inside you before slamming back down against you. The both of you let out a strangled moan at the feeling. He sets a fast, rough pace, his cock sliding in and out of you at a steady rhythm, one that has the whole bed rocking and headboard slamming against the wall.

“That’s it…take my cock…” He throws his head back in a prolonged, deep groan, his eyes shuddering closed. You were a whimpering mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust - feeling every inch of his hard cock inside you. He grips the back of your thighs and presses them down towards your chest, folding you nearly in half. This allows his cock to find that perfect spot inside you. His cock pounds into you even harder as he sits back on his haunches, using his thigh muscles to help thrust even deeper inside you, the tip of his cock kissing your g-spot over and over again.

You were a babbling mess beneath him, making no coherent sentences and letting out drawled out moans that had Jungkook hypnotised. He re-doubled his efforts, slamming into you with renowned vigour. He leaned down to catch one of your bouncing tits into his mouth. The feeling of his lips around your sensitive nipple was enough to leave you in a stuttering mess.

He plops off your nipple and leans down to press his forehead against yours, his hips never faltering their rhythm as his eyes bore into yours. “ohhh my- god,” you cry, he was fucking you so good it was turning your brain into mush. He opens his mouth to let a droplet of his sticky spit land against your cheek.

“hnngh…love this pussy” He slurs incoherently, throwing his head back once more as his rhythm starts to become sloppy and uncoordinated. With a last shuddering whimper, the second orgasm of the morning washed over you. Your whole body convulsing as you drag your nails down the expanse of his back, his name falling from your lips in a never ending mantra. 

It didn’t take much long after that Jungkook was spilling himself into the condom, your name falling from his lips in a deep rumble. His thrusts were shallow and slow, riding out both your orgasms. He released his grip on your thighs and gently cradled your body against his chest. His weight pushed you against the mattress as his cock softened inside you.

“Holy shit” He panted against the side of your neck “I should wake you up at 6AM everyday if this is the type of sex we’ll have.” That earns him a pinch to the side by your fingers, he yelps at the feeling, reaching out to hold your hand in his. “Hey, no need to get violent…I was only joking…” The feeling of his lips curling into a smirk had you thinking otherwise. 

You roll your eyes and slowly turn your head to capture his gaze with yours. “As much as I’m enjoying this moment, I really, really need to pee.”

He lets out an incredulous scoff “Hold it in. I need affection and love, woman” He nuzzled his nose onto the side of your neck once again.

“Baby please, I’m dying here!” You wiggled in discomfort, already feeling the pressure in your lower abdomen, you hadn’t peed all night, it was only fair that he let you now. With a drawn out sigh he starts to slide his softening cock out of you, hissing as it makes contact with the cool air of the room. He collapsed next to you on the bed. You quickly slide out off the mattress and pad towards the bathroom. 

Jungkook can’t help but marvel at the sight of your bare body, the way your ass bounced with each step you took. He could already feel his cock starting to harden at the sight. “Fuck…hurry up babe! We’re far from done.”

[qardenofeden]

what’s left of you, wherein you confront the life nanami kento has left behind for you to navigate through.

a/n : i was going to post this in parts but i didn’t want to compromise anything so here you guys go!!! one of the scenes was posted a bit earlier as a sneak peek so you might recognize that!

word count : 1.6k

prompt : finally getting everything you ever wanted only for it to be taken right from your grasp. angst with a happy ending.

disclaimer : english is not my first nor second language so please be patient! if you spot errors or typos, feel free to comment :) thank you!

the summer breeze passes you by as you stand, your hair dancing with the wind you overlook your alma mater’s campus behind you. nostalgia washes over you, memories of your youth that you so desperately tried to bury coming back.

approximately a decade ago, you stood in this exact spot with nanami kento, who, at the time, served as the light in your life.

you experienced all the horrors the world had to offer, but kento never once faltered. despite facing all those said horrors head-on, he remained kind-hearted, carrying out his tasks with a smile.

and you don’t know when you first started loving him, but it must be around your third year of junior high school when your love for nanami kento truly blossomed, manifesting in ways that, in retrospect, were not so subtle.

but kento was taught to be a gentleman through and through, and so his modesty translated into a sense of denseness.

everyone knew it except for him. your upperclassmen especially, noticed your favoritism and even made teasing remarks about it, but with nanami, it all went through one ear and out the other. he brushed it all off, claiming that your special treatment came from a place of familiarity, because you’d known each other for far longer.

and so began your little game of cat and mouse.

“kento, i got you your favorite bread!” your classes hadn’t even started yet, and you were already greeting him with a smile and an outstretched arm, offering him a sandwich from his favorite bakery.

“HAH?! it’s 8:12 in the mornin’! you mean to tell me you deliberately went outta your way to pick up a sandwich for nanami and nothin’ for anyone else?!” gojo interrupted, approaching you and swinging an arm around your shoulder as shoko and geto, your other upperclassmen, trail behind him.

the latter chuckles in amusement, eyes forming two thin lines as he smiles, “ah, young love.”

“that’s how my grandparents started off, too.” shoko joins in on the teasing, making you roll your eyes at their antics.

thankfully, nanami saves you from humiliation when he speaks up, sighing as he shakes his head. “don’t mind them. thank you, i really appreciate this.”

kento takes the sandwich and unwraps it, then splits it in half before handing the bigger slice to you, making the others gasp and woo. gojo pushes you towards kento with the arm he had previously wrapped around you, making you falter as you fall in the blonde’s arms. their teasing shrieks only get louder, with geto muttering a little “i was unfamiliar with your game.”

kento lets go of you once you find your footing, and he scolds the white haired man, furrowing his brows as he does so.

he looks back again at you, face softening as he offers you a small smile. his brown eyes find yours as he apologizes, extending his arms for the second time as he gives you your half of the sandwich.

suddenly feeling bashful under his gaze and the added presence of the others, you look down as you clear your throat, having no choice but to take the food, fearing that their teasing would only worsen if you refused.

times were much simpler then. you can’t help but wonder how different things could have turned out had you all been born as non sorcerers, away from the responsibilities forced upon you, the responsibilities you inherited, and the weight placed upon your shoulders since your birth.

but then you remember how everything, even the bad aspects of your upbringing, only made you and kento closer, and suddenly you don’t mind so much. because for kento, you’d take all the pain if it meant being able to keep his love.

like that time when you and kento were walking home after a duo mission when the sky suddenly started pouring. without an umbrella or even a jacket to keep either of you dry, you head to the nearest convenience store together and shake off the droplets of rain caught within your clothes.

taking a seat, you watch the world through the glass walls of the store. kento follows your gaze, before he fishes a handkerchief out his pocket. it’s surprisingly dry when he offers it to you without a word.

looking up at him in confusion, you take it from his hands. you’re about to speak when he beats you to it, muttering a quick and simple, “i’ll get us some ramen,” before he disappears into one of the aisles.

you’re left in confusion, feeling stunned before you clear your throat and pull yourself together. that’s just how kento is, you think, shrugging it off as you pat yourself dry.

minutes later, he returns with two cups of noodles and gently places your favorite flavor in front of you, then a wooden pair of chopsticks on top. taking a seat next to yours, he begins eating as you two watch the rain.

silence fills the room, save for the sounds of slurping and the harsh drops of rain outside. the tranquility provides a sense of comfort to the both of you, wrapping you up like a blanket after the harsh mission you’d just returned from.

the atmosphere is light and peaceful, much like how kento’s always made you feel. offering his seats, holding your bags when you feel tired, and even keeping an eye on you during missions. you don’t know how he does it. be perfect, you mean, because there is not a single flawed bone in nanami’s body.

it’s evident, especially in that one memory you hold so dearly in your heart.

after being separated for years after high school, you all went to your respective colleges. you thought it’d be the end of your little high school crush story, but little did you know what the future held in store for you.

years after, you and kento are in a french café, a pain au chocolat and a croissant resting on your respective plates. he had come across one of your social media accounts on accident, stumbling upon it when he was looking for… honestly, he doesn’t know what he was looking for. all he remembers is seeing your name and picture, and, as if a moth to a flame, clicking the message option to shoot you a text.

“that day is engraved into my brain,” light breaths of air escape his lips as he talks about the 7/11 ramen run, and you wonder how he can make even the slightest noises like that sound perfect, “i think about it a lot. you know, that was probably the first time i’d ever seen you in that sense.”

“you still think about that?”

…

“you don’t?”

———

kento nanami was a man of unwavering patience and little indulgence. every decision, no matter how small, was carefully well thought out, so you were surprised when he proposed to you after only 3 years and 7 months.

as waves of sunlight illuminated your face, kento sat up in bed with a pen and a newspaper, his bare back against the headboard as he pushed up his glasses. he clears his throat when he feels you shuffle awake, one of his hands snaking its way into your hair.

“good morning, sweetheart.” his voice is husky, clearly just having come from slumber.

you groan against him, nuzzling into the sides of his torso, your cheeks resting against his abs, “good morning, handsome.”

“you flatter me, my love.” he chuckles against you, and if it were up to nanami, he’d stay in this moment forever, the snug fit of your body against his aiding the sun in warming him up. he snaps the newspaper straight, catching your attention.

“what’s that?” you ask, closing your eyes and pressing yourself further, as if magnetized.

“today’s word search. would you like to help me?”

you groan, sighing as you pull yourself together and force your eyelids open. you rub your eyes and yawn, mirroring his posture as you sit up and rest your head against his shoulder.

that’s when you see it.

the encircled words: me, my, marry, will, love.

“my love, will you marry me?”

and as the sweet answer of “yes” escapes your lips, nanami sees it clearly now. how he’s always been yours. even if he didn’t know it. even if you didn’t know it.

but now you both do. and he realizes, that day when he found your account.

he’s always been looking for you.

———

your wedding ring fits snugly on your finger as you fidget, rolling it around.

it’s been a year since kento’s departure. a year since shibuya. a year since your life turned upside down and you’d lost all you ever had.

you remember a time when you thought you held the world in your hands. because with kento, he never made you feel any less, always at your disposal.

so now you keep his last name, and although you and kento never really had kids, you find yourself with three of his.

nobara, yuuji, and megumi all pool around you as you visit his grave. they’re laughing, conversing happily as they tell him stories of how good you’ve been to them.

“yuuji keeps eating away all of the food mrs. nanami makes!”

“nanamin, that’s not true! shut up nobara, i have to eat a lot because i work out!”

“both of you, shut up. this is so embarassing…”

despite not being able to physically share these memories with your husband, you’re not worried. you know he’s looking down on you, maybe even guiding you like the angel he is. knowing him, he’d probably argue with even the highest of beings if it meant being able to watch over you once more.

and maybe you lost all you ever had, but now you’ve gained a whole new world.

because no amount of sorrow or grief or heartache could compare to even a fraction to the miracle that is kento’s love. because regardless of the short time you’ve shared together, nanami’s love was enough to last you a lifetime.

a/n : thank you for making it this far! i hope you enjoyed it. likes & reblogs are appreciated but i rly rly rly love when you guys comment! :,) makes me feel like i’m not talking to a brick wall :p

[notjustjavierpena]

Ok so someone said Pedro is so husband in Gladiator 2 and I was wondering if you would possibly do a Marcus and pregnant!wife fic?! Please 🤍

Restless

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: This was so fun to write and I hope you like it! Just fyi, this is not a part of my series Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.

Summary: Being heavily pregnant makes it hard to sleep.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Pregnant reader, kisses, a general devoted to his wife

Word count: 1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60543115

Restless

Since entering the final stages of carrying your child, nights in bed have been restless. You lay awake most of the time, drifting off on your side only to wake up not long after with a foot pressing against your ribs. It is a strange paradox how something so unpleasant can offer you comfort at the same time, serving as a reminder that your baby is healthy and strong. You’ll take watching the sunrise each morning if it means knowing that they are well, even if it means exhaustion from the lack of rest. 

Tonight is no different. You are yet again caught in the realm of the awake, carefully turning over from side to side as you beg God Somnus to show you mercy and grant you some sleep. However, just as your eyes start to flutter closed, you are startled awake by another swift kick to your insides. 

“You are as restless as your father,” you speak quietly and with affection to the life within your belly, pressing your hand over the spot. You glance at Marcus as you say it, already aware of how he is stirring from his slumber because the littlest of things can rouse him. After all, he is a light sleeper, old habits making him as vigilant in bed with you as he is on the battlefield. 

“Another night on slumber’s battlefield?” Marcus asks while sleep still clings to him. His voice is rough, rumbling through his chest as he speaks. 

You nod with a sigh, reaching for your husband’s hand to guide it to rest on your belly. His voice joining yours has woken up the baby even more, and they seem even more enthusiastic in announcing their presence to their parents, “It seems like your child is preparing for a campaign of their own. Feel.”

“My child?” He asks with a fond smile, another jab at his palm making him gently trace patterns across your belly. 

“During nights like these, they’re your child,” you tease lightheartedly and earn a gentle smile, a twinkle in his eyes. 

“I suppose that’s fair,” he chuckles quietly but it is interrupted by another spirited kick. He sucks in a breath, talking quietly as if mostly to himself, “Every time I do this… I still can’t believe—“

“Neither can I,” you say dreamily and rest your own hand on top of his. You guide his palm over the curve of your swollen belly, “But they’re really in there. Feel this. Here’s their back and this… this must be the foot that’s keeping me from sleeping.”

Marcus’ calloused palm is warm as it skims across your stomach, feeling its way around to picture the growing bundle inside of you. His eyes are filled with uninhibited wonder, a joy that seems to be more frequent on his face after Goddess Juno granted you this blessing so soon after your union. He shifts on the bed to bend down and kiss where he has just felt a particularly enthusiastic kick. 

“Listen to me, little one,” he murmurs softly against your skin, “Your beautiful mother is doing all the work bringing you into the world and into my arms. The least you could do is grant her some rest.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen. I think they’ve inherited some of your rebellion,” you begin but Marcus looks at your face with feigned outrage. He crawls up to hover over you. 

“Their rebellious spirit is directly from you,” he argues with a charming smile, palms flat against the bed on either side of you. In return, you reach up to cup his face and drag him down for a sweet kiss. He smells like olive oil and metal from his armor, proof of him being in the sun all day during today’s training session. He should be exhausted but he kisses you like he isn’t. 

“Then you should know how to tame them just like you tamed me, General,” you bite back with a mischievous expression, a high-pitched giggle interrupting your attempt at an attitude because Marcus maneuvers you onto your side again, this time facing away from him. He crawls up behind you, scooping his arm underneath you so he can cradle your full belly with both hands. 

“Close your eyes,” he tells you, splaying his hands on you until the warmth of his touch starts to calm everything in your body and mind, “Focus on your breathing. In and out. Slowly like the tide.”

You can feel the gentle change in the room, both Marcus and the baby falling into sync with you as sleep comes knocking for all three of you. He talks in a quiet whisper even on the verge of slumber, his chest rising and falling against your back while your belly mirrors it, “That’s it. You’re safe, my love. My heart, my strength, my guiding light.”

“Tell me about our baby,” you murmur softly, eyelids growing heavy until you capitulate and close them. 

“Our baby,” he begins, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “Will be as beautiful as their mother. When they laugh it’ll be with your laugh, and when they smile, everyone will think of you in an instant. Perhaps, they will be granted the courage of Mars. Or perhaps the wisdom of Minerva, a real strategist.”

His hands continue their slow and gentle pattern over your stomach, lulling you even closer to the edge of sleep. You relax further into his embrace, letting his words wash over you as he continues, “And as for me, I hope they will inherit my heart. I hope to pass on my sense of duty and purpose. They’ll be honorable, stand firm, and protect the ones they love.”

“Marcus,” you say without knowing why. 

“They will be loved,” he adds as if it is the most true of all, his forehead resting against the back of your head, “Loved beyond comparison, beyond comprehension. By us and even the Gods themselves, and they will never doubt this. They will find it to be as certain as Sol and Nox ensuring each day and night.” 

“I like that,” you smile sleepily, barely awake anymore. 

“Me too,” you hear him say just before sleep finally claims you, his voice a calming echo that tells you he’s telling the truth.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[werecreature-addicted]

Sacrificial Lamb reader/vampire priest.

Just consider— a cute little lamb reader lying on the altar, begging not to be slaughtered, the tears their crying making the vampires heart flutter. All the cult members are confused why the ritual keeps getting pushed back- meanwhile the vampire is spoiling his little lamb rotten.

ohioohooohiohoo

His hands are gentle, stroking your cheek as you wake slowly, your eyes flutter open slowly to the morning light, and there he is, your keeper.

"Morning," you yawn sleepily,

"Good morning, little one,"

"is it a good morning? I thought my execution was scheduled for today." you huff, you should be more scared but the soft look on his face can only mean one thing. you get out of bed and change idly, not minding the priest as he watches you, he's a man of god after all, there's no way he'd be looking at you in lust.

"ah well, we thought so but some knew doctrine has come to light, now is not the time for sacrifices. we'll have to wait for next winter, at the very least," he says. You hum thoughtfully turning back to face him, his hungry red eyes fixed on your body, flicking up to meet your face as you turn around.

"Well, I'll make myself useful until winter then." When you were born, it had been prophecized that you would be sacrificed to the gods and your death would bring about a new golden age for your homeland. Then, on your eighteenth birthday, you'd been handed over to the church, to live out your final days in the temple, under the watchful gaze of the father and his dedicated cult. Your execution has been postponed four times now.

You wondered if the cultists even bothered setting up the altar this time. it was always something, the stars weren't aligned properly, the materials were all wrong, you fell ill and couldn't be slaughtered while sick, and now, Spring was a time for rebirth, you'd have to wait for winter for the ritual. which winter? who's to say? it might be another few years before he tries to start your sacrifice again.

He comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. he puts his nose to your throat and kisses your skin. "You could be useful to me now," he breathes, his voice strained, tight with hunger. You had been so scared the first time you'd almost been killed, you remembered sobbing and pleading for your life, his knife poised above your throat, He told you that you could live, for now, if you served the cult and him. Of course, you agreed, that was the first time he bit you, spilling your blood on the altar in a different way.

You lean your neck to the side and sigh as you feel his fangs pierce your skin. you have to lean back against him for support as he drinks your blood and you grow weaker.

"so perfect, so delicious," he murmurs to himself as he drinks your blood, licking at your throat, catching any stray drops of blood. His hands slide down your body feeling up your hips and thighs. You can feel his hard cock pressing against your back as he slowly grinds against you. The priest is chaste, a man of god, but he's also a vampire, as he's explained he can't help but get erect when he feeds it's a natural side effect and completely nonsexual.

He pins you down on the bed and pushes your legs apart, grinding against you, fully clothed, as he bites your neck again. you feel dizzy, a mix of feelings as your blood is drained and as you buck and grind against the vampire on top of you. you try to keep quiet, but you can't help but moan as he takes full advantage of you. You feel dirty, the man who's saved your life so many times now is just trying to eat and here you are getting off, practically masturbating right in front of him with his cock.

You can feel how large his dick is as you grind together, you can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he pulled your underwear aside and fucked you properly while he drained your blood, the thought alone makes you shudder and press up against him as he continues to dry hump you. although with the sticky feeling between your legs and his wet mouth sucking on your neck, "dry" might be the wrong word.

you bite down on your own hand to muffle the sounds of your pleasure as you cum, still trying to hide your own lust, what would the priest think if he found out you were so lustful? if you were lucky he'd bend you over and spank you for being so sinful, at worst he might chain you down to the sacrificial altar and leave you there.

The priest pulls away, breathless, your blood smeared messily around his mouth "What a mess we've made," he huffs, looking down at your neck, and then his eyes drop further to the place where your bodies meet.

"I can clean it-" you offer weakly,

"no, no little thing, rest, you need to let your body heal, close your eyes, I'll take care of all this," he coos reassuringly, you nod obediently and close your eyes.

You look so venerable like this, he could do almost anything he wanted with you in this weakened state. the prophecy said it had to be a virginal sacrifice, maybe he could halt the ritual permanently if he just took what he'd wanted from the beginning.

[xinganhao]

121U 📢 soonyoung x reader.

do you remember the annoying guy from your after-school taekwondo class? you don't even really care much for the sport anymore; you just want to get back at him for making your life a living hell.

ⓘ part of my how is your youth? mini-series. includes: childhood rivals/enemies, cussing, alcohol consumption and intentional typos. a very special shoutout to @sarangcoups, who served as a v.i.c (very important consultant) on the intricacies of spiteful taekwondo. <3

Kwon Soonyoung, taekwondo instructor/personal trainer. 28 years old.

👤 When you think of your youth, what do you think of?

🐯 What are you talking about?! I'm still youthful! I'm one of the kids, you know?

👤 ...

🐯 Jihoon-ah, so uptight~ Fine, fine. My youth— [pauses] Well, some people might think it's sad, but I spent a lot of time in dojangs. Sports have always been a part of me. And it's not sad! Because it's something I loved to do! It's never sad if you're happy to be there. I'm lucky I found what I liked at such an early age, and got to do it for the rest of my life.

👤 How has your youth shaped who you are now as a person?

🐯 ... Huh.

👤 What?

🐯 That's a hard question. Pass.

👤 There is no 'pass'. You signed a contract.

🐯 Did I? I would like to invoke my right against self-incrimination.

👤 ...

🐯 [sighs heavily] Fiiine. How my youth shaped me, huh? Well— [pauses] I know better now.

👤 You know better now.

🐯 Yeah. Hey, hey, hey. Don't look at me like that— pan the camera! Show how disbelieving he looks!— anyway. I know better now. There's a lot of things I could have done when I was younger. Could've been nicer, for instance. Some people run from their past, but I carry my youth with me. It's a constant reminder that while I've gotten far, I've still got much further to go.

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ 121U by day6. there is a light that never goes out by the smiths. i bet my life by imagine dragons. maybe by the ridleys. ikaw pa rin ang pipiliin ko by cup of joe. you're gonna go far by noah kahan.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[namelessgakusei]

EP. 2.1 Lead us not into temptation

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. Not proofread. It's hard to find gifs so have a pic instead.

EP. 1.2 COMBUSTION (prev.)

EP. 2.2 And deliver us from evil (cont.)

Synopsis: Mercenaries are hired, and a bounty was put over your heads. Enzo still insists on being your Dad despite it being untrue.

"My God. It's worse that I imagined."

Inside a certain conference room in DARKCOM HQ gathered various kinds of mercenaries, from rugged and scarred to spotless newbies, all waiting for orders about their target. On the other side of the room stood the five members of the DARKCOM Elite Ops, watching guard as they practically sneered at the group of people in front of them.

"An entire horde of—"

"Monsters." A fight broke out between the mercenaries, making one of the Ops members sigh, commenting if this is really the species they are trying to save. Thankfully, the appearance of the Vice President shut the commotion down, leaving the mercs gaping as to why an important person in power is standing in front of them. But as the room dimmed, Baines disregarded their shock, opting to go straight to the point and reveal the primary objective.

A red shard serving as a pendant.

"It is an item of critical importance to our national security." All the mercenaries fell back to their chairs, focused on the briefing of their mission. "However, seeing as this item officially does not exist, we need it retrieved off the books." Baines' expression hardened. After providing the amulet's location, he too revealed the current owner, showing the estimation of his abilities. "He's a man the US government considers a top-level threat."

"He is extremely volatile and prodigiously gifted in combat. Engage him only with the full brunt of your firepower."

Baines' eyeglasses reflected the light from the dim room, and after a pause, raised his head up, showing his grim expression. "His name is Dante."

The sight of Dante's grin all over the screen made the mercenaries guffaw at his ridiculous portraits, clearly underestimating him, saying that this much number of hired men is an overkill. However, a burly man that sat at the farthest corner of the room spoke up, his body littered with metal prosthetics as he looked at his comrades in pity. "Laugh while you can... You won't be much longer."

"I met Dante once. Worked with him on a protection job." This mercenary recounted the events of his previous jobs, confirming that Dante indeed is on a whole another level from the usual men for hire, and that if it wasn't for Dante, he would've been long dead. "And you'll all be dead soon enough if you go after him. No... You won't even be able to take a step within a hundred foot radius if you have the intent to harm him, not when he has that monster with him at all times."

The Vice President's eyes narrowed, and another set of pictures appeared on the screen behind him, showing another hunter that's comparatively calmer in their photos.

You.

"You meant (Y/N)." The sound of your name made the mercenary wince, the memory of your meeting still fresh in his mind. That uncanny smile of yours that did nothing but unsettle seasoned men like him, those that are all too familiar about the underworld, whenever you look their way. You fight well, like you've mapped out every single possibility that could happen, and it creeps him out. You're too prepared.

He still remembers how your eyes bore to him, scrutinizing his worth in mere seconds, like he's nothing but an item for you to appraise. It's like you know too much but chose to keep quiet, waiting for the right time to use your cards, a bona fide information broker within the world of Devil Hunters. "I'm not risking my life by hunting the two crazy bastards." He grunts as he stands up, a look of resignation on his face as he meet eyes with Baines. "Ain't no amount of money you could offer that'd be worth—"

"Five hundred thousand." That much made the mercenary stop himself from opening the door. "The bounty is 500,000 for whoever brings in Dante with the amulet." Baines' expression is unreadable, the light from the screen casting shadows on his face. "An additional 250,000 you also bring in (Y/N)." He fixes his glasses as he continues to negotiate, already knowing how to piqued in their interests. "And a bonus if they're both alive for questioning."

That enough made everyone grin and behave, even the mercenary from earlier became enthusiastic at the amount.

"We will be deploying a civilian asset to keep them distracted as you move in." The screen changes from your face to Enzo's. But the elephant in the room wasn't about the bounty on your heads, it's about the presence of DARKCOM's operatives at the side of the room, barely moving nor reacting to anything. One of the hired men even questioned their use if they'll be doing the all work anyways, having the gall to ridicule them as the rest laughed. The lone hooded soldier narrows her eyes at one of the mercenaries, before breaking into a knowing smile.

"These soldiers will be in the field, overseeing the operation. You'll deliver the package to them." Baines explained while running his eyes around the room, giving one last look at the number of cannon fodder for this mission. "The contract opens as of midnight tonight."

"That's all." The light returned to the room and one by one, the mercenaries stood up to leave. There was shuffling just outside the door, leaving many irritated grunts and huffs from the passing men, the source is the overly eager soldier wearing a DARKCOM Special Ops uniform. It's Anders, having fully recovered from his previous injuries and is now the newest member of the unit despite their Lieutenant's skepticism. He brought along with him the asset that shall be used to aid the extraction mission, a noisy Enzo, who complains about not getting a decent food during his stay.

The broker immediately shut up when he saw the people inside the room he was ushered in, laughing nervously while asking for a clarification about what he should be doing later tonight.

The air was tense around the building that night. Inside your shared apartment was the unnerving stillness, devoid of the sound of the TV or Dante's arrogant claims that has something to do with pizza and arcade while you lounge on the couch, unimpressed. It was too dark and quiet, a sight that only happened whenever the two of you are away on long term missions, usually in another city or so. But Enzo knows that he didn't give you anything after the set-up job, so it's a surprise for him when he opens the door, only to be met with nothing.

"(Y/N)? Dante? You here?" Nothing. The weight of the briefcase felt foreign to him, even if it just houses the usual monetary reward for the job. "(Y/N)...! It's your Pa! I've go—" A gun was shoved to his temple, with an annoyed voice breaking the otherwise stillness. "You are not my Dad."

You sneered at him with faux-disgust as he stumbled backwards in surprise, chuckling nervously while trying to keep you calm, only for another barrel to hit the back of his head as Dante smirks at Enzo's predicament. "Y-you are here! Thank God!" Your "Pa" sputters while raising his hands in surrender, saying that it's a relief since he thought he missed you. But your obvious suspicion remains on your face, before lowering your gun and sighing, Dante didn't, however.

"Hey, Enzo. How've you been?" His sing-song tone betrays his own doubts about the broker's sudden appearance, one that didn't got missed by the latter as he spun towards the young man and tried to get him to lower his weapon with humor.

Dante didn't.

"Wish I could help you out there." Your calm stance greatly contrasts the uneasy atmosphere. Seated on the couch with your legs crossed and an arm lazily draped over the back, you smiled brightly at your mentor. "But see, I've heard something funny from the walls. About his last job."

"Our last job." Dante corrects you without looking, leaning closer to Enzo as he keeps the gun on the man.

"Of course." You chuckled lightly, instead of the usual smugness known to only by close confidants, before returning your gaze to Enzo. "It turned out to be a setup so a shapeshifting demon baby could try to steal my necklace." Dante finished your words, closing in and jamming the barrel of his gun to the older man's neck. The broker turned to you for help but all he saw was your knowing, closed-eyed, smile. "It's the most curious thing, isn't it? You know how possessive he gets with that pendant."

Enzo laughs nervously, finally confessing that he might have set Dante up. But that it wasn't really his fault, no! He's just a middleman, a nobody, he swears! "It was the guy who gave me the job! The White Rabbit!"

The White what? Your face scrunched in confusion as you cocked your head to the side. "Like Alice's?" There are demons with animal-like creatures, but most of them opted to learn to try to pass off as human, so for Enzo to use the word the, it means that this isn't some common demon. Your question made him nod furiously. "He's the one who set the whole thing up!"

"See, he comes into my office, talking all smooth, a-and I'm mesmerized!" Of course, you sighed in exasperation. With how sweating your adoptive father is, you're fairly certain that he's telling the truth. "So you're saying you only sent me into a trap because a demon that looks like a giant rabbit tricked you into doing it?" Dante emphasizes by pushing the gun to Enzo's mouth, despite the broker practically begging the two of you to believe him.

"Dante." You sighed and stood from your seat, going over to them with a disappointed look for Enzo. In response to your words, Dante's previously furrowed brows relaxed as he pulled his gun away and stands up. "All right, that checks out."

"What are you doing here?"

The older man nearly sagged to the floor in relief, before pushing the briefcase to the table, saying that it's the second half of the fee for the setup job. "Just 'cause the job was fake don't mean you don't get paid, right?" Enzo shrugged and beamed at the sight of the wads or cash inside the briefcase after he opened it, caressing the money with such gentleness. "Pure, uncut, American green. And all you have to do was fight a baby for it." He beams at the scowling Dante.

"And my brother." Dante's jaw squared as he frowned. "The shapeshifter showed up again later disguised as him." Meanwhile, you inspected the money the moment Enzo got distracted, closing the lid upon confirming the legitimacy before noticing something off. "Nothing like how he'd actually look now, but still, it was a good effort." There was a blinking device at the bottom of the suitcase. A transmitter or a tracker, you don't know, but you went over to the window to throw it away, catching glimpses of people moving around the rooftops. Typical. And as expected.

Enzo tried comforting Dante by reaching out for his arm but the younger man pulled away. "I keep telling you. What's my only rule?" He looked at the broker with annoyance as he rummaged behind his desk. You walked back to the couch while stretching, donning your coat and grabbing your own briefcase, equipped with weapons you made on your own. "I'll take any job that pays, especially if it involves killing demons. Just long as I can do it with (Y/N), and not care about anything else." Enzo heard it too many times that he parroted it back. "I know, I know. But I have you the job, not them." Dante lifted his head from the table with a deadpan, making the other shrug and drop the argument. "So you and me, we're all good now, yeah?"

"You know I look at you two as my own children." Enzo turned around to beam at you, faltering upon seeing you drawing the curtains close. "Not my dad." You replied with a flat tone, making him slump his shoulders. "I would take a bullet for you two! ...Maybe not a bullet but a blade, like a little jab." He nods and turns back to Dante with such... conviction. "Point is, I would never set you up like that on purpose."

"So there aren't multiple teams of mercenaries outside, closing in around us right now?" You cocked your gun and raised a brow to your adoptive father.

Dante grinned.

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie

[lurochar]

To Give Comfort

After his mother dies, Alastor turns to you for comfort.

Part 2

18+ MDNI

–------------------------------------------------

Alastor pants into your ear, feeling you shudder beneath him as your arms tighten around him. His mind is in a haze of both pleasure and intoxication – the sex and whisky serve their purpose as a relief from the drowning grief he had found himself spiralling into.

He knew it was coming, his mother has not been well for a while now and he thought he had been prepared for her inevitable death, but no – he had never expected it to feel like this.

But he had a reputation and image to uphold, he was a man and he couldn’t be seen as weak.

He did not cry once and his usual smile seemed to fool everyone, his co-workers at the radio station, passersby from his daily life, acquaintances from his favoured speakeasy. Even Mimzy.

It fooled everyone but you.

Alastor really should have known.

“I know you’re hurting.” You finally manage to corner him at his home after a week of him avoiding you every time you try to reach out. “Alastor, please. You don’t need to pretend with me. Is there anything I can do?”

Alastor stays silent for a moment, staring at your distressed face and feels his drunken thoughts wander in many different directions. He is a little tipsy at this time, most of his rationality is still there, but there’s a part of him that’s still in pain – he’s unfamiliar with it, he hates it, he wants it gone.

Can you relieve him of his misery?

“Anything?” Alastor, though not completely sober, still moves with the skill of a hunter and he has you pinned against the wall before you even realize what happened. “If this were to happen, we can’t go back. I won’t let you go back. Is that what you want?”

You seemed a bit shocked, but slowly wrap your arms over his broad shoulders and press yourself against him. “I hate seeing you like this.” You feel Alastor practically slump against you. “Wherever this takes us, we can see when we get there.” You can feel his eyes staring so intently at you that it almost makes you shiver.

Would you regret your actions?

—---------------------

“Fuck!”

Alastor smirks, rubbing your flushed cheek affectionately. “How unlady-like.” He teases, gripping your hips so you couldn’t squirm away when he quickened his thrusts, making sure his cock hit that special little spot of yours deeper and harder each time, causing you to let out a high-pitched cry. 

“A-ah, feels good.” You tossed your head to one side, jumping and feeling your body spasm when you feel Alastor’s fingers slowly rub at your slick clit. The jolt of sudden pleasure has you clenching around his cock and he grits his teeth, barely holding back a groan.

Alastor slowly lowers himself to lie completely on top of you, careful not to hurt you under his weight. His eyes half-lid when he feels your hands card through his brown hair and shudders a sigh, slowing his thrusts until his hips are barely even moving anymore.

He wants to bask in this– your warmth for much, much longer. It’s burning away the ache and the pain, it’s lighting the dark depressing grief, and if he leaves now, what would happen?

Alastor knows, of course.

He would go hunting, less careful, sloppy, uncaring if his targeted victim truly deserved their gruesome fate at his hands. More than likely, he would be caught as the Bayou Butcher if he leaves your embrace now.

“Is everything…all right?” You ask after a moment, your breath still caught in your throat when Alastor keeps stroking your clit. “If you need to stop, that’s okay.”

“No, Darling,” Alastor rests his head on your chest, closing his eyes as he listens to your beating heart and he realizes he would like to listen to it for the rest of your lives, “just let me stay here for a minute.” He tilts his head and gives you an almost sultry smirk. “But then, I want to hear you beg for my cock.”

Did you regret your actions? 

You did not.

[prentissluvr]

forget-me-nots — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : soulmate!au, fluff, very light angst ➖⟢ cw : light mentions of canon typical death, violence, and monsters, shirtless sam aaaaa, light descriptions of injuries and blood, reader believes in ghosts before knowing about the supernatural, drinking/alcohol mentions, silly criminal minds reference to my gf elle, kissing, poor editing ➖⟢ wc : 5.6K summary : in a world where flowers grow on your skin in the exact places your soulmate is injured, you’re constantly covered in forget-me-nots.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

heartache is one thing. heartache for someone you don’t know, someone whose face you’ve never seen or who you’ve never met, is another, stranger thing. it’s common for many to feel this heartache before they know their soulmate, but sometimes you feel as though you have to worry much more than most.

you try not to let thoughts of your mystery soulmate consume you, but you seem to have constant reminders of them litered on your skin in the form of tiny blue flowers. admittedly, you find it romantic that forget-me-nots are your soulmate flower, with their symbolism of true love, respect, and fidelity. the flowers themself feel like a good omen, a sweet promise of a steady love waiting for you. but, the frequency with which they appear on your skin feels far less lucky and always feeds you so much worry for this person you’ve yet to meet.

this morning, you wake with new blooms snaking along your left collarbone, peeking out from the seam of your sleep shirt. and when you change into new clothes, you find a few more growing on your bicep and the side of your ribs.

sighing, you stand at the mirror lightly brushing your fingers over the small flowers and wonder what sort of trouble your soulmate got into last night. as always, worry floods your chest, but you do your best to tamp it down considering the fact that you only bear a few new blooms. the more severe the injury, the more flowers appear on your skin. today, your soulmate must only be dealing with small surface cuts.

sometimes, you’re covered in so many forget-me-nots that you’re too worried to do much of anything at all. more than once, you’ve wondered how your soulmate could still be alive, and the continuous flowers on your skin serve as your only proof that they're still around. there were a few years where you barely had any blooms, just the usual flower on a fingertip to signify a papercut or the occasional few because of a small accident. but one night the flowers came in bunches and never stopped.

you imagine what you might say or do when you meet them. maybe you’ll want to check on whatever wounds they have, be sure it’s not too bad, or maybe you’ll scold them for making you worry so much. you’ll certainly ask what they do in their life that gets them so injured so often. maybe you’ll do it all.

but for now, you’ll have to move on and get ready for the day. the flowers always linger, though.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s been a rather strange week. the flowers from last thursday have completely faded, and you’ve gone a day or two without any new forget-me-nots appearing on your skin. the strange part has been at work. on monday night, one of your coworkers died in the building, but you still had to come in to work the next day. one of the rooms was taped off, but that was the only evidence of the misfortune. the same thing happened last night, thursday, and you’re ready to do everything you can to get at least the next several days off of work. you don't want to risk anything.

and now, it seems the goddamn fbi is interested in whatever has happened. you’re not a huge fan of the federal government, but you have to admit that the bureau has sent two of its most attractive agents. normally, you’d keep your head down, but you feel inexplicably drawn to one of them. he’s the taller of the two, which is impressive because the other is already tall, and he has pretty brown hair and dimples that you catch a glimpse of as he talks to one of your coworkers.

he looks away from her as he moves away, seemingly done with the interview. he catches your eye, and your breath gets caught in your throat for a moment. he’s a beautiful man; pretty and sweet looking at the same time as he’s traditionally handsome and slightly imposing. you’ve never loved a stranger’s eyes so much.

he approaches you and you can’t help but watch as he grows closer.

“hi,” he greets with a small smile, “i’m agent greenaway with the fbi. can i ask you a few questions about the deaths from this week?”

“i’m not sure i’ll be much help, but sure,” you nod, folding your arms over your stomach. agent greenaway doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but the topic at hand certainly does.

“that’s alright. sometimes the smallest things can really be helpful,” he reassures, keeping the kind look on his face. “have you noticed anything strange about either of the deceased or the building this past week or so?”

you shake your head. “not really. i mean i didn’t work closely with macy, and i never noticed anything off about lex.”

“and the building? any strange cold spots or flickering lights?”

you find the question sort of odd coming from an fbi agent, but you instintually feel like you should take it seriously. “um, yeah, actually. it was really cold by the bathrooms last night when i left. at first i thought the ac finally got fixed, but it was still sort of warm over here. in this area”

“okay. thank you for your help,” he smiles at you again and for a reason you can't quite place, you don’t want the unusual conversation to end. you have to hide a hint of delight from your expression when he hands you his card. “call me if you think of anything else.” you accept the card with a nod. he looks like he’s about to walk away, but he pauses. “and, uh– be careful. you should go home early tonight.”

“oh. okay, i will.” without knowing why, you trust him. you want to see him again.

⟢⟢⟢

saturday night is the second busiest night at the bar, but you’re glad it’s not as crowded fridays normally are. you walk straight to the bar to order your go-to drink. as you wait for the bartender to make it, you stare at yourself in the mirror behind the counter out of the corner of your eye. today, there’s two little forget-me-nots right on your left cheek. they look sort of cute there, and you guess you should be grateful that it’s such a small wound. there’s no other flowers on your body yet, which feels like a good run for your soulmate. that’s a little over a whole week in between different injuries, even small ones.

the bartender slides you your drink and you thank them. there’s a small red carnation on their thumb, and you wonder if they’ve met their own soulmate yet. you suppose that at the end of the day, you’re scared of what just about everyone else is. without trying, you worry about not meeting your soulmate until you're old and left without much time together. you want to meet them, and you think the sooner the better. the idea’s been particularly stuck in your mind since last night.

agent greenaway’s words echo in your head. “be careful. you should go home early tonight.” he seemed so sweet, so genuine and caring, and all you’ve been able to think about since then is meeting someone like him. finding someone kind with a little red mark on their cheek and a forget-me-not on their right pointer finger to match the papercut you got earlier this afternoon.

and simply, you’ve been feeling a little lonely these days. how nice would it be to have your literal soulmate by your side?

you sip slowly at your drink, and when the cup’s empty, you pay the tab. the bar isn’t quite serving as the distraction you hoped it would. as you head for the door, your gaze snags on a mop of brown hair that wouldn’t be considered familiar for the fact that you’ve only seen it once, but feels that way regardless. quickly, you scan the rest of the bar, and sure enough you catch sight of agent greenaway’s partner, across the way and very obviously flirting with a pretty brunette.

for a moment you pause, wondering if it would be weird or too out-of-the-blue to approach agent greenaway, but the pull you feel towards him overrides all else, taking your hand and guiding it to throw all caution to the wind.

he’s facing away from you, and with a friendly smile, you slide into the seat across from him.

“hi,” you greet over the noise of music and talking, “d’you mind if i sit here?” it takes him a moment to answer, like he’s lagging a little bit.

“uh– no, no i don’t mind,” he flashes a quick smile back at you, but his gaze and attention are clearly stuck somewhere on your face. for just a split-second, you’re confused by what he could be staring at, but it clicks not a moment later. you don’t know how you missed it: the red mark on his left cheek, so small that your eyes glossed over it when you sat down. eagerly, you drop your gaze to his hands, one casually wrapped around his beer bottle and the other resting on the table. and sure enough, so tiny and pretty against his big hand is a single forget-me-not on his right pointer finger, exactly where you have a bandaid wrapped around your own.

you suck in a sharp breath, eyes caught on the delicate flower and unable to drag themselves away to look back at his face. just like everyone else, you’ve thought about it a million times over, what it would feel like to meet your soulmate, what you would do, how you would act. in this moment, you feel frozen, but you feel right and you feel a million questions and urges rise up in your heart and mind. you desperately want to reach out to him, to touch his hand and the little flower and make sure that they’re both real.

but you absolutely cannot keep your gaze away from his face for long at all and when you meet his eyes, an irresistible smile stretches across your face. you look at him with nothing short of wonderment. he’s just stunning and you can’t believe that he’s supposed to be… well, yours. 

just staring at each other, you feel a little flustered and awkward, unsure what to say to him. then you realize he should probably know your name, and all you know is his last. so you stick your right hand out and tell him your name. he takes your hand with a smile and repeats it back, saying it carefully and savoring the sound and feel of it on his tongue.

when you touch him for the first time, your breath gets caught in your throat and it feels so right that you never want to let go.

“i’m sam,” he says, only letting his hand fall away from yours after a few moments. even then, your fingertips are merely inches apart now.

“sam greenaway,” you echo, easily remembering how he introduced himself yesterday. then you puzzle at his reaction and the way that the name doesn’t feel quite right as you look at him. he cringes slightly, like he’s done something to be guilty of. “or… not?” for a minute, things were starting to add up to you. the way you felt drawn to him yesterday and his job as an fbi agent finally explaining all of his many injuries. you figured he must be in fights often.

“i– i’m sorry, this is so– i mean if we’re really,” he takes a deep breath, trying to reset and figure out how to say things right. “if we’re really, you know, soulmates… well, there’s just a lot– a lot for me to explain. i’m not an fbi agent and my real name is sam winchester. but i swear, there’s a reason for me lying and i promise that i’ll explain it to you if you’re willing to hear it. which i understand if you don’t–”

“i do,” you say in earnest, finally cutting him off. it took you a second because, for a moment, you were too stuck on him saying the word soulmate aloud in reference to the two of you. it felt special and you were only half paying attention to the things he said after because of that. then all you were thinking about was how endearing he seems when he’s flustered and worried. “it’s okay,” you reassure him, “i want to hear it. i– i mean, sure, it’s sort of strange that you lied about, you know, all that, but… i’m not– i’m not gonna just meet my… my soulmate and not give you a chance.” he still looks a little tense, but his shoulders have dropped a bit in relief and there’s the hint of a grateful smile on his features.

“thank you,” he says, glad for your reassurance but still worried about how you might take the rest of the far weirder explanations that he has left to tell you. “can i maybe get you a drink?”

you smile at the offer, but shake your head a bit. “i was actually just heading out when i saw you. would you maybe wanna get out of here? my apartment’s less than a ten minute walk away.” for a moment, you wonder if that’s too much for just having met, but sam visibly relaxes just a little bit more.

“that would be nice,” he smiles. he’s getting ready to stand when he glances across the bar, seemingly remembering about his partner. or not partner. you’re not quite sure. “my brother, dean,” he explains simply when he catches your gaze on the other man. “i should tell him where i’m going.”

“okay,” you nod, filing the new information away in your mind and watching him weave between tables and flirting couples to reach his brother. the exchange is a bit funny to watch. at first dean looks annoyed at being interrupted by sam. then he glances at you with a sly smirk and makes some comment that is probably less than appropriate judging from his expression. and then his face morphs into one of surprise before it’s taken over by a smile. he claps sam on the shoulder and sends him off. you almost miss the look that dean gives you as sam heads back towards you because you’re so focused on the sweet smile that sam’s now wearing. you only catch dean’s look for a second before sam is back at your side. it’s easy to assume dean as the older brother, with his eyes on you being protective, proud, careful, and happy all at once. and they’re close enough that sam told him about you right away.

walking home with sam at your side is both completely strange and familiar all at once. it’s strange for a number of reasons, the main being that you’d never invite any other unknown man to your apartment, especially not one with a cryptic identity and such an imposing build. and yet, you’re not afraid or worried because of how familiar and safe it feels. it feels familiar because it feels right, it feels like exactly what you should be doing.

on the way over, he asks about you a little bit, trying not to overwhelm you with questions or seem overbearing with how eager he is to hear what you have to say. his kindness and carefulness are clear to you, and you love it. you answer happily, despite knowing he’s partially asking to avoid talking about himself until you settle down.

once inside, sam follows you right to the couch in the living room, sitting when you motion towards it and plop down into a chair across from him. he takes in the space, eyes roaming over your furniture, decor, and every little detail. he wants to know about you, just like you do him.

“it’s really nice in here,” he compliments, sounding so sincere that it’s just sweet.

“thank you,” you respond softly, wondering exactly what parts of the room he likes. you let him look around a second or two more before speaking again. “so… can i ask? you know, about it all, i guess? about you?”

he doesn’t say it aloud, but he thinks the way that you ask is so lovely. half of him wants to make up some silly, somewhat believable explanation to spare you the truth, but he knows that would never work out well. not if you choose to stay together in some way or another. already, that’s what he wants. he doesn’t doubt that you’re indeed his soulmate, the one who he’s been sharing wounds and flowers with for as long as he can remember. sam has both yearned for and dreaded this moment. he tries not to be obvious about it or over do it, but he’s sort of a total romantic. he’s had doubts about how this whole idea of soulmates could really be real or make much sense, but those thoughts are eased with each moment he spends with you. he still wants to get to know you before he does anything with you, but the way that he wants to get to know you is something he’s never felt before. it’s undeniably special.

the dread is because he’s known ever since he got back into hunting that he’d never be able to hide the truth of his world from you. he has no idea how he’s going to get to you to believe him or convince you that he’s not completely insane, but he’s going to tell you the truth anyway. even if you do believe him, he wants to give you a choice. you shouldn’t have to get involved with this life in any way at all if you don’t want to. he’d never force you to try things with him if it’s too strange or too scary or hard or anything. and already, he knows that he’ll never stop thinking about you if you do choose to stay away, but he also knows that he’d never try to change your mind or force you to do anything else other than exactly what you want.

“of course you can ask,” he responds, matching the softness of your own voice. “i, um– i’m honestly not quite sure how to say all of this without sounding totally crazy, and i completely understand that, but just– try to bear with me, i guess. and if you need proof, which i also understand, i’ll do my best to get it for you, it’s just– sort of hard.”

honestly, you’re wildly confused as to what the hell he could possibly say that would make him this anxious. it worries you a little bit too. you don’t want him to feel afraid to tell you anything at all. so, you nod at him in encouragement, trying not to seem nervous yourself.

“my brother and i, we– we hunt monsters. real ones. ghosts, vampires, demons, the works. they’re all real. your coworkers who died, they were– they were killed by an angry spirit. we got rid of it last night,” he says those words like they’re a ten ton weight off of his chest, but he’s still got another ten sitting there as he awaits your response. he looks at you so carefully, trying to gauge any sort of reaction.

you raise your eyebrows in surprise, and probably disbelief and a million other things. “angry spirit? like a ghost?” you’re not sure why that’s the first question that slips out, but you suppose it’s an easier one than are you insane? or what the hell are you talking about?

he nods his head carefully, like he’s waiting for you to freak out or call him crazy and tell him to go. “yeah. the ghost, she had died there, near the bathrooms where you felt the cold spot, in the 90s. she was triggered to kill when the man suspected of her murder was granted parole.”

“okay,” you breathe out, sort of nervously. the craziest thing is that you don’t disbelieve him. you’re not convinced by any stretch, but when you look him in the eye and listen close to his voice, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “i mean… that is sort of a kinda crazy thing to say,” you begin, “but i’ve always sort of believed in ghosts, so i don’t think you’re completely, you know, insane.” you laugh a bit, trying to lighten the mood a little. you don’t want him to stress, however unbelievable his words are. “the rest is a bit… shaky, i guess. it’s a hard thing to believe, i mean… vampires. and– and demons. it’s a lot. and honestly, i’m not sure how much i’ll really, truly believe until i see, i don’t know, something, i guess,” you admit, “but… but i don’t think you’re lying to me either.”

“thank you for that,” he says, voice as sincere as ever, “and i completely understand. honestly, part of me didn’t want to tell you at all, but… it’s sort of my whole entire life at this point and it wouldn’t be fair to hide from you. or– or to not give you a choice right off the bat of whether or not you wanted to be involved. it’s– it’s a lot and it’s dangerous. and if it’s what you want, i promise i’ll try to find a way to prove it to you, it’s just… hard to do that without putting you in danger. and i really don’t want to put you in danger.”

“that’s sweet, sam,” you say, not really bothering to hide the way you feel. “i’m not, you know, eager to meet any monsters anytime soon, but whenever it’s… the least dangerous, i guess, you can show me. until then… i’ll just trust you. and in the meantime maybe we can sort of just get to know each other?” you suggest, surprising yourself with how ready you are to trust him on this.

sam smiles at you sweetly. “that sounds perfect to me. i just– i don’t want to force you into something you don’t want for yourself. i live out of crappy motels and my brother’s car while hunting monsters that shouldn’t be real. i’m just… i’m sorry i’m not someone easier.”

you smile at him sort of sadly. “that’s not your fault, sam. i never asked for someone ‘easy’ anyway. just someone kind and respectful and you seem to be just that so far. besides, there’s gotta be a reason, right? that… we’re soulmates. honestly, if you were anyone else i wouldn’t trust you like this. an–and it’s not like i’m trusting you blindly because of something that we’re supposed to be. we just met. i’m only trusting you because it feels right to. and this whole soulmate thing never made too much sense to me until i met you. now it sort of does, because this feels right so far. at least, it does to me.”

“it feels right to me too,” he quickly assures, not wanting for you to misunderstand that for a second.

⟢⟢⟢

as two people who aren’t quite ready to jump into such a committed relationship with completely different lives, it’s a little bit strange to be soulmates. and yet, nothing about it is anything but honey-sweet to you. the night you met as soulmates for the first time, you ended up talking for hours. all you had to do was sort of ignore the huge and slightly unbelievable bomb he dropped on you within the first hour of talking. oddly enough, that was sort of easy. you learned that sam’s appetite for knowledge is just about insatiable, including when it comes to knowing about you.

he had words rolling off of your tongue, asking the best, most interesting questions and providing such sincere and in-depth responses. that night, he was just lovely, and that’s pretty much all he’s been since. he’s this adorable mix of confident and shy, awkward and knowing just the right thing to say. and he’s incredibly smart, an almost stanford pre-law graduate who was headed for bigger things before he was pulled back into hunting a little over two years ago. this explains the difference in all his injuries from the past two years versus the three beforehand. secretly, you mourn for the life that he, and subsequently you, might have had, but only because he gets a little wistful every time he talks about stanford.

mostly, you talk on the phone, only stopping late in the night when one of you catches the other yawning. he seems to sleep so little, yet he lives such a tiring life. you almost always seem to be the one who gets too tired first. one night, you fell asleep to his voice, and since then, you feel like it’s the single best way to drift into dreams.

sam tries to avoid the topic of the supernatural, but you ask him about it anyway. as you get used to the idea of monsters being real, you find yourself wanting to understand it all better. you want to understand him better. and you don’t want him to feel like he has to hide the biggest parts of his life from you or for him to have trouble fitting you into his world.

he always answers your questions, omitting any extreme gore or death, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize how many people he really saves. that’s his life; saving people.

it takes three weeks for you to see him again since the first night, and three more plus a whole lot of convincing on your end for him to bring you on a hunt with him. he tries to hide it, but he’s so worried for you, despite all the reassurances he’s made that this particular ghost isn’t really all that violent or dangerous. by now, you’ve already come to mostly believe all that he's told you, but to see it in real life is still the final confirmation that you need to be fully convinced.

sam keeps you by his side the whole time, one hand on you every moment that he can afford it. the second the ghost appears, he blasts it with a salt round from his shotgun, and he thinks he could cry when you flinch at the loud noise. yet, he feels comforted that you don’t seem all too scared. and strangely, you really aren’t. sam easily makes you feel safe. luckily, the next time the ghost appears, it bursts into flames moments later thanks to dean burning the bones.

the moment it’s gone, sam drops the gun to the ground and turns to you, accidentally ruining the now unnecessary salt line around you in his rush to check on you.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, a hand on your shoulder and the other cupping your cheek as he looks you up and down.

“i’m alright, sam,” you reassure. it’s true that you’re a little shaky, and just the tiniest bit scared, but to have your confirmation and sam by your side is much more important to you.

“i’m sorry,” he apologizes anyway, pulling you into a hug that’s more for his peace of mind than yours. of course, you don’t complain, easily finding his arms to be your new favorite place in the world.

oddly enough, taking it almost slow works well. he kisses you the next time he sees you, a week and a half later, and you’ve never wanted anything more than to have him keep kissing you, over and over again. he just feels like yours and you feel like his and you’ve barely known him for long, but when he kisses you it’s like there’s stars hung from the ceiling and flowers made from nothing but love and healing growing all over you. when he kisses you it’s sunlight and moonglow bottled up and mixed with sweet, pure maple syrup. his lips on yours feel like lucky four leaf clovers, like it’s possible to taste heaven on someone else’s tongue.

and though it mostly works for him to just visit as often as he can, which sometimes isn’t often at all, and to call him at every moment you can, the yearning only grows. you swear that you’re addicted to his lips, to his big hands cupping your jaw all gentle and sweet or his bulky arms boxing you in as he kisses you so hard that you melt right into the sheets.

and some nights, though he tries to hide it, you can hear him struggling with what seems to be the weight of the world on his shoulders. his job is anything but easy or fruitful. before, you thought that you might worry less when you found out exactly why your soulmate was getting injured so often, but now every time new blooms appear on your skin, you spend all day fretting until you can get him on the phone to make sure he’s alright.

you suppose he gets just as worried as you, despite the fact that you’re never in nearly as much danger as he is. a week ago, a jagged edge on a metal wire fence snagged at your skin, drawing a very shallow, but long line of blood down your forearm. seconds later, you had a frantic sam on the phone, so worried about all the little blue flowers on his arm. 

it’s not as hard as he thinks for you to tell how much fear and worry he lives in. you know that he doesn’t tell you the half of it sometimes, even when you ask. all you want is to have him a little closer, to be there for him and provide the sort of comfort that you’re sure he’s never really had before. and though he’s told you that having you to talk to, so receptive and encouraging for him, has been a complete blessing, you still wish for more. you want his arms enveloping you and his lips on yours and his warm body in your bed. really, you just miss him. all the time.

⟢⟢⟢

tonight is one of the glorious nights that you get to have him with you. his broad frame takes up so much space in your bed, and you love it more than just about anything. he props himself up on one elbow and you mirror his pose as you let your eyes roam over each other’s features and take turns rambling about every little thing from this past week. unable to resist, sam kisses you often. he just leans over, swiftly closing the small space between you and pressing his lips to yours. he looks so beautiful like this; at peace, his shirtless body and protective tattoo framed all prettily by clean white sheets.

eventually, comforting words turn into a comforting silence, and you drop your head to your pillow. your eyes droop a little as you play with the idea letting a few more words slip from your tongue. you want to say something to him, but you can’t tell if it’s the right time.

sam settles on his pillow, just like you. “what is it?” he whispers, inviting and respectful. his voice tells you that you’re welcome to say whatever you’re thinking about, but that it’s okay if you don’t want to quite yet.

you smile a little at how well he’s able to read you. since he asked so sweetly, you say it. “i can’t be away from you, sam. i love you, i really do.” this isn’t the first time you’ve said the three special words to each other, but his eyes grow infinitely softer than they were before each time you do.

this time, his eyes do soften, but he cringes a little too, because he feels sorry and because he feels the same exact way. “i can’t make you live like i do. i love you, too, so much. and i hate being away from you, but this? this life, it– it’s sort of awful, and it’s dangerous and hard and–”

you swiftly cut him off with a kiss that he more than willingly melts into. “i know,” you whisper against his lips, barely moving from him to speak. “but– but what if we tried something else? you still go on your hunts and all that, but you and dean can stay here in between. there’s this cabin in the woods i’ve been eyeing, it’s sort of small but it’s isolated and we could ward it. i’ve been looking into protection and warding spells, and i think we could make it work… only, you know, if you wa–”

this time he’s the one to cut you off with a kiss, passionate and sweet all at once. when your lips part, he keeps his forehead pressed against yours like he can’t bear to be any further from you.

“i want to,” he says, voice so sure and sturdy. “i really want to… but how’re we gonna get the house? it’s not like me or dean can buy property, and i can’t make you–”

“i want to,” you echo his words, just as sincerely. “please, sam, let me do this. i’ve been saving money for a long time and it’s a little run down so it’s not too expensive. and i’m getting sick of this apartment.”

“you’re gonna live there?” he asks, not bothering to hide his hope and sparkling joy at that idea.

you grin. “of course. there’s three bedrooms and it’s so pretty and i can’t, you know, pay for that and the apartment at the same time. and i– i wanna be there every time you get home.”

that word gets to him. sam doesn’t really have a solid or normal concept of home—the closest thing he has is the impala. but it sounds so right when it comes out of your mouth. “and– and you’re okay with that?” he asks, still needing to be reassured, “you said it was isolated, and–”

“i’m sure, sam,” you emphasize, “it’s only 20 minutes from town and the roads to and from are never busy. i’ve always wanted to live in the woods, i swear. and if it meant i could be with you more, i’d never ever say no to this. please… can we talk to dean about it?”

“yes,” he gushes. “yes, of course, i– you’re amazing.” he seals the deal with a firm, giddy kiss. “and if dean says he doesn’t like the idea, i don’t care. i’m gonna do this with you.” another kiss and your heart softens infinitely. “besides, he loves the pie from the bakery on morrison street, which means he can’t say no.” he gives you another kiss and pulls away again, and you know that he’s bound to keep rambling if you let him, so you wrap an arm around his neck and thread your fingers through his soft, pretty hair. then you kiss him hard until he can’t breathe. he returns the favor by tenfold, whispering through labored breath how much he loves you and wants you and thinks that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

[lvrrgirlll]

Knight in Shining Armor

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Pairing: medieval princess ! reader x knight ! Patrick Zweig

Word count: 3k

Warnings: smut, p in v, fem reader, knives mentioned (briefly in a nightmare?), some Christian biblical imagery and mentions of sin/religious related guilt (I was playing into the whole medieval royalty thing idk)

Notes: Thank you guys for all the love on the moodboard/little blurb on this!!! Without all the support I wouldn’t have been inspired to go crazy and write this (I fear this will seem like the most pretentious fic ever written bc I really lent into the medieval thing so the language feels kinda crazy at some points…idk, if y’all were rocking with the last one, you’ll probably rock with this lol) Enjoy!!

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

You did your best to avoid Patrick in court the following days. You were unsure if you could even face him after your dream. But, of course, nothing can last forever. An attempted attack on your wing of the castle (which was, thankfully, stopped by the valiance of Sir Patrick) led to a change that would greatly affect your fate.

As you entered the grand hall of the castle to take your seat in court, you noticed Sir Patrick in his armor —something rather unusual to see in the castle, though you didn't mind— speaking to your father, metal helmet in hand. Your father had always favored Patrick, you presumed for his determination and natural swagger, and acted as such. He was the head knight of the royal guard and spoke with the King frequently. Taking notice of your presence, your father addressed you whilst you curtsied. “Good daughter, what fortune you arrive now of all times. In light of the attack on your wing, I have decided to appoint Sir Patrick himself to be your personal guard. Your safety is of the utmost importance to me and this entire kingdom. It is only right I appoint our best knight.” Your father smiled warmly at Patrick then.

“I thank you, your majesty,” Patrick bows before the King. “I shall be prepared to risk my life for the life of our princess.” At that, he turns to you, offering a look so secretly smug you have trouble maintaining your composure. You simply smile and nod, silently acknowledging the workings of your father and the knight that now create a great dilemma for you.

“Father, I am suddenly feeling quite faint. Might I take my leave and rest for the afternoon?” You just want to get away from him. He’s dangerous. You can hardly control yourself around him. And what’s worse is he knows it.

Your father, concerned, approves of your leave, though you feel dismayed when Sir Patrick follows you. “I am perfectly capable of making my way back, myself. Thank you, sir,” you offer, trying to be as strict as you can, for your own sake more than his.

“M’lady, perhaps you did not understand. As your personal guard, I am tasked with protecting you at all times. This would require that I be with you at all times. The King wills it so.” He speaks formally though his tone is far too pleased to be merely dutiful. You had not considered that. Sighing, you merely nod in understanding before turning again to return to your room.

In your room, Patrick takes his station directly outside the door. “I am only a moment away. Do not hesitate should you need me.” He may not know exactly how you may need him…

You nod, though, smiling softly before closing the door, creating a divide between the two of you. You are overcome by desire. You feel dirty, guilty, and wrong…but you know he feels the same. And he is noble; he is a gentleman…would it be so bad if you acted on your feelings? God, you feel foolish. You have hardly spoken to him in the years he has served at the castle. What feelings could you really be harboring?

Sick of your racing thoughts, you resolve that a nap would be the best right now. In your sleep, though, you dream of enemies breaking through your windows and climbing up the tower of your wing. It is utterly terrifying. You can feel yourself stirring, heart racing and sweating profusely, as your subconscious plays tricks on you. In your nightmare, a cloaked figure, face hidden in the shadows of his hood, plunges a dagger through your heart, causing you to lurch awake with a loud cry. You are breathing heavily, trying to adjust to your new, real surroundings and shake the terror of the dream when you hear Sir Patrick through the door.

“Your Majesty? Are you alright…?” You do not answer, still shaken and attempting to compose yourself. “I am entering, m'lady.” And before you can tell him not to, that you’re alright, Patrick burst through the door, already reaching for his sword. Seeing you are merely sat in bed, his urgency leaves him, concern taking over. “Is there not a threat?” He observes, then, the state you are in. Dressed only in your thin, white nightgown (which has grown somewhat see-through on account of your nightmare induced sweat soaking through the fabric), Patrick is reduced to nothing but a mere man in love, forgetting himself entirely. Unbeknownst to you, he adjusts himself in his trousers, clearing his throat.

The room is illuminated only by the cold, pale light of the moon shining through your large paned windows. Shadows dance across his features as a breeze blows the trees outside steadily. He has never looked more beautiful. Both concern and lust play on his face, leaving you to squirm just a bit more than you normally would have under his gaze. Looking down then, you reply, embarrassed. “Forgive me for my foolishness. There is no present threat. I am sorry to have wasted your time and effort, good sir.” You bow your head in remorse. This on its own is a sign of you respect for the knight before you. Technically, he should be bowing to you, but under his gaze you feel so small, yet so regarded at the same time. It is unlike with any other man, though it is rare you interact with many often anyways. You lift your head, meeting his eyes again and feeling your stomach flip.

A pang of guilt runs through you as you realize you are noticeably smiling at him. Despite his nobility, you believe the two of you would never be. The only way your union: emotional, physical, spiritual, or (more officially) marital would ever occur would be if your father willed it. And though Sir Patrick was your father’s right hand man, it was the relationship of that of an employer and his best employee, not that of father and son nor of old companions.

Your smile dropped and so did his. He knew what he was doing, his silent, unspoken, but clear pursuit of you ever since that fateful night was wrong. But he did not care. He had no regard for his own life or death, he was a knight, after all. He risked himself for this kingdom, he would be willing to risk himself for you. He brought a hand up, cupping your face in his large palm, and offering you a sorry smile. “To defend you, threat or no threat, is my life’s honor, m’lady. You have wasted nothing of mine.” His hand brushed your ear as he tucked your hair behind it. Seeing you with your hair down for the first time was something entirely new to him, similar to when you first saw him shirtless that night. In typical court fashion, you would never leave your chambers with your hair fully down. Seeing you so bare, so honest, and unadorned felt novelty. He was grateful for his wit, being able to convince the King that he should serve you personally.

You, however, were so deeply conflicted. You knew better. Your station in society as well as in life did not allow for these endeavors. But your mind, you body, your heart…they longed for your knight in shining armor. His touch, though somewhat chaste, only holding your head in his hands, felt deeply intimate. You considered your options. “Sir, might I ask your discretion in asking a favor?” Your felt fearful of your own desires, but conjured up as much confidence as possible.

“Always, m’lady.”

You tugged your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment, before continuing. “M- might you…kiss me?” It was hard to maintain your composure, overcome with shame as you looked up pleadingly into his eyes. It was only the two of you in your bedchamber, the door closed —yet another forbidden thing.

Softening, a smirk gracing his features, he sighed. “I would be a fool not to.” This was exactly what he had been wanting since he first saw a portrait of you. The strength required of his position kept his feelings concealed, but in this one, small moment alone with you, he could reveal them. He leaned in slowly, closing the gap between you as his lips move against yours feverishly. You can feel his tongue dart out and wet your bottom lip, but you pull away quickly before he is able to deepen the kiss.

“I am sorry. This is…” you search for the words, not wanting to be so harsh but wanting to be clear. “This is sinful.” Your eyes meet his, pleading for him to offer you a reprieve from your consuming feelings by distancing himself. Though, that twinkle behind your eyes and in the corner of your lips betrayed you. He could see you had fallen for him the same as he for you.

He takes a seat next to you on your bed, looking into your eyes earnestly. “If I it is a sin to touch you, I would become a sinner every day till I am dragged to hell, should you allow me?” He was begging you to let him touch you, feel you, love you. And who would you be to deny him?

You were quiet for a moment, considering your fate and whether or not you would be able to find absolution after giving in. Throwing caution to the wind, you allow yourself, for once, to make your own decisions. "Please, good sir. Touch me. Take me, for I am all yours."

He wasted no time, leaning in to kiss you, his armor clanging against itself as he did so. The kiss was passionate, the years of admiring you from afar being poured out in this one moment. Breaking the kiss, suddenly, he stood, leaving you confused until he began swiftly removing his armor. He made sure to set each piece down gently, so as not to alert and servants lingering nearby of his presence in your chambers. You tried to stifle your smile as his form was revealed more and more with each layer of metal gone. It was new and exciting, and his gentleness despite his clear eagerness was unbelievably admirable.

Once he had removed it all, clad only in a white linen undershirt and trousers, he returned to your bed, leaning over you and pulling you into another deep kiss. This time, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, licking softly into it, his nose brushing against your cheek as he pressed closer into you, as if he longed for your two bodies to be one. It was impossible to be any closer, but you did not mind one bit. Though timid at first, your kisses matched his fervor. You could feel his calloused hand combing through your hair as his other snuck lower, carressing you through your nightgown. You let out a shivered breath at his touch.

"Is this alright, my lady?" He pulled back, looking into your eyes longingly. God, forgive you, but you needed this so badly. You both did.

You nodded, lifting your hips to gather your nightgown up and off of you, casting it aside carelessly. Now, you really felt exposed. But something about Patrick made you want to feel honest; made you want to seek pleasure shamelessly. His eyes widened in tandem with his smirk. He was so pleased and so in love.

"I've never...I-...I'm a virgin," you admitted, looking up at him through your thick lashes. His smile only widened, but not in some sort of sick, smarmy way. It was genuine and kind.

"Oh, I know, your highness. Or...I imagined as much. Not to worry, I am well aware of how to please a woman," he spoke softly, trying not to intimidate you. You would have taken offense at his mention of his previous experience, but you had imagined he was experienced in the first place, as many men and knights of his age are by now. It is different for you, a princess, always expected to remain pure. With him, you did not fear impurity after this. You felt strongly that you would steadfast remain pure in his eyes till the end of time.

He leaned in again, placing hot kisses along your neck. He moved to remove his trousers as he did so, working at the string that held them up quickly. As he did so, your fingers found their way to the tie that held his shirt together, pulling at the string with a new confidence, you brought your hands to the hem and he pulled away from your neck to remove his shirt. Both his bandages and bruises were gone, a good sign, but there was a scar where he had been scratched, a reminder of your previous encounter.

His trousers finally hanging low around his legs, he teased himself around your entrance, causing you to jolt and whimper beneath him. The feeling was entirely foreign but oh so enchanting. He reached a hand down, running his fingers through your folds, smirking at the wetness that gathered on his fingers. "You are like the Lady of The Lake...beautiful, otherworldly, and so, so wet..." Patrick murmured lustfully. It was such a dirty compliment, but you were so deeply moved.

Like your dream, you were both under your layers upon layers of white sheets, so warm, close, and intimate. His fingers danced around your clit, circling it at an agonizingly slow pace. You gasped, sucking in a breath quickly and biting your lip so as not to make any more sound. He did not miss this, leaning in to peck you on the lips before reminding you "The walls are stone, the door thick oak and iron. We should be cautious, yes, but you mustn't be embarrassed to make a sound. It is better, in fact, if you do."

His reassurance brought a smile to your face as you dropped your lip from your teeth, a sign that you were allowing yourself the honesty you so craved with Patrick. He resumed his hand movements around your most sensitive spot, causing you to let out a symphony of high pitched gasps. His fingers moved away then, moving down and slipping inside of you, first one, then another. The stretch was unfamiliar and hurt a bit, something your scrunched eyebrows didn't hide, but he did not move them for a moment, allowing you to adjust. "All will be well," he cooed into your ear, lips brushing against your skin. "I just need to warm you up."

His fingers began to move, first only in and out at a steady pace, but soon replaced by him scissoring his fingers deep inside of you, your walls squuezing him tightly. "Good sir..." you sighed in pleasure.

"Patrick," he corrected. "You may call me by my God given name: Patrick."

"Patrick..." you sighed again as he quickened the pace of his fingers. To your surprise, though, he pulled his fingers out abruptly. You almost protested, but he swiftly replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing lightly at your entrance.

"May I," he asked, looking into you eyes unwaveringly.

"Please," you nearly moaned in response. He followed your request, sheathing himself inside of you slowly, allowing you time to adjust to the thickness and length that so differed from that of his fingers. He watched your reaction carefully, taking in the way your breath hitches and your eyes flutter shut, eyebrows knitting together in both pleasure and pain. You inhaled sharply as he bottoms out, feeling as if he was practically prodding at your stomach.

"Are you ready for me to move," he inquired, eyes lidded and breathing already heavy in awe of you beneath him.

Looking up at him then, as if he were an angel or possibly some type of temptation sent by the devil that you had so easily fallen for, like Eve and the apple, you yearned to take a bite. "Patrick," it felt unfamiliar to address him so informally, but there was an undeniable intimacy in doing so as well. "If I should wait any longer it may kill me."

With that, he began moving, his pace quick but not agonizing, instead quite tender. You cried out, moans, sighs, and gasps leaving your lips repeatedly as his hips met yours time and time again. His gaze didn't leave yours, except when he would close his eyes, losing himself in a particularly deep thrust. His skin on yours was warm, a stark difference from your naturally cold body. "God, Princess, you are better than I've ever imagined."

The thought that he had imagined this with you made you feel elated, but you couldn't even bring yourself to offer a witty reply, overtaken by pleasure. "P- Patrick," you moaned, your whole body feeling hot suddenly. He quickened his pace just a bit, leaning in to suck at your neck as his other hand came up to toy with your hardened nipples. It felt so sinful but so perfect and right. How could something this good ever be wrong?

At his added touch, hips still pistoning in and out of you, it all felt like too much. Your stomach began to tighten, walls clenched tightly around him, bringing him to an almost sorry state as his jaw went slack, eyes closing suddenly and his thrusts becoming sloppier. It was impossible to restrain yourself as your hips began bucking up to meet his. "Please, please, please," you didn't even know what you were asking for but you knew you needed it.

"I'm there too, Princess. Come on, let's finish together..." he moved his hand from your chest to you clit, rubbing swift circles as he slammed his hips into yours. Pleasure finally overtook you entirely as you fluttered around him, body stiffening and falling weak as you reach your high. He pulled out of you quickly, his hand moving to finish himself off lazily on your stomach through stifled grunts. When you were both completely spent, he momentarily laid next to you in bed, both of you looking up at the grand vaulted ceilings of your bedchambers.

"Thank you, Patrick, for showing me a kindness I should never know how to repay," you whisper softly. He sits up slightly, turning to you and offering a chaste kiss to your cheek.

"You should never have to 'repay' me. After all, I live to serve you, my dear Princess."

[mossangelll]

oh my lord my kingdom for yandere vander hcs plz all i can picture is him being this firm gentle giant -- "i'm doing this for your own good" kinda shit

Gentle Giant - Yandere!Vander x Reader

a/n: this was super fun, tysm for the request! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i’m so sorry it took me so long to get to this but uni has been a LOT and i’m adjusting to not having as much free time as i did before. you guys don’t get how wonderful it was for me to write something again - especially a yandere fic hehe >:)

cw: yandere behaviour, physical abuse, kidnapping, suggested noncon, pretty sure reader is gn but there might be slip ups

Laughter.

Shouting.

The screech of rickety chairs, of glass tankards shattering into a million pieces, of drunken regulars getting into yet another fight over who knows what.

All served as excruciatingly painful reminders of the life that was snatched away from you the second he laid eyes on you; the sad part is, you didn’t even know it was all gone until it was too late.

But you’ve spent too many sleepless nights pondering over what could’ve been, sick to your stomach over what he planned for you and now you’re left to stew in your rage at what he’s made you become - a living ghost forced to sit on the sidelines as everyone else gets to live.

You let out a sigh and shut your book closed - after all, you hadn’t really been reading it, your eyes scanning over the same line again and again and again. You hop up from your bed, admittedly the cosiest thing you’ve felt though you’d hate to admit it to Vander’s face, and let your restless feet pace across the wooden floor as your mind clouded over with plans to escape.

You look over your shoulder to the door at the top of the stairs and found no shadows from where the light slipped under the crack of the door. Slowly, you creep over to the section of the floorboards covered in a threadbare carpet which hid your biggest secret.

Your escape tunnel.

Well, more like the startings of an escape tunnel. You knew from overhearing one of Vander’s conversations that there was a sewage system right underneath your feet and with enough patience you would be able to carve an opening and make your escape.

You whipped out the poorly made shiv from beneath your shirt and got to sawing at the planks of wood - you’d made a lot of progress in a short amount of time and your heart swelled with hope at the idea of freedom. Time flew by as you worked on hands and knees on your secret “project” with fervour, not even paying attention to what was going on in your surroundings.

“Love, what are you doing?”

Vander. Fuck.

What was he doing back so soon? He’s already checked up on you for the night and he should be busy tending to the patrons of the bar, not down here!

You crane your head to him so slowly you feel that you’ll never face him, but when you do you feel your stomach drop and the acidic burn of bile claw up your throat.

Vander, in all his tall glory, was looming over you with his burly arms crossed and his face contorted in a terrifying mix of anger and disappointment, his brow furrowed and the frown lines by his mouth becoming more pronounced by the second.

The shiv in your hand clatters when it hits the floor, your shaking hands unable to keep a steady grip on it, and your mouth goes dry as you both look to the source of the noise.

You try to scramble for an explanation, anything to take his attention away from you but it’s useless, that you both know. He shakes his head in silent fury and crouches down to your level, eyes brimming with outrage as his heavy hand grips onto your shoulder, effectively stopping your dumb rambling in its tracks.

You gasp as you feel his blunt nails dig into your flesh.

“I thought we were over this, Love. Seems like you never learn.” His rough voice sounded cold and detached in a way you’d never heard it before and it frightened you to your core.

He drags you across the floor, rough wood splintering into your knees, and sets himself down on your chair. Vander doesn’t even give you a moment to gather your bearings before he manhandles you once again, this time his arms scooping around your midsection and pulling you head down onto his lap. You struggle against him and try desperately to free himself but it’s as if the man is a brick wall.

Vander grunts as his large hand pulls your pants down from your still-squirming legs with no regards to the anxiety and indignation flowing from you.

W-what is he doing? He said he would never do anything like this to you even if you thought that one day it migh-

SMACK.

You immediately still under his iron hold and it doesn’t take long before you’re reduced to a sniffling mess, smearing tears and snot into his clothed thigh yet thankful that at least your cries were muffled. As if this wasn’t humiliating enough.

“Oh, Love. I’m doing this for your own good, you of all people should know better - that it’s my duty to steer you on the right path, hmm?” He tutted at you in such a soft way you would think he was calming you after a bad day, not punishing you for your “insolence”.

But he was right. You did know better and only you knew what a depraved and corrupt soul lingered behind his gentle veneer.

It sickened you to the core at how remorseful he sounded - how dare he?! As if he was forced to treat you like a prisoner and strip you of your human rights when this was entirely of his own doing?

It feels like it goes on forever, the way he alternates between spanking you with all his might and then placating you with honey-coated whispers. Your sniffles turn to wails and those wails turn to screams and all you can think is how impossible it should be that absolutely no one in the tavern above can hear your cries.

Vander doesn’t let the punishment go on for long though, flipping you over so you’re forced to stare into his steel blue eyes which were marred with worry lines.

“I’m sorry, love, but I did this for us. In fact, I would say it’s brought us closer, wouldn’t you think?” The rough timbre of his voice and his salt and pepper hair warmed you up from the inside against the voice in your head screaming against it. You scrunch your eyes closed to block out the intrusive thoughts that make your head sway.

You feel lightheaded, as if you’re floating away to some distant place far, far away from the terror of your prison.

He lets out a weary sigh when you stay silent and picks you up as if you were nothing but a sheet of paper, taking you to your bed on the other side of the small room. He lays you face down, lower half still uncovered, and his steps fade away.

Eventually he comes back, it could have been a few seconds or even an hour; you’re too far gone to keep a solid grasp on reality. You jump as you feel his warm hands caress the raw skin he abused, a cooling salve being massaged into the tender flesh. He hums as he works to take away the sting he left behind and once he views his work satisfactory, he leans in closer to snuggle your hapless body.

You don’t dare protest or inch away after what you just endured - you would be crazy to try anything ever again.

So you lay face down and pretend to be asleep as you let him continue to snuggle into your body, not making a single noise when his chapped lips kiss your neck with no intention of stopping, barely shuddering when his large hands, the same hands capable of such pain, gently stroke the crown of your head as if you’re the most precious thing to him.

It’s only when a particularly loud bang resonates from upstairs that he actually lets up and you feel yourself let out a sigh of relief you didn’t even know you were holding in so tightly.

“G’night, love.” You hear him blow out the lamps by your bed as his steps echo then fade into nothingness as they’re carried away by the cacophony of noise from the bar and you’re shrouded in darkness.

Finally, you’re alone.

masterlist

[konigofmyheart]

ten star ride

(fluff, fem!reader + friends, drunk silliness)

⋆⭒˚｡⋆☾

as long as könig’s home, you’ve no need for booking a ride after a girls night out. why would you when you have a 10 star driver already at your disposal?

he’s happy to serve you, his cheeks tinged pink with each compliment your friends supply from the back about how they can only pray to find such a good man. one of them pipes up with a giggled “i’m surprised you still even join us on nights out! if i were you i’d have been cuddled up with my man”, at which könig gives you a playfully pointed look as if to say “she’s right, you know”. you laugh and tell him to keep his eyes on the road, he’s got precious cargo after all, and that he does: you’re the light of his life, and so your friends are also vips by extension. he’s forever grateful that they keep you company when he has to be away for work, so this is a way for him to pay them back. he’s got little snacks packed, keeping track of which snacks make the group of you cheer most, and of course a bunch of waters, declaring each of you will have at least one bottle, no arguments. hydration is key after nights like this.

you mention wanting fries, and suddenly the back of the car is a chorus of pleas for fries and burgers and nuggets, and you’re turning your best puppy eyes on könig, but it’s entirely unnecessary because he’s already turned in the direction of your fav fast food place minutes before. he knows how y’all get, downright ravenous like a pack of lionesses. he’s ever patient as he jots down everyone’s cravings in his notes app before ordering, having to redirect the conversation from gossip back to the matter at hand a couple of times. he covers it, shaking his head and laughing at the overly loud thank yous shouted from the back, one of your friends even bursting into tears because “that’s so nice! isn’t he so nice? like, the way kindness still exists in the world is so beautiful!”

although, don’t think he doesn’t like the gossip. as you’re waiting for your giant order he’s intently listening to you and your friends yapping, viewing it like a game to unravel each slurred and choppy story supplied. “ja, he’s a total jerk for that. what was he even thinking saying such a thing?” “maybe give him some time? if he’s not back in a couple of days, cut him out.” “if he wanted to, he would. i message my liebe even when i’m in the literal trenches”

yeah, he’s great with your friends, dropping each of them off at their houses, waiting til they securely shut the door to drive off until it’s just the two of you on your way to your home. your chatting fades out as you slowly nod off, but he doesn’t mind one bit. he pulls into your driveway before going over to the passenger side, oh so gently scooping you up, pressing soft kisses to your hair as you stir and cling to him, his scent and the feeling of his strong arms around you making you sigh softly. you smile drowsily, eager for the rest of the usual night out routine: he’ll carefully remove your heels, peel off your dress, reverently bathe you as you doze off in the warm bath, then bundle you up like a precious present as he pulls the covers up around the two of you. you mumble something about being so lucky to have him, and he laughs softly, correcting you:

“i’m the lucky one, schatzi.”

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also, i promise i’m working on part 2 to long way down <3

[lay-z]

💒 Day 9 – Separated

A continuation to 🎁 Day 1 – All I want for Christmas (is you), which means it’s set in the same universe!  

Synopsis: Happily married for several months now, you and John spend your first Christmas as newlyweds in Glasgow with his family.  

Pairing: John Soap MacTavish x fem!Reader  Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | military!Reader; domesticity; married life/established relationship; humour; fluff; cussing; male masturbation; oral sex; hurt/comfort; angst with a happy ending (Yay!) 

Word count: 3.6k 

↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️

You shiver despite your warm layers of clothing and stifle another yawn as you wait for the front door to the MacTavish's home to open. The large house is adorned with bright lights and decorations, even in the front yard, and a traditional Christmas wreath has been hung up at the old, heavy door.  

The noise inside is muffled, but you can already hear the music, chatter and overall chaos. 

Next to you, your husband glances over, a crease of concern between his dark brows as soon as he notices the dark circles under your eyes and the way your shoulders slouch with fatigue.  

"Ye alright, luv? Ye're no’ gettin' sick on me, eh?" He reaches over to rub your back over your thick winter coat, trying to shield you from the freezing gusts of snow-speckled wind. 

"Nah, 'm fine," you reply, yawning this time and smacking your lips before smiling over at him, "Just tired again." 

John nods, curling his muscular arm around your waist to pull you closer into his side, leaning in to kiss your temple – and discreetly check if you might have a fever as his lips linger. 

"Aye, hen, t’was a long drive here." He remarks, muttering against your skin before pulling back with an exasperated sigh as he lifts his fist to knock once more. 

It’s your first Christmas as a married couple and while the both of you intitially wanted to spend it alone together, his family kept nagging and begging him to come back to Glasgow to celebrate the holidays properly with the whole MacTavish clan, like in the old days. Cue your own family giving you hell for choosing your husband’s side of the family over them.  

Needless to say, the past couple of weeks have been rather stressful, with your responsibilities serving in the military and being part of the 141 breathing down your neck, too, along with John’s own reintroduction into his military service, which caused you two to have less time for each other than you both expected. 

“I’ll give ye a massage later,” John says, his voice dropping to a promising murmur, “How does that sound?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making you huff a laugh as you lean in to hug him back and rest your cheek against his chest, limbs feeling heavy already. 

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” You glance up at him, admiring his handsome face with a soft smile, and your heart gives a sudden flutter like it did when you first started fooling around in secret, back when you first joined the task force after him. 

The door cracks open eventually, and a wave of warmth embraces you immediately, making you shudder as you cling to John. His mother pokes her head out and her bright blue eyes immediately light up. 

“Well, if it isn’t my handsome son and his bonnie bride.” She smiles warmly, eyes crinkling in the corners as she pulls her only son into a hug, “We’ve been wonderin’ where ye are!” 

“Hello, ma.” John mutters while his mother, always the overly affectionate one, cuddles him tightly and ruffles his short dark hair; the hair he’s been growing out and grooming differently since getting rid of his Mohawk and trying to hide the gnarly scar on the side of his head. 

Then, you’re attacked next, but as you go in to reciprocate her welcoming hug, she keeps you at arm's length instead, her hands planted on your shoulders as she looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly.  

Meanwhile, your gaze flickers in confusion between John’s and hers while she keeps scrutinizing you, grasping your chin and tilting your face as she hums to herself. 

“Uhm, Rosemary... Good–Good to see you again,” you try tentatively, offering an awkward smile as your arms drop and hang loosely at your sides. 

John takes your hand, chuckling nervously, “Ma, dinnae be weird now.” 

“Och, dinnae be silly, John! Let yer mum check on her bonnie daughter-in-law.” Rosemary pulls back, her blue eyes sparkling strangely as she flashes a beaming smile before waving her son off dismissively and stepping to the side to usher you both inside.

When John picks up your luggage again, he doesn’t let go of your hand. 

The atmosphere inside the big, old house is welcoming and warm, loud and chaotic, as usual. All of John’s four sisters are present with their partners and children, and even some uncles and aunts have been invited with their spouses.  

At some point after the sumptuous dinner, when wine, scotch and eggnog flow steadily, and the language barrier between you and your in-law family becomes more apparent again once they all keep slipping into Gaelic, you swiftly find a corner in the living room where you’re able to take a much-needed breather while John is busy entertaining his young nieces and nephews. 

Taking a few slow and deep breaths, you try to get rid of the queasy feeling in your stomach that caught you off guard since sitting down at the long dinner table earlier.

Perhaps you are overworked and definitely overwhelmed, unable to relax and unwind after the past couple of months of round-the-clock action; whether it was helping John with his ongoing rehabilitation, the wedding, the following honeymoon, or the countless deployments and field trainings, all while trying to adjust to married life. 

You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life, there is no doubt about that, but it’s been... tough. Even you must admit that to yourself; you’re exhausted. 

As you glance down into your half-empty wine glass, you swivel the ruby liquid inside a bit while you feel your mouth suddenly fill with saliva at the lingering sour taste on your tongue. It’s an odd reaction and you swallow thickly, wrinkling your nose before setting the glass on the small side table next to the armchair you’re lounging in.  

Suddenly, John appears from the crowd, crouching down in front of the armchair. His stubbly cheeks flushed a pinkish hue from the alcohol, his cerulean eyes gleaming with love as he gazes up at you like a devoted puppy yearning for some praise, “Everythin’ alright, my love?” 

You cup his jaw and caress your thumb over the apple of his cheek, giving a curt nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you meet his gaze with half-lidded eyes. 

“Just tired, baby.” You repeat the words for the umpteenth time in the past few days it feels.  

“Mhm,” John rests his cheek on your knee as you rake your manicured fingers through his short hair and his eyelids flutter briefly as he sighs deeply, “Aye, could take a nap, too.” 

John leads you to one of the guest bedrooms upstairs where he’d previously carried the luggage. However, as he switches the light on, you’re met with a peculiar sight. 

“Seriously?” You snort, peeking up at John with a raised eyebrow while he rubs the back of his neck, smirking sheepishly and giving a shrug. 

“First come, first serve, I guess,” he chuckles, “At least we don’t gotta share our bathroom with anyone.” 

You hum, pursing your lips as you nod, “Don’t have to share a bed, either.” You quip, making a vague gesture at the two single beds with Christmas themed bed sheets, separated by a wide bedside table. 

“Och, we’ll make do,” John snickers, pulling you into his side and grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek over the wool dress you’re wearing before leaning down to bury his nose in your neck, “Jus’ like the good ol’ days back at the barracks, baby.” 

He nips at your neck, making you giggle as you tilt your head and lift your shoulder, trying to shield yourself from his playful ministrations. 

“You mean the days when you’d begged me to let you into my bed?” 

John lets out a mock scoff, straightening up and rolling his broad shoulders after letting go of your ass cheek with one last squeeze, “I never had to beg ye.” 

The both of you know that it's a blatant lie.  

He clears his throat, “Wanna bet it’s gonna be ye who asks ta move the beds together? Whining for cuddles an’ kisses from yer man like a wee lassie?” 

You pout at him, brows setting in a feigned frown as you sidestep him with your arms crossed over your chest petulantly, “You’re on, MacTavish,” you huff, “–and you’re so gonna lose this bet.” 

“Winner gets a nice treat, aye?” He suggests with a boyish grin, following you into the bedroom. 

After unpacking together and settling in, John leaves you to have one more drink with his father downstairs while the rest of his family is either leaving and bidding their goodbyes or retreating to the other guest bedrooms. 

And while you can barely keep your eyes open as you change into your pyjamas, brush your teeth and go through your nightly routine in the adjacent bathroom, you feel simultaneously too exhausted and unable to find sleep as you finally lay in your assigned single bed.  

This restlessness feels strange, and you must actively keep yourself from tossing and turning on the mattress as you lay in the darkness alone. You even go through the various sleeping techniques which you’ve learned on duty, the ones that have helped you catch some shuteye on missions in the past, though to no avail.  

Your eyes are burning behind your eyelids whenever you shut them, and your mind can’t seem to quiet. You’re terribly aware of your heartbeat, the soreness of your limbs and the queasiness in your gut, and in this moment, you can’t help but yearn for your husband’s presence; for him to slip under the covers behind you and his large, strong hands to roam and touch your body in a way that distracts you from this discomfort you find yourself in. 

Time passes, and while you’re still unable to fall asleep, you’ve manage to turn your mind off by focusing on the various sounds in the house; deep voices engaged in conversation downstairs, the flushing of toilets, the dull footsteps of someone walking up or down the stairs– 

You’re lying on your side, facing the wall, the pillow hugged to your chest with your head flat on the mattress, and your eyes shut as you’re simply dozing, when the door to the bedroom creaks open and John staggers inside clumsily. 

There’s a pause before the door clicks and locks again, and you know he’s checking if you’re asleep, so you play along and stay still. You expect him to fold, to come crawling into your bed and lose the bet, and the thought of him desperately pawing at your flimsy pyjamas to get to your goodies, makes your lower tummy flutter with excitement and anticipation. 

So, you listen as he disappears into the bathroom, how the toilet flushes after he takes a comically long piss, the running of the faucet when he washes his hands and brushes his teeth, all while your heart keeps thudding against your ribcage while you suppress a wicked grin. 

When John emerges from the bathroom, he smacks his hand against the light switch, unnecessarily forceful like he always does, and– 

Your eyes blink open, eyebrows furrowing, when he walks past your bed to slip into his with a low grunt. The single mattress creaks under his weight, the covers rustle as gets comfortable, sniffling and smacking his lips like a dog getting ready for the best sleep in his life. 

And just when you want to turn around to make your wakefulness known, your breath stutters in your chest as you hear him spitting – presumably into his palm.  

You don’t know how long you’ve been holding your breath for, frozen in place as you listen to the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, but it’s been long enough to have your own body react to it as your thighs squeeze together discreetly, wetness spreading between your folds as you try to get friction on your pulsating clit while your heart feels heavy in your chest. 

Suddenly, you’re going through a myriad of emotions and it’s something you haven’t experienced before. You feel aroused, excited, betrayed, sad, angry, frustrated, disappointed – and it’s all too much when the sound of John’s husky groan and shallow breaths reach your ears. 

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me – John.” You mutter, saying his name louder as you perk up in your bed, glancing over your shoulder at him in the darkness and barely able to make out his silhouette. 

“Are you seriously jerking off right now?” 

John sputters, his movements stilling before he has the audacity to bark out a laugh, “Ah, I didnae ken ye’re awake.” His Scottish brogue is more apparent now, his deep voice a little breathless. 

“Yeah, well... I am!” You hiss, sitting up fully and leaning against the headboard of your bed, blood boiling and heating up your cheeks with agitation and before you know it, your eyes start stinging and welling up with fat tears while your bottom lip wobbles. 

“Woah, wait–” He chuckles, though more in confusing than disbelief as he tries to interpret your reaction, “Are ye... mad at me for havin’ a lil’ wank?” His thick brows draw together as he listens intently, his cock still throbbing in his fist.  

You sniffle, shoulders trembling with restraint as you wipe furiously at your eyes and cheeks, though the first tears have already slipped and stained your sleepshirt. It’s so out of character for you. Normally, you would simply tease him for this. Hell, you have a great sex life together; have rubbed one out next to him just to rile him up in the past. This should be nothing to you, but for no other apparent reason than a matter of principle, it is, and you can’t stop your mouth from blurting out more words. 

“Y’know, it’s just funny to me that–that you actually seem to be enjoying this bet and ugh separation between–between us,” you babble, ignoring logic in favour of the cocktail of raging emotions wreaking havoc inside you. 

“What? No! Baby, please, I–” John stammers, becoming more confused and overwhelmed with each hiccup and sob coming from your bed from the other side of the room, “Ye’re the love of my life, please–” He tucks his still semi-hard cock back into his boxer briefs before scrambling on his mattress to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. 

When the bedroom is illuminated by the lamp’s warm light, John immediately sobers up as he assesses the strange situation, and his stomach drops as he spots you curled up on the single bed, hugging your knees and muffling your sobs. He can���t count on one hand the times he’s seen you cry, so this is more than alerting. 

“Ach, fuck this bloody bet.” John huffs and in an instant, he’s up on his feet and nearly flinging himself onto your bed; strong arms cooping you up in an embrace as he shifts you around until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard, cradling your shivering form against his chest. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, ye’re really scarin’ me right now,” he mutters against the crown of your head, nuzzling your hair as he rocks you gently, “Can ye tell me what’s goin’ on, hm? Please?” 

“Fuck, I–I don’t know,” you wail and whine into his bare chest, coarse dark hair scratching against your face as you try to burrow deeper into his embrace, all while his bulky arms tighten around you like steel rods, “I just... I need you.”  

And then, when you shift and climb into his lap to hump and grind your clothed pussy against his upper thigh, John gets really confused. 

He blinks dumbly, “So... ye’re not mad at me? Ye’re jus’... horny?” His cock twitches in his briefs when you bite your puffy bottom lip and choke back a keening moan. 

“Shut up,” you whinge, hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders as he surveys your odd behavior with a mixture of amusement and concern, once he’s sure you’re not sick or hurt. 

John chuckles huskily, his hands trailing down to grasp your hips, “Should’a said some, hen.” He purrs as he tugs on the hem of your sleepshirt teasingly before pulling it up over your head when you lift your arms up obediently. 

His pupils dilate as soon as his eyes drink in the sight of your pretty tits. When his hands trace up your stomach, he can feel your skin pebble with goosebumps, and when his thumbs trace the underside of your naked breasts, he notices your slight wince while your cute nipples stiffen instantly, making his mouth water at the sight like Pavlov’s trained mutt. 

“Sensitive tonight, are we?” 

You swat at his biceps meekly, letting out the most pathetic little whine that has John’s heart thudding and his cock chuff to full mast. This is so unlike you, and it makes him reel internally. 

“Fuckin’ hell, ye’re killin’ me here. I need a taste of ye, love.” He mutters under his breath and leans in to kiss you deeply, all teeth and tongue, before he picks you up and manhandles you like some ragdoll until you’re lying on your back underneath him, gazing up with a desperate, pleading look in your glossy, bright doe-eyes. 

You help him take off your pyjama pants next, movements sluggish as you burn up with desire and need while John nudges your legs apart before settling between your thighs, getting in position like a sniper on a mission. 

John holds your upper thighs in a firm grip, keeping them spread for him as he drags his nose from your crack up your wet slit, parting your folds and inhaling the familiar scent of your arousal deeply as he goes, though it somehow seems more intoxicating as ever. And the first taste of your cunt has his mind go berserk, synapsis firing in the most primal part in his brain as he swallows hard and growls against your folds. 

You clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling your whimpers, “Oh...god... Johnny.”  

You taste absolutely divine and you’re practically gushing from your little hole like never before as John drapes your legs over his shoulders, spreads your velvety folds with his fingers and starts licking and suckling on your clit like a madman; completely and utterly possessed by you as he slurps and laps up your slick arousal, making sure not a drop goes to waste. 

The first orgasm hits you hard and leaves your pussy convulsing almost painfully as white-hot pleasure wrecks through your flushed body; making your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress while those dull throbs of pleasure-pain have you begging for Johnny’s thick fingers to fill you up. And he eagerly complies by plunging both middle and ring finger into your dripping cunt while the feeling of his thick, golden wedding band stimulating your entrance has your eyes roll back into your skull. 

Your doting husband eats you out for what feels like hours, way past the soreness of his own jaw, until you’re nothing but a limp, twitching mess on the narrow mattress, and even then, he doesn’t let up. 

“Can’t stop, baby,” he grunts against your swollen clit, his voice muffled by your slick flesh as he pumps and curls his fingers inside your fluttering channel, “Ye taste too fuckin’ good.” 

Clutching the steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee between your palms, you stifle another yawn as you sit at the kitchen table before you catch the significant glance John shoots in your direction, a prideful smirk tugging at his lips and his chest puffed out even more than usual as he converses with one of his brothers-in-law.  

Yes, you’re tired, but at least you know why today. Smiling to yourself, you hide it by taking a sip of your coffee. 

“Havin’ a good mornin’, Mrs. MacTavish?” 

Your eyes flicker up when John’s mother sets a full plate of breakfast in front of you. An array of bacon and eggs, sausage, baked beans, toast and fried mushrooms – a sight that had your mouth water in the past but your nose wrinkle in the present. 

“Cannae stand the smell, eh?” The older woman chuckles, patting your back affectionately, “Jus’ wait fer the morning sickness, lass.” 

As you gaze up at her in confusion, you catch that same strange and gleeful twinkle from yesterday in her eyes. Your eyes narrow slightly, “I’m sorry, Rosemary, but what are you talking about? You’ve been dropping hints like that since last night.” 

Rosemary clicks her tongue and raises a dark eyebrow as if surprised you haven’t caught on yet before she reaches into the pocket of her apron and then takes one of your wrists to shove something that feels like a pencil into your palm. 

“I kept them around when my daughters got married,” she explains softly, though it confuses you even more until you look down at the object in your palm, “I ken this would be the biggest Christmas present for Johnny... and for all of us, too.” 

Your stomach drops and your eyes widen as you stare at the pregnancy test. 

[sareenthedreamer]

The Proposal

The Proposal

Art by: Thoraeth <3

Words: 1k

Summary: Toshinori Yagi finally proposes to you.

Laying in bed beside Toshinori in the warmth of your bed, you feel his fingers gently caressing your cheek.

“Would you come to the beach with me this morning to watch the sunrise?”

You crack your eyes open. Mornings aren’t your thing and the room was still dark. With a groggy voice you ask him what the time is.

“5 o’clock,” he said with a soft voice. “I know you aren’t a morning person.. but it would mean the world to me.”

“Really?” you ask with a groan.

“My plan would be so special for us… I want to see the first sun rays shine on your beautiful face. It’ll be worth it”

He has a plan. You sigh. He said it would mean the world to him. You grumble, “This better be amazing.”

There is an unmistakable excitement in his voice. “I can put on the coffee while you get ready, my beautiful.” He kisses you on the forehead before stepping out of the bed. You could hear him in the hallway humming as he went to the kitchen to put water on for your coffee.

You can’t help the smile on your lips, listening to him hum while reluctantly dragging yourself out of bed. About 25 minutes later you finally walk out of the bedroom.

Toshi dances up to you with a mug of coffee – your favorite blend with a drizzle of caramel added in for good measure.

Raising a brow, you take a sip out of the mug. It’s impossible to deny how much it warms your heart to see him filled with such happiness.

Gently taking your hand, he escorts you out of the house to his car, being sure to open the door and help you inside.

He knows how much I hate mornings… is this why he is being extra sweet?

He drives you to a beautiful beach just outside of the city. It’s still the wee hours of the morning and not another person is in sight. The stars are still visible in the sky.

He walks over to your side of the car, opening the door and offering you a hand as you step out with a smile.

The morning air is crisp, the faint scent of salt in its breeze. He places an arm around your shoulder as you walk together to the beach line. You can hear the rhythmic sound of waves crashing into the shore. You can see a light glow on the horizon.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were excited to be outside at this hour.” He grins, but it almost seems strained.

You yawn at him in response, silently cursing him for getting you out of bed so early. His simple joy makes it difficult to be too upset with him, though.

“Only because I’m with you, darling,” you tell him as you pull him close to you and rest your head against his chest. He wraps his arm around you, turning his head to look towards the east.

The horizon sparkles with the first rays of sunlight painting everything a beautiful golden color, bringing a magical feeling to the beach.

Toshinori lifts your chin with his forefinger and thumb until you are looking in his blue eyes. The reflecting sunlight only serves to make them look more intense. “I brought you here for a reason,” he said with a hint of vulnerability in his deep voice. With his free hand he wraps it around yours. “You’ve made every part of my life brighter. Even the parts I thought were broken. I have made my choice.”

There is a curious look in your eyes. “Your choice?”

Your heart begins to race, sensing an anxiousness around him that you don’t often see. Unspoken emotions are felt in his voice, unsteadiness and a soft gaze. Your attention focuses on him, drowning out the sounds of the early morning and the sights of the beach in your peripheral.

“To love you for all my days.”

His large hands cautiously reach into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box and you find yourself holding your breath at the sight. Is that what I think it is?

“I’ve been thinking about how to tell you….”

He kneels down on one knee with a reverent motion, his eyes never leaving yours and carefully opening the small box to reveal a beautiful ring inside reflecting the sun’s rays of light.

“… to tell you that you are my one. My love. My heart. My choice. My forever. Will you marry me?”

You can’t help but notice how perfectly the sunrise shines behind him. It’s as though the world itself paused for your answer, his heart laid bare before you and a look of hope and fear on his features. So vulnerable. So sincere.

Just like the waves onto the beach you felt your emotions crashing into you. You are stunned by the look of endless love in his eyes and your heart aches with affection for him. You reach out, your hands cupping his cheeks and tears stinging at your eyes as you nod at him. Your voice is barely above whisper as you finally manage to say, “Yes.”

The smile that lights up his face in that moment is one that you will never forget. It was so beautiful, the joy that was there could rival the sunrise itself. You bring your lips to his, sharing in an intimately tender kiss.

Rising to his feet, he slips the ring onto your finger with a surprisingly gentle touch before pulling you into his arms. Holding you tightly in his embrace you hear the steady beat of his heart.

The two of you stand there, wrapped in each other as the sun continues its ascent into the morning sky. Looking at you with misty eyes he whispers, “I’ll love you until the last sun sets, I promise you that.”