#he wants to watch every movement of your hand

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 9

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Chapter Word Count: 9.5k+]

[Chapter Summary: There was a kind of farewell threaded through everything—spoken without drama, carried in glances and gestures, in the way hands didn’t linger but didn’t let go. You didn’t expect the weight of it, or the way comfort found you in the smallest places: in old shoes, in the soft edge of his voice, in silence that didn’t ask for more.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house breathes around you. Not in silence, but in that particular hush of well-tended spaces—alive with rhythm, yet never loud.

You hear the soft shuffle of slippers on polished floors, the gentle thud of distant doors closing with care. Somewhere upstairs, someone is vacuuming, the sound muffled like it’s been politely turned down just for you.

You don’t have to look to know someone is dusting the stair rail again, same as they do every morning. The chandelier lets out a soft mechanical sigh as the air shifts. You listen to it all like it means something—because it does.

This kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of other people’s motions, of intention, of care. Of life, still moving, even when yours feels like it’s pausing to catch its breath.

Your mother is already in the kitchen by the time you step in, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her movements practiced and unhurried. She stands over the stove, stirring something slow and fragrant in a wide pot, steam curling up to kiss her face. The rice cooker hums beside her, its lid covered with a neatly folded cloth she must’ve placed there out of habit.

She doesn’t startle when you enter – just shifts slightly to make room for your silence, then adjusts the flame, wipes a splash from the counter with the back of her hand.

It’s a kind of quiet choreography, the kind you grew up watching. Everything she does is muscle memory by now, but there’s care in it too. A softness.

“Made too much,” she says, without turning around, already expecting you’d be joining her with the day that awaits.

“You always do,” you settle into your usual seat at the counter, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms.

She doesn’t answer right away—just lifts the lid from the pot and stirs with a gentle hand. “Do you want me to pack some for him?”

You blink, amused. “Change of heart, Eomma?”

“Those flowers looked like it could grow in our garden,” she tries to hide the smile slipping out but her eyes already betray her. “Guess he could get a point for that. Just for now.”

There’s an ache in your chest – the good kind – to hear the slightest warmth in her voice. “He spoils me.”

“He owes you,” though she’s back to her motherly protection, you’re thankful to see the slight change.

The silence that settles between you isn’t sharp. It lingers the way shared understanding does—unspoken, but unmistakably there. You watch steam rise in ribbons from the bowl as she sets it aside and rinses the ladle under a thin stream of water.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she says after a while. “Is it work?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you say, your voice softer than before, “about where I want to be. Later.”

She dries her hands slowly on the towel hanging by the sink, then turns to face you. The light catches on her skin—sharp at the collarbone, soft at her jaw. Even in the stillness, she holds herself with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

“You were always gentler than me,” she says. “I built my life on noise. You… you always found your peace in the quiet.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes drifting toward the window. “Busan was always the quiet, wasn’t it?”

Your mother is silent for a moment. Then, “Your father proposed to me in Busan. We were still striving then. He didn’t even have a ring.” There’s a faint smile on her lips. “We were staying in this rental room by the port. You could hear the foghorn at night. I was going to tell you that story one day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hesitates. Then says, “Because it always felt like yours. That city. The way you lit up when we went. The way you listened to the sea like it was speaking just to you. Even back then, I think I knew—if you were ever going to heal, or start over, or fall in love… it would be there.”

You look at her more closely now, something stirring low in your chest.

She takes a slow breath and adds, quieter – “Maybe I built everything in Seoul… but I started everything there, too.” She steps closer and places a hand on your wrist. Not firm, not demanding—just there. A quiet tether. “If that’s where you want to be… I’ll make sure it’s yours. Make sure it feels like home again.”

 “That sounds dangerously close to you giving me your blessing to quit everything and disappear.”

“Disappearing is dramatic,” she deadpans. “I’m imagining something more peaceful. Like an early retirement. Or a very long vacation.”

You huff out a laugh, the tension unspools just a little. “You always did know how to rebrand my crises.”

“I’m excellent at it,” she returns to the stove. “Should’ve gone into PR.” She slides the rice container into a cloth bag and folds the towel over the top with practiced care.

You drift toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside as morning light filters in—gentle and calming.

Outside, the sky still wears the last of dawn’s haze, soft and silver at the edges. The chill lingers on the breeze, not sharp, just enough to wake your skin.

Jeongguk’s already there—like he always is now—leaning against the driver’s side of his car with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet of purple tulips.

Smaller than yesterday’s. Still lovely. Still him.

You smile faintly. “He’s here.”

Your mother simply closes the bag, sets it gently in front of you. “Tell him to eat properly,” she murmurs. “He looks thinner these days.”

You glance at her. “He’s the same.”

“He isn’t.” Placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, she walks away, off to get ready for the day that awaits ahead. Doesn’t say anything else. Knows she’ll see you later.

Reaching for your scarf, you take the bag in hand, slip on your shoes by the door, breathing in the morning air that greets you outside like an old friend – brisk, clean, edged with something familiar. The scent of tulips fades in quickly – sweet, earthy, familiar, carried in on the wind.

Jeongguk holds them out as you approach, a little tentative, like he’s still learning how much is too much—and what’s just enough.

“These look suspiciously normal-sized,” lifting a brow, you take the bouquet. “No wild field this morning?”

Tucking his hand back into his coat pocket, a quiet smile slips on his lips. “Thought I’d save you the trouble today.”

Ignoring the flutter in your chest, you follow him toward the car, walk in sync, routine, old habits. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re settled, then rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he starts the engine.

“That your mom’s cooking?”

You lift the cloth bag slightly. “She says you’re getting thinner.”

“Thinner?” He scoffs. “I’ve added the eight ab back recently. That’s premium real estate.”

You blink. “You’re counting now?”

He nods. “I monitor growth. We’re talking micro-sculpting at this point.”

“Didn’t you call me last week, interrupted my meeting, because you got stuck halfway through a sit-up?”

“That was a tactical pause,” he says flatly. “Part of the method.”

You reach over, and poke his stomach. “Too bad. Kinda miss the flabs. That version was more huggable.”

He softens instantly. “I’m suddenly feeling donuts and samgyeopsal. You know that 24-hour one by Uni? Maybe your mom was right, I am getting skinny.”

You laugh, head falling back against the seat. The kind of laugh that surprises you with how easy it is. “As long as you have those for later. I’m not really in the mood for a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast might be your favorite meal, but I know you never eat much in the morning. Don’t worry – just the usual café for now.” He smiles, eyes fixed on the road—the way they always are when he’s trying to keep things light, careful not to let the moment sink too deep.

Morning unfolds around you in quiet layers – storefronts stirring to life, café windows fogging over with warmth, a delivery truck double-parked beneath the weight of crates and chatter. The city doesn’t rush. It stretches, exhales.

And beside you, Jeongguk drives like he’s not part of it. Like this—his hand steady on the wheel, the other folded into yours over the console—is the only version of morning that exists. His thumb brushes over your knuckles now, lingering longer on your wedding ring, absentminded but constant. Like a promise he doesn’t say out loud.

The café is tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Its wooden sign is weathered, the paint at the corners flaking like it gave up trying to be noticed.

It’s ritual by now, somewhere between the second morning and the seventh, the place just stuck, but you always look forward to this. It’s more than you ever got in the past three years.

Inside, the air carries the warmth of toasted bread and cinnamon, soft enough to feel like memory. A low jazz melody winds through the space, mellow and unbothered. Plates clink gently. The espresso machine hisses, not with urgency, but with rhythm. Conversations murmur around you, blurred at the edges. No one looks too long. No one moves too fast.

It’s the kind of morning that doesn’t take anything from you. That lets you arrive without shape. That lets you stay.

Jeongguk returns with a tray balanced in one hand, the collar of his coat still turned up from the wind outside. Barley tea for you, his usual black, two soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon sugar toast, and your mother’s rice rolls—still warm through the paper wrapping, like they’ve carried a piece of home with them.

He sets everything down with a practiced kind of ease, sliding into the seat across from you like this is how it’s always been.

“You’re getting predictable,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the warm tea. “Same order. Same seat. Same scowl.”

“It’s your favorites,” he says, “And, maybe I just wanted to get something right for once,” tears a piece of toast in half. “Anyway, just happy you didn’t bail this morning. Was ready to eat your share out of spite.”

You snort. “So noble of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m complicated like that,” he mutters, tries keeping a straight face, but you notice the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. Tries to shrug it off by handing you the bigger piece. “Bread based revenge and all.”

You both eat without rush, letting the moment stretch. Time feels like it’s favoring you today – soft around the edges, unbothered by urgency. He peels the eggs with deliberate care, and as always, sets one gently into your bowl without a word.

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes just long enough to offer a small, almost shy smile — the kind that seems like he’s grateful for this rhythm between you, like it never left.

A breeze filters through the cracked window beside you, carrying in the faintest scent of roasted beans from next door.

You wrap your fingers around the tea cup, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “No calls? No emergencies?”

He shakes his head, easy. “Took a leave.”

It catches you off guard—not in a dramatic way, but just enough to stir your thoughts.

Jeongguk’s never been one to slow down, at least not in the past few years. Sure, there were days he slacked off or get burned out, but the ones where he chased perfection always carried more weight.

He’d worked late into the night, refining pitches and brand decks no one had asked for yet. That was just how he was—quietly driven, unable to rest until everything met or surpassed expectations.

You want to ask what changed. Why now. What he plans to do with the time he’s carved out of a life that never really slowed down.

But the questions stay lodged in your throat — too close to overstepping, and you’ve worked too hard to keep this peace. This fragment of normalcy.

Instead, you offer a softer one, “You sure your team can survive without you till then?”

“They’ll thank me for the silence,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “Taehyung’s probably halfway to Daegu. I know he misses his family.”

You smile behind your cup. “Look at you, being all selfless and mysterious.”

The morning drifts gently between you — sunlight pooling across the window, the low murmur of jazz curling through the air, the scrape of a ceramic plate as he divides the last of the toast.

Outside, a car hums past, tires hissing softly on damp pavement. You lean back a little, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Jeongguk breaks the silence, eyes flicking toward your blouse.

You glance down. “What?”

“You wore that once in Jeju. The hotel with no heating. The umbrella incident.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s a very specific memory.”

“Hard to forget when you babbled for forty-eight hours straight and threatened to file a class-action suit.”

“It was forty-eight minutes,” you huff, folding your arms. “And it was a bad hotel. Was going to close my first big client and they gave me a shitty conference room. Had to use the umbrella nearby for the pipes that bursted that day.”

“Pretty blouse though. Think it brought you luck. Got to close that deal after all.”

You look at him. His gaze is soft but steady — not lingering, not loaded. Just... noticing. Like it matters to him that he remembers, and that you’re wearing it now.

Your eyes drop again. Smoothing out the fabric at your wrist, unsure what to do with the way his attention settles — warm, familiar, and too much all at once. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

“Again?” His tone lifts, borderline betrayed. “Was breakfast supposed to be compensation?”

You should’ve seen the dramatics coming. Still, you roll your eyes. “Go find something to do. Bother someone else.”

“I wanna bother you,” Jeongguk blurts out, pouty and reckless, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of thing he used to say when he’d drape himself over your arm and call it his “emotional support limb.”

You turn to your tea, lifting the cup just high enough to hide the smile threatening at your lips. “Well, you can’t. It’s Jin’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be out late.”

He groans like you’ve personally betrayed him. “And I can’t tag along?”

“Nope. Go away.”

“Will you be wearing a pretty dress?”

The question catches you off guard, soft and sudden. You try to brush it off, toss the crumpled receipt at his chest. “Nothing new. But I guess it’s… decent enough.”

“That’s your way of saying pretty,” he mutters, still pouting. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

He slouches deeper into the seat, dramatically defeated. “Debatable.”

But he’s smiling again. And so are you — not wide, not showy. Just enough to carry the rest of the day.

Breakfast had to end at some point. You didn’t want to, never wanted to. Jeongguk doesn’t seem like he didn’t either. You’re not sure. Just noticed the way he kept ordering almost like he was trying to stretch out the morning.

You follow him to the car. He moves with his usual ease—opens the door for you, then, this time, leans over to fasten your seatbelt, his hand brushing lightly against the side of your waist.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your phone, pretending to check a message, allowing him to settle in after.

The drive settles into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence that’s familiar and easy between you. No need for words or music — just the soft hum of the road beneath you. His hand reaches over, finding yours across the console, fingers intertwining naturally.

You don’t speak, but the small pressure of his thumb moving over your knuckles says everything.

When Jeongguk pulls up outside Seora, you fix the strap of your bag and glance toward the glass entrance.

The morning air feels sharper here. Realer. Breakfast already feels like it happened hours ago — soft, slow, somewhere else entirely. This part of the day had to come eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Beside you, Jeongguk watches. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask, just sees — like he always has.

And even though you try to keep your hands tucked beneath the cuffs of your sleeves, the slight tremble gives you away.

Silently, he reaches across the console. Takes your hands in his — warm, certain — and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your ring. It’s so gentle you almost miss it. But your eyes lift on instinct.

He doesn’t know what you’re walking into. Doesn’t ask. Just says, “You’ll do good. Whatever it is, you’ll kill it. You always do.”

And for a moment, it’s enough. Just that quiet certainty in his voice — like the past hasn’t touched it.

The boardroom looks smaller than you remember.

Not physically — the walls haven’t moved, the polished glass table still stretches from end to end, and the minimalist light fixture overhead still hums with its usual low thrum.

But there’s something about the air today. Something quieter. Weightier. Like the room itself knows what this is.

There’s a version of you here — younger, stiffer, barely holding it together in heels that didn’t quite fit and a blazer you borrowed from your mother’s closet. Her voice had echoed in your ears that morning, “Straight spine. Firm grip. You’re not asking to be here — you belong here.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding, your palms already slick.

You remember that first day clearly. The door had felt heavier when you pushed it open. The eyes that lifted to meet you weren’t cruel — just… expectant. Measuring. Curious to see if the daughter of the legend would crumble or crown herself.

Seora was already powerful then. The kind of brand that didn’t just follow trends — it forecasted them. Your mother had built it with unapologetic vision, sharpened by years of instinct. And now, she was stepping back — not entirely, but enough — and all of it was landing on your shoulders.

The transition wasn’t gentle.

You’d barely sat in the CEO seat when the board began circling. Whispers of delay. Dips in projected growth. A shift in market behavior.

And you — too young, too soft, too untested — were an easy place to point the uncertainty.

“I want to go back to fabric-first,” you said, voice even despite the tremor in your fingers. “Not silhouettes. Not celebrity faces. I want to build a collection that moves like memory. Not trend.”

They looked at you like you’d spoken in poetry instead of numbers. Someone coughed. Another asked, “And the investors? What will you tell them when this doesn’t land?”

You answered, “I’ll tell them I bet on the long game. And then I’ll show them why I was right.”

Your mother hadn’t said a word that meeting. She hadn’t stepped in to save you — hadn’t looked your way once, in fact.

But afterward, when you passed her in the hallway, she’d paused, adjusted the cuff of your borrowed blazer, and said quietly, “Next time, wear your own clothes.”

It had been her way of saying you’ve earned it now.

The first collection came out seven months later. Sparse. Intentional. Textures and seams hand-picked by you. Critics had called it a risk. Then a revival. Then a reminder that art, when done honestly, outlasts algorithms.

You didn’t cry when the glowing reviews came in – praise flooding your inbox, critics calling your work a quiet masterpiece. Not until you were alone in your office, shoes kicked off, heels blistered, watching the light fade through the tall windows as silence folded around you like a long exhale.

That was the moment you finally belonged.

And now, standing in this room again — years later, steadier, softer in different ways — you feel the full circle of it press gently behind your chest.

Maybe it’s the light — filtered in through the sheer blinds, diffused and quiet — or maybe it’s just the way empty chairs always feel a little more final than full ones. The room smells faintly of fresh paper, polished wood, and someone’s morning espresso coming from the hallways.

There’s a rhythm to this place that lives in your body; the creak of the leather chair you always pulled back too quickly, the slight buzz in the overhead light above the third seat to the left, the exact spot your heels used to click when you were late and trying not to show it.

You run a hand over the table's edge as you pass. It's smoother than it used to be — or maybe you're just noticing it now.

For a moment, you pause at your usual seat.

You don’t sit. Not yet.

The door clicks open behind you, and Mark steps in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, shoulders a little too relaxed for a morning like this.

“You trying to win the punctuality award now?” he says lightly, setting his cup down beside you. “Little late for that legacy grab.”

You smile without turning. “There are worse reputations to leave with.”

“Mm.” Mark glances around the quiet room. “Always thought you’d go out in chaos. Yelling into your phone, throwing last-minute notes at interns, maybe flipping a chair for dramatic effect.”

You raise a brow without turning. “I’m not that chaotic, Tuan.”

He leans against the table, elbow brushing the edge of your sleeve. “That’s ‘cause I’m always around to keep you steady.”

You huff a soft breath. “Should I say thank you?”

He pretends to consider it. “Nah. Just promise you’ll actually enjoy that vacation, yeah? At least one of us gets an early retirement.”

You glance at him then, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You know, I can always talk to your parents about it. They love me.”

Mark grins — but it’s quieter than usual. “That they do.”

A pause stretches between you. He nudges the seat beside yours gently with his knee but doesn’t sit yet. His voice stays light, but his eyes don’t quite follow.

There’s something there. Not pressing. Just present.

And he doesn’t say anything more.

The others file in not long after — a few from legal, two from international, your lead brand strategist, and finally, your mother.

She doesn’t say much at first. Just offers you a quiet nod as she takes her seat. She doesn’t sit at the head — not yet. Waits until you do.

You let the room settle before speaking — not because you need the silence, but because you want to remember it. The way it holds people you’ve trusted. Grown with. Fought beside.

Your fingers rest lightly on the table. You don’t grip. Don’t fidget.

Just breathe in. And begin.

“I won’t pretend I’m not emotional. Most of you have seen me cry over less — like that one logistics error that turned into a two-hundred-piece embroidery delay and a minor existential crisis.”

Laughter bubbles — soft, genuine. Even your mother smiles behind her cup of tea.

“But this… this isn’t panic. It’s not pressure. It’s something else. This is full-circle.”

Your eyes flick to your mother, seated quietly across from you. Not the woman who raised you — not just — but the woman who handed you a world and asked, without saying the words, what will you do with it?

“Seora didn’t start with me. It started with her. Her dream. Her name. Her fight. And years ago, she gave it to me — not as a gift, but as a responsibility. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for at the time.”

A few heads nod. Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“But I tried. And I kept trying. And together — with all of you — we grew it into something that didn’t just hold her story, but carried mine, too. Yours. Everyone who touched this place. We didn’t just expand the brand. We expanded its voice. Its heart.”

You pause for a sip of water. Not because your throat’s dry — but because your chest is tight in that very specific way that happens when something is about to end.

“I’ve loved every version of this chapter. Even the ugly ones. The long nights. The near-disasters. The off-white debates. But I know when a season has done its work.”

You look around the room. The people who made your dream theirs. The ones who trusted you even when you weren’t always certain how to lead.

“So I’m stepping back. Not out of defeat. Not because I’ve lost love for this place. But because I believe in the shape of what’s next. And I believe in the people sitting at this table to carry it forward.”

A glance toward your mother softens your expression, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Especially her.”

The words hang — not like an ending, but like a thread waiting to be carried forward. “She won’t ask for help. Not in the way I did. But she’ll need it, just the same. So keep building with her. Push forward with her. She knows this company in her bones — but you’ve all become part of its heartbeat.”

You pause, voice softer now. “Keep fighting for the version of Seora that makes space. That dares. That tells stories.”

Another silence — but this one feels full, not heavy. Like breath held, not grief swallowed.

And just as it threatens to linger too long, “Also… if any of you email me past midnight, I will block you. With affection, obviously.”

Laughter rolls in, catching on the edges of something bigger.

The applause fades slowly, giving way to the soft scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices. One by one, they rise — not in a rush, but with the kind of pause that means something.

Minjae is the first to approach. “You proved every single one of us wrong,” he says, not unkindly. His handshake is firm, his smile quieter than usual. “Take care of yourself kiddo.”

Next is Hana, always pragmatic. “I still think your spring silhouettes in ‘16 were too ambitious,” she teases, then adds, “but they sold out in a week. You were right.”

Iseul, pulls you into a quick, careful hug. “Call if you get bored,” she says against your shoulder. “Or if you miss arguing.”

Others follow — brief nods, murmured thank-yous, the kind of glances that carry entire seasons of shared pressure and persistence. You take each one in without needing to hold on.

Someone from logistics leaves a neatly wrapped sketch on the table beside you — a rendering of one of your earliest Seora designs. Inked carefully. Labeled with the original file name only you would remember.

You press your hand over it for a moment. Not to take it. Just to feel the paper beneath your palm.

Your mother is last to stand. She offers a small, steady smile — the kind that carries both pride and relief. Her eyes meet yours for a heartbeat. “You did well. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mark lingers near the door, shoulder propped lazily against the frame like he’s been waiting for this part all along.

Only silence remains with just the two of you in the room now. He moves toward you – not with fanfare, just his usual quiet weight.

“You gonna cry now?” he says, voice low.

You smile faintly. “Not here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” He helps you gather a few loose folders, but you don’t rush. The moment doesn’t want to be rushed. “You want me to help pack your things?”

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to do it slowly.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it.

There’s a box half-packed beside the window, the edges already taped but not sealed. Some things you’ve scattered around the boardroom, just enough to ease the coldness that once filled the space. The rest can wait. You want the quiet of the room by yourself — just once more.

“You’ll still answer my calls, right?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or are you ghosting the whole company now?”

“I’ll screen you creatively.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know how to guilt-trip your mother.”

You smile again — softer this time.

He stands at the edge of the room like he’s about to leave. “I’ll be back, you know.”

You glance up. “To visit?”

He shrugs — but this time, it feels heavier. Surer.

“To get you.”

You blink. “Get me?”

He doesn’t look away. “Seora’s not Seora without you.”

You try to answer, but nothing comes.

So instead, you move toward the box and brush your hand across the top. He tapes it gently, just once, but doesn’t seal it. Just presses his palm over the center like he’s holding something still.

“You’ll let me know when you need someone to show up,” he says — voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter where, right?”

You nod. Don’t say anything more.

Because it’s already understood.

The house greets you in silence.

Not the kind that feels hollow or abandoned—but the kind that folds around you gently, like a long-held breath. It wraps around your shoulders as you step inside, steady and full, as if the walls themselves know how much space you need right now.

You climb the stairs slower than usual—not from tiredness, but something quieter. Like your body knows this moment holds weight. Like something is waiting to unfold.

The late afternoon light bathes your bedroom, golden and soft against the floorboards.

A framed photo sits on your dresser—taken after your first international runway show, years ago. You’re barefoot on a cobblestone street, gown gathered in one hand, laughing as your mother stands beside you with her arm linked through yours.

The glass catches the sunlight now, washing both your faces in gold, like the past hasn’t quite let go.

You set your bag down with care. Sit on the edge of the bed without really thinking. Your heels click once against the floor—sharp, then soft. You let the sound fade.

The door eases open behind you, quiet and deliberate.

You don’t look up. Know it’s your mother the moment she steps into the room—trailing the familiar scent of vanilla, her presence soft and steady, like it always has been.

Draped over her arm is an ivory shawl, its hand-stitched edges delicate with age. You recognize it instantly.

“You wore this to your first board dinner,” she says softly, almost like she’s remembering it aloud to herself.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, weary around the edges. “You made me take it off halfway through because I spilled wine on it.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. But for the first half, you looked beautiful.”

She crosses the room and lays it beside you, smoothing the fabric with practiced hands. “It’s warmer than it looks,” she adds. “And lighter than you remember.”

You look up at her then. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like something held back.

“Just in case the evening gets long,” She stays for a moment longer than expected, hesitating—then, almost like it’s an afterthought, she pulls something small from her pocket. A square box. Carefully wrapped. No ribbon. No tag.

“This was delivered earlier.” her voice is quiet, measured. “It was left for you.”

You take it from her slowly, the weight of it strange in your hands. She doesn’t explain further. Just reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little, and leaves you with your silence.

And then you’re alone.

But not really. Not with the box still in your lap. Not with the weight of it already pressing gently into your thighs like it knows what it’s carrying.

You run your fingers along the edge—once, then twice. The wrapping is simple. No name. No flourish. But it’s careful, the way it’s been folded. Deliberate in a quiet way, like someone thought about this. Like someone meant it.

You peel the paper back slowly, each motion softer than it needs to be. As if rushing might ruin whatever’s inside.

And then you see it.

A bracelet.

Silver. Clean-lined. Minimalist, but not plain. The kind of thing you might have picked for yourself in another lifetime. But it’s the charm that holds you still—small, barely larger than a fingernail, shaped like a tulip just starting to bloom.

Your breath stops.

Because it’s not just any charm. And this isn’t just any bracelet.

Tucked beneath it, pressed against the velvet like a secret, is a worn piece of black cardstock. There’s a faded gold foil stamp in the corner. A tulip icon.

You’ve seen it before—peeking out from the folds of Jeongguk’s wallet, half-slipped inside his camera case, once forgotten in the crease of his coat pocket when you helped him pack for a trip.

You never asked about it. But it had always been there. Like background noise. Like something he couldn’t quite throw away.

You stare at it now. At the bracelet. At the charm.

Because you know this shape.

You’ve seen its twin for years, just beneath the edge of his sleeve. On his wrist, always. When he reached for your hand. When he leaned forward to pour your tea. When he held your ankle on his lap to rub the soreness out after a long day in heels.

“This one’s just always felt right on me,” he’d said once, half-laughing, when you asked why he never took it off.

You’d only been teasing—asking if it had magical powers or if it was secretly tracking him. He hadn’t offered anything else, just that simple shrug and that quiet look he always gave you when he meant more than he was saying.

You never thought much of it. Just figured it was something he liked. A piece of his personal style. A little Jeongguk-ism that made sense in a quiet, steady way.

But now—now there’s a second one.

You don’t know exactly when he bought it, or how long he’s had it tucked away. But the cardstock suggests it’s been a few years.

You’re not sure if he meant to give it to you when things were still whole, or if he held onto it through the mess because some part of him still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

There’s no note. No name.  And yet… this is him.

Undeniably him.

You reach out and touch the charm with your thumb. It’s cool. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hurts.

Because how many times did you see it on him? How many times did you trace that edge with your eyes without realizing you were memorizing it?

A sound escapes you—half laugh, half breath. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by its own tenderness. “Jeon Jeongguk, you cheeky little shit.”

You lift the bracelet, wrap it slowly around your wrist. The clasp closes with a soft click. Effortless. Like it belonged there all along.

You sit still for a long moment, eyes on your hand. The charm settles right above your pulse. And somehow, just feeling it there—solid, quiet, real—it brings back the ghost of something you thought you’d lost completely. Something simple. Something good. Something yours.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself remember. Not the fights. Not the silence. Not the years of distance.

But Jeongguk.

The way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were the softest part of his life.

The way he kissed you when you were half asleep, muttering that you’d never know how much he loved you. The way tulips meant something—something only the two of you ever understood.

He’s not here now. But the bracelet is. And maybe that’s his way of saying he didn’t forget.

That not everything slipped away. Not everything was abandoned.

Some things—just a few—still choose you back.

Soirée sat tucked away on a quiet street in Gangnam, its dark wooden door framed by climbing ivy and tiny flickers of candlelight. Garden light spills through tall windows, falling across crystal and candles.

Everything smells like lemon water and wax. Inside, the soft murmur of well-dressed guests mingled with the clink of glasses and the distant trill of a violin.

Guests move easily, familiar with one another but never close enough to pry. You catch glimpses of faces you recognize — people who’ve been part of Jin’s life in pieces; friends from charity events, family acquaintances, names you only heard in passing. Their smiles are polite, edged with just enough warmth to feel genuine without crossing the distance.

You make your way inside, pausing only when you catch a familiar laugh echo from the far end of the room.

It’s Jin’s.

You spot him easily — tall and polished in a navy suit, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders. He’s talking to an elderly couple you vaguely remember from his wedding photos, his smile soft and something older than it used to be.

When his wife leans in to adjust the boutonnière on his lapel, he doesn’t flinch or laugh it off. He just lets her.

And for a second, something settles low in your chest. Not quite envy — more like a memory brushing past your chest.

You think of the bracelet still tucked under your sleeve. Jeongguk’s bracelet. Yours now too.

You step away before you can feel too much all at once.

Dinner is polite. Elegant. You nod at old friends and pretend to remember names. The room glows with soft laughter and candlelight, the kind of warmth that clings to skin and memory.

Halfway through dessert, someone taps a fork against a glass.

Jin rises slowly from his seat near the head of the table. His jacket is slightly askew, his tie loosened at the throat — like he’s already halfway into the part of the evening where he can be himself again.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at his wife — that same look you remember from when you were young, witnessing the couple in their early phases, when Jin thought love meant grand gestures and handwritten poems.

Now he just smiles.

“This time last year, she told me to stop being dramatic,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “So this year I promised I’d keep it short.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jin’s fingers tighten slightly on his glass. “I used to think loving someone meant saying everything all the time — every thought, every moment, every word that could possibly matter. But she taught me that love doesn’t always need volume.”

He pauses. Lets the quiet stretch just enough.

“Sometimes, it’s just… staying. Even when it’s not easy. Especially when it’s not easy.”

His wife blinks quickly, the tears she’s holding back catching the light from above.

Jin raises his glass. “To the quiet things. And to the people who make them feel loud anyway.”

Glasses clink. A few people laugh again — one of those soft, emotional kinds, too full to be casual. Jin sits down and wipes at his nose like he’s blaming the wine.

Speeches come one after the other – from Jin’s wife, their closest friends, more toasts take up the evening.  

You linger near the window a little longer than needed, sipping some sparkling wine and a delicate slice of raspberry cake you don’t remember picking – long enough to pretend you’re just admiring the garden. Long enough to ignore the quiet way Jin steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says.

You don’t glance over. Just hum. “Couldn’t miss you getting sentimental. You did promise that.”

“I was going to say more,” he admits, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “But I figured you’d heckle me.”

You turn, brows raised. “You think I’d heckle you during your anniversary dinner with the missus?”

“I know you would.”

You sigh — exaggerated, dramatic. “I’m not bitter, you know.”

“No?”

“I was never bitter. Just… stuck.”

“And now?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer. Not really because you don’t want to — more because you’re still figuring it out yourself. So you shrug. Let it hang in the air.

“Are we here to talk about my emotional development,” you say, “or are we finally getting down to business?”

Jin lets out that ridiculous windshield-wiper laugh — one you’ve grown used to over the years, but it still manages to embarrass you every time it draws unwanted attention.

“On the one night I’m supposed to be celebrating love and domestic bliss,” he says between chuckles, “you really want to drag me into logistics?”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to know.”

“Well, your mother already sent a draft.” He raises a brow. “I skimmed.”

You scoff. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“You gonna help me or not?”

His expression softens. “Always, Sunshine. You know that.”

A quiet pause settles between you — not awkward, just full.

Outside, the lights in the garden flicker back on. Warm gold against shadow. Somewhere across the room, cutlery clinks against porcelain. The violinist resumes something soft and barely there.

You let out a breath, low. “I…” The words struggle to get out of your throat but still needed to. “I want to do it right. I’m not trying to rewrite anything. He’s always going to be part of her — I know that. I’m not taking that away.”

“No one said you were.”

“I’m just— I’m the one who kept it going. Made sure she still had love. Warmth. That her space stayed hers even when everything else felt like it wasn’t.”

He nods slowly. “You’ve always done that for her.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

You look at him then. He’s not being diplomatic. He means it.

“She should be somewhere that belongs to her. Not borrowed.”

“She will be,” he says gently. “She’ll be home. In the way that matters.”

You swallow hard. Blink up at the ceiling once.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s not impossible. You’ve already done so much. I should be able to handle the rest.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Sunshine.” His voice is steady. “We’ll make this work. I’ll be with you until then.”

The air outside bites gentle at your skin once you’re left alone.

You slip out through a side door, away from laughter and linen, away from polite smiles that mean well but ask too much. The garden is mostly empty — just the soft hush of the fountain, the clink of distant glass, the violin’s song muffled by walls.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing the silver at your wrist. It’s not cold enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

You pull your phone out without thinking. His name is already there. As if some part of you knew, before you even stepped into the night. You press it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

Your throat tightens at the sound. “Are you busy?”

There’s silence. Not hesitation — just a moment held between breath and heartbeat. “No.”

You look out at the garden pond, where the lights ripple like a memory you haven’t named yet. “I’m tired.”

He’s quiet for half a second. You hear some rustle in the background, things dropping. Don’t question him. Let him speak. “Still at Jin Hyung’s anniversary dinner?”

You nod before you answer. “Soirée.” Even though he can’t see it. “Can you come get me?”

This time, he doesn’t wait. “Already on my way.”

You don’t reply. Just close your eyes and let the night settle. The bracelet is cool against your skin. Your heels ache. Your heart less so.

Somewhere, inside, someone laughs too loud.

But out here, you wait — for headlights, for footsteps, for something that feels like home again.

You don’t wait at the curb. Too many eyes inside. Too many questions.

So you slip through the side garden, past the candlelight and music, until you reach the far lot near the service gate — where the concrete turns to gravel and the air finally feels like yours.

Jeongguk’s car pulls up before you even call again. Headlights low. Windows tinted. Familiar in the way his voice has been lately; quieter, but still sure.

He gets out the moment he sees you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

But when he opens the passenger door, you catch the way he lingers by the seat — like he’s bracing himself, like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing what it’s supposed to be.

“I brought these,” he finally says, reaching back into the car. “You told me to find something to do. Was cleaning the house. Found them.”

He pulls out a pair of worn canvas shoes — your old chucks, still intact, still marked with the tulip doodles he once scrawled across the fabric. The colors have faded, but they’re still there. Soft and stubborn.

Your breath hitches. “Thought I lost these in the move. These were my lifesavers back then.”

He nods. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the rest of the night in those heels. These always got you through, didn’t they?”

Jeongguk opens the passenger door fully, gestures for you to sit. You blink — surprised — but sink into the seat anyway. He helps you tuck the shawl closer around your shoulders, his hand brushing over your arm for just a second too long. You don’t pull away.

Then – without a sound – he kneels. Right there, in the gravel, without hesitation.

“Gguk—”

“Let me.” He’s gentle when he unbuckles the first strap. Careful with the second. His hands never rush, even when your breath catches as his thumb brushes your ankle.

You watch him — quiet, stunned — as he slides the old shoe onto your foot like it never left you. And then the next.

When he stands again, he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. Already knows with the way your feet swings happily. “Ready?”

You nod. Not because you are — but because he makes it easier to be.

Silence becomes both your comfort along the way. The city falls behind you, buildings turning into memories, until the road grows quieter.

Until the tram tracks start to appear — crooked and rusted, swallowed by weeds and time. The fairground behind them is closed now, just a skeleton of what it used to be.

The old tram creaks as it settles around you. Still and quiet. A place that shouldn't feel safe, but somehow does — maybe because it's been touched by memory too many times to stay cold.

Jeongguk follows your lead, head ducked slightly, careful not to bump against the rusting arch. Puts his hand over your head when you nearly bump yours into one of the hanging light fixtures. He says nothing as you both slide into the side bench. The air is cooler in here, still, like time held its breath.

Outside, the fairground slumbers — all overgrown grass and empty stalls, the ghosts of laughter clinging to rusted poles. It should feel eerie. Forgotten. A little too quiet.

But it doesn’t. Not with him beside you.

“You remember the fireworks?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongguk leans back against the glass, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky. “Ah,” he says, “the sparklers you made me sneak into your bag.”

“They weren’t illegal.”

“They were still banned from park grounds.” His mouth twitches. “You made me light five in a row and nearly set your sleeve on fire.”

You laugh — soft, real — and press your hands between your knees, like the sound surprised even you. “Still worth it.”

He turns to you with the kind of glance that lingers. That doesn’t need a smile to be gentle.

You look down at your shoes. The canvas worn soft over time, tulips still faintly blooming where his pen once touched.

“I forgot how this place sounded at night,” you murmur. “Everything else fades. Everything’s peaceful.”

“Just like us before,” he says, quieter now. He shifts slightly, thigh brushing yours as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thank you,” you meet his eyes in the low glow of the tram’s single flickering bulb. The stillness wraps around you both like breath. “For not hesitating when I called. You sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

“Cleaning the house can wait,” Jeongguk lets out a breath, as if he was holding it the entire time. “You? You come first.” The silence returns, but it’s full of something now. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there.

You pull your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, like it could somehow fold you small. Like it might be enough to hide your face too — but fabric only stretches so far.

And Jeongguk… doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fill the quiet.

Quietly, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you in one fluid motion. Not dramatic. Not even something he thinks about. Just instinct. Like routine.

Like him.

The fabric settles over your arms. Warm from his body, heavier than it looks. His fingers skim your shoulders — brief, unintentional — and it’s not the chill that raises goosebumps.

You shift beneath it, not sure what to do with your hands.

So you do what you always do when the air gets too thick — drift to another subject. “Besides cleaning the house, what else did you do today?”

“Cleaned the studio in the basement,” Jeongguk leans back again, this time more relaxed, his head tipping lazily to the side as he watches you under hooded eyes “Found your Chucks.”

You glance down — at the tulips still faintly etched into the canvas, stubborn as ever. “What else?” you ask, eyes flicking back toward him.

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Experimented with some new recipes. One might’ve involved pickled radish and maple syrup.”

You groan. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m serious! The sweet-salty combo? Kind of genius.”

“You know I love your cooking,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “But the hot sauce in the fruit salad was enough. Can’t you just be normal and feed me?”

“Just say when. What. I’ll cook you anything you want.” His laugh fades into something quieter, something softer.

You don’t say anything for a while, just let the silence settle again. It wraps around the two of you like the dusk outside — pale and tender, not quite dark yet.

Eventually, you shift. Lean just slightly until your shoulder finds his, the familiar press of him warm beneath his jacket. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets you settle. One breath, then another.

“Long day?” he asks, looking ahead the tracks in the open.

You nod once against him. “Felt like it never really ended.”

He hums — low, understanding. “One of those?”

“Mmh.” Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “One of those where everything feels… bigger than it should be.”

He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, this time with your breath syncing up to his.

“I think I’m just… tired,” you add, quieter now. “The kind that sits in your bones.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head against yours. Not pressing, not prying — just there, like he always used to be.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “You can just sit here. I’ll be here.”

For a second, you don’t know how to take it.

But then — his hand shifts, just barely. Fingers brushing down, then resting gently near yours. Not touching. Not asking. Just there, close enough for you to find if you want to.

Like he used to.

His shoulder stays steady beneath you, not stiff, not uncertain. He leans into the moment without saying a word more, gaze fixed somewhere outside the tram — like he’s giving you space even while anchoring you.

And just like that, something in your chest eases.

You believe him. Maybe not with your whole heart. Maybe not in the way you once did. But in this quiet, flickering moment — with rusted tracks beneath you and time standing still — you believe him enough.

Your hand shifts beneath the fabric draped over your shoulders, brushing faintly against the inside of his jacket — where his warmth still lingers. You don’t reach for him. Just stay close enough to feel the outline of where he was, where he is. It steadies you more than it should.

“…Thank you,” you whisper, after a moment. “Thank you for being with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, carefully, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles linger just a second longer than they need to. Like muscle memory.

You should look away, say something dumb, laugh it off — but you don’t. The air feels different now. Charged and quiet.

And for a moment, all the noise inside you stills.

You draw in a breath. “Would you be mad if I asked you something?”

He shakes his head. Voice soft. “No. Please…”

The night outside hums low. A moth flutters near the broken tram light. The smell of old metal and wood, the hush of memory — it all folds in around you.

You glance at your knees instead, at the way your shoes nudge against his. Then up, to his face in profile. He’s looking at you now, really looking — eyes gentle, unreadable.

You know the question will change everything.

But you ask anyway. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The silence that falls breaks your heart.

You should’ve seen it coming. Already regretting the stupid words that came out. Already regretting the sparkling wine that lingers in your stomach. How can a stupid sparkling wine make you say stupid things? You’ll never know.

But then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “You don’t have to ask.”

And with that, you close the space between you.

The kiss starts soft – the kind you lean into with caution, not certainty. A quiet press, uncertain but real. But it deepens quickly, like breath you didn’t realize you were holding, like memory flooding back in motion.

His lips part against yours, and you feel it — the slow burn he’s been holding back since the moment you settled into his car or maybe even before that.

Your hand rises instinctively — fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw before sliding up, threading gently into his hair.

He’s warm. Too warm. And under your palm, you feel it — the slight tremble when you grip just a little harder.

He exhales into the kiss. Like it’s killing him to stay gentle. Like it’s killing him not to.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re still you.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him again — deeper this time. A silent confession.

Jeongguk pulls you closer, hand settling at your waist — not desperate. Just grounding. Just wanting to memorize the way you still fit.

When your thumb strokes the earring dangling on his lobe, you hear it — soft, involuntary.

“Baby.” It slips out. Like it never left his vocabulary. Like maybe it never could.

Your grip tightens in his hair, a breath caught between want and heartbreak.

“Wait,” his forehead drops to yours, breath uneven and warm. “God, you’re making this hard for me to stop.”

You don’t pull away. Just hold him there, eyes still closed, like maybe if you don’t move, the moment won’t end. You hate how small your voice comes out when you ask, “Do you want to stop?”

Jeongguk’s hands tremble where they rest on your waist, like he’s afraid even this fragile hold might break you both. He pauses — not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud might unravel him.

“Baby, no…damn it, no,” his voice comes low, threaded with restraint. His fingers brush your face, wipes the corner of your eyes where you don’t realize the little tears had started to build. “But we still have so much to talk about. I have so much to say to you.”

Your chest tightens at the name — not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it used to be yours. Maybe it still is. You don’t know anymore.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, breathe.” he says gently, like a promise. “Then let me take you home after. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nod — not because you’re ready, but because you trust him to mean it.

Just for now.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead — slow, steady, reverent.

And then you both just sit there.

Fingers still tangled. Hearts still racing. The silence between you no longer sharp, but soft. Settling.

Outside, the rusted tram tracks stretch into the dark, curving toward somewhere that used to feel like the future.

But for now, you let yourself stay here — between what was, and whatever comes next.

[passionfruitchris]

BRUISED AND BARE

pairing: hockey!chris x reader

warnings: dom/sub reversal, mild injury aftermath, praise kink, desperation, overstimulation, dirty talk, orgasm control, begging, rough language

summary: after a brutal game and a rough fight, chris comes home sore, bruised, and angry he can’t treat you like he usually would — so you decide to give him everything without making him move an inch. | wc: 1.8k

he didn’t knock. he never did after games like that.

the door creaked open and shut with a force that told you everything before you even turned around. the game had been rough. you’d seen the way his gloves flew off mid-ice, the fight that followed — brutal, furious, and long enough to make the announcers fall silent. and now, there he was. In the doorway. one eye darkening at the socket. his bottom lip split. shoulders hunched like every muscle in his body was burning.

he looked wrecked. and he was still looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

"baby" you breathed, already halfway across the room. "Jesus—"

"don’t," he said, voice low and hoarse, like it hurt to talk. "don’t give me that look."

you stopped in front of him close enough to feel the heat still coming off him. the adrenaline hadn’t faded yet. his hoodie clung to his back, damp with sweat, and when you reached to touch his arm, he flinched—not from you, but from the soreness beneath your fingers. you saw it then. the tension in his neck. the way he was fighting the pain. and the heat in his eyes that hadn’t cooled one bit.

"i’m not mad," you whispered. "i just—fuck, chris, you’re covered in bruises."

he didn’t answer. just dropped his bag, kicked the door shut behind him, and stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to collapse or crawl inside your skin.

you reached for his hoodie zipper, tugging it down slowly. “let me take care of you.”

but his hand caught yours and you gasped softly when you saw the way his knuckles looked. purple. swollen. split in a place that looked dangerously close to needing stitches. he didn’t let go. that hand slid up your chest, then over your breast, slow but deliberate, and the rasp in his voice when he spoke next nearly cracked your knees.

“i need you s'bad, sweetheart,” he murmured. “please.”

you stilled under his palm, fingers curling around his wrist gently. “chris… not right now. do you even realize how bad of shape you’re in?”

his jaw clenched. his eyes dropped, not in shame — in frustration. he was still so worked up, twitching with energy that had nowhere to go, and you could see it plain as day: he wasn’t asking to fuck. he was asking to feel better. the only way he knew how. the only way that ever really worked.

"it’ll help," he said, voice lower now, breaking. "let me feel you. just—please, baby. i can't—"

he didn’t finish the sentence. didn’t have to. you saw it in the way he held himself - like his whole body was about to snap. yu exhaled slowly, then brought your hands up to cup his jaw, thumbs brushing the edges of his cheekbones.

"okay," you whispered. "but you're not doing anything tonight. i’ll do the work. you just lie back."

chris opened his mouth to argue — you saw it on his face — but then he closed it. swallowed hard. nodded once.

and let you lead him to the couch.

you straddled him slowly, carefully, taking in every inch of exposed skin as you peeled his hoodie off, then his undershirt. he hissed when you touched his ribs, and you bit back the instinct to scold him again. his body was a canvas of ache — bruises on his chest, shoulder, one already darkening across his hip. he winced when he sat back against the cushions, legs spread, his hands resting helplessly at his sides.

"you good?" you asked softly, already sliding your shorts off. he watched every movement, like it hurt to look away.

"yeah," he whispered. then added, “you look so fuckin’ pretty like that.”

you climbed into his lap, bare thighs over his sweats, his bulge pressing up against you hot and solid. he inhaled through his nose when you reached between you and slid him free — his cock already heavy, flushed, desperate for touch. he was rock hard, even though his shoulders trembled with restraint.

“you’re gonna let me take care of you,” you murmured, guiding him to your entrance. “just stay still, christopher. let me.”

he gritted his teeth when you sank down — slow, deliberate, taking him inch by inch until you were fully seated in his lap, pressed so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe. his head fell back against the couch. sis fists clenched at his sides. you leaned in, kissed his jaw.

“you’re so deep, baby,” you whispered. “you feel so good.”

his breath stuttered one of those low, shaking exhales that came from deep in his chest — and when you started to move, he groaned, long and drawn out, hips twitching like he wanted to meet your pace.

but you caught his mouth with your finger - soft, deliberate — and pressed it to his lips.

“shhh” you said. “i’ve got it. you don’t need to do anything.”

he whimpered. whimpered. and let his hips go still.

you rocked your hips, slow and deep, palms pressed flat to his chest, feeling the way his breaths rattled beneath your touch. his eyes never left yours. even as his body started to tremble, even as he choked on the urge to take over, his gaze stayed locked on your face — like watching you fall apart above him was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

“fucking hell,” he rasped, hands tightening on the cushions. “look at you. you ride me so good. so fucking perfect, baby.”

you moaned, rolling your hips again, feeling the way he pulsed inside you. he was close already — from the fight, the adrenaline, the pain — but he was holding on with everything he had. his voice was rough, cracked in the back of his throat.

“keep going,” he begged. “don’t stop. wanna feel you come, baby, please—fuck—”

you smiled, breathless, and picked up the pace, hips grinding, rhythm steady. his chest tensed under your hands, his mouth open in a gasp he couldn’t finish. and still, all he could do was watch.

and praise.

he was shaking.

not violently. not enough to stop you. but under your hands, his body trembled — shoulders twitching, thighs locked in place, chest rising fast with each breath as you rode him slow and steady, giving him everything without asking for a thing in return. It was killing him in the best way. you could see it in his face, in the tightness around his mouth, in the way his eyes kept falling shut like he was overwhelmed but couldn’t dare miss a second.

his bruises had turned his skin into a canvas of color — purples and deep reds stretching across his ribs his stomach tight from the effort of holding still. his hands stayed clenched into the couch cushions beside his thighs, exactly where you’d told him to keep them. he didn’t try to take control. mot again. but he looked like he was dying to.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, leaning over him, your palms flat against his chest. you felt every stutter in his breath. every tremble. “you’re being so good for me. i know it’s hard.”

chris gritted his teeth. his head tilted back against the couch again, throat exposed, jaw tight. “f-fuck,” he groaned. “you’re so fucking tight. unreal”

you rolled your hips again, grinding deep, slow, angling yourself just right — and his whole body twitched like it wanted to thrust up into you. but he didn’t. you saw the effort it took in his eyes. he was holding it in for you.

he opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a low, helpless moan. his hands flexed uselessly on the cushion.

“you wanna move, don’t you?” you asked softly.

he gave a broken laugh. “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

you leaned in closer, brushing your nose against his, your pace still unrelenting — perfect, even, cruel in how good it felt. “and what did i say?”

chris’s voice cracked. “said to let you do the work.”

“and are you gonna?”

he nodded. then, shamefully, “tryin’ so hard, baby. please, please don’t stop. don’t stop.”

you picked up the rhythm just a bit — a little faster, a little filthier — and his body shook like it was unraveling beneath you. you could feel how close he was, the way his cock twitched inside you, the desperate sounds he was trying to swallow. his head rolled against the couch, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

“i’m close,” he gasped. “shit—shit, i’m gonna come.”

yiu slowed instantly.

he whined — an actual fucking whine that punched straight into your core — his hips bucking once before you put your hand on his chest to stop him.

“not yet,” you whispered.

his eyes snapped to yours — hazy, desperate, almost pained with how much he needed it.

“baby, please—fuck—i need to, i need to—”

you leaned in again, your voice soft but final.

“not yet.”

he went still.

not from obedience, but surrender.

his mouth opened and closed around nothing, his hands still clenched in the cushion, and his whole body was trembling like he was holding on by a thread. you moved again — not fast, but harder now, deeper — fucking him with long, drawn-out grinds that made his eyes roll back, his lips parting with each shaky breath.

“you’re being so good,” you murmured. “so fucking good for me.”

his voice came out rough, torn between groaning and crying. “you’re gonna kill me. this is gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

“you can come when i say,” you whispered. “you’ll wait for it.”

“i’ll wait,” he choked out. “i’ll fuckin’—i’ll wait, i swear, just—keep going, please, please—”

iou watched his face closely, the way it cracked open more with every movement, every clench around him. his body was beaten to hell and he was still holding himself perfectly still just to please you. that desperation, that pride — it was all in his eyes.

you leaned down, kissed the side of his mouth, and finally whispered, “come for me.”

the sound he made didn’t belong to any man who thought he had control. it was pure, broken release — his hips jolting once, his mouth falling open on a shattered gasp as he came hard, spilling into you with a choked-off moan that sounded more like a sob. his hands finally grabbed your thighs, gripping like he was drowning, his head pressing into your shoulder as he rode it out.

“fuckfuckfuck, baby-” he gasped, holding you tight, voice cracking. “thank you. thank you.”

you didn’t stop moving, not fully, just enough to let him twitch through the aftershocks, to keep him trembling and open and filled with you. he clung to your waist, mouth brushing your collarbone, every breath he took shaking like he was still coming down.

you whispered into his hair, slow and soft.

“I love you”

a/n: I live for a dom man who’s lowkey subby by circumstance, this took me forever to get right, so if you’re reading this, thank you. any comment, like, or message means so much to me. ilysm!!

tags - @zenithsturniolo @sturnsblogs @sirensdollesque @adoremattsturns @espressqe @matts-wife @adorechris @seaouidbabyx @ilovemenwithlonghairr @chlosallow @tezzzzzzzz @h3arts4nat @whore4-chrissturniolo

dividers: @cafekitsune

[wolvietxt]

ᰔ i want you !

↳ bucky barnes x female reader

you’re sitting on the couch with your knees pulled up, cradling a chipped mug between your hands, steam curling up past your cheek. it’s late — later than either of you meant to stay up — but neither of you have moved. neither of you have said a word about heading to bed.

bucky’s across the room. not far, not close. his elbow is braced on the armrest, fingers pressed to his mouth like he’s thinking. or hiding something. the soft light from the kitchen cuts across his face, all shadow and bone. his hair’s tucked behind one ear, a little messy, a little damp. he must’ve showered an hour ago. maybe more. you can still smell his soap from here. warm, cedar and clean linen. it makes your chest tight.

he watches you sometimes when he thinks you won’t notice. quiet glances. slow ones. like he’s memorizing. like he’s not sure how long he’ll be allowed to look.

you notice every time.

you shift your weight, your knee brushing the blanket thrown over your lap. bucky’s eyes flicker down to the movement, then back up. caught again. you give him a small smile, soft and tired. he doesn’t smile back. not because he’s upset — he just looks… stuck.

“you tired?” you ask gently, breaking the quiet.

his voice is low. hoarse. “nah.”

you wait. he doesn’t offer anything else.

the air feels thick between you, but not in a bad way. more like something waiting to happen. something that’s been waiting. you sip your tea and look at the tv, even though nothing’s playing. just the home screen. you haven’t touched the remote in an hour.

he shifts, and you glance at him again. he’s still watching you, eyes softer now. a little worn down. like the edges of a well-loved book.

“you okay?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

he exhales. slow. heavy. his metal fingers twitch on his thigh. “yeah.”

it’s not really an answer, but it’s bucky, so you don’t push. he never says what he’s really feeling until it’s too big to hide.

you wonder if he knows how obvious he is. how your heart stumbles every time he walks into the room. how sometimes, when your hands brush, you think you’ll burn from it. how you fall asleep thinking about the way his voice gets low when he says your name.

you wonder if he feels it too.

his gaze drops to your mug. “that tea?”

you nod. “chamomile. helps me sleep.”

he hums, quiet. “you haven’t touched it much.”

“haven’t really been tired,” you admit.

“me neither.”

there’s another silence, this one heavier than the last. you feel it settle in your chest. maybe it’s now or never.

you look over at him. “can i ask you something?”

he nods. slowly. “course.”

“what’re you always thinking about when you look at me like that?”

he goes still.

his hand falls from his mouth. rests in his lap. you watch the way his throat bobs with a swallow, the way his jaw tenses. he doesn’t answer, not right away.

you don’t take it back. you don’t fill the silence.

finally, he says, “it’s not something i should say out loud.”

“why not?”

he shifts again, leaning forward now. his elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly. he looks tired. he looks like he wants to say something so badly it hurts.

“’cause if i do,” he murmurs, “i won’t be able to stop.”

your heart thuds.

he looks up, and this time, the weight in his eyes knocks the breath from your lungs.

“you ever want something so bad you think maybe you imagined it?” he says. “like… if you even say it out loud, it’ll vanish. or maybe it was never real to begin with.”

you blink slowly. your fingers tighten around the mug.

“yeah,” you whisper.

he nods, eyes never leaving yours. “that’s what it feels like with you.”

your breath catches.

you set the mug down, hands suddenly useless.

bucky’s still watching you, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. to say he got it all wrong. that he crossed a line.

you don’t.

you slide your legs off the couch and stand. slowly, so he can stop you if he wants. he doesn’t. you walk the short distance between you, and he tilts his head up to keep his eyes on you.

you sit beside him. close. close enough your knees brush, close enough you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. his hands are curled into fists.

you reach out and gently unfold one.

his metal fingers are cool against your palm, but they twitch like they’re trying not to grip back.

“you didn’t imagine it,” you whisper. “i feel it too.”

his eyes fall shut like the words knock something loose in him. and when he opens them again, he’s looking at you like you hung the stars. like he’s been starving for this.

he still doesn’t kiss you. he doesn’t even move. just stays still, breathing hard, staring at you like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll be gone.

you squeeze his hand.

“you can say it,” you whisper. “if you want.”

he swallows again. then, so quiet you almost miss it:

“i want you.”

his voice cracks on the last word. like it’s too full. like it’s been buried too long.

you lean in, your forehead brushing his. his hand tightens in yours.

“then you have me,” you whisper.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, bucky exhales like he can breathe again.

BUCKY BARNES : @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid, @spideysimpossiblegirl

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@sreidmia, @10ava01, @tinyminxie, @tcddszn, @Blu-jays

@chaoticcoffeequeen, @frankies-girl, @person-005, @wkhannah

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[mullermilkshake]

Late night caller

Part 17 <- Part 18 -> Part 19

You and Jinwoo talk, because it's what builds a healthy relationship.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Pregnant reader, not much besides discussing relationships/ relationship strain, kissing

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST CLOSED

Please let me know in the comments for any Korean baby names you'd like to see in the randomiser for the babies names!

“That was wonderful, my dear.”

The Chairman cleared his plate and bowed his head respectfully to you with a smile. Jin-chul had been quiet most of the night, only small talk with you and answering questions asked and not the other way around.

Jinwoo looked dessert drunk, eyes glossed over with a sweet smile in your direction now and then. His hand found yours under the table, discreetly padding his fingertips over the back of your hand during conversation.

“Thank you, Chairman. You’re too kind.”

You weren’t exactly at ease, but the night went better than expected. It continued through the evening with light conversation and discussions about the twins and polite questions that still put you on edge.

“We aren’t finding out their genders until they’re born.” Jinwoo stated the fact precisely and to the point, regardless of the two other men in the room looking at him like he was mad.

“You aren’t? Hunter Cha is finding out tomorrow, actually. Maybe you could go with her?”

Going with her was inappropriate, you weren’t nearly as close to Hae-in as some people thought. You were not best friends, nor sisters, just two people with an understanding and no ill will.

“Yeah, we decided to leave it as a surprise. But I think Jong-in is the best person to go with her, seeing as he’s the father, don’t you think?”

The Chairman nodded in agreement as you cleared his plate. “I understand, it’s just that with the second pregnancy, Hunter Choi has taken on more responsibilities.”

You hardly ever saw Jong-in any more. It was a harder pill to swallow than most, knowing each other before you awakened later than most. Jong-in was reliable, usually consistent and kind, but lately, his behaviour changed drastically.

He just wasn’t around anymore.

“Maybe I’ll call in on Hae-in tomorrow, see how she’s doing at least.”

After speaking with her last night, her jittery behaviour put you on edge. There was something about her shifty eyes, watching Jong-in every so often as he sat with the other woman the Chairman dumped on him. In truth, Jong-in appeared quite smitten, though that could have been a show he put on to make the association happy.

Shame. I really thought he and Hae-in would make it. 

“That sounds perfect, thank you… Well, we better go, it’s getting late.”

Chairman Go stood first, Jin-chul hung on every movement and followed him towards the front door with a chorus of thank you’s and reassuring words that the association would back away.

After he left, Jin-chul remained for only a moment, adjusting his tie to waste time to be out of earshot.

“Tonight was eye opening. But, if you wish to go down this road, be sure to make it wholeheartedly true, not as one-sided as it is.”

You didn’t anticipate the audible gasp that slipped your lips out into the hallway. But everyone heard. As Jin-chul left for the exit, you stood there watching him.

Was it that obvious for how conflicted you were about Jinwoo’s confession and where your own heart lied? In truth, you were confused, you wanted to let go and let things proceed in their own way but how could you?

After the front door closed, the tension shifted. Jinwoo turned and wandered into the kitchen before you could say a word. Shit. He said it didn’t matter if you felt the same, but obviously he was just as conflicted too. He was the father of the babies you were carrying, and he made you feel safe. Was that really enough to settle with and give it a real try? Wasn’t that what you were already doing?

“Jinwoo.” You said, hugging your arms and swaying a fraction as he started washing the dishes with his back to you.

“Jinwoo...”

“Dessert was so good, we should make it again sometime soon.”

“Jinwoo.” More authority this time.

“Dinner too, that was spectacular, we should really keep that recipe handy-“

“Jinwoo… look at me please.”

He stopped sorting the dishes, running the steaming hot water into the basin to create enough bubbles to clean the dried up sauces on the ceramic.

“What is it, baby?”

Despite the tugging in your stomach because Jinwoo didn’t look your way, you kept your distance. “About what Jin-chul said… I-I think we should talk-”

“Ignore him. He’s being dramatic, we’re just fine how we are. If people take issue, then let them.”

That wasn’t the point.

“I’m not talking about whether people have an issue… What Jin-chul said about-”

Jinwoo finally turned to you with the sweetest smile that never reached his eyes, his hands dripping soapy bubbles at his feet. “Don’t worry about that. We talked about it already, didn’t we? I don’t expect anything from you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Could you see yourself being married to him, for real? Like real, real. Not just pretend and make believe to keep the Chairman at bay, which clearly worked, but for a real shot at married life with a man you never saw yourself with until the programme brought you together.

Did you need him? Could you want him as much as he wanted you? You weren’t even sure how much that really was, in honesty. In other words, you had no clue about him, more than just his favourite hobbies or the colours that didn't interest him, the dessert that he could never refuse and the pair of shoes he could never throw out because they were too comfortable to lose.

You weren’t sure what you needed, and considering it confused you, shook your foggy brain up with an imaginary centrifugal force to make you dizzy. What did you need? What could you possibly want?

He loved you, he did so much for you and you still were in the dark.

“Jinwoo… Just how much do you actually love me?”

His eyes widened a fraction, he blinked rapidly in an attempt to fool you and stifle it though you noticed immediately. He dried his hands and took yours so that you followed him. 

“Come with me…” He led you towards the bedroom and halted between the threshold. “You can stay up tonight, Beru. But keep the TV down.”

Beru emerged and knelt, never saying a word which still startled you. He kept his head down as you backed away, though Jinwoo kept moving. You never had time to stand and watch the ant’s movements over towards the living room.

Standing in silence set your stomach on a fine edge, a pit of something you couldn’t register on his face like a mask. You couldn’t tell if he was going to lecture you, or the opposite, but you weren’t even sure what that was.

“Jinwoo-”

“Come sit down, we’ll talk in here.” He warmly patted the space beside him on the bed.

“O-okay.”

When you did, Jinwoo took your hand lovingly and placed it between his own with a reassuring squeeze. “You really want to know just how much I love you? Because I was going to wait until the twins were born, or maybe when we got married… but, if you want me to be transparent about it, you need to let me say everything. Can you do that?”

You just nodded, the anticipation was slowly killing you.

“I never thought that I would have ended up here when I first saw you. It took some time, but when I realised, I fell hard for you… You’re beautiful, intelligent, and you make me smile on dark days. When I’m exhausted and dirty from a dungeon, you are the first person I want to be around. You challenge me, push me to be the man I know I always was deep down. The man I want to be… I was truthful when I said I’d let you walk all over me.” He chuckled, but it didn’t match his expression.

“I love you to the point that I’d do literally anything you ask, in a heartbeat. I just don’t want to be away from you, I couldn’t bear it. I know it’s been difficult adjusting, and it’s not the way I would have done things either, but it’s the cards we've been dealt with and we should make the most of it, together. But that’s if you want it too, so don’t listen to Jin-chul, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

You lingered in the pause, a moment in silence that was not wasted on you. Jinwoo continued. “I love you for you, and I’d do anything for you. Anything. I never wanted to spring it on you like this in case it drove you away. I’d hate not to see you all the time.”

He spoke to you like a husband of twenty years. But he wasn’t. Not yet. But he could be.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“I…” You couldn’t say it until you were sure. 

So you did the next best thing until you could sort your head out. You kissed him.

Sweetly, without an ounce of passion or lustrous touches. Just a kiss, then another, and another. Jinwoo caressed your cheek, cupping it so that your head rested into his palm. Each pull from your lips, a long drawl of poetic sounds in a room with a heavy silence that weighed less with each second.

“I love you, baby.” He said, pulling away for only a second before gravitating back to you.

Jinwoo felt his way to your belly, grazing it before touching your waist before you disappeared in his arms. It was desperate, but he held back like he was afraid to go too hard because it would break you.

“How much?”

He never missed a beat when he pulled you onto his lap, shuffling back for more space. “More than the world.”

You sucked at his bottom lip and pulled off his cardigan in an agonisingly slow motion. “And you’d do anything for me?”

Just how far would this man go for you? You weren’t sure.

“Anything.” 

The way Jinwoo slipped the straps from your dress off of your shoulders tickled your skin into goosebumps. Your heart swelled by how his fingertips ran down the exposed skin on your arms as though he was admiring art, taking in each inch with a careful eye and every subtle, invisible word under his breath.

“Would you still love me if I was turned into a magic beast?”

Jinwoo stopped and watched you with a quizzical look, he softly tittered and played with a strand of your hair as you sat over his thighs. “Of course I would. Out of all the things you could ask, why that?”

It seemed perfectly logical in your mind, things like that could probably happen, it probably happened once already and no one found out yet. How could they if the person turned into a magic beast couldn’t talk?

“I don’t know.” You drew back, a little embarrassed by your impulsivity. Jinwoo pulled you closer and pressed his lips on your collarbone to the crook of your neck. “With the way things are going and what’s happened so far, anything is possible, I guess.”

“I’d love you even if you were a magic beast, if you were a worm or if you were somehow transformed into a toaster, I’d still be here.”

You let him kiss you again, but your mind grew more curious in challenging ways. It was as though you wanted to test him, to see just how far he’d go. While it wasn’t wise, your sudden inquisitivity merited more depth.

“Would you change yourself for me?” You weren’t sure if you wanted the answer, but still asked.

“If that’s what you wanted me to do-”

“Don’t do that. Please, don’t change, Jinwoo.”

He never said anything after that, he just continued locking lips, casually adding tongue whenever it was appropriate. If he would willingly change himself without hesitation, what else would he do?

What if there was a dungeon break and something like Jeju island happened again? Jinwoo would keep you and the babies safe, that was a given. Despite your S-Rank status, your abilities weren’t exactly combative to fight something of that calibre.

You had missed Jeju island, you hadn’t awakened until two months later. Though it was discussed, you only knew of the aftermath, not the full details. Everyone seemed to want to forget it, but just the thought of another break like that made your skin crawl.

It was likely you’d never know the full details, not from Jong-in, Hae-in or Baek, anyway.

But what came after a break like that? If Jinwoo couldn’t maintain order with the association whilst you just kept strategic exits plastered around the place, transported tools and only healed yourself, what happened then? 

Raiders. Thieves. Bad people who would take the shirt from your back just because they could and hurt you and the babies in the process.

You wondered how Jinwoo would handle something so atrocious.

“Would you kill for me?”

Jinwoo halted and froze, his eyes wide open enough to tell you had gone too far. “Shit. I’m sorry, I’m just thinking out loud, we’re having children together and I’m getting worried about stuff that’ll never happen-”

“I would.” He said, so sure of himself. “We’re going to be parents… I think when push comes to shove, we’ll both do it if it came down to it.”

He had a point.

“I don’t really know what I’d do until I’m in that position-”

The bedroom door knocked, heavily though singular. Three clunks, followed by a controlled response.

“Sire, my sincerest apologies for the intrusion. Someone is at the door for you!” 

Jinwoo dropped his head to your shoulder and cursed under his breath. “Just ignore it, Beru. Finish watching your show.”

The brief moment of quiet was enough for Jinwoo to taste your skin again- “ My Liege, they are quite insistent!” 

You left Jinwoo’s grasp before he could protest, he yanked the door open faster than you were certain he meant to. “Beru, we’re busy-”

The front door knocked, well it was more of a frantic banging. Beru hunched over, his head missing the ceiling with his posture.

“Wait here.” Jinwoo marched on over to the door.

You ignored his instruction and followed behind him at a distance, clutching your baby bump on instinct. When the door opened, you stood next to the rather large ant and watched on in awe at someone you didn’t expect to see this time of night.

“It’s late. What are you doing here?” Jinwoo asked, his hands defensively on the door and the frame like a barrier.

Jong-in cleared his throat and tried to rub away the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s Hae-in. She’s missing, and I can’t find her.”

Part 17 <- Part 18 -> Part 19

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @kamiliora

@yessirr7 @aussie-boys-wife @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

@stormnightingale @johnnysactualgf @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved @johnnysactualgf @notleclerc

@minkuro @misakicchi @lovingyeet @soft-dots @gina239

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@shortchubbytat @celesteelysia @forgotten-moon94 @sleepyamaya @applepi405

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[linoxpudding]

No Escape (Pt 2) - Kim Seungmin

summary: trying to adjust to a new "normal," you cling to a brief moment of hope —only to have it slip away which drives you to make a final decision to escape the reality

pairing: mafia!seungmin x fem!reader

genre: angst, dark romance, yandere, mafia au

word count: 10,710 words

warnings: kidnapping, guns, obsession, assault, su*cide attempt, mentions of violence

a/n: thank you all so much for the love and support on pt 1! I originally planned for it to be a one-shot, but after all your amazing feedback and requests, I decided to give it a proper final part, hope you enjoy it x

PART ONE

~°~

The days bled together.

Seungmin visited the room every day— once before going to work and once at night —at the same hour, he opened the door and stepped inside quietly. He’d sit in the same chair by the bed. Say nothing. Do nothing. Just… watch.

You never screamed anymore. Silence had taken over you. You wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t acknowledge his presence. Wouldn’t give him the scraps of attention he clearly craved. Yet he kept coming back.

At first, you hated it. Hated the sound of his breathing, the intensity of his gaze, the way he always seemed so composed. You knew beneath that face was something unhinged, something capable of stealing your life and calling it love.

But now… now you didn’t have the energy to feel anything. Not rage. Not fear. Not even hate, really.

You just stared at the wall. Your eyes traced the same crack in the plaster for hours, just to keep your mind from spiraling into the void. You ate the food he brought—not because you were hungry, but because starving yourself didn’t matter anymore. There was no escape. This was your life now. This house. This room. This man.

Seungmin never spoke during these visits. Not a single word. He didn’t ask you questions or try to coax conversation. He seemed content with your silence, or perhaps too afraid to break it. But you felt his eyes on you. Always.

There was a weight in them—something desperate, almost reverent. He watched you like you were a painting he didn’t understand. A sacred thing behind glass, forever out of reach. Sometimes you’d catch the slight movement of his fingers, like he wanted to reach out, to touch you, but was restraining himself. And the worst part? That restraint wasn’t comforting—it was terrifying. Because if he was holding back now, it meant something dangerous was lurking underneath. Something simmering. Boiling.

One day, you looked up just once. Just for a second. You didn’t even mean to. But your gaze flicked to him before you could stop it.

He blinked like you'd just touched him.

His lips parted, breath caught in his throat, and you could see his entire soul unraveling from just that one flicker of attention. It should’ve given you power. But all you felt was dread.

What kind of man breaks from a glance?

That night, as you lay in bed, you heard the door open again. It was past his usual time. You didn’t move. You waited for the chair to creak. It didn’t.

Instead, the bed dipped slightly—just an inch—as if someone leaned close. You smelled him before you felt him. That subtle cologne, woodsy and expensive, mixed now with a sharp edge of something you couldn't name. Obsession, maybe.

“You looked at me,” Seungmin whispered, so low you wondered if he was speaking to himself.

You didn’t answer.

“I won’t touch you,” he added, barely breathing. “I just wanted to be close to you. For a second.”

You clenched your fists under the blanket. Still, you said nothing.

He left a minute later. The door closed with the softest click.

The next morning, a small envelope sat beside your breakfast tray. Not forced into your hands. Not pushed in your face. Just… left there. An offering.

You opened it.

Inside was a note in neat, careful handwriting: “I miss your voice.”

You crumpled it without reading it twice. Threw it to the corner. But you didn’t ignore the food that day. You ate all of it.

Another note came two days later: “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.”

You scoffed and shoved the tray off the table. The dishes shattered. For the first time in weeks, your voice broke through the silence.

“I want to leave,” you whispered.

He wasn’t even there to hear it. But the words bled out anyway.

That night, you dreamt of being free. Of open skies. Of your old bed. Of friends whose names you could no longer remember clearly. You wondered how your parents were, if they realised you’ve been missing. But when you woke up, the silence wrapped around your throat like a noose.

Seungmin came in a few hours later, as always. Sat in the same chair. You didn’t look at him. But you could feel the tension in the air. Like something inside him was fraying.

You didn’t understand why he kept doing this. Why he endured your hate, your silence, your complete indifference. It would’ve been easier for him to punish you. Hurt you. Take what he wanted and force you to comply.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat there every day like a penitent ghost, waiting for you to come alive again. You wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Ask what the hell he wanted from you.

But you didn’t. 

Because a darker truth lived somewhere inside you now. Somewhere beneath the numbness, the silence, the unending grief—there was something else. Something twisted. Something terrifying.

Some nights, when you cried yourself to sleep, you almost wished he would come back and hold you.

And that was the most horrifying thought of all.

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

Tonight when Seungmin entered your room, something felt different.

The air carried a charge. You felt it the moment the door opened.

He stepped in slowly, his hands shoved in the pockets of a tailored black coat, his shoulders tenser than usual. His movements weren’t as smooth, as calculated. He wasn’t performing control tonight. He was unraveling quietly at the seams.

You sat on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up, a blanket wrapped around your body. You stared ahead, at nothing, your expression empty.

Seungmin stood a few steps from you, his eyes tracing your form like he was memorizing you again—like he did every day. But this time, he didn’t sit. He cleared his throat.

“I… have to go away for a while. Tokyo first. Then New York,” he said softly. “Business.”

You didn’t respond. Not even a twitch.

“Just a few weeks. two, maybe less,” he continued, voice careful. “I didn’t want to go, but I can’t avoid it.”

He took one hesitant step forward. Then another. You didn’t stop him.

“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. Without…” he faltered, his voice catching on something raw. “Without hearing you. Or… even just seeing you look at me.”

He paused a foot away from you now. His breathing was uneven.

“Can you look at me?” he asked, a note of something desperate bleeding into his voice.

You didn’t. And yet, you could feel it—his disappointment. His helplessness.

That impenetrable armor he wore so well, the cold composure, the frightening stillness—it was cracking. Slowly. Quietly. And what was underneath… wasn’t rage.

It was grief.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know I don’t deserve it. But… I’m leaving. And I—”

He swallowed hard.

“Can I hold you?” he asked, his voice trembling now. “Please?”

The silence stretched between you like a live wire. You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either. And when he reached out, gently, carefully, like touching something that might disappear… you didn’t flinch.

His hand came up and cupped your cheek, thumb barely brushing your skin, and you still didn’t move. His touch was feather-light, reverent—like he was afraid you'd vanish into smoke. Or maybe afraid you'd break.

“I miss you,” he whispered, eyes locked to yours, even though you still wouldn’t meet them. “And I don’t even have you. How does that make sense?”

You stayed frozen. Stiff. Distant. But something inside you thudded. A strange, slow ache in your chest. He leaned forward. Not with urgency. Not to kiss. Just to rest his forehead against yours. His breath was warm and shaking. His whole body trembled like he was trying not to fall apart.

And you let him.

You didn’t pull away when his arms slipped around you. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t force. He just held you. As if the act of being near you was enough to anchor him.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath your layers of grief and resistance, you felt something flicker. A small warmth. A memory of what comfort used to feel like before your world was turned inside out.

You hated it.

You hated that you felt safer in his arms than you had in the dark, endless nights alone. You hated the way his heartbeat felt steady against your ribs. Hated how you exhaled the first full breath you’d taken in days while being held by the man who stole everything from you.

But you didn’t move.

Because for a moment, you didn’t want to. He pulled back after what felt like forever, his eyes glossy. Not crying—he never cried—but close. Close enough.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll come straight to you when I return.”

He kissed your forehead. It was fleeting. A whisper of affection. Then he left. 

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t fall asleep with tears in your eyes. But that didn’t mean you weren’t breaking. Because cracks in the ice spread quietly, until one day they shatter everything.

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

The next morning you woke up to silence.

Not the usual kind

This silence was different.

It was empty.

And for a moment, your body stilled, brain still fogged with sleep, waiting for the familiar ritual to begin — the way it had for so many days, like clockwork. You’d hear the soft shuffling of footsteps outside your door. The quiet click of the doorknob turning. Scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a shadow. You'd pretend to stay asleep, ignore his presence, and pretend that the man who kept you here didn’t haunt your every breath.

But he never came. And your chest… ached.

You blinked slowly, lifting your head from the pillow, your muscles sluggish and sore from another restless night. The room felt too large today. Too still. The sunlight streamed in, slicing across the floor like blades of glass, illuminating the thick dust floating through the air. A beam fell over the chair where he usually sat.

For some reason, that chair made your stomach twist.

He said he was leaving last night. You remembered the way his voice dropped as he spoke — almost as if asking for permission, not just telling you.

You stared at the closed door for a long time, your fingers curled around the edge of your blanket, knuckles white. Your stomach twisted—not from hunger, but something worse.

Longing.

You missed him.

You missed Kim Seungmin.

You clenched your jaw, furious at yourself. No. No, what the hell is wrong with me?

This was the man who tore your life apart. This was the man who stole you. This was the man who broke you, piece by piece, with obsession dressed as love and control painted as care.

And yet—his absence clung to you like a second skin.

Maybe it was the way he’d held you the night before. How gently he had touched you. How his voice had cracked when he asked, “Can I hold you?” How you hadn’t moved away.

You buried your face in your hands. This wasn’t comfort. It was conditioning. It had to be. Stockholm syndrome, they called it—when the cage becomes the only warmth you know. When you mistake the kindness of your captor for affection because you’re starved for any scrap of softness.

You dragged yourself from bed, movements slow and reluctant, as if your body couldn’t quite function without the weight of his eyes on you. As much as you resented his presence, there was something unnerving about the vacuum he left behind. Like silence had become too loud.

You crossed the room and stood in front of the chair.

That goddamn chair.

For days, weeks most probably — you’d stopped keeping count — he sat there every night, watching you like a man studying the edge of a cliff. He never spoke first. Never touched you without your permission. He just… sat. And somehow, his silence had become louder than his violence ever was.

You reached out and touched the top of the chair, your fingers brushing the cool wood. The scent of him still lingered. It should have made you sick. Instead, your throat closed.

No. You couldn’t miss him. You weren’t that far gone.

You turned abruptly, brushing the thoughts away like cobwebs, and walked to the window. The grounds stretched out in disciplined symmetry — trimmed hedges, marble fountains, and wide stone paths crawling with guards. 

There was no escaping here. You’d accepted that. The doors were locked, the windows wired, and Seungmin had eyes in every shadow. Every time you thought you’d spotted a weak link, it disappeared, like the version of yourself that existed before he took you.

But now, without him, you felt something foreign. Not hope. Never that.

Just… restlessness.

Suddenly, you couldn’t stand being here anymore. You needed to move. Breathe. Feel something.

You strode to the door, yanked it open and froze.

A stern voice came instantly from across the hall.

“You can’t leave.”

The words struck like thunder. It was sharp, authoritative and familiar. 

Your eyes snapped toward the source. Lee Minho stepped into the light. He has sharp jawline and intense eyes. Dressed in black, his presence as commanding as it was cold.

You remembered him—one of Seungmin’s closest men. Loyal. Quiet. But lethal. There was a stillness about him that unnerved you more than chaos ever could.

You swallowed. “I know. I’m not trying to escape,” you said quietly, your voice rough from disuse. “I just… I want to walk. Around the mansion.”

Minho didn’t reply at first. He stared at you for a long beat, before sternly saying, “That’s not allowed.”

“I’m not asking to leave the estate,” you pressed, your voice low but firm. “Just… the halls. A few rooms. I’ve been locked in here for weeks. I’m going insane.”

His jaw twitched. There was hesitation behind those eyes, something you didn’t expect.

“If boss finds out—”

“He’s not here.”

The words came out sharper than you intended. But you were tired of being voiceless.

Minho narrowed his eyes. There was no affection in his gaze—but there was calculation.

He folded his arms. “You’re not trying to run?”

“I know there’s no point. You all made that perfectly clear,” you said more quietly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I just want to walk. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Still, he said nothing.

“I’m tired of this room,” you continued, a small tremor entering your voice. “I need to feel like a human again. Just for a little while.”

Minho looked at you. Not with sympathy, but something close to curiosity — as if wondering how someone so broken could still have anything left to ask for.

Finally, he stepped aside.

“Ten minutes. You try anything, and you’ll regret it.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t thank him.

You just stepped out of the room for the first time since you’d arrived and walked past him.

The hallway was quiet, eerily so. The chandeliers above cast long shadows on the marble floor. You walked slowly, each step strange and weightless, like walking in a dream.

The mansion was beautiful—cold, clinical, extravagant. Every corner whispered of wealth and secrecy. But beneath the grandeur was a sharpness, like the entire house was holding its breath.

As you wandered past empty rooms and silent staircases, your thoughts circled back again to Seungmin.

You hated that you noticed his absence like this. That his presence, suffocating as it was, had become a part of your rhythm. And now you were out of step.

It wasn’t love. You reminded yourself over and over.

It was isolation. Trauma. Psychological damage.

But that didn’t change the fact that when he held you last night, you felt warm for the first time in weeks.

You stopped in front of a window and pressed your palm against the cold glass.

Somewhere in Tokyo, Seungmin was thinking about you. You were sure of it. The man who had taken everything from you. And yet, here you were.

Longing for him to come back.

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

The night had settled heavily over the mansion, cloaking its endless hallways in silence. You lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, counting seconds like heartbeats. You couldn’t sleep. Not with that strange hollowness inside you—the kind that had grown sharper in Seungmin’s absence. 

And just like that it’s been four days since he left for work. It disgusted you, how often your thoughts strayed to him. To the way his arms had felt around you the night before he left. You hadn’t wanted it. You told yourself you didn’t want it. But still… it had felt warm. Human. And now that warmth was gone.

You pushed the covers off and sat up. Your stomach growled softly, another reminder that time was still moving, that your body was still alive—even if your spirit was still trapped.

You padded toward the door and gently turned the knob. Unlocked.

But before you could step out, a body blocked your path. Broad shoulders, black shirt, arms crossed. Lee Minho was there again.

“Where do you think you're going?” Minho’s voice, quiet and firm, cut through the stillness. His arms were crossed, the dim wall sconce casting sharp shadows across his face. His tone was rough, flat, the way it always was with you.

You exhaled through your nose. “To the kitchen. I’m hungry.”

“No.” The answer was instant. 

You glared at him. “Why not?”

“Because I said no.” 

The air between you tightened. You hated the way he stood there, like a wall as if you’re some criminal asking for parole.

“I’m not trying to run,” you said, swallowing the irritation in your throat. “I just want food. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you something. Just tell me what you want.”

You frowned. “I can go myself.”

“There’s no need.”

“I want to go.”

“No,” he said, sharper this time. “Go back inside.”

You held his stare. “I’m not asking.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not allowed.”

You stepped forward until you were close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

His expression flickered — just a flicker, but it was enough.

“Do you want me to starve myself again?” you said lowly, a bitter edge to your voice. “Will that finally get me what I want? A locked casket instead of a locked room?”

His jaw flexed. A long pause passed before he exhaled heavily through his nose. “Five minutes,” he muttered. “I’ll follow behind. And if anything seems off, you come back immediately.”

You nodded. “Deal.”

You padded down the carpeted stairs barefoot, feeling the weight of his glare on your back. He followed, not too close, but always present. Like a tether. The guards nodded at Minho as you passed. Still watching. Still alert.

You sighed.

This was your new normal.

The kitchen was enormous, almost sterile in its perfection. The kitchen lights were dimmed to a soft golden glow. You headed straight for the fridge.

Minho leaned against the counter with a sigh. “You could’ve just asked earlier.”

“I don’t like asking,” you replied, rummaging for leftovers.

Suddenly, a voice from behind startled you both.

“Well, well. Looks like I came back just in time for family drama.”

You froze.

Minho turned, eyes narrowing. “Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin stood in the doorway, short dark hair, a long coat hanging off his shoulders, a lopsided grin on his lips. “Hey, Min. Still bossy, I see.”

Minho straightened. “When did you get back?”

“About ten minutes ago. Jisung said you were on night duty. Figured I’d say hi.” His eyes flicked to you, and the smile faltered slightly. “And… who’s this?”

You stood still, unsure what to say.

Before Minho could respond, Hyunjin took a slow step forward, brows furrowed. “Wait. Wait, hold on.” His tone changed, confused. “Why is there a girl here? Since when does Seungmin—?”

Minho stepped in front of you instinctively. “Drop it.”

“No,” Hyunjin said, voice sharp now. “Why is she here?”

You opened your mouth, but Minho’s grip closed around your wrist—not cruel, just firm.

“She’s leaving,” Minho said.

“No, she’s not,” Hyunjin snapped. “Let her go.”

They locked eyes like wolves. The tension was thick, electrified.

After a long beat, Minho let go.

You stumbled back slightly, heart thudding.

Hyunjin looked at you again, slower this time. His voice was gentler, but it cut through you. “He brought you here against your will, didn’t he?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence said enough.

Minho muttered something under his breath, stepping away, angry and tense. He opened the fridge instead and slammed it shut a moment later.

Hyunjin’s gaze never left you. “You hungry?”

You nodded faintly.

“Alright,” he said, walking over. “Let’s find something. You and I can talk.”

Minho was still in the room, simmering, but he didn’t stop him this time.

You didn’t know why, but for the first time in weeks… someone looked at you like a person again.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said, stepping away from the counter slowly. “His stepbrother. I just flew in from Marseille this morning. Haven’t been back here in almost a year.”

Your stomach twisted. Stepbrother.

You suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. The sharpness in the jaw. The precision in the eyes—but where Seungmin was ice, Hyunjin was flame.

“I didn’t think Seungmin had family,” you said slowly.

“He likes people to think that,” Hyunjin replied with a crooked smile. “I’m the stain on his suit. So… he keeps me out of sight.”

You nodded grimly. “We have something in common, then.”

He looked at you with a deep, quiet kind of concerned gaze.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. “Not sure I’d trust anyone here either.”

For a moment, silence fell again. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening—but tender. Heavy with all the things that couldn’t be said in one night.

You walked past him to grab a glass and poured your water.

He didn’t move. Just watched. Gently. Like he was trying to figure out what the hell his brother had brought into this house.

The fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered faintly overhead, buzzing in the silence that followed. Minho stood rigid by the sink, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Hyunjin like he was weighing every possible consequence.

“I’ll handle this. Can you give us a moment, Min?” Hyunjin’s voice was calm, measured — but beneath it was steel. He stepped forward, walking toward the door, clearly expecting Minho to move.

Minho didn’t.

He stepped directly in Hyunjin’s path, jaw set, posture tense. “No.”

Hyunjin exhaled sharply through his nose, not in frustration, but disappointment. His dark eyes narrowed, the easygoing edge in his tone beginning to fray. “She’s not a prisoner to me,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt her. You know that.”

“She’s not yours to protect either,” Minho shot back, barely above a growl.

Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, as if studying Minho. Then he took another step forward, their chests almost touching now. The air between them was thick with unspoken history and clashing loyalties.

“You gonna make this ugly, Minho?” Hyunjin asked, no longer soft-spoken. There was a challenge in his voice now. “Because if I wanted to go against Seungmin, I’d have done it already. I’m asking you, not as his step-brother, but as your friend…let me talk to her. Alone.”

Minho stared him down, unmoving. A long, taut silence passed.

Finally, Minho sighed, muttering under his breath, “Why is everyone so damn stubborn in this house…”

Without another word, he pushed past Hyunjin and stalked out of the kitchen. The door swung half-shut in his wake.

Hyunjin reached back and gently closed it, the latch clicking softly into place. Then he turned toward you, his features softening with concern.

“You okay to sit?” he asked softly, gesturing to the table.

You nodded and slid onto one of the stools. Your legs still trembled slightly.

“I know this place is weird,” he said, moving with ease across the kitchen and grabbing a pot. “And I know that you must be scared as hell. So… let’s start easy. You like ramen?”

You gave a faint nod.

“Good,” he said. “Because it’s the only thing I can make without setting this place on fire.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He worked quietly, heating the water, moving with that casual grace of someone not used to chaos — someone who didn’t quite belong in this mansion laced with shadows and control.

And then, when the noodles were boiling and the only sounds were the soft simmer and the tick of the stove timer, he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he said. “What… what is this? Why are you here?”

You looked up, your fingers clenched tight around the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. Or dramatic. Or like a possession.

He was just looking. Listening.

So, in the hush of the late-night kitchen, with the scent of boiling noodles in the air and your voice cracking from disuse, you told him.

You told him everything.

How you were taken. How Seungmin watched you, talked to you, tried to be gentle after the rage passed. How you were never physically hurt, but mentally—emotionally—you were being broken down day by day. How the isolation ate at you. How you hated him and feared him.

You stopped, breath ragged, ramen untouched in front of you. You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear slid off your chin and landed in the bowl.

“I’m not crazy,” you whispered. “But I think I’m becoming something close.”

Hyunjin was silent for a long moment.

Then he pushed his bowl aside, leaned forward on his elbows, and looked you dead in the eye.

“You’re not crazy. He is.”

His voice was cold. Different now. His eyes had darkened, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior.

“Seungmin,” he spat, like the name tasted rotten. “I can’t believe him. I can’t fucking believe he—”

He stopped himself, standing abruptly and running a hand through his hair, pacing once like a tiger in a cage.

“I should talk to him. But he won’t listen. You’re right. He’s too far gone.”

You said nothing. Just sat there, watching this stranger who felt more human in five minutes than the rest of this house did in weeks.

Hyunjin turned to you again.

“Do you have any escape plan?”

You looked at him, startled.

“Because if you do… I’ll help you.”

Your lips parted, your breath caught. The words were too big. Too impossible.

“I—I don’t know if it’s even possible,” you whispered.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Then we’ll make it possible.”

A beat.

Then he said quietly, “You shouldn’t stay here. I don’t care if Seungmin thinks he loves you. This isn’t love. This is obsession.”

Another pause. “And you can’t give up, you deserve freedom.”

You looked at him and for the first time in what felt like forever, something warm flickered in your chest. Hope. Fragile and dangerous. You were alone all this time, now you have someone who will help you.

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

Morning arrived with silver light bleeding through the curtains.

You didn’t open your eyes at first. You lay still, curled up, letting the warmth of the blanket hold you a little longer. The room was quiet again—eerily so. You could still feel the faintest residue of Seungmin’s presence lingering in the walls. The ghost of last night clung to you like fog.

But then you heard a knock in the door. You tensed as you heard muffled voices.

“Hyunjin,” Minho’s sharp whisper hissed through the door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Inviting her to breakfast. Calm down.”

“She’s not—she’s not some guest you can just waltz in and charm.”

“I’m not charming anyone, Minho. I’m trying to treat her like a human being. Something this house seems to have forgotten how to do.”

You sat up slowly, heart thudding against your ribs. You didn’t expect him to come back. Not so soon. Not like this.

Another knock. This time softer.

“Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Swallowed the lump in your throat.

“…Yeah.”

The door creaked open and Hyunjin stepped inside, framed by golden morning light. His hair was still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, looking far too casual for the tension that radiated behind him.

Minho hovered in the hallway, glaring past Hyunjin’s shoulder like a watchdog barely kept at bay.

“Hey,” Hyunjin said with a tentative smile. “I was hoping you’d be awake.”

You just stared.

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to you. “I made breakfast. Well—Minho cooked. I supervised. Thought maybe you’d want to… eat at the dining table, for once. With us.”

You blinked. “With… us?”

He nodded, and the smile softened. “It’s quiet down there. Thought it might feel normal. Just for a little while.”

A strange flutter stirred in your chest. The idea of sitting anywhere outside this room felt almost surreal. But his voice was gentle—never demanding, never pressing. Just… offering.

Minho’s voice cut in from the hallway, colder than ice.

“She’s not going anywhere without permission.”

Hyunjin turned slightly. “Seungmin’s not here. And she’s not going outside. She's just having breakfast. In her own damn house.”

Minho’s glare deepened, but he didn’t move.

You looked at them both. Two men. So different. One trying to maintain the prison. One trying to sneak in a taste of freedom.

And for some reason… you stood.

Hyunjin didn’t cheer or smile like he’d won something. He just nodded once and stepped aside, letting you lead.

Minho stepped back reluctantly, watching your every move like he expected you to vanish.

But you didn’t.

You stepped into the hallway for the first time in what felt like forever. The air was cooler out here. The walls seemed taller, grander, but emptier too — like they echoed with all the things left unsaid.

Hyunjin walked a little ahead, slow enough that you could keep up, hands in his pockets like this was nothing out of the ordinary.

You weren’t ready to admit it… but the simple act of walking beside someone again — of choosing to move, even within invisible boundaries — made you feel human for the first time in days.

For the next three days, he stayed close. Found excuses to “run into you.” He brought you snacks you hadn’t tasted in months, books from the shelves you’d only stared at, music he swore you needed to hear.

He made you laugh.

It was terrifying—how easy it was to forget where you were when he was around. In the corner of the world Seungmin controlled, Hyunjin was a flicker of warmth. Unsteady. Uncertain. But real.

You began to let your guard down.

One night, you ended up in the greenhouse, sitting side by side on a stone bench beneath the shadow of the hanging orchids. He had a flashlight tucked in his hoodie pocket, lighting the space between you.

“I used to come here when I was a kid,” he said softly. “Hide in here when Seungmin’s father used to yell. He’d find me eventually and drag me out. Said it made me soft.”

You looked at him. “You’re not soft.”

He met your gaze. “You don’t know that yet.”

Silence.

Then, without thinking, you said, “Why did you come back here?”

He smiled, just a little. “Honestly? I was running from something. Didn't know I'd be running into you.”

Despite everything, your days began to change — not in sweeping colors, but in faint, hesitant strokes.

You and Hyunjin tried. You really did. You scouted the mansion's layout, watched the guards from the windows, kept track of security shifts like whispered secrets between breaths.

There was a moment, about a week in, when Hyunjin — bold as ever — approached Minho in the corridor, arm thrown casually over your shoulder.

“We’re heading out. She wants to buy some art supplies. I’m taking her into town,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Minho didn’t even blink. His hand went to the gun on his hip before either of you could exhale.

“What?” Hyunjin scoffed, lifting his hands. “It’s just a little fresh air, Minho. Don’t go full attack dog.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t leave this house. You want to go shopping, order online.”

Hyunjin’s smile faded. There was something sharp in his gaze. “This isn’t living.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Minho replied coldly, stepping between the two of you, nudging Hyunjin back with a firm shoulder.

That night, you sat beside Hyunjin on the floor of the guest room, both of you quiet, hands wrapped around mugs of cooling tea.

“I’ll drop it for now,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

You only nodded. “He’s watching everything.”

“I’ll still find a way,” he added softly. “You deserve to breathe without asking permission.”

A small silence passed. Then you whispered, “Can’t we just call the police?”

Hyunjin looked at you, really looked at you and the sadness in his eyes made your stomach sink.

“I thought about it too,” he admitted. “But no one touches Seungmin. Not the police. Not anyone. He’s got them wrapped tight. Paid off, threatened, scared — doesn’t matter. They won’t come.”

You stared ahead, numbness curling around your heart like frost. Of course. Of course he had even that sewn up.

“And if they did,” Hyunjin added quietly, “you and I both know it’d just make him worse.”

You didn’t reply.

But something in you deflated. The hope that had been flickering — dim but real — was snuffed out, just like that.

Still, over time, something warm and light grew between you. Not romance. Not rebellion. Just genuine friendship. 

You painted together on the terrace one afternoon. It was late — golden hour spilling thickly over the marble floors, turning dust into glitter and shadows into dreams. You both sat cross-legged with canvases in front of you, a splatter of color on your cheeks and sleeves. Laughter echoed between you both. 

Hyunjin wiped green paint from his knuckles and sighed, leaning back. “You’re getting good.”

You smiled faintly, dabbing a smear of blue across the corner of your canvas. “I haven’t laughed in so long… it’s weird.”

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned over, resting his head gently against your shoulder. A platonic gesture. It was familiar and steady. It felt nice.

But the moment shattered like glass under a boot. A door slammed open somewhere in the hallway. Then came the sound of footsteps. Cold. Measured.

You broke apart instantly, heart crashing against your ribs like thunder.

Hyunjin stood quickly, eyes wide, already reaching for your hand—but it was too late.

Seungmin stood in the doorway of the terrace, dressed in black, coat still clinging to his shoulders like wings of a vulture. His expression was unreadable.

But his eyes were fire and frost all at once.

“What’s going on?” he said quietly.

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Your throat went dry.

Hyunjin straightened slowly, sensing the shift before the words landed. He turned his head — casual, like he wasn’t suddenly staring death in the face.

“Seungmin,” he said, standing with a small, easy smile. “You’re back. You didn’t tell anyone you’d be home early.”

He was back after twelve days. 

He’d said two weeks. You’d counted each one like a borrowed breath — which meant, in your mind, you still had two more days. Two more days of fragile peace, of stolen moments and sunlit laughter. Two more days of pretending you could still feel human.

And now, it was over.

Seungmin didn’t answer.

His eyes locked on you.

And in his hand you saw a gun.

Your heart plummeted.

“Step away from her.”

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.

Hyunjin froze. “We’re just painting, man. She’s not a prisoner—”

“She’s mine.”

The words sliced through the air like bullets themselves.

Your breath hitched.

“She’s not a thing, Seungmin,” Hyunjin said, tone clipped now.

But Seungmin’s eyes never left you. The gun didn’t waver.

You stood slowly, the weight of the moment suffocating.

“Stop it,” you whispered. “Put it down.”

He looked at you then — and for a second, there was something deeper there. Not rage. Not jealousy. Just heartbreak. Raw and ugly and silent.

Still, his voice was lethal.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t move.

Hyunjin stepped forward once, hands up, “Let’s talk.”

Seungmin cocked the gun.

“Step. Back.” His voice was a warning bell in a cathedral. Cold. Deep. Echoing.

Hyunjin didn’t move. His hands slowly rose in a gesture of peace. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t talk to traitors.”

“You’re pointing a gun at your brother.” You gasped.

“I’m pointing it at the man who had his hands on what’s mine.”

Your stomach dropped.

He wasn’t looking at you. His entire focus was on Hyunjin. Like he was staring down the scope of every betrayal that ever existed.

You moved forward, grabbing Seungmin’s arm. “Stop! You’re out of your mind!”

He jerked his arm back so violently you stumbled back. He still didn’t look at you.

His voice dropped a note lower, venom curling behind his teeth. “Did he hug you first or did you beg for it?”

“Don’t do this,” Hyunjin said quietly.

“Oh, I’m doing this.”

Seungmin’s hand was steady. Not a tremor. You’d seen him kill before—heard the stories whispered, read in newspapers. But this? This was personal.

His finger slid toward the trigger.

You ran between them.

Hyunjin shouted your name at the same time Seungmin’s hand froze.

You stood inches away from the barrel. Your chest rising and falling so hard it hurt. “Shoot him and you’ll lose the only person who still gives a damn about you.”

His jaw clenched.

Finally, he looked at you.

When his eyes met yours, something cracked. Not softened—cracked. A dam built from months of delusion, obsession, and lies finally splitting down the center.

“You hate me,” he said, almost to himself. “You actually hate me.”

You didn’t answer.

“I gave you everything,” he whispered. “I locked the world out to keep you safe. I thought you’d come around. Thought you’d understand.”

“You locked me in a cage and called it love.”

That landed.

His hand lowered slightly. Not enough.

You could see the tremble now—the beginning of a storm.

Hyunjin’s voice cut in, low but firm. “Put the gun down, Seungmin.”

For a moment, Seungmin didn’t move.

Then slowly—painfully—he lowered the weapon. Not in surrender. Not in forgiveness. But in a delay. A promise that this wasn’t over.

His gaze burned through you one last time before he turned away, steps echoing down the glass corridor like the footsteps of war.

You stood there frozen. The gun hadn’t gone off.

But it felt like a bullet had been fired through all three of your hearts.

Minho suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyes darting to the weapon, then to you. “What the hell?”

Everything hung in that moment — like the mansion itself held its breath.

“Go. To. Your. Room.” Seungmin said again, quieter this time, but no less deadly.

You glanced at Hyunjin, who clenched his jaw and gave a small nod.

You obeyed. Not because you were afraid of him. But because suddenly, you were afraid for him.

For what that look in his eyes meant — the cracking of whatever soul he had left, the unraveling of a man who had once controlled every room he entered, now reduced to violence and desperation.

You turned without another word, the silence behind you louder than footsteps.

The hallway was dim, shadows bleeding from every corner. The guards flanked you on either side, stiff, quiet, refusing to meet your gaze.

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor, too fast. You weren’t walking — you were storming. Your hands shook with rage, with fear, with helplessness.

At the end of the hall, your door came into view.

You stopped. What if he actually kills Hyunjin? You were terrified. You turned to the guards and yanked your arms from their hold.

“I need to see him,” you said firmly.

Neither guard answered.

“I need to speak to Seungmin, right now.”

Still nothing.

You turned toward the one on your left, eyes burning. “Did you hear me?! Take me to him. Now.”

That’s when it hit — the press of fabric against your mouth and nose, sudden and sharp.

You thrashed. But the scent was already overwhelming — chemical, sweet, wet. Chloroform.

Panic flared as your knees buckled, the corridor spinning wildly. You tried to scream but your voice never made it out. Only gasps. Only terror. And then darkness overcame you as you lost consciousness. 

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

When you woke up, it was morning.

Soft light filtered through the curtains, the world outside muffled and distant. Your body ached, your head heavy and clouded. The air in your room was still, too still — like even time was holding its breath.

You sat up slowly, the memory of last night flooding back like cold water over your skin.

The gun. Hyunjin. The chloroform.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You threw off the blanket, stumbling to the door, banging your fists against the wood. 

“Let me out! I want to see Seungmin! Now!”

No answer. You screamed louder. After what felt like forever you heard footsteps. The door opened but it wasn’t him.

It was Minho.

Expression unreadable. Voice flat.

“You wanted to see him?” he said, barely looking at you. “He said to take you to his office.”

You didn’t speak. You just followed him. Panic clawed at your throat. You stormed down the marble halls behind Minho until you reached what looked like his home office.

You shoved past Minho and burst in. “Where is he?”

Seungmin sat behind his desk, calmly flipping through a file, the same detachment in his posture as if you’d asked him what the weather was.

“I’m talking to you!” You slammed your hand on the desk. “Where the hell is Hyunjin?”

He didn’t even flinch.

You paced, anger and fear choking your lungs. “What did you do to him? You pointed a gun at him last night. Are you hiding his body? Did you—God—did you kill him?”

Still, no answer. Just silence. That unbearable, cold, Seungmin kind of silence.

You wanted to scream. Shake him. Tear the calm off his face and demand the truth until it bled.

But instead, you whispered, voice splintered, “Tell me he’s alive.”

At that, Seungmin finally looked up.

His eyes met yours; it was hollow, exhausted. Something lived in that stare you couldn’t name. Not guilt nor anger, it was more of jealousy and resentment.

“He’s alive,” he said simply.

Your knees nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the desk to steady yourself, your breath escaping in one stuttered exhale.

But that brief relief was drowned instantly by what came next.

“I sent him away.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Hyunjin. He’s gone.”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, he wouldn’t just leave. Not without saying anything—”

“He didn’t get the choice,” Seungmin said. His voice was flat, but his jaw was clenched tight.

You blinked rapidly. “What do you mean he didn’t get the choice?”

“I made him leave the country,” he said without blinking. “Told him if I ever saw his face again, I wouldn’t miss next time.”

You staggered back a step, eyes wide. “You—”

“He’s not dead.” Seungmin’s tone turned almost bored. “He’s safe. I let him live. That was my gift to you.”

“A gift?” Your voice cracked with disbelief. “You banished him!”

“I spared him.”

“You took away the only person who cared about me!”

Seungmin’s gaze didn’t shift. He just watched you — stoic, unmoved, a man who had already convinced himself that this was the only path left.

Your lip trembled, fury and heartbreak battling in your chest. “You think that makes it better? You think I should thank you?”

He didn’t answer. Because deep down, maybe he did think that. Maybe in his twisted world, exile was mercy. You turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal. The walls were closing in. The air felt thinner.

“I hate you,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Seungmin closed the file in front of him, fingers interlocking on top of it.

“I know.”

You froze.

That wasn’t defiance in his tone. It was resignation and it scared you more than the gun ever had.

“I could’ve killed him,” Seungmin said softly. “You know that.”

You nodded slowly, realization sinking in like poison.

“You want me to be grateful for letting the only person who made me feel human escape with his life?”

His jaw clenched. “I want you to understand that everything I do—every cruel, ugly thing—is for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“Then let me go,” you whispered.

A beat of silence but he didn’t answer. Just turned and left you standing in his office. 

That night, for the first time since he’d returned from his business trip Seungmin came to your room. No knocking. No warning. The door opened, and there he stood, backlit by the dim hallway light, casting long shadows across the floor.

You didn’t bother turning away. You didn’t flinch. You just sat curled on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, tears drying on your cheeks. He lingered in the doorway for a long moment, silent and watching as always.

You hated that you could still feel it. The weight of his gaze. The gravity of his presence. How the air always seemed to change when he stepped into a room, colder and heavier, like the house itself braced for impact.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stared past him, at nothing, until your voice cracked the silence like a fracture in glass.

“Why are you doing this to me?” a whisper bled out of you — raw, exhausted, worn thin from holding yourself together with trembling hands.

Seungmin didn’t speak.

You turned your head then, meeting his eyes with a kind of sadness that made his breath catch — like you weren’t even trying to hurt him, but somehow you still did.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for you to take me. To keep me. To hurt the only person who ever treated me like I mattered.”

The silence between you thickened, unbearable.

You waited for him to say something. Anything. To justify it. To deny it. To snap and yell and be the monster he always tried to hide behind cold indifference.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, staring at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore — like the version of you he wanted so badly was slipping further away with every tear you shed.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to realize:

You weren’t his. You never were. You never would be.

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

The next few days passed in a haze — a colorless, soundless void that blurred time until you couldn’t tell what was morning and what was night.

You stopped speaking. Stopped reacting. Stopped pretending to care about the food they placed in front of you three times a day.

Seungmin didn’t come again. Not since that conversation.

And the emptiness clawed deeper into your chest like rot. There was no Hyunjin. No painting. No terrace light or hope in stolen laughter. And as much as you hated to admit it, there was no Seungmin. Just the white walls and the suffocating stillness, and the ache that never let go. 

Sometimes, you wondered if Seungmin was done with you. If maybe that terrifying love of his had finally burned out. The thought should’ve brought relief. But it didn’t, instead it hurt.

Because the truth you never said out loud — not even to yourself — was this: no one had ever wanted you like he did. You had always been the invisible one. The girl forgotten in group chats. The friend that wasn’t invited. The child who couldn’t ever get it quite right.

So how could someone like Seungmin — dangerous, powerful, mafia boss — see something in you?

What did he see that even you couldn’t find?

And why did his absence feel like proof that maybe… there was never anything special in you to begin with?

Just silence again. Just you, and you felt invisible yet again.

So one evening just after your dinner was brought in — something shifted and you made a decision.

You stared down at the porcelain plate, untouched food going cold.

The housekeeper — the same one who always avoided your eyes — gave you the usual warning glance before stepping out.

You waited just long enough for her footsteps to disappear down the hall. And then, without hesitating, you reached for the plate and slammed it down against the edge of the table. Shards scattered everywhere. You’d broken plates before. So many. In protest. In defiance. They always cleaned them up. Always replaced them.

But this time wasn’t about noise.

This time wasn’t for them.

You reached for the sharpest edge — small, jagged, and clean. You palmed it quickly, breathing through the sting as it pricked your skin.

And when the guards arrived moments later and saw the mess, you did what they always expected.

You sat on the bed still with a blank face and you were silent. You let them think it was another tantrum. Another breakdown.

They cleaned it. Muttered things. Left again.

But they didn’t check under the pillow. 

That night, as the house went still and dark, you slid the shard from its hiding place with trembling fingers and slipped into the bathroom. You didn’t cry. Didn’t second guess. You just sank to the cold marble floor, stared at the moonlight casting shadows through the frosted glass, and pressed the shard to your skin. Not fast. Not frantic. Just enough pressure for the blood to well — slow and deep.

Enough to stop everything.

He wasn’t supposed to check on you that night. He’d been avoiding it.

Since the night he came back — since he banished Hyunjin and you looked at him like he was a stranger you hated with every fiber of your being— he hadn’t returned to your room.

He told himself you needed space. That silence would hurt less than the way you looked at him now. But something was wrong tonight.

He couldn’t explain it. The air felt colder than usual. The hallway is quieter. A pressure settled in his chest like a storm cloud refusing to break.

He told himself it was paranoia.

But his steps quickened. By the time he reached your door, his fingers were already curled into fists. He pushed it open without knocking. The room was dark and you weren’t in bed.

His heart stuttered. He scanned the space — window, corners, closet.

Then he noticed the faintest glow seeping out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked. No answer.

He pushed the door open and the sight made his world collapse.

You were on the floor. Crimson smeared across your wrist, soaking into your shirt, pooling beneath you in a way that made his knees buckle.

For one frozen second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Then his body launched forward.

“No…no, no, no—” he choked, dropping to the marble tiles, gathering your limp form into his arms. “Y/N, wake up. Baby, wake up. What did you do—? What did you do?!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, eyes shut, skin frighteningly pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, voice trembling as he pressed both hands to your wrist, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold your soul in your body by sheer force. “No, no, you can’t die—you can’t—”

“GUARDS!” he bellowed, voice raw and feral. “GET CHAN—GET HIM NOW!”

Footsteps thundered down the hallway.

But Seungmin didn’t let go.

He cradled you to his chest, rocking slightly, blood soaking through his shirt, mixing with the warmth of his tears as they hit your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to—I never wanted this,” he whispered, over and over. “Please stay. Please stay with me. I’ll fix it—I’ll fix everything.”

When Dr. Bang Chan burst through the door minutes later with his medical kit and knelt beside him, Seungmin didn’t move.

“I’ve got her—let go—”

“I can’t!” Seungmin snapped, clutching you tighter. “She’s cold—she’s not breathing right—do something!”

“Seungmin. Let me help her.”

Only then did he finally release you, hands trembling, watching helplessly as Chan worked quickly to check your pulse, stitch the wound, stabilize your vitals.

Minho hovered in the doorway, pale and silent.

Seungmin backed into the wall and slid down, staring at his hands.

They were stained red with your blood. With the weight of everything he did. Everything he didn’t stop. And in that moment — surrounded by fear, chaos, and the distant beep of Chan’s equipment — Seungmin realized he had been so obsessed with keeping you close that he never saw he was pushing you to leave in the worst way imaginable.

Not by running but by dying.

And it terrified him more than anything ever could.

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

You were still unconscious. A ghost of yourself under dim lights, your skin pale against the white sheets, lips barely parted, chest rising and falling in slow, fragile rhythm.

Seungmin sat beside your bed — unmoving, barely breathing — like if he blinked, you might slip away again.

Chan worked in silence, his hands steady, the IV drip now secured, a monitor beeping softly beside you. That sound — your heartbeat — was the only thing keeping Seungmin grounded. Every gentle blip was proof that you were still here.

Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight, as if holding himself together. Jisung stood by the doorway, eyes flicking between Seungmin and your sleeping form, a deep worry carved into his face.

“Boss…” Jisung’s voice was hesitant, low. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. Please, just… eat something.”

Seungmin didn’t move. His eyes never left you.

“I said I’d protect her,” he murmured not to anyone, just into the air. “And I became the thing she needed protection from.”

Chan’s voice was gentle. “She’s out of danger, Kim. Her vitals are stable. She’s strong.”

That should have comforted him. It didn’t.

He glanced up at Minho then. His expression was blank but there was something raw in his eyes. Something none of them had seen before.

“I’m letting her go.”

The words landed like thunder. All three men froze.

Minho took a step forward. “What?”

“I said I’m letting her go,” Seungmin repeated, quieter this time. “She deserves to breathe without fear. She deserves mornings that don’t begin with locked doors and guards.”

Jisung blinked hard. “Boss… you’re serious?”

Seungmin’s gaze dropped back to you. His hand hovered above yours but didn’t touch — as if even that would be too much now.

“It’s better she’s left alone,” he said, voice thick but steady. “I’ll take it. I’ll watch from afar. I’ll love her from a distance if that’s what it takes. But I can’t live in a world where she doesn’t exist.”

Minho looked away, jaw clenched.

“I pushed her this far…” Seungmin’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I almost lost her.”

Chan exhaled softly. “Then let’s make sure you never do.”

When you woke up, it was quiet.

Not the cold, sterile silence of that mansion — this was different. Softer. There was warmth in the filtered sunlight slipping through cheap curtains. The distant hum of city life outside your window. The faint scent of clean sheets and something familiar.

You blinked, groggy, slow — and then sat up in alarm.

This was your apartment. Your real apartment. Not the mansion. Not Seungmin’s ghost-kingdom of glass and steel. Your hands flew to your chest — the bandage was still there, snug and clean. Your breath hitched.

On the bedside table you spotted an envelope.

Your name in his handwriting. You opened it and it simply said:  I am sorry. I won’t bother you anymore. 

You should feel happy with the freedom but something felt empty.

You called your family, hoping maybe someone had noticed your absence. Maybe they were worried. But they didn’t even notice. Your mother thought you’d just gone quiet again. Your father barely asked anything at all so when you hung up, your throat was tight with the weight of their indifference.

No one at your university had checked in either. Your professors had marked you as withdrawn. Your classmates hadn’t sent a single message.

You were back in the world, but it was like the world didn’t even realize you’d gone.

So, you kept moving forward.

You got a small part-time job at a quiet café a few blocks away. The manager was kind. The customers polite. You poured coffee, wiped down counters, smiled when expected. Days blurred into one another — simple, quiet, uneventful.

And he kept his word. You didn’t see Seungmin. But what you didn’t know was this — he saw you. All the time. 

Every corner you turned, he was there in the distance. Watching from behind the tinted glass of his car. Forgetting deals, ignoring meetings. Just to catch a glimpse of you.

He never approached. Never let himself be seen.

But one look — just one glimpse of your silhouette in the evening sun — was enough to keep him breathing.

You missed him. Every time the bell above the door chimed, your head turned a little too fast — hoping he would enter. Every time a customer wore cologne that reminded you of him, something in your chest ached. You’d wipe the same spot on the counter for minutes, lost in thought, remembering how he used to sit on the edge of your bed, brushing your hair back like you were something breakable.

God, you missed him.

You missed the way he said your name with so much longing. The way his voice dropped when he was trying not to sound hurt. The way he looked at you — like you were the only thing in the world he had left to hold onto.

And maybe it was sick. Maybe it was wrong. But you couldn’t stop wondering if he was okay.

If he was eating, sleeping. You wondered if he still loved you, or he moved on. If he still thought of you like you thought of him — constantly, quietly, painfully.

You were supposed to be free. But somehow, your heart had never felt heavier.

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

Today had worn you thin. The weight of lectures, endless assignments, and a dragging shift at the café left your body aching and your mind foggy. By the time you stepped out, the sky had already deepened into navy, the streets cloaked in the kind of darkness that felt heavier than usual. You turned to walk toward the alley — a narrow shortcut you’d taken dozens of times without thought. But tonight, it felt colder, like the night itself was holding its breath.

Three figures emerged from the shadows — their shapes blurred by the dim light, but their intentions unmistakably clear. Rough voices barked out slurred demands. Cruel laughter echoed off the walls. Hands reached for your bag, your arm, anything they could grab.

Your heart thundered in your chest. One of them shoved you hard. You stumbled back, hitting the cold brick wall with a gasp. Another raised his foot, ready to kick you but a voice stunned them.

"How dare you?" The voice was low. Icy. Familiar.

The kind of voice that silenced rooms. You turned, breath caught in your throat. Seungmin stood at the edge of the alley. Dark coat. Eyes sharp as broken glass. Rage simmering beneath stillness.

The robbers froze. They recognized him and ran away.

No words. No fight. Just the cold truth of who he was — and the danger that followed him like a shadow.

You stood frozen. Shaking. Heart clawing at your ribs.

He turned to leave, jaw clenched, as if rescuing you was nothing — as if seeing you again didn’t split him open.

But you couldn’t let him go. Not this time.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them. You ran to him. Gripped his coat. Wrapped your arms around him and held on like the ground itself was crumbling.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, brokenly. “I missed you… so much.”

His body tensed. You felt it.

Then slowly, his arms came around you. He held you tight and he was trembling.

“I’m here, baby,” he murmured against your hair, voice thick, shaking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him — tears on both your faces now.

“I want to come back,” you said. “I don’t want to be without you.”

Shock flickered in his eyes. Then something deeper — disbelief, sorrow, love.

“Really?” he whispered, voice fragile like he couldn’t bear to believe it unless he heard it again.

You nodded, eyes shining.

He held your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something sacred.

Then slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours — hesitant at first, trembling. But the moment you kissed him back, it deepened. The kiss was desperate yet tender. Full of everything left unsaid.

As the kiss broke, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling in the cold night air. Neither of you said anything — the silence was thick with emotion, heavier than words could carry. He opened the car door for you like you were something fragile, irreplaceable.

The drive back was quiet but charged, your hand resting in his, his other on the wheel — but you noticed how his thumb never stopped tracing circles into your skin. At one red light, his hand slid from yours and settled gently on your thigh. It was warm and reassuring. Like he was reminding himself you were real, that this wasn’t a dream.

When the mansion finally came into view, your breath hitched — but this time, not from fear. It felt different now. Like you were returning, not being dragged back.

Seungmin parked in front of the grand doors, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel. Jisung and Minho were standing at the entrance, mid-conversation, but froze when they saw you step out.

Jisung blinked. “What the…?”

Minho tilted his head. “She’s—wait, are you—?”

You offered a small smile. “Missed me?”

They stared, jaws slack, clearly too stunned to reply. You walked past them with a shrug and a glance at Seungmin. “Coming?”

Inside, everything smelled the same — that faint scent of clean wood, cologne, and something only this place had. You paused at the foot of the stairs, but before you could say anything, Seungmin touched your arm gently.

“Come to my room?” he asked, voice low, hopeful.

You met his eyes and nodded.

His room was bigger than you remembered. Or maybe it just felt bigger because it wasn’t forbidden anymore. You walked in without hesitation, taking in the shadows, the warmth, the subtle signs that he had been living in silence, just like you.

You lay on the bed together — no rush, no pressure. Just stillness. His arm around you. Your head on his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

Then softly, barely audible, you whispered,“I love you.”

He froze and his breath caught like it hurt.

He looked down at you, eyes glassy. “Say it again.”

So you did. “I love you, Seungmin.”

He shut his eyes, a tear slipping down. And for the first time since everything began, the monster they called him… simply broke. Not in violence. But in quiet, soul-deep relief.

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

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No Escape (Part 2)- Taglist:

@thecutiepieme @peskybirdysya @linospetsitter

[loveharlow]

need more protective jj pls!!

i don't think i have any more hc ideas for him but here's something small :p

The bonfire crackled, spitting sparks into the night sky, a vibrant contrast to the pulsing music and the laughter that echoed across the sand. The air, thick with the scent of ocean water, cheap beer, and a hint of weed. You were nestled beside JJ, his arm slung loosely around your shoulders, the warmth of his skin a comforting anchor amidst the chaos.

"Want another one?" he shouted over the din, gesturing vaguely towards the cooler.

You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. "No, I'm okay. This one's still half full." You held up your plastic cup, the condensation cool against your fingers.

JJ's eyes, usually alight with mischief, held a softer, more possessive glint tonight. He nodded, then, without a word, gently plucked the cup from your hand. "I'll hold it for ya," he mumbled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he tucked the cup into the crook of his arm, already holding his own. He knew you had a tendency to put it down anywhere. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible in the dim light, but it made your chest fill with a certain warmth. He always did little things like that – catering to your needs, taking care of you without you ever having to ask, really.

A group of Kooks stumbled past, one of them bumping clumsily into your back. You flinched, muttering a small 'ouch' under your breath, but before you could even register it, JJ had shifted, eyebrows set into a firm frown. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, almost flush against his side. He shot a glare over his shoulder at the retreating figures, a silent warning in his narrowed, blue eyes. The Kooks, perhaps sensing the latent danger radiating from him, didn't even glance back.

"Dick..." He scoffed. "You alright?" he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

"Yeah, fine," you whispered, leaning into his embrace. You loved how he always had your back, how his protectiveness felt less like control and more like an unbreakable shield.

Later, as the party swelled and the music grew louder, you decided to brave the makeshift dance floor. JJ, of course, was right there with you, his movements loose and uninhibited. You laughed, trying to mimic his carefree sway, when a guy, someone you barely knew, tried to cut in.

"Hey," he slurred, a little too close, a little too familiar. JJ immediately clocked it, his shoulders tensing. "Wanna dance?"

Before you could even formulate a polite refusal, JJ stepped in front of you, his body a solid barrier. He didn't say anything, didn't even raise his voice. He just looked at the guy, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze that started at the kid's shoes and ended with a piercing stare into his eyes. It was a look that spoke volumes.

The guy's confidence visibly deflated. He mumbled an apology, something about "just asking," and quickly retreated into the crowd.

JJ turned back to you, a slight smirk on his lips. "The fuck's up with everybody tonight? 's like douchebag central..." he said, then pulled you closer, his hand finding the small of your back and holding you firmly against him as he resumed dancing. Every so often, he'd lean down and whisper something silly in your ear, or press a soft kiss to your temple, making sure anyone watching knew exactly where his attention, and yours, was.

JJ Maybank Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[p1astr81]

hi! can I request something similar to the last one you did about oscar and reader having intimacy issues but instead if you can do that she’s asexual but she’s keeping it from him bc she’s worried he’ll break up with her if he knows so she is just trying to hide it until he gets upset? tbh it’s my fear about dating so 😭 you can make it very angsty but a happy ending pleaseeeee!

I did some research before writing this, and discovered there’s different preferences. I wasn’t sure how to go about this so reader’s preferences are as follows: still likes to cuddle and kiss and stuff like that. Is fine with sex as long as there’s a warning in advance, but still doesn’t feel the desire.

(If there’s anything you’d like me to change, don’t hesitate to lmk!)

warnings: talk of sex, brief dry humping

Oscar was your first real relationship.

He was sweet, funny, kind, but had the sexual desires that you didn’t. It wasn’t a problem until well into your relationship.

“Hey baby,” he’d joined you on the living room sofa, his hand rubbing the soft flesh of your thigh. From the tone of his voice, you knew what he wanted.

It wasn’t the first time he’s tried to initiate something, and you’re certain it wouldn’t be the last. The script was always the same.

“I’m not really in the mood right now.” You confessed in a small voice, avoiding his eyes.

He withdrew his hand, setting it in his own lap. “Yeah. No, yeah. I’m sorry.” He lingered a moment longer before standing.

“Oscar?” You called, head propped on the back of the couch. He paused halfway down the hallway and looked back at you. “I love you.” You reassured.

He smiled, but it was small. “I love you, too.”

He was asleep.

You’d just woken up. You hadn’t understood why until you felt it.

In his sleep, his hips rolled into your thigh, clearly searching for a release from his dream.

Every fiber of your body was on fire, burning with discomfort. “Oscar,” you struggled to find your voice as you tried to push him away. He was like a boulder, refusing to budge. Tears pricked your eyes. You tried to roll away but his strong arms around your waist held you in place. “Oscar, please wake up.” You choked, managing to get a hand between you to push him by his chest. You were sobbing by this point.

You hadn’t meant to, but you hit him in the chest. A very hard blow. It knocked the air out of him, waking him up instantly.

He sat up to catch his breath, releasing you from his hold in the same move. You jumped up, scrambling to stand across the room. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry i didn’t mean to hit you.”

“What- baby what time is it?” He asked, trying to move closer to you. You stopped him with an open palm. “What happened?” He looked scared and concerned, searching your face for an answer.

You couldn’t answer, you just kept apologizing. Your back hit the wall and you slid down it, curing in on yourself as you hit the floor.

He came closer despite your held out hand. “Please talk to me.” He begged.

You couldn’t catch your breath. Your chest felt tight, your head and your body too heavy. The world around you blurred both visually and audibly.

A panic attack. He recognized it before you did. “Okay, uhm,” he tried to figure out how to calm you down without touching you. “You’ll be alright. This’ll pass.” He reassured. “Just focus on your breathing. Breathe with me, okay?”

With hand motions he took deep breaths. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.” The first couple times, you hadn’t followed. He continued anyway, and eventually saw your attempts. “Good, yeah really good.”

When you were finally settled and the episode passed, he backed up. “I’m going to sleep in the guest bed. Stay here and get some sleep, okay?” He took himself to the door, refusing to step out until you were secure in the bed. He watched your languid movements. It was like your body weighed a thousand pounds. “I love you.” He told you before leaving.

The following morning was tense. Few words were exchanged during breakfast, and those that were remained short.

He approached you about it after breakfast, careful to keep his distance.

“What happened last night?” He asked softly. “I’m not upset I just want to know that you’re okay.” He added quickly.

You swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably. “Promise me… promise me you won’t break up with me.”

“Why would I- of course I won’t. I promise.”

You fiddled with your hands, trying to find your words as the silence thickened by the second. “I’m asexual. Which means I don’t have any sexual attraction.”

Oscar tilted his head slowly, his brows furrowing.

“It’s not that I’m not attracted to you it’s just… I don’t have the same sexual desires that you do.” You winced at the words coming from your own mouth.

He said nothing, trying to understand why you hadn’t told him sooner. Feeling guilty for making moves on you.

“And I don’t want to deprave you or anything. I can still have sex just… I’d need a warning in advance so I can prepare myself.” You chewed on your finger, afraid of his inevitable response.

Keeping his distance, he leaned against the nearest wall. “I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“I promise, as long as I’m warned I’m fine with it. I’ve had sex before.” You bit your lip. “I just probably won’t be as into it as you’d expect.”

“So is it just sex? Or does it include kissing and cuddling and everything else?”

“No, no. I still like those. It’s mainly just the sex part.”

He nodded and pushed off the wall. He lingered a moment longer and joined you on the couch. A beat passed of him staring at you before he wrapped his arms around you. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” His words were muffled into your shirt.

“I didn’t want you break up with me because I couldn’t give you what you wanted.”

He pulled back and held your face in his hands. “You’re what I want. That’s it.”

[dyk3ang3l]

participating in this pride month prompt i had lots of fun writing this idea out thank youu!!

working together at an ice cream shop, broken fan, hates summer x loves summer

You and Ellie work at a dingy ice cream shop on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, and when the only fan breaks down in the store; Ellie gets a bit whiny because she hates the summer time. Let’s just say you guys find a way to cool down…

wc: like 950 idk

ellie x fem reader

cw: MDNI! reader is pink text and ellie is blue text. mainly fluff/crack and ellie being dramatic. sub!ellie, teasing, implied cooter eating (all e!receiving) reader doesn’t have any descriptive features!!

Love is Everywhere by Magdalena Bay was playing while i was writing this and i’d say it fits the vibes a LOT so definitely listen to it while reading!!

Ellie had a gigantic fan blowing directly on her face and was practically chugging down her 2nd blue slushy of the day, she looked like she was on the verge of collapsing. You guys had only started 2 hours ago.

You on the other hand were watching in amusement, this girl was so dramatic! Sure it was a little hot, but Ellie was acting like it was 200 degrees. You loved her though.

“Thanks for stopping by, have a good day!”

You waved goodbye to the only customer you’ve gotten today, when he leaves you slump forward on the counter and rest your chin on the palm your hand. You were bored out of your mind. As if to enhance your boredom, you see a piece of tumbleweed comically rolling on the road outside.

You don’t know how you were going to last 6 more hours of your shift, especially with Ellie whining like this. It wasn’t even that hot!

“Babeeee help meeeee please. I think I’m dying, I can’t take this. I’m serious, check my heartbeat I think it’s slowing down.”

“Oh my god babe you’re right, I think you’re dying. Gone forever, how will I keep going!!”

You put your hand over her chest and fake a shocked gasp, Ellie just rolls her eyes and flips you off yet she can’t help but crack a smile at you.

Ellie was about to keep rambling on and complaining about hot it was, but she’s abruptly cut off by the fan making a loud rattling noise and then slows down until it completely stops.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!!” Ellie desperately bangs at the fan and even tries unplugging it, then plugging it back in, but it’s useless.

Nothing is working. Hopeless. Done for. She was going to die at her minimum wage job.

“Can we like… Doordash a fan here or something?? PLEASE I can’t last another 6 hours in this heat.”

A thought popped up into your mind and you look at her with a soft smirk. You walk away from the register and go to the door to flip the sign from open to closed.

“How about we spend some time in the freezer?”

-

“I feel like we’re in that one episode of Austin and Ally when they are stuck in the ice cream freezer. Oh no, please keep checking the freezer door, I don’t want to get stuck in here.”

Ellie says as she begins eating strawberry ice cream out of one of the tubs in the freezer, she finally felt herself returning back to normal as the cool air from the freezer was blowing on her sweat-slick body and the ice cream was cooling down her insides.

You on the other hand were watching her with low eyes not listening to a SINGLE word your girlfriend was saying, the way the sweat was dripping down her body and how her biceps flexed with every subtle movement. Why was Ellie always so sexy without even trying? You needed this loser. Now.

You slowly walk over to her until your behind her, your clothed sex pressed up against her ass and your chest pressed against her back. You hear Ellie’s breath hitch as you cup her face and turn her head to the side, your thumb glides across her bottom lip to wipe the strawberry ice cream that’s there and you bring your thumb into your mouth to suck it off.

You hear Ellie make a soft needy sound that you almost missed and her cheeks flush a pretty pink, you love making her flustered like this. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Mmm, I still think you taste better.”

You wrap your arms around her waist from behind her, leaning forward you begin trailing kisses up the side of her neck and she eagerly tilts her head to the side with a soft whimper to give you better access. Ellie fully drops the spoon onto the ground with a swift movement of her hands going to cover yours on her stomach, she was fucking soaked already.

Ellie couldn’t even tell she was in the freezer anymore, the way you were touching and kissing her had her body burning up like the heat that was pounding onto her earlier.

“Babe… Fuck. You’re really doing this right now?” Ellie said with an already higher pitch and needy tone, she was making absolutely no moves to stop you though. She let out a sharp gasp when you sucked that one sensitive part of her neck into your mouth and nipped gently, Ellie’s body went wobbly and her hands surged forward to hold onto the rack in front of her so her legs wouldn’t give out.

“Mhm, I am. You don’t want me to stop though, do you?” You asked redundantly because you knew 100% she was going to shake her head no, and you smirked against her neck when she eagerly did exactly what you thought. Ellie rolled her eyes when she felt you smirk against her neck and she was about to make some bratty comment but she was quickly silenced with a soft yelp when you nipped at her neck harder and said “Use your words.”

“Fuck! No, I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your one hand slides up her body, gripping her small breast in the palm of your hand and gently squeezing; at the same your other hand wanders south and you cup her pussy over her jeans and you can feel the heat radiating off of her. Her entire body jerks at these simultaneous actions and lets out a shocked gasp that turned into a drawn-out moan that went straight to your clit.

If you looked there was probably steam radiating off of her clothed sex. (There was, and Ellie had to hold back a laugh and fucking hoped you wouldn’t notice.)

“Aa-mmph, fuck baby. You feel so fucking ah-good, please touch me more.”

You nip at her earlobe before you grip her hips to flip her around, your hands cup her cheeks and you surge forward to press your lips against hers in a hungry passionate kiss that Ellie lets a strangled moan into as she kisses you back eagerly. You can taste the slushies and strawberry ice cream on her when you glide your tongue against hers and then suck her tongue into your mouth; you groan when you can taste the unique and addicting taste of Ellie underneath all of it.

You back her up against the wall and Ellie lets out a sharp gasp at the feeling of the cold wall but she quickly forgets anything and everything except you when you begin unbuckling her belt and unbuttoning her jeans.

“I’m not really in the mood for ice cream, I’d rather taste you instead.”

-

30 minutes later you guys were back at the register and Ellie’s face was flushed completely red that had nothing to deal with the heat, her legs were shaking and she had to catch herself from her legs almost giving out as she sat down on one of the chairs. You just watched with a cocky smile as you licked your lips, you could still taste her.

“So what now? The fan is still broken, and I’m still hot! Even more now.”

You shrug your shoulders and pull out your phone to text your manager what you guys should do and ask if there was another fan somewhere. You scoff when he texts back and you roll your eyes as you read out what he said.

“What the hell bruh, he said ‘That sucks, damn. Good luck though.’”

“You’re kidding, ughhhh. Well you better start writing my eulogy because I’m going to die in here.”

You just roll your eyes and chuckle softly, you rest your head on her shoulder and pat her thigh softly; turning your head to press a soft kiss to her pretty freckled cheek.

“We can take as many freezer breaks as you need, pretty girl.”

—

okay first drabble i’ve posted in awhile (emergency intercom head cannons real ones remember) please be kind to me thank you. this wasn’t supposed to be serious and i did not try THAT hard i just had an idea that i wanted to write out asap before someone else possibly did the same thing LOL!! :3

[blushinglillies]

+:｡.｡　bucky barnes　｡.｡:+

pt. 2 of blurb

cw: stalking, alcohol usage, unprotected penetration. 18+ minors do not interact

now bucky was at some cheap bar. the lengths he'd go for you, just to see you. the music was loud and the lights were dim save for some colored strobes littered along the ceiling. alcohol and sweat and sex mixed together in a scent that bucky hated.

then he caught a glimpse of why he was even there in the first place. you, in a dress that left little imagination for your curves, soft and pliable, giggling with your friend as you two waited at the bar for a drink. so unaware. so vulnerable.

he had to bite back a scoff as he watched your friend disappear with some guy. leaving you alone, for any strange man to eye you, take you-

so he slipped in beside you, ordering a simple old fashioned. he could smell your perfume, something sweet and almost herbal, and he had to bite back a small growl. it took every ounce of strength he had to not grab you, to take you and-

"uhm.. hello? you alright?" his head snapped to your direction, your feathery voice breaking him from his less-than-appropriate thoughts. he nodded, and the nervous smile that graced your pretty lips was enough to distract him from your question- "have i seen you before?"

he was right. you were too naïve for your own good. a few drinks in and a simple grab at the fat of your hip led to you being sat on the bathroom counter, bucky between your thighs, growling against your neck as his hands grabbed at anything. he needed you. and you were too drunk to even protest- like you wanted to protest.

because to you, he was just another cute guy at the bar, sure, he was aloof and a bit disgruntled, but he had a kind laugh and knew how to charm someone with his words, and the way he looked at you left a damp spot in your panties before he laid a finger on you.

and as he left bruises and bitemarks along your neck and collarbone, you could barely hear his sweet murmurs over your own noises, moans and gasps falling from your lips like a prayer. his fingers were already knuckle-deep inside of you, pumping at a relentless pace. they were too cold to be human, you could barely think when he curled them inside you, hitting that soft spongy part of your core.

you didn't quite understand how someone could be so skilled with their fingers- you weren't even sure if human hands were capable of him touching you the way he was. you were like a piano, the pads of his fingers hitting the soft inner flesh, his thumb circling your clit- like a musician. inhuman and unrelenting.

your soft sighs and gasps as his fingers pressed and curled went straight to the burning heat in his core, the one arm he wasn't using snaked around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer- he needed you, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could take it.

"you taste so sweet," "please, I wanna feel you, wanna be inside you,"

"fuck, I don't even know your-" "james. you can call me james." "james, please, i'm gonna-"

you could feel his restrained cock twitch against your thigh, your mind too cloudy to process what was happening. all you could feel was wave after wave of a burning desire inside of you, the way his teeth grazed against your neck in a mockery of tenderness.

"i have to have you now- i can't let anyone else take you away from me-"

he pulled his fingers out of you, eliciting a whine from you as he licked his fingers clean in one swift movement. as you clasped your hands together around his neck, bucky- james- hurriedly bunched the hem of your tight dress around your waist, his breath catching at the sight of your soaked underwear- black this time- and the glisten of your inner thighs, a sheer milky white, ichor glowing on your soft flesh.

that was enough. you didn't even know someone could move so quickly. all you could feel was the stretch, the sheer size invading your inner walls. painfully pleasant. your head fell back, your moan a heavenly chorus to him, and he was about to show you who god was.

you couldn't think, much less understand what was happening. you really were a lightweight, weren't you? and he couldn't have anyone else taking advantage of you. you were too sweet. too kind. too dumb for your own good.

his hips rocked at a relentless pace, your soft thighs caging his toned abdomen as his hands moved to the underside of your thighs, holding your legs up. the shift in your position allowed for him to go deeper, hitting your cervix in a way that made your whole body tense, stars blooming in your vision. he liked that, liked how you went limp in his arms for a split second.

you were so weak. like a pretty doll, your perfect face flushed, chest heaving and slick with sweat. tears were threatening to spill from your eyes, and he found himself wanting to see how far he could break you. "atta girl, taking me so well." "sound so pretty whimpering my name." "that's it, just a little- fuck- more, princess.."

you could feel that tight coil in your stomach build up tighter and tighter, his hips were stuttering slightly despite his movements never faltering as he felt his cock twitch inside of you. he was a rugged man, but you swore you heard a small whine escape his lips.

he stopped, burying himself inside you, holding your waist hard enough to leave bruises, his face moving to bury itself into the warm crook of your neck, his hips stuttering slowly as he rode out his high. you were so tight, so warm, it felt like you were shaped to fit him and only him. filling you to the brim, his cock pulsed with every ounce of milky fluid that pulsed through him.

it was too much. you could feel warmth trickling down your thighs and your inner folds, and as he slowly pulled his softening cock out of you, bucky james moved his hand, which you now could understand was metal, along your folds, fucking his leaking cum back into you.

and now no one would be able to take you away from him. now you were his.

he helped you fix your clothing, gently kissing the skin of your neck, before placing something in your hands.

and he left before you could look down and see it was that missing pair of pink lace panties, cold and soaked with both you and him.

[angelicblondie]

bsf!reader x steve harringon

synopsis: in the midst of everything going on with vecna, you and the others take shelter in steves house. you find him in the middle of the night, and you both seek comfort in each other.

content: angst, pining, comfort, best friends in love

your not sure what woke you, but you woke with a start.

thats how you woke most days, recently. a shadow in the corner of the room, a chill on the back of your spine, a dream with a faceless figure but a voice ever so chilling - all things you had depressingly become more accustomed to.

your eyes flutter open as you look at the familiar pattern of steves bedroom wall across from you, the moon and stars pouring in from the windows being the only source of light.

you and steve had been best friends since middle school. you had moved to hawkins in 6th grade, and he pretty much instantly became your partner in crime. you remembered how scared you were, it was the first day at a new school in a new town, where you didn't know anyone. but steve offered to show you around, and although you were shy and he had to carry most of the conversation, you remember thinking that he was going to be you favorite person in the world.

from then on the two of you were attached at the hip. steve introduced you to his other friends, and although you got along really well with all of them, it was safe to say he continued to be the one you were closest with. he was initially teased for his close relationship to you, given it wasn't exactly normalized for boys and girls to be friends back then. eventually though, people began to realize that there wasnt yet anything romantic there, though the teases never fully died down - some people just never really fell for it.

you let out a deep sigh as your hand reaches out to the side only to feel the cold of the sheets next to you. your head turns, looking at the empty other side of the bed as your brows twitch in confusion. you push yourself up on bed, the sheets pooling at your waist as you slide your feet to the ground.

you walk downstairs as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake the others. you knew how precious the little amount of sleep you all got these days, so you tried your best not to disturb it. you cautiously padded down the stairs, the soft tune of a piano becoming more and more prominent the closer you got downstairs. your confusion and curiousness led you closer to the soft and simple melody.

you round a corner and see steve sitting at a wood piano. you had once asked him about it, and he said that it was his grandmas, and it was a gift for his mom. you had never seen it been used, though - steves parents were hardly around, and even if they were, they were pretty busy people - they probably didn't have time to ever put it to use.

his fingers pressed softly against the keys, his brows pinched in concentration. you stood at the entrance for a moment, simply watching him. watching as he every now and then he fumbled with the notes, watching as his eyes raked across the keys as his fingers moved over them.

steve had felt your presence, yet he continued to play, his eyes flicking over to you once. once you realize he's noticed you, you start to walk over to the piano, sitting down next to him on the stool.

your head falls to his shoulder without you even realizing it, and you let out a long sign. "since when do you play?" you ask, your voice soft and barely above a whisper.

he shrugged. "mom made me take lessons in like, 4th grade. hated it, but clearly i picked up a little", he confesses, his voice low.

you hum, nudging your cheek against his shoulder. "i sometimes forget i haven't known you forever," you mumble, and his fingers slow their movements. he hummed back. "yeah, i know what you mean."

you sit in silence for a while, eyes transfixed by steves hands across the keys. words forever unsaid floated between you - thoughts not dared to be thought of pushing their way through the vulnerability of the moment. you felt weak enough to let them peak out, but you were too suborn to let them out fully.

"what're you doing up?" he finally asks, his head tilting to the side a little to try and get a view of you face.

you shrug. "what are you doing up?" you fire back knowingly.

steves lips tilt up a bit. "touché," he mumbles, his knee knocking yours. the action causes you to smile as well, relishing in the rare moment of peace.

you hum. the two of you go silent again for a moment before you speak up. "sometimes," you trail off, trying to find the right words. "sometimes i'm worried nothing is every going to feel normal again," you say the words in a whisper, almost as if your worried saying them out loud makes them more real.

steve processes your words for a moment. "honestly? things will probably never feel the way they used to," he says quietly.

steve notices your silence and adds on. "i just mean..." he sighs. "i mean, look at everything we've all been through. as much as i hate to say it, that shit sticks with you."

you furrow your brows, sitting up straight to look at him. "so what, i'm just going to feel this way forever?"

"f'course not, angel," steve says, his own brows narrowing. "your not going to feel this way forever. things will get better. they just..." he pauses. "probably wont ever feel the same."

you pout a bit, your head falling on his shoulder again. "how do you know?"

steve hums. "know what?" he asks.

"that things will get better," you clarify, voice muffled by his shoulder.

steve smirks a bit, a familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. "what, you think im going to let you go through this alone?" he scoffs. "please, honey, you couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

you let out a soft laugh. "believe me, i know," you tease.

steve scoffs, playfully pushing you away, heart racing when he hears the familiar yet these days, rare sound of your laughter. "m'kidding, dork," your murmur, knees pulling up as you hug them to your chest. you rest you cheek on them as you gaze at him from your position there, a lazy smile adorning your face. steve mimics you, his hand reaching out to tame your hair.

you hum. "what would i do without you?"

he shrugs. "probably would've been eaten by the demagorgon or some shit by now, i dunno," he teases.

your smile grows. "m'serious, stevie," you roll your eyes. "can't imagine all of this craziness without you."

steves smile turns more soft and genuine. "yeah," he almost whispers. "yeah i couldn't either."

you sit in silence for a moment, just looking at each other in quiet appreciation. the dimly lighted room illuminated just enough to see the other persons expression, and in each other you saw nothing short of admiration and adoration.

moments like these you knew a life with steve would be easy. moments like these you allow yourself to think it - even for just a moment, even though you know you'll banish the thought as soon as the moment is over. moments like these you can picture it. lazy mornings in bed, reading to each other in the backyard, talking about nothing and everything at the same time - it feels so real you can see it. you can taste it.

and you can see is run through steves mind as well. you can see the thoughts as they pass across his eyes, as they glaze over for him to daydream about it. about the life that could so easily be yours.

except its never really that simple, is it?

steves voice breaks the both of you out of your daydreams. "we should try to get some sleep, hey?" he says, his voice holding a hint of hesitance. "big day tomorrow, with all this vecna shit."

you nod into your knees but don't budge. "mhm."

steve sighs and stands up, reaching his hand down to you. "cmon," he urges. you can never really say no to him, so you reach up and take hold of his hand.

he pulls you up and drags you upstairs in silence. you leave all of it downstairs. you always do.

but when steve sits down on the bed, pulling his shirt over his head and pulling you down next to him, the thought unsurprisingly peaks through.

you face away from him, from it, and turn back to face the windows. steve wraps his arms around you, and for a moment, your mind thankfully goes quiet.

no more thoughts of vecna, no more thoughts of the terrifying future. just the warmth of steves breath and the security of his arms.

a/n eeeeek first steve fic 🫣

[jesuistrestriste]

dom!art still taking the strap like a p★rnstar.

cw (18+) : teasing dom!art, eager-to-please sub!reader, brief fingering, choking, pegging, spitting in mouth, handjob, general filth

art pushes his face into the mattress as your soft, willing tongue laps slickly over his hole from behind, his left hand reaching back to grab your shoulder and squeeze it with everything he’s got. he rocks his hips against your mouth and keens when he feels you whimper into his flesh.

“f-fuuuck,” he shudders, “you’re so greedy for me, aren’t you? do i taste good?”

all you can do is nod, too immersed in his taste and his smell and his dirty language. he laughs lowly in response and then hisses like he’s in pain—even if he’s feeling quite the opposite—when you begin to ease two fingers into his tight entrance without permission. you usually have to ask in order to touch any part of him, as he likes the sense of control and you like knowing that your movements are dependent on his say-so, but it just feels like the right moment to open him up. (he’d been prepped perfectly already with just your licking, his cock hard and hanging heavily between his thighs.) he bites at the sheets, the feeling of you beginning to curl the pads of your phalanges down into his prostate punching a broken whine from his lungs. warm spit clings to his bottom lip and chin as he releases the fabric from his teeth to sit up a bit and look over his shoulder. he looks annoyed.

aroused beyond belief, but annoyed.

“that’s enough—no more, or i wont last long enough to take you. come lie down,” he pats the pillows near the top of the bed, “and tighten the harness, it’s slipping.”

you scramble to your feet, easing your touch from his core, and wipe your face with the back of your other hand before you pull at the polyester straps of the strap-on enough to keep it secure. art sprawls himself out on the bedding for just a moment; he lets you stare at his toned, flushed, willing body while you move to lay your frame down. he crawls on top and straddles you afterwards. maneuvers to smush his shaft against the faux rubbery one underneath him. he moans when he frots with it—grinding his leaking tip against yours with even, teasing thrusts. he does it until he starts to shake, his limbs locking up with an impending climax, only to pull back and begin to sit over the dildo without needing your despairing whine as a prompt. your brow pinches reflexively as you watch him devour the inches, one after the other.. he’s a pro by now, but it never ceases to amaze you. he bucks against the fullness. you wonder if it’ll bulge his tummy this time like his dick bulges yours when he’s inside. the way he starts to bounce on it interrupts your flow of thought. he’s slow at first, then ravenous with it. you’re sure that every motion is hitting that special spot in his walls.

“you look like a mess.. and i’m the one getting fucked,” he snickers between whorish groans and whimpers, his hands finding your throat and gently squeezing the sides under his palms, “you like when i ride you? yeah? just like this? fuck, shit—open your mouth—“

you do as you’re told.

is there any other way to respond to him when he gets like this?

you do what he wants you to do, or you don’t get the satisfaction of pounding him until he’s gone mushy in the head. it’s a transactional process that you’re more than willing to work through.

as soon as your jaw is slacked, your eyes fluttering, he leans in and purses his pout. a glob of his saliva is slowly spat over your tongue like sugary honey. you can hardly take it. your hands fist the sheets and you writhe beneath his weight at the viscous fluid dulling your senses. the flavor is so him, slightly minty from the gum he always chews. he taps the underside of your chin when he’s finished letting it drip. he licks his bottom lip to be rid of the remnants.

“swallow.”

and you do—you want nothing more. he sits upright again and splits himself open harder on the toy bound to your pelvis. each time he slides down it, you get to watch as his abdomen curls and his blonde locks are strewn about his forehead. he tightens his hold on your neck just enough to remind you who’s really in charge, and his length jumps in response to the resulting look that crosses your face. you mewl when it dribbles glassy precome like a river; it glosses over the throbbing vein running down the underside of it. a sound that’s a mix between a shout and a sob then escapes his chest.

“god, i’m close,” his hips stutter in their efforts, his blue eyes shielded by low lids, “c’mere—“

he takes one of his hands from your body and reaches it down to take one of yours that’s still grasping at the sheets. he guides your limp fist to wrap around the base of his cock, keening as he starts to hump it.

“touch me—jerk me off.. fuck.. that’s it—that’s good—don’t stop.. beg me to come for you..”

the heat in your gut swells and contracts in time with his noises and his movements, your hand pumping him quickly to aid his consumption of the pleasure he’s being abundantly given. your thumb swipes over his tip, you can tell it aches. he jolts forward at his sensitivity, dazedly moving both of his hands to your chest for leverage, and you dig your heels into the mattress to help you rut up forcefully into his ass. he almost screams.

you beg. you slur out a multitude of pathetic, indulgent sentences that spur on the wave of ecstasy about to crash into his figure. ‘please, come on my strap’ and ‘i’m begging you to let it all go for me, let me watch you lose it’.

it does the trick. in fact, it does it perfectly. everything snaps.

he topples forward with a sudden wail; brows furrowing and thighs quaking and back arching in an unbelievably filthy manner. his legs begin to close as the pleasure floods in and squirts from his erection in several bursts—the ropes coat your fingers and dribble over his stomach like fresh milk. still riding the toy, he digs his calloused touch into the sides of your torso, his fingers moving there in the midst of his orgasm. he hangs his head as he pants.

“fuck, i’m coming,” he gasps, growling afterward as if the sensations are causing his hair to stand on end, “keep stroking me, i’m still—yeah—god, you’re my favorite way to get off..”

you can tell that he means it, that the intoxicating effect of his release isn’t making him drunk enough to be insincere. you pump him until he seizes up and starts to hiccup. when the overstimulation becomes too much, he drops himself on top of you in a boneless heap; a sweaty, spent, satisfied mess of a man. the strap-on is still buried in his heat, and his cock is softening rapidly, but he shows no sign of moving anytime soon.

he reaches up quietly and cups your cheek, brushing his nose against it. you can feel him swallow down a jumble of words before his final ones sound out lowly and tenderly.

the way you like them, and the way he knows you need them.

“good job.. you did so well for me, thank you. give me a few, and then i’ll let you have what you really want.”

there's no need to place any bets on his integrity; you know he’ll keep his promise.

he always does.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist

[goofygubegubler]

Hey I saw your fic "heavenly" and I indeed was wanting to ask for a steamer one where their ripping their clothes off 🫶😏

𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑺𝒐 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚 (𝑺.𝑹)

wc : 687 | F!Reader (Established Relationship – First Kiss) | cw: intense makeout, sexual tension, confined space, emotional vulnerability, nervous rambling, Spencer being quietly confident, teasing friends, party setting, soft dominance, mutual pining release

A/n : sorry i needed a break life was a mess, but I'm back, everybody!

Seven minutes. Just seven minutes.

You murmured the words like a lifeline, even as the door sealed shut behind you with a soft click. The closet swallowed you both, dim and stifling, steeped in the scent of aged wood and spilled beer. Spencer was inches away—close enough that the warmth of his body reached across the space between you, igniting every nerve.

Last week, he was just your best friend. The one who quoted obscure facts mid-sentence and wore mismatched socks like a badge of honor. The one whose gaze always lingered a second too long, and who knew the exact rhythm of your breath when you were lying.

But now he was your boyfriend.

And the air around you felt different—thicker, charged like the stillness before a storm.

You hadn’t planned to end up here. It was supposed to be a quick appearance, a happy birthday, maybe a slice of cake before sneaking out. But Spencer, in his ever-watchful way, had insisted on coming. Crowds were his kryptonite—loud, erratic, unpredictable. But still, he came. Because it was you.

Now here you were, hearts racing, lips still untouched, standing in a closet designed for adolescent fumbling and whispered dares.

"Okay, technically, we don’t have to do anything," you said, voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a nervous laugh. You folded your arms, trying to create some sense of distance, even if the walls themselves conspired against you. "I mean, people act like this game is a mandate, but it’s just peer pressure in a broom closet. We could just… talk. Right? We always talk."

Spencer tilted his head. The low light carved soft shadows along his cheekbones. "We do talk a lot."

"Exactly," you breathed, nodding, the words rushing now. "So this can just be more of that. Except with—uh—less oxygen."

He didn’t move. Just watched you, his smile soft, thoughtful.

And God, you wished he would move. Just an inch.

You cleared your throat. "It’s not like we’ve… you know…" The words got stuck in your throat. You dropped your gaze to his collarbone, unable to hold his eyes. "Kissed."

A pause stretched long between you.

Then, his voice—low, measured: "We’ve got approximately four minutes and twenty-six seconds left."

You looked up, pulse hammering. "So… what do you want to do with that time?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, Spencer closed the distance, a slow, deliberate movement that made your breath catch. His hand rose to your face, brushing your cheek with fingertips as soft as silk. The other found your waist, firm and grounding.

And then—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was heat and hunger laced with reverence. A week’s worth of withheld tension—and perhaps years of silent longing—unspooled in the space between his mouth and yours. You gasped, and he took that moment to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing yours with gentle precision.

The back of your head hit the wall. His body pressed into yours, and your fingers clawed at his shirt before sliding up into his curls. You tugged once—curious, breathless—and were rewarded with a deep, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest.

He tasted like spearmint and recklessness. Like something sweet that could ruin you.

You moaned into him, your legs threatening to give out. There was nothing gentle about the way his hips pinned yours to the wall, nothing innocent about the way his mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, teeth grazing, lips burning a path to places you didn’t know could ache.

"Spencer—" you gasped, not sure if it was a plea or a warning.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, resting on your hips. Not demanding. Not yet. But present. Intentional. Claiming.

"We shouldn’t…" you whispered, even as your fingers worked open the buttons of his shirt.

He nodded against your throat, but didn’t stop. "I know."

Still, he kissed you again—desperate now, mouth slanted against yours like he needed this to breathe. Like he’d waited his entire life for these seven minutes.

The closet felt smaller. Hotter. Your pulse a thunder in your ears.

Knock, knock.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” a voice sang from the other side, punctuated by laughter and someone’s cackled moan.

You flinched, a half-laugh escaping you as your hands fell away from Spencer’s chest. "So… that happened."

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, lips swollen. "It did."

You didn’t open the door. Not yet. The real world could wait a little longer.

His voice, rough and low, curled around your spine like silk. "We should get out there before someone sends in a search party."

You nodded, lips brushing his again, feather-light. "Yeah. Just… give me a second."

When the door finally creaked open, the hallway lights hit you both like a floodlight on a crime scene. Spencer’s curls were mussed from your hands. Your shirt was skewed off one shoulder, his buttons done up all wrong. The air outside the closet was cooler, sobering—briefly.

But then came the hoots and hollers.

"Well damn! Took you long enough!" someone jeered, and another voice followed: "Hope you used protection—in the closet, man? Really?"

You ducked your head, laughing despite yourself. Heat crawled up your neck, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Spencer’s hand found yours—fingers lacing through with casual ease, like the world wasn’t still spinning from the kiss you’d shared.

"You okay?" he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear.

You nodded, eyes flicking up to his, still dazed. "Yeah. Just didn’t expect… all of that."

"Me neither," he whispered, voice laced with something raw and reverent.

The crowd of your twenty-something friends kept laughing, making exaggerated kissing noises and suggestive groans. Someone fake-swooned. Someone else held up a phone, pretending to record. You rolled your eyes and flipped them off with a smirk.

"They’re just jealous," you said, squeezing Spencer’s hand. "You made it hard for the next pair to follow that."

He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "I didn’t mean to… I mean… you started—"

You shot him a look, half warning, half amused. "You definitely finished."

That made him laugh—quiet, boyish, wrecked. And for a moment, the hallway, the party, the chaos—all of it—faded away.

Because when he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t just lust or adrenaline in his eyes. It was something slower. Something dangerous.

Something that could burn, if you let it.

[sunandflame]

NSFW Alphabet - Rob Lucci

Warnings: nsfw

Word Count: 1184

Pairing: Rob Lucci x Reader

crossposted on AO3

A = Aftercare Afterward, he’s not one for soft words or coddling. His aftercare is more about maintaining his presence—his weight beside you, the feeling of his hand on your skin. He’ll run a finger over the marks he’s left, as if to remind you that you’re his. He might clean you up, but it's efficient, calculated. He checks you, makes sure you’re taken care of, but his focus never wavers. If you need something more, he'll provide it—silent, controlled, but always there.

B = Body Part (favourite) Your neck. It’s instinctual—primal. The scent, the softness, the sound of your pulse under his tongue... it awakens something in him that he doesn’t fully understand, nor tries to. He lingers there more than anywhere else: breathing you in, nipping, teasing, pressing his lips against the artery just to feel the thrum beneath. When he’s buried inside you, you can feel him lean in closer, licking or mouthing at the spot just to hear your breathing hitch. And when he feels vulnerable—rare, but real—he hides his face in the crook of your neck, like a beast curling into its den. It’s the place he claims first and most often. Not for show. For instinct.

C = Cum Possessive. He doesn’t care where—on your stomach, chest, or dripping out of you—but you’ll be marked. Inside is his preference. He likes seeing the proof of himself in you.

D = Dirty Talk Low, growling filth. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does? It's devastating. “Say my name,” “Look at me when I ruin you,” or even just a commanding “Now.”

E = Experience Very experienced. He’s had partners—usually casual, sometimes transactional—but few ever get past the physical. If you do, that’s a rare privilege.

F = Favorite Position He enjoys you beneath him in the mating press, your legs pinned, his weight pressing down on you, eyes locked as he claims you completely. He likes seeing the way your face twists with every movement, his hand either on your neck or your hip, controlling the pace. But just as often, he prefers you on all fours—from behind. The view of you like that drives him wild, where he can hold you in place, control every thrust, every gasp. It’s about the power he has over you, the unspoken claim that only deepens with every moment.

G = Goofy Not at all. Lucci is intense and focused. If you laugh, he’ll raise a brow and smirk faintly, but only to throw you off before flipping you over.

H = Hair Groomed. Chest hair is non-existent. Below the belt, he trims but doesn’t shave. He doesn’t care for vanity—function over form.

I = Intimacy Rare, but when it appears, it’s wordless. A hand to the small of your back, a steady gaze as he finishes inside you, the way he lets his guard down just enough to hold you after.

J = Jack-Off He does, but not often—he has a soldier’s discipline. If he’s thinking of you, though, it’s intense and quiet, a hand over his mouth, jaw clenched.

K = Kinks Control. Every part of him is rooted in dominance—he doesn’t just want to fuck you, he wants to own you. D/s dynamics are at his core, and he thrives when you're obedient because you want to be.

Breeding kink. It’s biological, raw. The idea of filling you, knotting you to him with something that lasts—leaves him breathless in ways he won’t say aloud. Seeing you fucked full and trembling? It satisfies something ancient.

Predator/prey play. He loves the chase—your startled gasp, the way you run, knowing you want to be caught. It brings out his inner beast, makes the eventual capture all the more intoxicating.

Obsessive protector vibes. Not a kink in the usual sense, but once you're his, he watches everything: who you talk to, what you wear, even the shift in your tone when someone else says your name. You may never catch him saying it outright, but the possessiveness coils around your spine like smoke. And if you play with that—test the limits, tease the line? That’s when the beast bares its teeth, and you’re in for it.

L = Location Prefers private places—hotel rooms, his quarters, somewhere he can fully own you. But if he gets impatient? Somewhere dark and semi-public, where he can muffle your sounds.

M = Motivation Control, lust, and tension. He gets turned on by seeing your obedience or how easily you fall apart under him. The more composed you usually are, the more he craves your ruin.

N = No He’s not into degrading humiliation (unless you ask for it), sharing, or anything too chaotic. Lucci needs control—not mess.

O = Oral (Receiving/Giving) Receiving: He’s silent, watching you like prey. No praise—just the weight of his hand on your head, the quiet threat of him holding you there. He finishes without warning. It’s not affection. It’s a claim.

Giving: He doesn’t do it to be kind. He does it because he’s starving. Buries himself between your thighs like a beast at a kill, obsessed with your taste, your scent, the way your body jerks. If you beg him to stop, he doesn’t—not until the trembling starts. And if his Zoan tongue comes into play? You won’t be speaking when he’s done. It’s not just about making you come. It’s about satisfying the beast—and that takes time.

P = Pace Calculated. He starts slow to torment you, but when he breaks, it’s punishing—deep, hard thrusts that make you forget everything but him.

Q = Quickies Yes, especially when he’s on a mission. He’ll pull you aside, lift you like you weigh nothing, and take what he needs. Fast, filthy, and dominant.

R = Risk Measured risk turns him on. Semi-public, silent-in-a-meeting-room type encounters, or letting you tease him in a dangerous setting… he gets off on restraint.

S = Stamina Inhuman. He can go for multiple rounds, barely winded. His Zoan abilities give him a beast’s endurance—and appetite.

T = Toys He prefers using his hands and body, but if he does use toys, they’re precision tools—like remote-controlled vibrators or restraints. You will be his experiment.

U = Unfair Cruelly. Teases you to tears and won’t let you come until he decides. He enjoys making you beg, especially if you’re normally independent or mouthy.

V = Volume Quiet. He growls, grunts, whispers sharp orders. The occasional deep moan if you do something unexpected that shatters his control.

W = Wild Card In Zoan form, his instincts intensify. He tries to stay restrained, but if he lets go? Expect dominance, biting, and total physical overwhelm. It's not often—but unforgettable.

X = X-Ray Thick, veined, and long—more than average. He knows how to use it. And he will use it to stretch you just to see your reaction.

Y = Yearning Silently intense. He won’t voice it, but if he wants you, you’ll feel it in every lingering stare, every gloved touch, every unreadable silence in a locked room.

Z = Zzz (Sleep) Sleeps light, usually facing the door. But if you’ve just spent the night together? He’ll allow you to sleep on his chest. Just don’t expect cuddles every time.

My babygurl @auryborealis reminded me (luckily!) that today is Rob Lucci's birthday! So Happy Birthday my evil hot pigeon boy!

[mononijikayu]

20 cm — ryomen sukuna.

“Are you sure you’re not tired?” you teased, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm as you passed him. His eyes followed your movement, slow and heated. “Not when you’re around, baby.”  “You’re too much.” You say, a hint of blush appearing on your cheeks. “But you like it that way, no?” He murmured, voice low, a little rough from practice or maybe something else.

Genre: Alternate Universe — College! AU;

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Comfort/No Hurt, Established Relationship, Lovers, Dating, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Swearing, Teasing, Volleyball, Volleyball Captain! Sukuna, Boyfriend! Sukuna, Girlfriend! Reader;

Words: 7k words.

Note: i thought about sukuna always taking the train because reader takes the train and he doesn't want her to go alone. but i realized that he also works, so he has to have something to use for transport. so i thought of motorcycle, since he could get a license easily. i hope you enjoy it!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

lovesick masterlist

kayu's playlist — side 3000;

if you want to, tip! <3

THIS WAS HOW IT ALWAYS WAS WHEN NATIONALS COME AROUND. Volleyball practice was always going to drag on and on far longer than usual. Primarily because everyone in the damn team can be too eager to be passionate beyond what their legs could take. And you were certain your boyfriend was the same. 

Yet this was what it was every year, with the looming pressure of Nationals making everyone restless and wired with adrenaline. You sighed as the echo of squeaking sneakers and thudding balls had finally died down as the team began to disperse, sweaty and exhausted, but still buzzing with nervous energy.

You leaned against the wall, catching your breath, when you noticed your boyfriend, Ryomen Sukuna, still on the court. His shirt clung to his back, his fuschia pink hair damp with sweat, but he looked like he could go another hour. Of course he did. That sharp, competitive fire in his scarlet eyes hadn't dimmed in the slightest.

“You’re not done?” you asked, even though you already knew the answer. “My love, you gotta finish sometime soon, you know that.”

He glanced at you, smirking as he twirled a volleyball between his fingers. “Not even close. You know that better, baby. Wanna stay?”

You rolled your eyes fondly at your boyfriend, then turned to the senpais who were finishing up with packing their things. “We’ll lock up, senpai.” you told them. “Go on ahead.”

They didn’t question it at all. But if anything, they never did when it came to you and Sukuna. That’s just what it was when it comes to the two of you. You were just tied to the hilt. If he decides something, you do it with him. And vice versa. No questions asked.

“Thanks!” one of them called, already halfway out the gym doors. “See you on Monday!”

The gym grew quiet, save for the low hum of the lights and the soft bounce of the ball in Sukuna’s hand. You reached for your phone and texted your parents, even though you knew they probably won’t reply until they finish with work: Practice ran late. Staying back to help clean up. I’ll be home late tonight. See you, if you’re at home.

When you looked up, Sukuna was watching you, expression unreadable. You tossed your phone back into your bag and stepped onto the court. You stood there as he finally went back in form and started to take another go at spikes. 

“Are you sure you’re not tired?” you teased, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm as you passed him.

His eyes followed your movement, slow and heated. “Not when you’re around, baby.” 

“You’re too much.” You say, a hint of blush appearing on your cheeks.

“But you like it that way, no?” He murmured, voice low, a little rough from practice or maybe something else. He twirled the ball in his hands, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “You watching me gives me more energy to do this, though.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, crossing your arms. “Yeah, but I’ll miss the train.”

“I got my motorcycle parked at the convenience store today.” Sukuna snickered, barely glancing at you as he tossed the ball up and spiked it with an effortless force that sent it slamming against the floor. “You’ll be fine if you miss the train.”

You raised a brow. “You brought it today?”

“Had a feeling this would happen.”

“But what did the teacher—”

“They didn’t see me, don’t worry.” He reassured you, shaking out his wrists before retrieving the ball again. “I put the helmets in the convenience store locker. It’s fine.”

You let out a small tch sound, shifting your weight onto one leg. “You’re doing too much.”

Sukuna scoffed, tossing the ball up lazily and catching it again. “You say that as if you didn’t put concealer on my face earlier to cover my face tattoos.”

You froze for half a second before glaring at him, cheeks heating. “That was different.”

“Was it?” He grinned, dropping the ball and sauntering toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “’Cause if you ask me, you’re just as bad as me.”

“I was helping you,” you shot back, pointing a finger at his chest as he loomed over you.

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Mm. And I’m helping you now, aren’t I? Making sure you don’t get stranded.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “My love, that’s not the same—”

“It kinda is, baby.” he murmured, cutting you off as he leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint mix of sweat and his cologne. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You take care of me. I take care of you.”

Your breath hitched. His presence was overwhelming to you, it always had been. But in moments like this, when he decided to turn that sharp focus onto you completely, it made your head spin to no end.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “You’re so annoying.”

Sukuna only chuckled, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His scarlet eyes, dark and filled with something unreadable, flickered over your face. “You love it.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, he flicked your forehead lightly with his fingers, his smirk widening at your startled expression. “C’mon. Let me finish this last round, then we’ll go.”

You scowled, swatting his arm. “You’re lucky I didn't report you for that damn bike.”

He laughed, already walking back to his side of the court, tossing the ball up once more. “And you’re lucky I’m giving you a ride home, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Because the truth was, as reckless as he was, Sukuna always made sure you were safe. And if you were being honest, you didn’t really mind riding behind him on that stupid motorcycle, arms wrapped around his waist, the wind rushing past as he took you home.

Not that you’d tell him that. 

His ego was big enough already.

You’d like him to be as humble as possible.

The gym felt suddenly too quiet, too dim, too intimate now that you were cleaning up some stuff. You weren’t sure if you were here to help him practice or to give him a reason to stop. You weren’t sure if you were here to help him practice or to give him a reason to stop.

As you moved closer, reaching down to pick up a stray ball, you realized something that made you pause. Standing next to him all the sudden, your boyfriend seemed… taller. Not just because of his usual confident posture. No, it was real. He had actually grown.

You straightened up, craning your neck a little more than you remembered needing to before. “Wait a second, my love…..” you said, stepping back for a better look. You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to be stern. “Did you grow?”

Sukuna smirked, tossing the ball casually from one hand to the other. “Not my fault you’re short, my pretty baby.”

Your heart thudded stupidly at the pet name. You couldn’t help but glare as you stare at the soft and casual on his lips. But laced with something deeper, something only you ever got to hear. You stayed like that for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, time suspended in the dim, echoing stillness of the gym.

You were supposed to be heading home. He was supposed to be practicing. Yet you could not help but stare. The silence between you stretched. It was warm, electric. Never awkward. Not even close. It felt like a lull in a song you didn’t want to end.

Sukuna’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, like he was memorizing it. You looked up, and for once, there was no teasing in his scarlet eyes. Just that quiet, rare stillness he only ever showed when it was just the two of you.

“I should lock up, my love.” you murmured, not moving. “So should you…..And change shirts. I don’t want you catching a cold.”

The air between you was thick, heavy with all the words left unsaid. The pull of something bigger, something inevitable, thrumming like a second heartbeat. Sukuna’s fingers twitched against yours, as if fighting the urge to reel you back in, to close the distance he had so carefully given you.

But then he took a step back. Just enough to let you breathe again. Just enough to be good, for now. Maybe if he stayed closer, if he kept looking at you like that. With that rare, molten tenderness that melted all the rough edges off of him. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. And you both knew if you stayed tangled up like that, you’d never leave the gym tonight.

He raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, exhaling through his nose, before muttering, “I’m gonna change real quick.”

You nodded wordlessly, still half-dazed, watching him retreat toward the locker room. While he was gone, you bent down, gathering stray volleyballs and water bottles, tossing towels into the hamper by the wall. 

The gym felt different now, emptier somehow, even though you were still in it. You could still hear echoes of the night lingering in the air from before as you cleared up. The sharp slap of the ball against the court, Sukuna’s low laugh when you got in a lucky serve, the soft, murmured jokes you’d traded when no one else was listening.

When he came back out, with his shirt changed, hair damp and curling a little at the ends, he didn’t say anything. Just slipped easily into helping you clean up. He moved like he always did. With such efficiency, continued focus, but with a casualness that told you he wasn’t just rushing to get it over with. He wanted to do this with you.

Sukuna reached down, snagging the last volleyball by your feet and tossing it back into the basket with a soft thud. His eyes caught yours briefly, a silent, familiar look that said Ready?

You gave a small nod, swinging your bag onto your shoulder. Side by side, you walked toward the gym doors. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to.

Outside, the night air hits your skin. It was already too cool and a little damp for you, smelling faintly of pavement and something sweet from the convenience store nearby. You find yourself wrapping your arms around yourself, yawning.

Sukuna glanced at you as he unlocked the school gate. “Are you cold, baby?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… tired.”

“Here.” He took off his jacket and put it on you. “I can’t have you getting sick.”

You blush, looking up at him. “Thank you, my love.”

He nodded once, then gestured for you to follow him. “This way. I parked behind the store.”

You trailed after him, the street lamps casting your shadows long and close together. The hum of the city at night was strangely soothing. The distant cars, cicadas somewhere in the trees, the quiet pulse of life still moving even after the world had slowed down.

When you reached the convenience store, there it was: his bike, all sleek black and red metal and impulsive choices. He knelt beside the small locked locker beside the building and opened it. Before long, your boyfriend pulled out two helmets. He stood up and handed the smaller one to you.

“You really planned this, didn’t you?” you muttered, both impressed and exasperated.

Sukuna grinned as he handed you yours. “Told you. I knew you’d stay.”

He didn’t mean just tonight, you could feel it in his voice. He meant you would always be there. And somehow, you couldn’t imagine a version of yourself that wouldn’t be. You knew you just would be there with him no matter what.

You adjusted the strap of your helmet, and he did the same. You put your backpack on and went ahead and waited for him to go and settle in the bike. A little while later, he mounted the bike, reaching a hand back for you.

“Hop on, baby.”

You stared at his outstretched hand for half a second before sliding your fingers into his warm, steady, familiar. You climbed onto the seat behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, fitting perfectly like it was always meant to be this way.

As the engine rumbled to life beneath you, Sukuna turned his head slightly, just enough for you to hear: “Hold tight, baby.”

And then you were flying through the night, the city lights blurring around you, the wind in your hair, your cheek pressed to his back and for once, there was no race, no pressure, no noise. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of your heartbeat and his and the road stretched out ahead.

YOUR BOYFRIEND TOOK A DIRECTION YOU WEREN’T FAMILIAR WITH. So, you knew that the ride wouldn't go straight home just yet. After a few turns and a sudden stop at a red light, Sukuna glanced over his shoulder and jerked his chin toward a row of late-night food stalls lit by hanging lanterns.

"Are you hungry, baby?" Your boyfriend’s muffled words asked.

You blinked, surprised. “A little, yeah.”

He didn’t wait for more. Just made a turn and parked near a noodle shop tucked between a shuttered bookstore and a flower stand long closed for the night. The kind of place that only came alive after dark, where the steam curled lazily into the air and the air smelled like grilled meat, garlic, and miso broth.

He helped you off the bike without a word, hand brushing yours longer than it needed to. Then he guided you over to one of the small tables, pulling out a stool before sitting across from you like it was routine. Like this was your spot, your time.

You warmed your hands around the miso ramen bowl when it arrived, the heat seeping into your fingers, the aroma making your stomach growl. You caught Sukuna watching you with a faint grin as he picked up his chopsticks.

“What?” you muttered, mouth half-full of noodles.

Sukuna didn’t answer right away. Just grinned, shameless and slow, before lifting another bite to his lips.  “Nothing at all.” he said around a slurp. “You just look cute when you’re hungry.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to appear unbothered, but the tug at the corners of your mouth betrayed you. He was right, after all. You were hungry. Starving, actually. And now that the heat of the broth hit your tongue, salty and umami-rich, it felt like something inside you was finally being soothed after the long, exhausting day.

The noodles glistened in the light, thick and golden, slick with broth and sesame oil. A sheet of seaweed curled at the edge of the bowl like a wave, and soft-boiled egg halves rested on top like treasure. You lifted another bite with your chopsticks, sighing under your breath. Perfect. Exactly what your body and soul needed.

But more than the food,  it was him.

The way Sukuna sat so easily across from you, hunched over his own bowl like this was just another Friday night, like he hadn’t pushed himself to the edge of exhaustion in practice, like you hadn’t nearly missed the last train because you stayed with him. 

There was something comforting about the sight of him like this: wind-tousled hair, flushed cheeks from the heat of the soup, long legs folded under the too-small table. Your foot nudged him under the table, half by accident. He nudged back, deliberately this time.

You laughed when he tried to pick up a slice of pork belly with his chopsticks, only for it to slip and fall with a wet plop back into the broth. He looked up like nothing happened, chewing a bite of noodles with faux innocence.

“Smooth.” you teased.

“Didn’t happen, baby.” he said, deadpan, already moving on to the next bite like the universe hadn’t just humbled him.

You reached into your bowl and gently placed your boiled egg into his, ignoring the soft flicker of surprise on his face. He stared at it for a second. It was a silent gesture, a silent act of affection — one that could only exist if there was genuinity to love.

He then wordlessly pushed the rest of his gyoza toward you. Not just any piece. The one with the crispy, golden brown bottom, perfectly pan-fried and still warm. A quiet trade. A small ritual. Your version of “I like you” without saying it out loud.

The city buzzed softly outside the ramen shop, the hum of scooters and neon signs flickering through the windows. But here, it was just the two of you. The clink of chopsticks, the gentle steam rising between you, the quiet kind of closeness that needed no fanfare. And somehow, the food tasted even better because of it. Because of him.

Half an hour later, the bowl was empty. You were satisfied, as much as your boyfriend was. You finish up your drink as you watch your boyfriend go to the toilet room. He had to go and wash his hands. 

You nodded at him and finished your drink. Once you were finished, you went ahead and called for the bill. Soon enough, your boyfriend returned, looking more comfortable. cleaning up. When the bill came, you pulled out your wallet before he could stop you. 

“Let’s split the bill, my love.”

Sukuna didn’t even look up. “No.”

You huffed. “Come on, let me do this once—”

“I said no.” His tone was casual, but firm, final. He dropped cash on the tray before you could argue again. “I always have to pay, baby. Simple as that.”

“You can’t always pay, my love.” you muttered, cheeks puffed slightly in defiance. “I have money too, you know.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you. You could see his expression softening as he leaned his elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He sighed, letting himself put the bills on the table.

“I took a job for a reason, you know.” he said quietly. “A new one. It pays more. I was gonna tell you, but I didn’t tell you because you’d make a face like that.”

You blinked. “What face?”

He smirked. “That face. The ‘I don’t want you working too hard’ one.”

You frowned, about to protest, but he beat you to it. “My love—”

“I didn’t take it because I had to. I took it because I wanted to. So I can do this.” He gestured between the two of you, to the food, to the ride. To everything. “So I can take care of you. Not in a weird ‘you’re helpless’ way. But because I want to.”

Your chest aches in the best way. Sukuna looked away, suddenly awkward. “I know it’s dumb or whatever, but I just… it feels good. To be able to give you something. Even if it’s just noodles after practice.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, warmth curling through you like tea on a cold night. “It’s not dumb, my love.” you said softly.

He glanced back at you. You reached across the table and brushed your fingers lightly over his. “It means a lot.”

He squeezed your hand, just once, before leaning back with a grin. “Good. ‘cause you’re not paying for anything when you’re with me. Like always, okay?”

You sighed dramatically, but your heart was still fluttering. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me.” he said, smiling back at you.

BEFORE YOU GOT ON YOUR BOYFRIEND’S MOTORCYCLE, YOU FOUND YOUR PHONE WAS RINGING. You missed the call, but soon enough, your phone buzzed once again. A message comes through almost immediately. You blinked. You pressed on the mail app and glanced at the screen.

[Mom]: Sorry, sweetheart. Dad and I both got called in for OT. We won’t be home tonight — don’t wait up. There’s food in the fridge if you go back. Love you.

You stared at the message for a moment, lips pressed together. You weren’t upset, not really. You were used to it. Your parents were always doing their best, and you were used to their odd schedules. Still, the idea of going home to a quiet, empty apartment after such a long day left a hollow echo in your chest.

Sukuna noticed your shift immediately. He leaned over, nudging your foot again under the table. “Something up?”

You held your phone out for him to see. “They’re going to be stuck at work in Kyoto for the weekend. I’m sure of it.”

He scanned the message once, then looked back at you, tone casual but purposeful. “Then stay at my place.”

You blinked. “What?”

He starts fixing the helmet on your head, being mindful to be careful with everything. “I mean, it’s late. You’re tired. The house is gonna be empty anyway, right?”

You hesitated, not because you were unsure but because of how easily he’d said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like you staying over was just a natural extension of the night. And maybe, with him, it was.

“You sure?” you asked softly.

Sukuna tilted his head, his grin crooked but honest. “Of course. I’m not gonna let you go back alone. Besides, this is normal, no?” he added, his voice dipping just enough to be teasing, “You’ve crashed at my place before, haven’t you?”

“That was during exams, my love.” you muttered. “And we slept in separate rooms.”

He gave a lazy shrug, but there was something fond in the way he looked at you. “Still counts.”

You smiled despite yourself, suddenly aware of how easy it felt, this whole night, really. How the idea of being around him, even in his space, didn’t make you nervous. Maybe because you knew he wouldn’t push. Sukuna talked big, sure. But he respected you in every way possible. Every boundary, every choice. That was the kind of person he was now.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward as he put his own helmet on himself. it was filled with something warm and unspoken, like both of you were thinking the same thing but neither of you had to say it. You zipped your jacket and climbed onto the back of his bike again, you rested your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You’re sure your parents won’t be there?” you asked as the engine rumbled to life.

Sukuna snorted. “Haven’t been since last year, baby. You know how they are, they’re doctors. They aren’t always going to have time. Much more if they’re busy with medical missions abroad.”

“Oh.” You let it leave your lips. “So they’re not coming back anytime soon?”

“Yeah.” His voice was even. Unbothered, like he’d accepted it a long time ago. “It’s chill. I’ve been on my own long enough to handle myself.”

And it was true. Despite the old rumors that clung to him, the tattoos, the attitude, the reputation of a former delinquent —  Ryomen Sukuna was responsible in a way that often surprised people.

He cooked for himself. Took care of his space. Showed up to practice, even stayed late. He texted you to drink water after training and remembered your exam dates better than you did.

You leaned into him a little more as he pulled out onto the road. “I still can’t believe you used to get into fights, my love.” you said against the wind.

He laughed, low and rough, but not ashamed. “You and everyone else.”

“But look at you now!” you murmured, your voice getting lost in the hum of the city around you. “Taking me home, riding clean, all mature and stuff.”

“Don’t get used to it, baby.” he threw over his shoulder. “I still steal my neighbors’ mail sometimes.”

You laughed, the sound carrying behind you like smoke. “The racy magazines?”

“Why would I need that when I have you?” He snickers, causing you to turn red.

“Ryomen Sukuna!” You smacked his arm.

“Hey, hey, that’s not my name!” He tells you off.

“Well, don’t joke about that!”

The ride to Sukuna’s place wasn’t long at all. It was just a few neighborhoods over but it felt like your arms wrapped around his waist had been there forever. The wind tugged at your sleeves and hair, but his presence in front of you was solid, steady. A calm center in a world that never quite stopped moving.

He parked near his apartment complex and took off his helmet, shaking his hair out. You followed suit, a little dazed from the cold, blinking up at the familiar building. You’d been here before, during cram sessions or the occasional group hangout, but never like this. Not this late, not this quietly.

“C’mon, baby.” Sukuna said, flicking his keys into his palm. “Let’s get you warm.”

Inside, the massive apartment was still and warm, wrapped in the kind of quiet that only existed in the late hours of the night. The door clicked shut softly behind you, and the weight of the world outside seemed to melt away the second you stepped in.

It smelled faintly like sandalwood and laundry detergent. Clean, grounding. The kind of scent that lingered not because it was strong, but because it belonged here. But there was something else, too. A softer note. Vanilla.

It wasn’t overbearing at all. There is just the trace of it, floating gently in the air like an echo of something familiar. His favorite candle must’ve burned earlier that evening. You recognized it instantly, because it was the same scent that clung faintly to your own skin.

You wore that perfume because he liked it.

And he liked it because it smelled like you.

Something about that realization made your chest warm. It’s not just with affection, but with the quiet understanding that your lives were already beginning to tangle around each other in ways you hadn’t even noticed.

You slipped off your shoes at the genkan, the soft click of them against the floor the only sound in the stillness. Sukuna didn’t say much as he locked the door behind you. You knew he didn’t need to. He just looked over at you with that calm, unreadable expression of his, the one you knew by now meant more than most people’s full sentences.

His scarlet eyes followed the way your shoulders relaxed. The way your nose twitched just slightly when the scent hit you. “Smells like home, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice low.

You turned to him, surprised by the softness in his tone. He was already pulling off his uniform, slinging it onto the back of the couch like he always did, like this space belonged to both of you. And maybe it did at least tonight.

The vanilla note lingered in the air. On your clothes. On your boyfriend’s jacket. In the space between your bodies. You could feel your cheeks turn flustered as you let it take over you.

When he passed you in the hallway, his fingers brushed your wrist. It was so casual, familiar. But his nose dipped to your shoulder for just a second, breathing you in like the scent itself calmed him.

“Smells like you, baby.” he added, barely audible. “That’s why I use it. That’s why I like it.”

He moved past you without waiting for your reply, but his words stayed suspended in the air, just like the scent. You could tell that it was warm, sweet, and quietly meaningful. Because here, in this apartment too big for one, he longs for the similar warmth he finds in you.

“Do you wanna go shower now?” he called from the kitchen, voice low and casual, the clinking of mugs and the soft sound of boiling water behind him.

You looked up from where you were nestled on the couch, blanket loosely around your shoulders. The apartment’s warmth, the scent of vanilla and clean laundry, and the sound of him moving around so comfortably — it all made your limbs feel heavier with sleep.

Still, you nodded, sitting up straighter. “U–uh, yeah! Thank you, baby.”

Sukuna came back into view holding a mug of hot tea, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it. He set the cup down on the table in front of you, his usual crooked grin softening as his eyes met yours.

“I’ll get the bathtub ready for you, baby.” he said, crouching down slightly to press a slow, affectionate kiss against your cheek.

The press of his lips was warm. Familiar. Like punctuation on a sentence you’d been living in for a while now. He stood and gave your hand a small squeeze. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you wanna wash up, like usual. You remember, right?”

You nodded again, heart fluttering. Not because it was new, but because it was him. Because of the way he said, like usual, like this wasn’t just some rare overnight visit, like you belonged here often enough to have a routine. It made you feel like you were slipping into the shape of something deeper.

As he walked off, already heading toward his room, he added without turning back, “I’ll get you some clothes, okay?”

You heard him rummaging in his drawers a moment later, opening the linen cabinet, adjusting the water in the bath. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It was love, plain and simple. It was the kind that unfolded in everyday things.

In hot tea made with muscle memory.

In drawing a bath because he knew your muscles were sore.

In giving you space to breathe, even as he held you close.

You stood slowly, picking up the tea, fingers curling around the warm ceramic. The smell was chamomile, your favorite. Because of course he remembered. And as you walked down the softly lit hall, the sound of water running in the tub, the scent of him lingering on the borrowed hoodie you wore, you realized this wasn’t just his apartment anymore.

It was a place you could rest. A place where you were thought of, cared for, to be loved.

And when you reached the bathroom door, the steam curling under it like an invitation, you found a small pile of neatly folded clothes waiting for you just outside. His hoodie. His sweatpants. And a pair of fuzzy socks he never admitted were his. A quiet laugh slipped from your lips.

“God, I love him.” you whispered. “So much.”

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in steam and warmth, skin still dewy from the hot water. Your muscles felt loose, your mind lighter. The air smelled faintly of his body wash. Something clean, woodsy, and unmistakably him. Because of course it lingered on the towel he left for you, on the oversized hoodie you now wore.

His sweatpants were a little too long, pooling around your ankles, and his hoodie practically swallowed you whole. But it was perfect. It was like stepping into a version of him that could hold you. Keep you safe. Keep you close.

You padded quietly down the hall, the fuzzy socks soft against the wooden floor, following the warm light and low hum of sound coming from the living room. Sukuna was already on the couch, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, the TV casting a soft glow across his face. 

Some old movie was playing through already. Your boyfriend probably picked something with a slow plot, something gentle, something that wouldn’t make you think too hard. He didn’t look up right away. He was sipping his own cup of tea, long legs stretched out in front of him, relaxed in a way that was rare.

But when he felt your weight dip onto the couch next to him, he turned his head and just smiled. A slow, lazy grin that made your chest ache a little. He looked at you like you were the best part of his evening. Like this moment, you are in his clothes, fresh from a bath he ran for you, hair damp, cheeks pink. It was everything he never knew he needed.

“You look cute, baby.” he murmured, voice still warm from tea. He nudged your socked foot with his. “Comfy?”

You nodded, bringing the tea to your lips. It was the perfect temperature now, just like always. He had a knack for timing things without ever making a fuss about it. You sighed happily, finding yourself comforted by the warmth of it streaming through your throat.

“Come here.” he said, tugging you gently by the hand until you were curled beside him, your head resting against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your temple and didn’t move away. Just held you there, your tender fingers tangled in his hoodie sleeve, your heartbeat steadying against his. 

“Thanks for letting me stay, my love.” you said quietly, eyes flicking over to him.

He tilted his head toward you, mouth pulling into that half–smile you’d grown to love. “Of course.”

There was a beat, and then he added, voice softer now, more real. “I like having you here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just leaned your head onto his shoulder, and his hand found yours under the blanket without needing to look. Fingers laced together. No pressure. No expectation. Just two tired people who didn’t have to be alone tonight.

After finishing your tea, you were knocked out fast. One moment, you were curled up beside him with the blanket tucked up to your chin, still mumbling something half-coherent about the weird game show on TV and the next, you were asleep, your breath steady and warm against his arm.

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t move. Not right away. He just sat there, elbow resting on the back of the couch, chin in hand, eyes on you. The light from the TV cast soft shadows across your face, flickering between color and grayscale as the screen changed. 

Your lips were parted slightly. The tiniest furrow had settled between your brows. You always did that when you were overtired. He wanted to smooth it away with his thumb but didn’t want to wake you.

“You’re ridiculous, aren’t you?” he murmured under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching in something almost like disbelief.

He’d grown up very well. At least everyone said so. Twenty centimeters taller since his first year of high school. Shoulders broader. Voice deeper. There were times even he didn’t recognize it when it slipped out of his mouth. Like now, quiet and low, barely above a whisper.

“I feel like my height keeps getting bigger, baby.… But it’s nothing compared to how much I’m growing into this feeling.” he murmured, eyes still on you. “Into you.”

He exhaled a laugh, barely a sound. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing, at saying it all aloud, even when no one was awake to hear it. He wanted to scream to the world everything and anything for you. Yet there was something in him that wanted to keep it all between the two of you. But something about watching you sleep, peaceful and trusting, made it easier. Honest.

“I used to think feelings were just something people talked about to sound poetic, smarter people than me.” he muttered, adjusting the blanket around your shoulder, careful not to disturb you. “But I swear, baby…..Every time I look at you, it feels like my chest feels like it’s got more room to stretch. Like my heart’s got a growth spurt too.”

He leaned back against the couch and let his eyes close for a moment. You were breathing softly, your hand still resting over his. And Ryomen Sukuna, the boy who once thought he didn’t need anyone, didn’t trust anyone, who fought his way through life with fists and silence, found he didn’t want to move a muscle. 

Not when you were here. Not when it felt like all the versions of him, the one from before, the one now, and the one he was still becoming could rest in this one moment, with you.

epilogue

Olympic Gold Medalist Ryomen Sukuna’s “10 Things I Can’t Live Without” – Sports Illustrated Japan

The camera’s already rolling when Ryomen Sukuna walks in with a smile on his face. He was taller than most imagined, wearing a relaxed black hoodie, sweatpants, and the practiced calm of someone who’s used to the spotlight now. 

His hair’s a bit messy, his wedding band gleams under the studio lights, and the producer whispers that he smells faintly like vanilla. He sits down and flashes that familiar half-smirk, the one that made him a favorite on and off the court.

“Alright, Sukuna–san!” the interviewer says brightly. “You’ve got a duffel bag full of your top ten can’t-live-without items. Let’s see what made the cut.”

He unzips the bag with a shrug. “They’re not exciting at all.” he warns, eyes glinting. “But they’re real. I carry them everywhere.”

“Okay, item one.” He holds up his left hand, fingers curling slightly to show the simple, beautiful band. “I take it off during games, but it’s always in my knee pad bag. So I’ll know where it is, always. It’s not just about marriage. It’s about her being with me, no matter where I am. Even at the Olympics.”

“Item two, it’s my hoodie!” He pulls out a worn black hoodie and brings it close to his nose, smiling softly. “My wife used to wear this all the time in high school. She used to steal it. Still does. But we traded when I finished wearing mine. Afterwards,  it always smelled like her, that soft vanilla scent. I kept it, washed it, but it still smells like her somehow. It’s stupid comforting.”

He hugs it for a second, unapologetically. “I wear it on game days when I’m nervous. She doesn’t know that.”

The camera zooms in briefly on a faint heart embroidered inside the collar. In the inside of the pockets too, there was the words, ‘my love’ etched into it. 

“Okay, so this is item three.” He says as he takes it out carefully in the bag. It’s a candid. You’re sitting on a park bench, laughing at something off-camera. There’s a coffee in your hand and his hoodie on your shoulders. “No makeup. No posing. Just her being her.”

The interviewer looked at him, blinking. “You always take it with you?”

“Of course, I do.” He smiles. “I keep this next to my bed. Especially on overseas trips. Gold medal’s somewhere in a drawer, but this? This is front and center.”

“Okay, this is item four.” He says to the camera.  A small bundle tied with a ribbon. “My wife is a big coffee drinker, but she also loves tea. I usually buy this for her. But I also bought an extra pack for me.”

“I didn’t know you liked chamomile tea too, Sukuna–san.”

“Well now you do!” He laughs at the comment, putting the tea bag pouch away. “It’s as much a ritual before going bed. I make her coffee as much as her tea. But when I’m not there to drink it with her, I take a picture and send it to her, telling her I’m going to bed. And to remind her to drink some when I’m not there too.”

“It seems like you do everything for her and with her.”

He nodded, happily.  “That’s what happens when you’re happy together.”

“Okay, this is just for like affirmations when I’m not using my phone.” It was a folded stack of old text messages printed on paper, worn at the edges. “Item five, my wife’s texts!”

“You have your wife’s texts printed out?” The interviewer seemed stunned. “I would have thought it would be letters!”

“I do have some of them, but her texts are so cute too, I couldn’t help it.” He says, a bit flustered as he rubbed the back of his head. “She doesn’t know I did this. But when we were long distance, I printed the texts she sent me before games. They helped me win. Keeps me sane.”

“.....That is something, Sukuna–san.”

“I know.” He laughs. “But she was funnier than any sports psychologist.”

“Okay, item seven.” He says, as he carefully takes out something from a small pouch. It’s a beat-up keychain. A tiny volleyball charm with his name engraved. “Ta-da!”

“That’s a really cute keychain.” The interviewer smiled.

“She gave me this before a regional tournament in middle school. Said, ‘Don’t lose it, or your winning streak ends.’ I didn’t. And I haven’t.”  He taps it thoughtfully. “I don’t believe in luck. But I believe in her.”

 “Okay, item seven.” He says as he lifts a dog-eared cookbook with sticky notes and handwriting in the margins. “As you can tell, my wife is definitely a doctor.”

“Your wife writes so interestingly, Sukuna–san.” The interviewer leaned in. “Does she speak English? Some of them are written in that!”

Sukuna nodded at the interviewer. “Yeah, yeah. She needed it for her studies and research papers. She taught me a bit of it, too.”

“Does she cook a lot at home, or do you?”  

“I cook more than her, but she does cook.” Sukuna says, as he looks at your writing fondly. “She doesn’t think she’s a good cook, but every time she figured out a dish I liked, she’d write a note next to it. ‘Too salty, don’t let him lie.’ Stuff like that.”

“That’s actually hilarious of her!” The interviewer laughs. 

He chuckles. “She still writes me new ones.”

“This is definitely item eight.” It was all too pink. Ridiculously and undoubtedly yours. “My wife has a collection of really weird socks. She loves to wear them at work, because they’re comfortable.”

“This was when we were kids, though.” He continues, laughing as he inspects it. “She forgot them at my place once. I wore them as a joke. Now I wear them when I’m injured or exhausted. Or when I want to feel comfortable. Somehow they work better than compression sleeves.”

“It could be lucky socks too!”

“That’s true.” He nodded, laughing once again. “But she just says it’s because I love her. And maybe she’s right.”

“Okay, item nine.” He says as he takes out a near-empty bottle. He turns it over in his hand carefully. “She loves vanilla scents. I started to notice it in middle school.”

The interviewer blinked. “Oh, isn’t this….this was an old release.”

“It is, it is.” He confirmed. “I bought it from someone who had it. She uses a similar scent to this now, since it's discontinued. But this was what she wore when we first started dating.”

 “It’s incredible it lasted this long, Sukuna–san.”

“I know!” He agrees with them. “But I will try to make it last. Every time I smell it now, it reminds me of those first nights. Taking her home after practice, ramen dates, sneaking into my apartment while our parents were working late.”

“What will you do when it finally runs out?”

He pauses to think. “Well, I think I’ll have to find more of it. Unless the company wants to bring this back, of course.”

“Bring it back, company–san!”

He laughs. “Yeah, bring it back. But until now, I need to ration. I keep it sealed now. Memory in a bottle.”

“Okay, this is my last item.” He says as he takes it out. He doesn’t open it. He just taps the envelope with a soft, reverent look. The words ‘my love’ reflected on the envelope. “This is her letter to me for the first Olympics.”

The interviewer inspected it. “It’s never been opened?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “It’s just stayed that way.”

“But why?” The interviewer looked curious.

“She gave it to me right before the first Olympics. But she told me not to read it unless I lost.” He smiles, eyes gleaming with warmth. “I never opened it. Not because I didn’t want to… but because I didn’t need to. Just knowing she wrote it was enough.”

The interviewer clears their throat. “That’s all ten. Are you surprised everything was about her?”

Sukuna grins, no hesitation. “Not really. She’s everything. Why would I need anything else?”

The camera lingers on him a moment longer. Olympic champion, national hero, absolute softie in love before the lights dim. And somewhere off-screen, you’re probably watching with a knowing smile on your face. Because of course he’d pack you in every part of his life. He always has.

[cigsaftersuh]

𝒮𝒰𝒞𝒦 𝒯𝐻ℰ 𝒮𝒯𝑅𝒜𝒫 ⋆ ˚｡⋆ ౨ৎ ˚

bondage ( jake ) , strap on + strap sucking

of the to make you mine series, can be read as a standalone

his hands looked so pretty like this. hands tied together behind him in smooth, dark leather, wrists flexing with every shallow breath he took. he was on his knees for you, back straight, eyes glassy with the weight of anticipation. he looked up at you with so much need in his expression.

he’d been waiting all day to feel you close, to be touched and taken care of by you.

you stepped in between his legs and brushed his hair back from his forehead, smiling softly when he leaned into your touch like he couldn’t help it. “you look so beautiful, baby,” you murmured, fingers tracing along the edge of his jaw. “my sweet, boy. you’ve been so patient, haven’t you?”

he nods, eyes already starting to shine more. “i missed you,” he whispered, voice small, almost bashful. “want you so bad.”

“i know,” you hummed, grazing your thumb over his bottom lip. “you’ve been such a good boy for me. always so good. i’m gonna take care of you now, okay baby?”

his eyes dropped when you shifted your hips forward, letting the strap press lightly against his lips. he breathed in shakily, pink tongue flicking out to taste the silicone like it was something precious. he looked up again, cheeks already warm.

“can i?” he asked softly, voice trembling.

“of course you can, baby,” you cooed. “it’s all yours. take your time. i want to see you enjoy it.”

you kept your hand gently at the back of his head, just enough pressure to let him know you were there. not forcing anything but loving him through the motion as he opened his mouth and took the first inch in his soft lips. your breath caught at how tender he was with it, as if he was worshipping you with every drag of his tongue.

“just like that,” you whispered, eyes soft. “you’re doing so well for me. look how sweet you are, so eager to make me feel good. i’m so proud of you.”

he moaned softly around the toy, lashes fluttering as more drool started to gather at the corners of his lips, chin slick and glistening. his bound hands flexed behind him again, and you could tell he was already getting desperate, already aching to be touched.

you leaned down and kissed the top of his head, voice barely audible now as you whispered, “i’ve got you. just keep going, baby. let me love you like this.”

he was trembling by the time you pushed just a little deeper, just enough for the toy to brush the back of his tongue, and the way he whimpered around it made your thighs clench in response. his lashes fluttered, thick and damp, lips stretched so sweet around the strap while he kept sucking like it was the only thing that mattered. his hands were still tied behind him, but the way his hips jerked forward told you everything — he was close.

"baby," you murmured, brushing a hand over his flushed cheek. "you feel that good already, don’t you? haven’t even touched you and you’re already falling apart."

he moaned in response, muffled and needy. his whole body tense as his thighs flexed with every little movement, and when his cock twitched again against his stomach, he finally lost it.

he came untouched, body convulsing in helpless waves, his moans growing high and lpud around the toy still in his mouth. you held his head in your warm hands cooing down at him while his cum spilled out in warm, messy ribbons across his abdomen. “oh, sweetheart,” you breathed, feeling your own body clench at the sight. “you’re so perfect. such a good boy for me.”

but he didn’t stop. even as he trembled, and his breath caught in his throat with how hard his thighs shook with the aftermath, he kept sucking. slower now, but with the same hunger, he needed the weight of you in his mouth to keep breathing. your legs started to quiver as well, heat pooling deep in your belly, the slick between your thighs growing unbearable with how soaked you were just from watching him come undone like that.

and then it hit you — a warm rush of pleasure spilled through you, knees buckling slightly as your hand gripped his hair tighter, gasping as your climax washed over you. your body jolted forward just enough for your slick to drip down your thighs, right where his knees were pressed to the floor.

his eyes widened as he watched you fall apart. he could feel it, could smell the sweetness of your release, and the second he saw it, he leaned in without hesitation.

“wanna taste,” he whispered, the words clumsy around the toy still hanging from his lips. “please.”

“go ahead, baby,” you whispered shakily, pulling back just enough to let him drop kisses down the inside of your thigh.

he groaned like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. his mouth latched onto the soft skin just beneath your strap, tongue lapping up every bit of cream dripping from your folds. he moaned into your skin, messy and sweet, as he sucked your slick from your thighs, knowing he’d never get enough of it.

you cradled his face in your hands, holding him there, petting his damp hair with soft fingers as he licked and kissed and whimpered against your soaked skin. “that’s it,” you cooed, still breathless. “clean me up, baby. you’re so good. make me feel even better, yeah?”

he nodded, lips glistening with your cum, and dragged his tongue up the length of your thigh one more time — eyes glazed over with adoration and need.

"more," he whispered hoarsely. "please. don’t stop yet."

tagging 𝜗𝜚 @cheers2hani @planetmarlowe @hooni3luvs @sunghoonsgfreal @chuuyaobsessed @sosweect @isagistar

with love,

© cigsaftersuh

[universefcb]

Can pls you do Hector fort x reader? 💋

Reader hasn’t been feeling the whole day good and then she notices that she’s getting sick so he takes care of her the whole day?

On Days When Your Body Asks for a Break.

→ Pairing: Hector Fort X fem!reader

→ Warning: Mention of reader. Fluff, confort.

→ Author's note: I hope he is recovering well from his surgery :(

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

She had already woken up with a slight headache, as if the night had been too short for the amount of fatigue she had accumulated during the week. Even so, she got up, took a shower, and made coffee with slower movements than usual. She tried to feign normality—a skill she had mastered very well—but not even the smell of freshly brewed coffee could disguise the weight on her shoulders, the sensitivity in her eyes, or the slight shiver that ran up her arms.

Héctor noticed quickly. He always did.

“You look different today,” he commented, leaning against the kitchen door frame, his eyes observing every detail with that calm attention that was so characteristic of him.

She tried to smile, but the gesture came out half-hearted.

“Just a little tired,” she replied quietly, without really looking at him. She didn’t want to worry anyone. She just wanted to get through the day and let the discomfort go away on its own.

But he was not convinced.

He didn't say anything else there, but he kept an eye on her. He followed her steps through the house with his eyes, noticed when she left her half-full cup on the table, when she yawned for the third time in less than twenty minutes, when she stopped in the middle of the hallway as if she were trying to remember why she had come there.

And when she sat on the couch and was quiet for too long, he went over. He knelt in front of her and touched her leg gently.

“Let me take care of you today?” the voice came out in an almost whispered tone, without demands, just affection.

She sighed, too tired to refuse. And deep down, maybe she even wanted this. To be cared for by someone who knew exactly how to soothe her, even on the days when she didn't even know what she wanted.

He didn't wait any longer. He got up, found a light blanket, and wrapped it around her. He went to the kitchen and made her some hot tea with honey, just the way she liked it when she was sick. He sat down next to her on the couch, gently pulling her close until she was nestled against his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes already half closed.

“You have a fever,” he murmured, touching her forehead. “You should have told me sooner.”

“I thought it would pass,” he replied, without opening his eyes.

“Well, now I’m the one in charge,” he said with a half smile, squeezing her arm lightly.

Throughout the day, he took care of everything. He made soup, changed the water in the bottle next to the couch, adjusted the blanket when she was shivering, and kept the room quiet with a calming playlist playing in the background. Every thirty minutes, he came to check on her, even when she said he didn't need to. When her fever got a little higher, he got an antipyretic from the pharmacy, without her noticing, and convinced her to take it.

Between naps, she watched him. He walked around the house with silent steps, arranging the pillows, running his fingers through her hair carefully. She never knew how to explain how it was possible to love someone so calmly and at the same time so intensely.

When night fell, the rain began to patter lightly against the window, and he was still there. Sitting next to her, without his cell phone in his hands, without distractions. Present, whole.

“You could go rest,” he murmured, his voice weak.

He shook his head, pulling her closer.

“Only if it’s with you.”

She smiled, small, her eyes closing again. The warmth of his body was the only thing that seemed to overcome her at that moment. She felt safe there. Still weak, still sick, but loved in a way that left no room for doubt.

Before falling asleep, he felt her lips touch his forehead—soft, lingering, with a tenderness that tightened his heart.

“I’m here, okay? As long as it takes,” he whispered, and she believed him.

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