#here's to hoping nothing breaks in that time ^^

[reilemon]

Powdered Gold

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: When you invited Caleb to stay at your place in hopes of rekindling your friendship, you didn’t realize you’d be inviting the feelings you shunned years ago. You both changed, but what you feel for each other hasn’t—and maybe, this time, you’ll be brave enough to reach for it.

♡︎ pairing: Caleb x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, angst, smut, Caleb calls you pipsqueak (and always will in my fics), Caleb is a virgin, but reader isn't, oral (both of them giving and receiving), creampie as always

♡︎ word count: 10.3k

♡︎ a/n: this is my first time writing Caleb, so pls be nice to me ok??

♡︎ this is not beta read but i'm still giving a shout-out to my bestie ♡︎@its-de♡︎

divider by @/anitalenia

Caleb’s voice echoes from the bathroom, breaking you out of your thoughts. “How many body lotions does one person need?”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond immediately. Instead, you smooth the fabric of his shirt between your fingers before placing it on a hanger in your closet. Then you go to the bathroom.

You lean on the doorway, crossing your arms, “You’re not being a very pleasant house guest with comments like that.”

He’s standing in the shower, placing his travel size toiletries in one corner, his back turned to you. “And you’re not bein’ a very nice host for making your guest sleep on the sofa.”

You roll your eyes again.

This was your idea. That’s what you remind yourself as you watch Caleb settle into your space like he’s always belonged there. You were the one who matched your vacation days with his, and invited him to stay here instead of a hotel.

It made sense. You hadn’t seen much of each other since he came back, just a few meetups here and there, a handful of nights at his place. But now, for the first time in what felt like years, neither of you had somewhere else to be.

The sight of him here, snooping around your bathroom after setting down the toiletries you know he’ll use up in a day before inevitably stealing half of yours, warms your heart. When you’re like this - so close to him, grabbing his wrist to drag him out of the bathroom because ‘why are you inspecting every corner, you’re so weird!’  - and when he lets out that impish chuckle as he says ‘but I need to get acquainted with my vacation place.’ - it feels like nothing has changed.

Like there are no threats in the shadows. Like both of you haven’t lost a little light in your eyes.

But you have.   

And now, watching him here, so effortlessly at home in your space, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or bittersweet.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Time quickly passed while helping him unpack and putting away his stuff, and now it’s already dinnertime and you’ve worked up an appetite. You glance, from where you’re sitting on the sofa, at Caleb who’s rolling up his sleeves before opening your fridge. Before he can ask you anything, you stand up and start walking towards the coat rack.

“Since I am such a gracious host,” you begin, earning Caleb’s attention and he turns to you, “I’ve decided to spare you of your cooking duties on your first day – “

“It’s dinnertime.” Caleb intercepts, with a mock offence in his voice.

You ignore him. “We’re going to one of my favorite places to eat.”

He closes the fridge and turns to you, crossing his arms. “That is too vague. Do I need to change and wear something fancy? Is it your treat?”

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Sure!”

You toss him his jacket and when you reach for your purse you remember something. “Oh, wait – I got you something.”

You dig into your purse and pull out a brand-new lip balm, holding it up with a triumphant look. Caleb eyes it, then sighs.

“You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” His flat tone as he accepts it makes you grin.

“It’s extra moisturizing so I don’t have to keep looking at your dry lips.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why do you want to keep staring at my lips?”

Heat spreads across your face instantly. You immediately look away, mumbling, “I’m not staring.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap as he tilts his head. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

You exhale sharply, ignoring him. But the moment he swipes the balm across his lips, with orange glow of sunset spilling over his face, you can’t help but steal a glance. And you just know he catches it. But, for once, he doesn’t tease. He just smirks knowingly.

You grab your jacket a little too quickly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows, still smirking as he tucks the lip balm into his pocket.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

By the time the two of you return to your apartment, you feel sleep already overtaking you. The dinner turned into wandering around some shops, then you had smoothies, then Caleb insisted walking around more to burn off calories. Usually, an evening like that wouldn’t be so tiring if you didn’t spend the whole day cleaning and tidying up, and then picking him up at the train station. And there were these waves of butterflies in your stomach, that would appear whenever you thought of him. It was draining, and frustrating.

But not confusing.

You thought those feelings had disappeared. You really did. But as the years passed and you started a new life here—new city, new people, new experiences—you told yourself you’d moved on. You had to.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you fluff up his pillow after slipping it inside a fresh and clean pillowcase. You already took a shower, stole one of his baggy shirts and paired them with pajama shorts and fuzzy socks. While he’s in the bathroom, you decided to set up the bedding on the sofa, since you’re sure he must be tired as well, even if he’s not showing it. As always.

Though your body feels like velvet, heavy with exhaustion, you still accept Caleb’s suggestion to watch a movie before bed.

"We don’t have to watch it tonight." Caleb lingers in the doorway, eyes flicking over your sleep-heavy expression.

"I’m fine!" You try to sound convincing, but you’re already tugging the duvet over yourself. "I just need to lie down."

Caleb huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he watches you nestle deeper into the cushions, head resting on the pillow meant for him.

"It’s so nice and cozy in here," you murmur, voice already thick with drowsiness. The crisp, freshly washed bedding cocoons you, pulling you under.

He chuckles, stepping closer and tapping your legs, silently telling you to move. "You’re just trying to convince me that this is comfortable for me."

Before you can protest, he takes your legs and settles them over his lap.

Your body stiffens at the contact. This is normal. It should be normal. It’s not the first time he’s had your legs in his lap. You inhale deeply, telling yourself to relax, to stop overthinking. You’re just getting used to his presence again.

Though, suddenly, you don’t feel so sleepy anymore.

The movie plays on the TV, filling the space with voices and background noise. Comfortable silence settles between you both, broken only by occasional remarks—mostly Caleb critiquing the acting. Of course he can’t keep quiet even during a movie. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the annoyance fades the moment his hands slide under the covers, grazing over your shins.

He glances at you, voice low. "You seem a little tense. Was the walk too exhausting?"

Your breath catches for a second before you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. His fingers press against the tight muscles in your calves, kneading gently.

"Maybe a little." you murmur, your voice softer than intended.

He murmurs a small apology, letting his hands make it up to you. He presses and kneads with just the right amount of pressure, his thumbs digging into spots that unravel you far too easily.

Heat blooms deep inside you, catching you off guard.

He works his way down, his palms smoothing over your ankles, rolling slow circles there before moving to your feet. The added texture of your socks only makes it worse—the friction, the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the way his thumbs press into the soles of your feet, it makes it so much harder to focus on the movie.

You bite your lip, pulse thrumming. A small sound threatens to escape your throat, and you swallow it back before lifting your legs off his lap. You murmur a small “thank you” and curl up on your side, your gaze now glued to the screen.

Caleb teases you, saying you look like you’re about to pass out. And even though you mumble a half-hearted protest, swearing you’re still awake, your eyes flutter closed before the movie is over.

His presence might be the source of your simmering frustration, of all the feelings you’re trying to ignore—but it’s also the most comforting one you’ve ever known.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes open, it’s already morning. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over your room. You’re warm, nestled beneath the comforter, a plushie tucked securely in your arms. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you nuzzle against it. You don’t remember how you got to bed, but you don’t need to think too hard about it. Caleb must have carried you here last night, just like he always used to, slipping back into old habits as if no time had passed at all.

The scent of something familiar drifts in from the kitchen, rich and savory. He’s up, moving around the kitchen, already making breakfast.

You stretch lazily before dragging yourself out of bed, moving through your morning routine. After freshening up and changing into more presentable loungewear, you step into the living room.

"Look who’s awake!" Caleb’s voice greets you the moment you enter. His back is turned as he works at the counter, only glancing over his shoulder briefly before returning to whatever he’s preparing.

You groan, voice still laced with sleep. “I don’t want to hear the usual ‘by the time you got up I already jogged’ and blah blah blah!” Caleb laughs at your mocking tone, shaking his head as he grabs a pair of plates from the cabinet. He starts setting the table, saying something in response, but his words blur in the background when your eyes catch on something unexpected.

A pillowcase. His pillowcase.

It’s hanging on the drying rack by the window, the fabric swaying slightly from the morning breeze. Your brows knit together.

"When did—why did you wash this?" You gesture toward it, confusion clear in your voice. "It was completely clean."

Caleb barely falters. "It was, but I drooled on it last night," he says easily, still arranging the table. "Didn’t want to make too much noise, so I hand-washed it."

You huff a small laugh, tempted to tease him for drooling, but for some reason, you don’t. Maybe he was exhausted. Or maybe your scent bothered him. Your stomach tugs uncomfortably at the thought, but you brush it off before it can settle. Don’t be ridiculous.

Instead, you take a seat across from him, scanning the breakfast spread. He made everything you like in the morning—even bought coffee from one of your favorite coffee shops. The warmth in your chest is immediate, dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.

“You should quit the colonel position,” you look up from the bowls and plates, meeting his gaze properly since you walked in – he’s already watching you, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “A – and be my personal chef.”

Damn it.

Heat creeps up your neck at the stumble in your voice.

He shakes his head with a small chuckle, setting a glass of water in front of you. "I wouldn’t mind that."

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The room is bathed in the dim, flickering light of the television, casting soft shadows across the coffee table cluttered with half-eaten snacks. The scent of buttered popcorn lingers in the air, warm and familiar, mixing with the faint traces of Caleb’s cologne. He sits comfortably beside you, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed, his focus on the screen in front of him.

You should be watching too. After all, you’re the one who recommended it, but Caleb wanted to wait, saying he’d rather watch it for the first time with you instead of on his own.  And now, here you are, barely paying attention at all.

Your eyes are glued to the phone screen, and every so often, a quiet giggle escapes you, fingers tapping swiftly against the glass as you reply to messages. You don’t notice the way Caleb’s gaze flickers to you from the corner of his eye. You don’t register the barely-there tightening of his jaw as you keep getting distracted, your smile aimed at a screen instead of him.

At first, he says nothing. He lets the minutes pass, lets you have your moment, but with every small laugh, every glance downward, his patience begins to fray at the edges.

Who the hell is so funny?

He shifts beside you, stretching slightly, making himself known, a silent reminder that he’s still here. But you don’t even glance up.

Fine.

The movement is swift—before you can react, Caleb reaches over and snatches your phone out of your hands.

“Caleb!” You protest in disbelief.

He leans back against the sofa, holding your phone just out of reach, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"I thought we were watchin’ this together?"

You blink at him, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity, before a scoff escapes you. "Did you seriously just take my phone?"

He shrugs, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it, like he has every right to.

Your eyes narrow. "That is a violation of privacy."

His smirk widens slightly, thumb hovering just over the screen. "So what were you laughin’ at?"

You sigh in defeat. Time to change the tactic.

You lunge for your phone without hesitation, but he’s faster—his arm lifts easily, keeping it just out of reach, and he leans away, making you chase after it.

"Caleb—!"

The next few seconds is a blur of limbs, the glowing screen of your phone, and breathless laughter.

You scramble onto your knees, grappling at his wrist, stretching upward, trying to reach the device, but he moves effortlessly, dodging you like this is nothing. You nearly lose your balance in the process, your hands bracing against his chest—

Fuck, those muscles are strong.

Caleb chuckles at your failed attempt, his grip on your phone still firm, completely unbothered by your struggling.

You’re not giving up that easily.

With renewed determination, you grab at his wrist again, pushing against him with your full weight, throwing him slightly off balance. Your bodies end up in a tangled mess of limbs as both of you topple on your side onto the cushions. His body is so close, his warmth suddenly everywhere. Your breath catches, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because you notice a slight flinch when your fingers brush against his ribs.

You blink up at him as realization dawns, slow and sweet and far too tempting.

Caleb’s expression shifts instantly. "Don’t."

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across your lips.

You dig your fingers into his side, and he twists in protest, his muscles flexing as he tries to escape you. His laugher is light and carefree - and it is the most unfairly attractive sound you’ve always loved.

You falter for a second too long.

Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity. Before you can react, he grips your wrist, and with ridiculous ease, he flips you onto your back. By the time you catch your breath, he’s already caging you in, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

Everything stills for a moment. His breathing is heavier now. Yours is too. The TV hums softly in the background, but neither of you are listening. Your phone has slipped onto the carpet, forgotten. His grip isn’t tight, isn’t restricting, but it keeps you in place. Caleb’s gaze lingers on you, no trace of teasing left in his expression. And something about that - the way he’s looking at you, about the weight of his body pressing against yours, how his chest rises and falls above you—sends a slow, unbearable warmth curling through you.

But then, just as easily as he pinned you down, he lets go. You sit up quickly, forcing a small laugh, brushing off the moment like it was nothing. Caleb leans back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair before reaching down and lazily tossing your phone back to you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop stealin’ your stuff. For now.”

You roll your eyes, unlocking the screen, but you hesitate for a second before speaking. “I know it was rude to text during the movie,” you admit, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “I was just talking to my friends about tomorrow.”

Caleb doesn’t react at first. He’s stretching out his legs, seemingly unfazed, “Yeah?” his voice is too neutral. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“I already made plans to go out with them.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something quickly buried, masked with indifference. He exhales through his nose, nodding, like he’s completely unbothered.

“Cool.”

"I won’t be out late," you say quickly, feeling a pang of guilt. “Just a couple of drinks, maybe some dancing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his jaw is tighter now.

You hesitate, studying him for a moment, before offering a small smile. "If it makes you feel better, you can come pick me up.”

That makes him glance at you, his eyes softer now. “Yeah. Alright.” Then he takes the TV remote to pause the movie, and now his full focus is on you. “So, what are you gonna to wear?”

The question makes you flustered, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I don’t know.” You admit quietly. It is the truth, which is why you’ve been texting your friends during the movie. But he hasn’t seen you in anything revealing before—not really. Not outside of tiny glimpses in summers past, when you’d lounge around in shorts and tank tops, never once thinking about how his eyes followed you.

And it shouldn’t be a big deal. It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so unbearably attracted to him.

You spent too much time getting ready this morning. From the cozy loungewear you’d picked out before breakfast, to the outfit you chose for your day out with him, to the subtle refresh of your makeup before settling down for the movie—it had all been intentional. Every choice, every small detail, designed to make you look effortlessly good.

“Why don’t you show me the outfits you had in mind?” He asks, leaning back against the sofa, “Maybe I can help you.”

You force yourself to exhale, keep your tone light. "Fine. But don’t be annoying about it."

Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly. “No promises.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You disappear into your room, trying to shake off the ridiculous way your body reacted to that simple suggestion. You shouldn’t care. It’s Caleb. He’s seen you barefaced and half-asleep, wrapped in blankets, wearing mismatched pajamas. He’s been around you long enough to know every version of you.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, sleek and form-fitting, hugging the shape of you in a way that suddenly feels too revealing. You refuse to dwell on it.

You smooth your hands over the fabric before stepping out, ignoring the way your pulse picks up the moment you re-enter the living room.

And the moment you do, Caleb stills.

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t offer some offhanded remark the way you expect him to. He just watches, his gaze moving over you. Then, his brows pull together slightly, his head tilting as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

"Hm. I don’t know."

You gasp, almost appalled at the comment. “What do you mean you don’t know?” You’re trying your best to sound normal, and not like your cheeks are burning under his gaze. He looks effortlessly handsome, sprawled across the sofa with his arms draped over the backrest, legs spread in a way that makes him seem both completely at ease and utterly in control of the space around him.

His eyes lift to yours. "Turn around for me."

The request is effortless, spoken with the same ease as everything else he says. But something about it—the quiet authority in his voice, the way his gaze stays locked onto yours, unblinking—makes your skin prickle.

You try to shake off the thought, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Turn around? What, am I on a runway?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Exactly. Indulge me.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You try on another dress, stepping out with a little more confidence this time, expecting at least some approval. But Caleb only exhales, tilting his head slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Not my favorite."

You huff, retreating into your room once again, determined to find something he can’t find an issue with. But it becomes a pattern. No matter what you put on, Caleb always has something to say.

"That one’s not very practical."

"You’ll be freezing in that."

"It’s fine, I guess."

But you’re not stupid. The pattern is glaringly obvious—the more revealing the dress, the less he seems to like it.

After one final unimpressed hum from him, you let out an exasperated breath. There’s a pile of clothes on your bed and your muscles are aching from the endless zip-twirl-sigh routine. “Okay,” you snap, sharper than intended, “you’re officially no help.”

Caleb smirks, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. “Just bein’ honest.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your phone on the coffee table. "Whatever. I’ll just ask my friends."

You barely hear whatever excuse he’s offering now, his voice a low murmur in the background as you tap out a message. Then, an idea pops up in your head. You glance up from your screen, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You should go out as well.”

Caleb stops, his gaze flicking to yours, just for a second. Then, he shakes his head, exhaling lightly. “Clubs aren’t really my scene.”

You nod, finishing your message and sending it off before locking your phone. You lean your shoulder against the wall, the cool surface pressing against your heated skin.

"Well, who knows—" your tone is casual, "you might meet a cute girl."

His laugh is hollow. “Doubt that’s happening.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head slightly, feigning innocence. “You have someone back home?”

The room stills.

You notice Caleb’s jaw shifting just slightly before his frown deepens. It’s not irritation—not exactly.

"I don’t." His voice is steady. Then, his gaze sharpens, latching onto yours, his expression more serious than before. "I would’ve told you, like I promised."

A breath catches in your throat.

"Like we promised."

Caleb’s words linger. I would’ve told you. Like we promised. You stare at him, throat tightening as his gaze sharpens—he’s studying you, dissecting the guilt spreading across your face.

“You never told me,” he says, voice deceptively casual, “if you ever liked someone.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you barely register it. You don’t want to answer this question. You swallow, but your throat feels dry. "We weren’t talking as much." The words come out quieter than you intend, "It didn’t seem relevant."

“Relevant.” He repeats.

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even as something in your chest tightens. "You can’t deny we grew apart, Caleb." The words claw their way up, bitter and ugly, “And you're the one to talk - as someone who decided to go no-contact for months.” and the second they leave your mouth, you regret them.

You watch his face shift from stunned to something that looks an awful lot like hurt.

Before he can speak, you sink onto the sofa beside him, your scarred knee bumping his. “I’m sorry.” you curl your fingers into the fabric of your dress to keep from reaching for him. “I didn’t mean that.”

His eyes soften and a sigh leaves his lips. Then, the faint pressure of his palm settles on your head, the familiar gesture offering comfort. “You don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low.

You lean into his touch, eyes burning. “But I am sorry.”

“I know.” His hand stills, heavy and warm. “So am I.”

The admission is so quiet you almost miss it. You glance up, but he’s already looking away, jaw clenched against whatever else wants to spill out. So am I for leaving. So am I for coming back broken. So am I for loving you like a man who was never meant to fly—reaching for the only light that ever felt like home, even knowing that if I get too close, you’ll be the one who burns.

You don’t press. Instead, you let your shoulder bump his. He exhales, tension seeping out of him as his hand slips down to cradle the nape of your neck. "Come on, pips." His voice is quieter now, lighter. "We should get some sleep."

The argument dissolves, but the ache remains—a bruise you’ll both keep pressing, to remind yourselves it’s real.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Even though it was late, you had insisted on finishing the rest of the movie, clinging to the familiar comfort. You slipped back into the playful banter – you had whined about the pile of clothes still sitting on your bed, blaming him for it. Caleb, ever unbothered, had only smirked and offered to neatly put them away tomorrow.

While he was in the shower, you took the time to make up the sofa, tucking the sheets with more care than necessary. When he stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, skin warm from the heat of the water, you didn’t comment on the familiar citrus scent clinging to him—the scent of your body lotion.

You’d exchanged a quiet goodnight before retreating to your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

Grabbing the pile of discarded clothes, you stacked them onto the armchair in the corner, ignoring the mess for now. You had planned on wearing your usual pajama tank top, but Caleb had insisted you wear one of his shirts again, claiming it was more comfortable.

You’re here now - lying beneath the comforter, pajama shorts brushing against soft sheets, the soft fabric of his shirt enveloping you, and yet still— you’re completely awake. Your eyes remain wide open, staring into the darkness, as if sleep might find you if you just keep pretending you’re not thinking about him.

You shift beneath the comforter, rolling onto your side, then onto your back, only to flip your pillow to the cooler side and press your cheek against it. The softness offers no relief.

A deep sigh slips past your lips, but the weight in your chest remains.

I should have told him.

You should’ve told him about the men you’ve dated. You should’ve kept your promise. That’s what he did. But you tell yourself, keep comforting yourself, that at some point your lives drifted apart. When time and distance made him feel more like a memory, you thought it didn’t matter anymore.

Except it did. It mattered to Caleb.

He’d said it plainly —I would’ve told you—as if keeping that promise was as simple as breathing. No loopholes. No expiration dates.

Your breath hitches slightly, something twisting in your chest. You roll onto your side again, eyes drifting toward the empty space beside you.

The dull ache in your lower back pulls at your attention, a stiffness lingering in your shoulder. You shift slightly, frowning at the discomfort— a souvenir from last night when you’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He had carried you to bed, made sure you were comfortable. And now, he’s the one out there, sleeping on the same sofa, crammed into a space too small for him.

The guilt creeps back in.

Finally, with a sigh of surrender, you throw off the covers and rise from your bed. You move carefully through the dark, the wooden floor cool beneath your bare feet as you make your way toward the living room.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The apartment is silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, and as you reach the doorway, you pause, peering inside. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, but you can already make out the shape of him—Caleb, stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped over his stomach, his breathing steady. For a second, you think he’s asleep -

"Can’t sleep?" His voice is quiet, but in the stillness of the apartment, it still makes you flinch.

You step closer, your gaze meeting his, even in the dark. “You should sleep in my bed tonight.”

There’s silence for a moment. You can’t make out his expression, but you can feel the hesitation in the way he exhales slowly.

Then you hear a soft chuckle. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

You narrow your eyes, irritation mixing with your exhaustion. Of course, he’s being stubborn. Any other night, you might have tried to coax him with teasing, maybe thrown in a snarky remark or the fact that he’d be doing the same thing for you if the roles were reversed.

But it’s late, and you don’t have the patience for an argument you know you’re going to win anyway.

So instead, you move without warning.

With one swift motion, you snatch the duvet right off his body, yanking the pillow from beneath his head before he can even react. A startled breath escapes him, but you don’t wait for a protest.

You’re already retreating toward your bedroom, grumbling under your breath, "I’m trying to be nice here."

Behind you, Caleb exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t argue this time, just watches for a moment before finally pushing himself up from the sofa and following.

By the time he steps inside, you’re already back beneath your comforter, curled on your side. The mattress shifts slightly as he settles in beside you, his presence familiar yet suddenly overwhelming.

“Goodnight,” you say, too stiffly.

“Night.” His reply is softer.

You close your eyes, and the fact that he is sleeping in a comfortable bed eases your mind long enough to let you drift off to sleep.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes blink open, the darkness feels denser, heavier. The digital glow of your nightstand clock blinks 3:07 AM. You're not sure if you ever truly slept or if your mind simply hovered somewhere between dream and wakefulness.

The room is silent, save for the distant murmur of the city and the steady rhythm of Caleb’s breathing behind you—deep, even, grounding. You listen for a moment, letting the sound soothe you, lulling your nerves the same way it always used to. From the sound of it, he managed to fall asleep.

Slowly, carefully, you shift onto your other side, moving as if the smallest rustle might wake him. Your body rolls toward him, your eyes adjusting to the dark until his silhouette takes shape in front of you. He’s asleep, facing you. The moonlight spills in through the slit in the curtains, illuminating his face with delicate silver light. His brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, and one cheek is gently squished against the pillow.

Seeing him like this makes you smile, faint and bitter-sweet. He looks like a memory. Like all those nights you used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare, when he’d shift just enough to let you under the covers, barely awake but always aware of you, always there.

But the warmth of that memory fades almost as quickly as it came. Guilt rises like bile, acrid and insistent.

I don’t blame you.

You should have said that. You wish you had. When you apologized earlier, when you sat beside him trying to make up for your comment, you should’ve said that too. Because it’s true. You don’t.

You understand why he disappeared. You understand why he didn’t call, why he let you think he was gone—you know that he did it to protect you.

But the girl who slept with his necklace clutched in her fist for months, who scrubbed explosion residue from her hair until her scalp bled—she blames him. A splinter of her still does, lodged too deep to dig out.

Your eyes sting, but you blink quickly, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

You focus on the rhythm of his breathing, his lashes that cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, the slight sheen on his lips. He is right here.

So close you could reach out and touch him. So close you can feel the warmth coming off his body.

And yet, so impossibly far.

But wasn’t he always?

Hadn’t he always felt just beyond reach, even when you shared the same space, the same roof, the same memories?

You had spent so many years convincing yourself he didn’t see you that way—that his devotion was born out of duty, not desire. That he was bound to you by shared history, not longing. You told yourself that he saw you as something fragile, something to protect—not something to love.

But there were glances. Touches that lingered longer than they should have. But he never crossed the line. Never let himself want aloud.

So you told yourself he didn’t want to. That he couldn’t. That you weren’t something he was allowed to reach for.

And that’s why you found distractions. That’s why you chased comfort in other people. Because if you couldn’t have him, you had to have something.

But now, lying here beside him, in the quiet of your own bed, there are no distractions. No excuses. No distance left to hide behind. And suddenly, you wonder—

What if he wanted more?

What if he was always waiting for me?

You could wake him now. Could trace your fingertips over his eyelids, could say the words that have lived in the marrow of your bones since before you knew their name. I loved you then. I love you now.

But your lips won’t move. Your hand won’t reach out. Instead, all that comes is the memory of the aching regret that followed you around when you grieved him, whispering your sins in the dark - You should have told him. You should have been brave.

But now—he’s alive. He’s here. He’s right beside you.

But nothing is the same.

And even if you let yourself reach for him, even if you handed over every buried feeling and begged him to take it—the world around you hasn’t changed.

The people who tried to destroy you once are still out there, still watching, still hunting. There are still shadows at your back, and Caleb has always been the one who walks toward them first.

And if you lost him again—really lost him—

You don’t know if you’d survive it.

Because if regret was unbearable before, the devastation of another goodbye—this time after knowing what it’s like to have him— would split you open, would leave you hollow as the day you buried an empty casket.

You don’t realize the tears have started to fall until your vision blurs, until a soft sniffle betrays you. Caleb stirs - he takes a slow inhale, then a deeper one. You still, but it’s too late. His eyes open—drowsy with sleep—but the moment they land on you, on the shimmer on your lashes, they sharpen with clarity.

"What’s wrong?" He whispers softly, concern clear in his voice.

You swipe hastily at your cheeks, the salt sting lingering on your skin. “Nothing,” you lie, offering a trembling smile. “Just a nightmare.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t search your face for more or press for the truth he knows you’re not giving. He just reaches out. His hand finds yours first, then the warmth of his palm presses against your side, gentle as it invites you closer.

You hesitate, just for a moment. But then your body moves on instinct, pulled to him like it always is, like it always has been. He shifts onto his back, making room for you, letting you tuck yourself against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

You let yourself melt into him. Let yourself take comfort in the solid warmth of his body, in the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek. Your tears dry slowly, absorbed by the fabric of his shirt. Your fingers trace the chain around his neck, finding the pendants, the metal warm from his skin.

And you listen to the heartbeat beneath your ear.

Strong. Steady. Real.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

He’s yours, if you want him.

The fear is still there. The shadows haven’t disappeared. The world is still dangerous, still cruel, still capable of breaking him again.

But here, in the cradle of his arms, with his heartbeat syncing to yours, you finally understand: bravery isn’t the absence of fear.

So, maybe…

If that’s what sits at the end of this—if tears and heartache is what awaits you—then let it be. Let the hurt come. Let it hollow you. At least the emptiness will echo how fiercely you loved him.

You lift your head from the steady rhythm of his chest, propping yourself on your elbow, your face hovering just above his. Your eyes find his in the moonlight—half-lidded, warm, still laced with sleep, but softened by the sight of you. A small, barely-there smile touches his lips, a quiet relief. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused and warm, and you lean into his touch, your lashes fluttering shut. Then you feel the press of his lips against your forehead, featherlight and lingering.

When your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Your faces are close now, close enough that your breaths mingle, close enough that the brush of your nose against his sends a soft shiver down your spine. You glance down at his lips, drawn to the place you’ve denied yourself for too long.

His fingers still on your cheek.

And when your gaze returns to his, you see it - the look you’ve spent years misreading. The one you chalked up to pity or duty, something you’ve caught glimpses of over the years and turned away from. Something you didn’t recognize at first. Then later, refused to acknowledge out of fear.

But now, there’s no more running.

You shift closer slowly, cautiously, as if giving him time to stop you if this isn’t what he wants. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart to your lips, just once, but it’s enough.

In that stillness, you close the distance.

The kiss is soft. His lips are warmer than you imagined, but still a little chapped. He goes utterly still, as if fearing the slightest movement might dissolve this moment. But when you press closer, his hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him.

And when you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.” he murmurs.

You smile softly, and press a delicate kiss to his eyelid.

“You’re not dreaming, Caleb.” you whisper.

His lashes flutter open. His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to understand how this happened. His hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with aching gentleness. And then he moves. This time, he closes the distance. His mouth moves over yours, his breaths shaky against your skin. There’s no practiced skill, no calculated seduction—just raw, aching want, tempered by the fear of wanting too much.

Your hands slide from his chest to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the silken, messy hair. He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as his tongue brushes hesitantly against yours. It’s clumsy, earnest, his nose bumping yours, his teeth catching your lip by accident.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but you laugh—a soft, breathless sound—and pull him closer.

“Don’t be.”

You lean into it, guiding him with soft sighs and quiet hums.

His hands hold you tighter now—one on your back, the other slipping down, splayed at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’s started.

And when your lips break apart for breath, you don’t pull away. You rest your forehead against his, and you whisper, barely audible, "I don’t want to stop."

He exhales, "Me neither."

Your fingers tremble slightly as they wander from his hair, along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing lower. Over the column of his throat, skimming the pulse beneath his skin, before drifting lower—over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You feel the way he shivers beneath your hand, how his muscles tense slightly.

His breath hitches when you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling there, his gaze locking onto yours.

He doesn’t need you to say it.

Without a word, he sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he yanks the shirt over his head. The fabric falls to the floor, and for a moment, you just stare—you’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never yours.

You gently press against his shoulder, coaxing him to lie back down, and he does so, collapsing against the pillows. You swing one leg over, your thighs bracketing his hips, but you hover just above him—close enough to feel his heat, yet far enough to let him breathe. You lean down to reclaim his mouth, your hands framing his face. The kiss deepens, and you tilt your head to better taste him, to feel more of him. He gasps into your mouth, one hand slipping to your lower back, the other lowering—slow, unsure—to brush against your bare thigh, the contact making you shiver.

And still, his hand doesn’t wander, doesn’t explore. It lingers like he’s afraid of being told to stop.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your breaths mingling between kisses. Your hand covers his where it rests against your leg, and you guide it higher, to your hip, where your skin is warmer.

You hold his gaze.  “You can touch me, Caleb.” Your voice is soft, “Wherever you want.”

His eyes widen slightly, color blooming high on his cheeks. His fingers flex against your skin, then he speaks, “I don’t… I’ve never—” He swallows hard, and you see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, not at you, but at himself, at his own nerves.

“I know,” you whisper, your hand slipping up to cradle his jaw, your lips brushing just beneath his ear. “It’s okay.”

Then, slowly, you lower yourself until your hips meet his, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against you. His head falls back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. Heat blooms through your belly at the contact, and your hips rock forward just enough to make him shudder.

His hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still. “Wait—wait.”

You freeze, pulse thrumming in your ears. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he says, eyes snapping open. “Just… let me—” He swallows, his voice dropping to a plea. “Let me do this right.”

You smile, and brush his hair away from his eyes. “There’s no right, Caleb. Just us.”

He exhales, nodding, and then his hips roll upward tentatively, the friction drawing a gasp from both of you. His thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips as they continue to move against him in a slow, rolling rhythm. The thin barrier of fabric between you—his sweatpants, your pajama shorts—only amplifies the heat, the friction of every roll of your hips against his. His breath hitches, his eyes fluttering closed, as you grind down again, your own shorts riding up, the seam catching just right. He curses under his breath, hips jerking up to meet yours, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.

You want to feel all of him, nothing between. And the way his hands start to roam, still cautious, still learning, tells you he’s thinking the same thing.

You shift slowly, rising from his lap with a final roll of your hips that leaves him gasping, lips parted, brows knit. His hands fall away reluctantly, his eyes flickering with confusion and curiosity. Your hands trail down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers graze the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” His hand covers yours, trembling. “You don’t have to—”

You lift his palm to your lips, “I want to.” Your gaze holds his. “Let me show you how much.”

He swallows hard, but nods.

You hook your fingers into the fabric, tugging gently. He lifts his hips, letting you peel the layers away, his eyes never leaving your face. When you finally see him, all of him – hard, heavy, straining for you, you feel a fresh heat rise in your chest, in your belly, deeper.

When your eyes meet his again, you find him watching you just as intently—like he’s searching your face for any flicker of doubt. But there’s none. At first, his body tenses—thighs taut beneath your touch, hands clenching the sheets under him. He tries to hold still, tries to be polite, tries to hide the way his hips twitch when your lips press to the sensitive skin just below his navel.

“Breathe.” you whisper against his skin, and you feel it when he does - shoulders softening, jaw loosening, a low groan slipping past his lips as you finally take him into your mouth. You take your time, learning what makes his body melt under your touch. You relish the way his hips stutter when you swirl your tongue, the broken whimper he tries to smother with his fist, the devotion in his voice when he rasps your name.

Gradually, his iron grip on the sheets loosens, one hand resting on the back of your head, and his hips finally start to move to the rhythm you set.

His breath starts to come faster. You feel the change in his body—the way his thighs tense, how his fingers flex and twist in the sheets. “Wait—” His voice is rough. “If you keep going, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You slow, just for a moment, lifting your eyes to his flushed face. You reach for him, one hand sliding up his stomach, calming. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the sharp cut of his hipbone. “Let me take care of you.”

He groans at that, head turning into the pillow. He doesn’t speak again, but his muscles start to twitch, his legs falling wider, hips stuttering as your mouth picks up the pace. His moans become deeper, more raw, and then your name spills from his lips again.

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

You hum in acknowledgment, not letting up, your hands gripping his hips as he shudders beneath you, and then—he falls apart. You taste him on your tongue, feel every desperate pulse of release as his thighs tremble beneath your hands, coming undone in your mouth—helpless and wholly yours.

You don’t pull away. You stay with him through it, coaxing him through the final tremors. You only ease off when he makes the faintest sound of overstimulation, brushing your lips one last time to the hollow of his hip before sitting up.

Caleb is panting, eyes closed, arm thrown over his face.

But when you crawl back up his body, he opens his arms instinctively, pulling you into his chest, where you hear his heart is thundering under your ear. And after a long pause, his hand cups your cheek and kisses you softly, tasting himself on your lips.

His breath is still uneven, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. But he sits up, and for a second his eyes search yours again—asking permission without words. You nod once, and his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

He pulls it up slowly, his eyes tracking the reveal of your stomach, the curve of your breast, watching the way your chest rises and falls a little faster under his gaze. His hands tremble, just slightly, and you can see it - that mixture of reverence and disbelief in his eyes. He bends to kiss you again, before his mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, the flutter of your pulse.

He guides you onto your back, and shifts to follow, half-hovering over you. His lips trail kisses along your neck, your breasts. You arch into him, a gasp escaping as his tongue flicks over your nipple, and he hums in response, the vibration rippling through you.

His hands move lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He pauses, “Is this okay?”

You nod, your voice failing you, and lift your hips. He slides the shorts down, his knuckles grazing your thighs, his breath hitching when you’re finally bare. For a moment, he just stares. Fading moonlight spills across your body, catching the sheen of arousal between your thighs. A shaky exhale escapes him as he drags a single finger across the wetness, his touch featherlight.

But before he goes further, before his mouth finds its way to where you’re already pulsing for him, something else catches his eye. The faint scar across your knee. Fading now, but still there. His thumb brushes gently along the uneven line, before he leans forward and presses a kiss to it, the silent apology making your heart flutter.

Then his mouth drifts lower, lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. The first flick of his tongue on your folds is so startlingly gentle you flinch. A soft laugh escapes you, breathless and giddy, goosebumps blooming on your skin.

Caleb stills, lifting his head, brows creased in confusion.

“You’re tickling me,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair in reassurance.

He huffs a laugh against your skin. “Got it,” he murmurs. His mouth presses more firmly, his hands holding your hips as his tongue parts your folds and he groans at the first taste. Your back arches off the bed, a moan slipping out, and it spurs him on. One hand stays braced on your thigh, the other moves to gently trace one fingertip around your entrance, testing. You whisper yes, please, and that’s all it takes. He sinks a finger in, his eyes flicking up to watch the way your face shifts—lips parted, brows gently pulled, the rise and fall of your chest now uneven.

His mouth finds your clit, more confident now. The heat of his tongue, the wet pressure of his lips - it’s clumsy but it’s honest, driven by need and the desire to learn what makes you tremble. Then his finger finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you fist your hand in his hair, the one that makes your toes curl. You whisper yes, yes, yes, and you swear you feel him smile.

His free hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers against your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasps, and you force your eyes open, “Want to see you.”

Your body is starting to unravel beneath him, soft moans spilling from your lips, your thighs trembling.

“Another,” you pant, and he obeys instantly, adding a second finger. His rhythm stutters at first, but you guide him with whispered pleas, your hips rolling against his hand. His tongue flicks faster, his fingers pumping in a deep, steady curl, and you’re suddenly so close to the edge. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, and he growls against you, as if your climax is his own.

And when you fall apart with his name on your lips and your hands tangled with his, Caleb doesn’t stop. He holds you through it, lets you ride it out, his fingers easing only when your thighs start to shake, when your hips twitch with overstimulation. He pulls back, resting his forehead against your inner thigh, his breaths ragged. His erection strains against the sheets, but his focus still on you, always on you, even as his hand trembles where it grips yours.

You pull him up, his body collapsing over yours, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hips grind reflexively against your thigh, a broken noise escaping him, but he doesn’t push. Just holds you, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, your hands cradling his damp hair.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breath and skin and the quietness of the morning twilight.

His fingertips trace along the curve of your side, not teasing, just feeling. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then he murmurs—soft, regretful, honest:

“I should’ve been your first.”

The words make your heart skip a beat. Still, the way he says it isn’t bitter. There’s no accusation in his voice. Only ache.

You draw back just enough to meet his eyes, your palm resting flat on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Then be my last.” You whisper.

His breath hitches, eyes widening for a split second. He presses a kiss to your temple, before he meets your eyes again.

“Do you… have anything?” A pause, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Protection?”

You pause for a moment. Then you nod, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

“Left drawer,” you whisper.

He hesitates, his thumb circling your hipbone. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You press a kiss to his furrowed brow. “But I want this.”

He shifts to reach for it, but you catch his wrist. “Wait.”

His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowed.

You trace the skin with your thumb, suddenly too sheepish to meet his gaze. “We don’t need it.”

He stills at your tone. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." You finally meet his gaze, “If it’s you… I don’t want anything between us.”

He exhales, shakily, the tension in his shoulders softening as his arms wrap around you again.

When your legs shift, parting around his hips, you feel the hard length of him press against your entrance, and it pulls a soft gasp from you both.

Caleb stills. One hand rests by your head, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking softly across your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, threading your fingers into his hair, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He exhales slowly, trembling slightly as he reaches between you, lining himself up. The head of him nudges your entrance, already wet and aching for him. You feel the pressure first, a stretch that makes your breath catch. He sinks in just a little—then stops immediately when you tense.

“Too much?” he breathes.

You shake your head, running a hand down his back. “No… keep going.”

Inch by inch, his body presses into yours, your warmth pulling him in, taking him deeper. His jaw clenches, a guttural sound caught in his throat as your walls flutter around him, as your hand curls over his bicep for something. His restraint is palpable, sweat beading at his temples as he presses deeper, his hips rolling in shallow strokes until he’s sheathed fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His necklace rests warm against your collarbone, the metal shifting slightly as his chest heaves above yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his lips grazing your temple.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

His thrusts start slow, each one sinking deeper than the last, his eyes locked on yours as if searching for permission with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck,” he grits out suddenly, halting his movements with a trembling inhale. His entire body shudders as he lowers his forehead to your shoulder, nose brushing your throat, lips finding your pulse.

“I need a second…” His voice is breathless. “I don’t want this to end yet.”

You cradle his jaw, lifting his face up so you can look at him. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Just be here. With me.”

His gaze falters, then finds yours again. He draws back just enough to move again, slow at first, like he’s trying to find a rhythm that won’t break him.

One of his hands tangles with yours, fingers lacing tightly together as he presses it into the pillow above your head. The other slips between your bodies until his thumb finds you, pressing a gentle, slow circle over your clit—and it draws a gasp from you, your thighs tensing around his hips.

“Like that?” His voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathe, hips chasing the movement of his hand. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he leans in to kiss you again—messy now, all teeth and parted mouths. He keeps moving inside you, each thrust dragging along your sweet spots, and the rhythm of his thumb against your clit grows more confident, bolder with every breathless moan you give him. He watches you with blown pupils, flicking between your face and the place where your bodies meet, as if committing every detail of your pleasure to memory.

His forehead drops to yours, the weight of his body pressing deliciously down as his thumb circles faster, more intently, chasing the way your thighs begin to tremble, the way your grip on his hand tightens.

Then his hips shift—just a little, but enough for a sharp discomfort to shoot through you. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a soft, involuntary “ah—” escaping your throat.

He stops immediately. Every muscle in his body locks, his expression flashing from concentration to concern in an instant. “Shit—did I hurt you?” he asks, breath still ragged.

You shake your head quickly, already reaching for his face, your palm cradling his cheek. “No, no,” you whisper. “Just... not like that.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heels pressing against the small of his back, gently urging him into a better angle. “Here,” you guide, your voice low and coaxing. “A little lower. Like that.”

He swallows hard, still frozen in place, but the panic softens as he watches you, sees that you still want this. He nods, his throat working with the effort to calm himself.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I promise.”

He exhales on the word promise, and then he moves again. His brows draw together, not in worry now, but in focus, lips brushing your cheek as he resumes the rhythm that had your body unraveling.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he grinds deeper, the angle just there, the friction so exquisite your vision blurs.

“Caleb—” you gasp, voice cracking as the pleasure rises sharp and fast inside you.

“I know, I know.” he rasps. His hips snap harder, deeper, the slap of skin echoing as you spiral closer. “That’s it,” he grits out, his thumb pressing harder. “Let go. Let go for me.”

When your thighs lock around his waist, when your walls clench around him in a sudden, overwhelming spasm, your release rips through you - deep, intense, every nerve alight. Your back arches off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as you pulse around him, your fingers clawing into the sweat-slick skin of his back.

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic. With a shattered groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his hips jerking as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath a ragged pant against your lips.

For a heartbeat, you’re both still, just a tangle of sweat and shared breath, his necklace resting between your breasts, now warm from the heat of your skin. Then he collapses against you, his weight comforting and grounding, his lips brushing your collarbone. His arms curl tightly around you, one hand tracing slow, mindless patterns over your hip, and the other splayed beneath your shoulder. You exhale slowly, your fingers sliding through his damp hair.

You’re not sure how long you lie there like that, tangled and breathless, your hearts gradually slowing from their frantic rhythm. The first sliver of sunlight filters through your curtains, golden and gentle. You tilt your chin to study him, how sunlight looks like powdered gold over his lashes.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, because it’s true, and because you know it’ll fluster him.

His nose scrunches, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

“You are.” You brush the hair from his temple. “Like a pouty Renaissance angel.”

He only chuckles, burying his face against your chest.

You tilt your head to kiss his temple, your voice a soft murmur against his skin. “Come on. Let’s wash up.”

He groans. “Or we could stay like this forever.”

“You’re sweating all over me.” you protest, already nudging at his side.

He lifts his head just enough to squint at you. “You liked it when I was sweating five minutes ago.”

You roll your eyes, pushing him off with a laugh as you both untangle from the bed. The sheets are a mess, still warm with everything that happened, and your thighs ache, making you bite your lip as you stand. You grab a towel and toss one at him too. He catches it, looking far too smug for someone who was blushing just an hour ago.

As you step under the warm spray, Caleb holding your hand for stability, something crosses your mind.

“Hey… did you really drool on the pillow?”

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤATTENTION BABYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : When you're too busy for them.

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Bruce was a busy man. A billionaire CEO, Gotham’s protector, and a single father to a hoard of emotionally volatile vigilantes. He understood the concept of being busy better than anyone.

That didn’t mean he liked it when it applied to you.

It had started simple. You’d been swamped with work, deadlines looming over you like a guillotine, and Bruce had been hovering. At first, it was subtle. A lingering gaze as you typed. The occasional brush of fingers when he brought you coffee. A deep, expectant silence as he stood behind you, arms crossed, waiting.

But then—then—it became insufferable.

"I'm working, Bruce," you mumbled, not even looking up from your laptop.

"You need to rest." His voice was that signature Batman growl, but you waved him off.

"I will. After this."

Wrong answer.

Bruce closed your laptop with a single, slow motion. The weight of his gaze was almost suffocating.

"Hey!" You tried to reopen it, but he placed a large, firm hand over the top.

"You’re done for the night."

"No, I'm not—"

"Yes. You are."

You glared at him. He stared back, completely unaffected. It was a battle of wills.

But then—because he’s a manipulative bastard—his hands slid to your shoulders, massaging the tension away with frustrating expertise. You let out an involuntary sigh. Damn him.

Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

"Take a break sweetheart."

"But—"

"I’ll make you a deal," he murmured, leaning down, lips brushing against your ear. "You take a break, come upstairs with me, and I won’t disable the WiFi for the rest of the night."

Your head snapped toward him. "You wouldn’t dare."

Bruce just raised a brow.

He absolutely would.

In the end, you found yourself naked in his arms on the bed, completely trapped as he murmured sweet nothing in your ear.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick is like a giant, overly muscular golden retriever with abandonment issues.

Which meant the moment you got busy and stopped giving him the attention he craved, he went through the five stages of grief.

Denial — "She’s just busy. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine." (Narrator: He was not fine.)

Anger — "Okay, but I’m literally her boyfriend??? Hello??? Where is my affection???"

Bargaining — "If you look at me for five seconds, I’ll do that thing you like—"

Depression — soft sighing noises in the background

Acceptance (fake) — "It’s okay. I didn’t need love anyway. I’ll just wither away like a Victorian child—"

At first, he tried the cute approach. He flopped dramatically onto the couch beside you, big blue eyes blinking up at you as he scooted closer.

"Hey."

"Hi," you muttered, not looking up from your paperwork.

"You’re working hard," he said, smiling.

"Yep."

"So hard."

"Mhm."

"...you wanna take a break?" He grinned, nudging you. "Maybe cuddle? Or make out? Or stare into each other's eyes for an unhealthy amount of time?"

You patted his cheek absentmindedly. "Not now, babe."

He rested his chin on your shoulder, warm breath tickling your neck. "I miss you."

You huffed a laugh. "Dick, I’m right here."

"Are you, though?" He suddenly was Infront of you, forcing you to face him. His arms came around you, caging you in as he pouted. "This is how close we should be."

You rolled your eyes. "Dick, I need to finish this."

"Finish me first," he said with a wiggle of his brows.

"Get out."

And that was when Dick entered his menace era.

Suddenly, your papers were gone.

Like, vanished.

"Richard," you said slowly, "where are my papers?"

"Who’s Richard?" he said, all faux innocence as he stretched his long arms behind his head.

You narrowed your eyes. "Pretty boy."

"Yes, angel?"

"My papers."

"Ohhh. Those." He grinned. "Guess you'll have to catch me if you want them back."

And just like that, he bolted.

You didn’t even chase him. You just texted Alfred. Five minutes later, he walked back in, grumbling, and handed you your papers like a scolded child.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason liked to pretend he don't like your attention.

But the moment you started prioritizing anything else? He was intolerable.

At first, he played it cool. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you work. Casual. Aloof. The picture of patience.

But then—then—you didn’t look up. Didn’t even glance his way.

And suddenly, Jason Todd, Red Hood, walking crime deterrent, was pouting.

"Whatcha doin’?"

"Work."

"How long you gonna be doin’ that?"

"A while."

"...so you’re just gonna sit there? Ignore me?"

"Jay," you sighed, rubbing your temples. "I love you, but please."

"Oh, please?" His eyes gleamed mischievously. "Damn. Didn’t know I was just a piece of meat to you, doll."

You groaned. "Jason."

"Jason," he mocked, deepening his voice dramatically. "God. You don’t even see me anymore. I could drop dead and you wouldn’t notice."

Without another word you just go back to work.

Just. Like. That.

He just watched you. Then he sighed loudly.

Nothing.

He groaned dramatically.

Still nothing.

Jason’s eye twitched.

Then, without warning, he snatched your laptop and slammed it shut.

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

Jason’s arms came around your chair, trapping you in place as he leaned in close, emerald eyes narrowed. "You forgot about me."

You blinked. "Jason—"

"Forgot. About. Me." He spoke slowly, as if the words physically pained him.

You gaped. "I was working!"

"You weren’t paying attention to me," he corrected.

You sighed. "Jason, you’re being dramatic—"

"Dramatic?!" He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. "Doll, you wound me."

You shot him a glare. "Do you need something?"

"Yeah," he said, grinning. "My bitch."

And then this giant of a man literally collapsed onto you, throwing himself across your lap like a spoiled cat.

"Jay—you're heavy!"

"Guess you’ll just have to hold me, then."

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Damian doesn’t ask for attention.

He demands it.

So when you started ignoring him, he didn’t pout like Dick, or whine like Jason.

No.

Damian stared.

Silently.

Unblinkingly.

For hours.

You had been working on something—completely oblivious to his growing impatience—finally you sighed and stretched—only to nearly jump out of your chair when you saw Damian standing in the shadows like some lurking cryptid.

"Jesus, Damian! You scared me!"

He tilted his head slightly, green eyes dark and unreadable. "You didn’t notice me?"

"...No?" You frowned, feeling a shiver run down your spine at his intense stare.

Damian’s frown deepened. That was unacceptable. You always noticed him. He always knew when you were in a room, and he expected the same.

You turned back to your laptop, completely oblivious to the way Damian’s jaw tensed.

"Take a break."

"…Damian."

"You are neglecting me."

Your eye twitched. "Neglecting?"

"Tt. I have been here for three hours."

That made you pause. "...you've been standing there the entire time?"

He didn't answer. He just stared.

"Okay, that’s creepy."

"Hn." He walked over, standing directly beside you. "You will cease working now."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Or what?"

Silence.

Then—your laptop was gone.

Like, just gone.

"Damian—!"

"You have no choice now," he said simply, kneeling before you with a pleased expression. "Now bless me with your lips beloved."

You later found your laptop in the bat cave. Behind five layers of security. It took you hours to get it back.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[classyrbf]

classmate!gojo part 3!

classmate!gojo who has been watching you from afar for the past week now. His eyes are always gravitating towards you in class, trying to catch any other possible connection. He’s try so hard to convince himself that you’re not his mystery girl, but at this point he should just accept it. The photo of your nails was proof enough, not to mention how much of a rush you were in. Neither of you have texted or exchanged photos since then, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t driving him crazy. Every single day since then he can’t get you off of his mind, getting so hard from the thought of you that he has to sneak away to rub one out to your pictures or videos. He just can’t help himself.

He watches you in class, in the cafe area, even sees you walking on campus, doing normal things. He would have never guessed in a million years you were the one he sought after so badly. You hide it so well. But he knows deep down under that good girl persona you have, there’s a slut waiting to caught, waiting to be fucked and used like you told him all those times over text. He’ll make you break. He sees you sitting on a bench on campus just scrolling through your phone, knowing this is the perfect time to execute his plan.

He finally breaks contact, sending you a video he took of himself last night.

gojo: i miss you

it was simple, but he was hoping it’d work. He watches intently, a small smile spreading across your face, though he’s unsure if it’s because of him

gojo: send me something, yeah? miss seeing you, baby

and like clock work, he sees you get up, heading towards the bathrooms inside one of the campus buildings. What else to do but follow. He sees you slip into the bathroom, and now he finally has you where he wants you.

you enter the bathroom, riddled with excitement that he finally texted you. Maybe he didn’t catch on that you were the one sending him photos. Good, it means you can have more fun. You enter the stall, replaying the video of him jerking off, putting the phone close to your ear so you can his moans. You smile, your hands finding themselves under your skirt, rubbing your clit through your clothed pussy. Little do you know he’s standing right outside the door, waiting for you.

You unbutton your shirt and grab onto your tits, massaging them in your hand while you send him a video. Quickly, you send him another of your wet panties, still rubbing your clit.

you: missed you too. can you tell?

and gojo can’t believe it when he receives the videos, chuckling to himself at how slutty you can be. He saves the videos nonetheless and puts his phone back in his pocket, the bathroom door opening, you walking out, completely caught off guard. Your heart thumps against your chest, mouth hanging open like you want to say something but nothing is coming out. All you know is that you can’t stop staring at him. He’s smirking at you, eyeing like a piece of candy as he moves closer towards you, leaning over to whisper in your ear, “I know you’re little secret.” You’re frozen, unable to do a thing. You couldn’t even deny it at this point. “Give em to me,” he demands.

“W-what?” You blink, voice barely above a whisper. He moves back, a smug smile on his stupidly pretty face. God, he smells so good. And his whispering? You’re even more wet than before. He knows what he’s doing to you.

“Your cute little panties. Give them to me.” He’s so casual about it and makes you even more nervous yet more intrigued. You turn to go back into the bathroom but he grabs your arm. “No, no, no. Do it right here.”

“But—” you look around to see if anyone else is around.

“What? Scared of getting caught? Sure weren’t thinking about that when you sent me all these videos and pictures. So, hand them over.” He watches as you slightly bend over, reaching under your skirt and gently pulling your panties down, letting them fall to your ankles. You sheepishly pick them up, they’re coated in your slick, an embarrassing sight. He grabs them from you, chuckling at the wet stain. “Wasn’t so hard, right?” He shoves them into his back pocket.You shake your head no, unable to keep eye contact with him. All the confidence you had over text has completely disappeared in the presence of him. What were you even thinking? He’s Gojo Satoru. “Thank you for these, baby.” He steps closer towards you, cornering you against the wall. “Send me something else later on tonight. Oh, and make sure to stop hiding that pretty face of yours too, okay? I wanna see everything.” He grabs your chin, tilting it up so you were looking at him.

“Why don’t you just fuck me already? We’ve both been waiting long enough,” you abruptly ask. It was taking everything in you not to drop on your knees and let him fuck your face.

“I can fuck you right here if I wanted to. You know how’ve riled up you’ve gotten me for all these weeks? I get so hard thinking about you that it hurts. I can’t fucking cum if it doesn’t involve you. You’ve taken over my mind, made me go on this chase to figure out who you were. So, if I wanna make you wait a little more, then I’ll fucking do it.” He gritted his teeth, gripping your chin slightly tighter. “Remember, only good girls get rewarded.” He smirked, pulling away from you before walking out of the building like nothing happened.

previous part

[nikito0x]

Alternatively: Your significant other was never unfaithful.

When they enter through that door, they look heartbroken. When they see you, they look scared and as if they are dreading whatever conversation will follow.

Your priorities are straight. Your first instinct? To comfort them, reassure them that everything will be alright, whatever may have happened. You will be there for them. You hold them as they start tearing up and desperately cling to you.

Their sobs break your heart. You promise to yourself, whoever dared hurt them will pay. The trash who caused this will learn the true meaning of a monster. They will not find a safe place on this earth ever again.

After your love has calmed down, you wipe their tears, sit them down at the table, prepare their favorite drink and snack. You grab the bouquet and finally present it to them. They seem surprised, even shocked.

"You waited for me..? All this time?"

Of course you did. You searched for them, reached out to every resource possible. They are still your spouse, your beloved. There was never any doubt about that.

They almost start crying again but manage to calm themselves before that.

Then, the whole story comes out.

How they were chosen for an impossible quest. How they had gained friends and teammates to help them along the way. How their mentor seemed kind and generous, but in truth manipulated them into being in just the right spot to become a sacrificial lamb.

When they'd refused and tried finishing the quest in another way, almost everyone had shunned them. When they had succeeded anyway, without their ex-comrades' stupid plan, your beloved had been framed, made out to be the enemy's accomplice, while the betrayers enjoyed the rewards of your lover's success. They had escaped before they were wrongfully imprisoned but had no idea where to go from here.

You hold them and you reassure them, everything will be alright, you promise. After they have calmed down again, you finally pull away. A cruel smirk stretches across your face, something your lover has never seen before on you, and you finally tell them about your escapades during those five years.

You tell them about your new shiny leadership position. You tell them about your power, your connections, your wealth. You tell them that even if they were truly guilty, their ex-friends could never touch them as long as you're around. You tell them that no one and nothing would be able to as much as breathe in their direction if they just said the word.

And since you have your finger in every pie out there, you could make it very difficult, if not completely impossible for the trash to get away. They will never live in peace again, if you had anything to say about it.

Your spouse is shocked, amazed. They didn't think there was a way out for them. That they would just end up dragging you with them if they stayed but... But now?

Hope blooms in their eyes, a smile stretches over their lips, dimples dent their cheeks. They are the most beautiful sight you've ever seen.

They say they're proud of you and your accomplishments. They thank you for staying, when it seemed like no one else had. They have missed you and your dumb jokes and they wish they had just stayed in the first place. They're sorry.

You forgive them. You never blamed them to begin with.

Now.

Time to plan how to completely and utterly ruin those friends of theirs... After you finish spoiling and pampering your lover first, though. That might take a while... Maybe you should ring up your assistant to start on the preparations while you're busy.

For three years you’ve had an uneventful marriage with your spouse when one day they become the Chosen One. Immediately setting off on their journey, you don’t hear anything from them for five years. Then one day they reappear with a sheepish look on their face asking to speak to you.

[suguboos]

Florist reader! X Nanami fluff pls

WHERE THIS FLOWER BLOOMS—featuring N. KENTO

author’s note: i did this w papamin, hope you don’t mind nonnie :3

“papa, look.”

young yuji shook his father’s pant leg in an attempt to garner his attention, proudly holding up a bean seedling when he’d managed to receive it.

nanami took the plastic pot from his chubby hands, examining it before glancing back over at yuji, “school project?”

“uh huh, uh huh! mines gonna be the biggest one there, like jack and the beanstalk big,” the little boy stretched his arms out to emphasize his point, a tired smile appearing on nanami’s face at his son’s proclamation.

but as the days passed by, yuji started losing hope.

nearly three weeks had gone by and the plant didn’t seem to be growing an inch, the leaves starting to turn brown and wilt. “papa,” he extended the pot over to his father when he came into check his homework, “it’s not growing.”

nanami took the potted plant from him, “have you been watering it?” in his mind, he assumed yuji must’ve forgotten after a couple days. he dipped his hand into the soil, immediately feeling it moist to the touch.

“..i’ve been giving it a cup everyday,” yuji muttered sheepishly. now, nanami wasn’t much of a botanist, but even he could tell that the plant clearly wasn’t happy with that.

“it’s okay, i’m sure we can fix it. we’ll take it to a florist tomorrow,” he assured, quickly easing his son’s worries, “just don’t water it anymore until then.”

from the moment that they stepped foot into your little shop, they were welcomed by the sight of various different flowers blooming in nearly every corner of the room. they were well taken care of, a couple of seedlings even having a small radio next to them to stimulate growth.

“hi, welcome in,” you wiped your hands on your apron as you approached the duo, “is there anything in particular you’re looking for or someone in particular?”

“no, nothing like that. we’re here because my son’s having problems growing out his bean plant, i was hoping you’d be able to help,” nanami explained, holding out the seedling for you to take.

you took the plastic pot from him, placing it on the counter. noticing the same things that nanami had last night—from the discoloration of the leaves to the mushy stem. “he’s been watering it everyday,” the older man muttered upon noticing the furrow in your brow.

a low wince left your lips when you took the plant out of the moist soil, a frown making itself prominent on the young boy’s face. “so, if you look closely, the dark color of the roots means they started to rot,” you explained, setting the plant down.

yuji’s bottom lip started to quiver, gripping onto his father’s khakis for dear life. “there’s nothing you can do?” nanami questioned, pushing his glasses up before folding his arms across his chest.

“since the rot’s pretty visible on the roots, i’d have to say that the plant’s beyond saving,” you responded, “but i can help you out with growing a new one if that’s something you’re interested in.”

“please, papa,” yuji looked up at his father with a pitiful expression on his face, looking like he was about five seconds away from breaking out into tears.

nanami let out a quiet sigh before he glanced over at you, “please give us a new plant.”

you came back with a small pot and a bean seed, packing a bit of soil into the bottom. “so, how do we know when it’s time to change its pot?” nanami asked, watching each step with careful precision.

“so, they’re usually okay for about 4-6 weeks. if you notice the roots crowding on top of the soil or coming out of the drainage holes, then it’s definitely time to transport,” you explained, packing the seed onto the soil before giving it about an inch of water, “when that’s time, the roots should be strong enough to sustain the plant.”

nanami nodded, taking notes on a notepad before setting it back into his pocket. “you’re free to come back if you have any questions or if you just wanna make sure that the plant’s okay,” you gave him a small smile, handing the pot over to the small boy.

it was almost like he was never upset, taking the plant with the utmost care in the world. “and uh, try not to water it too much. keep the soil moist for the first week and then just do it every three days,” you called out before they left, giving them a small wave.

nanami took you up on your offer the next week, stepping foot into your shop after his shift at the office. he didn’t really have any questions per se, but he found your shop to be the escape that he was looking for. it didn’t hurt that you were also the only other person apart from yuji that didn’t want to make him rip his hair out.

“you said to come in,” nanami cleared his throat when he stepped foot in front of the counter.

“i did. any questions that you may have?” you gave him that same polite smile, barely leaning against the counter.

he nodded, “i was hoping you could explain to me how the growth process is.”

nanami knew. he knew he could’ve just searched it up on google and he would’ve gotten the same results. but he found himself hooked on every word you were saying, your voice soothing the stress he had at work today. he found himself wishing it was you he was listening to instead of his annoying clients.

as the weeks progressed, the seedling began blooming into a plant. and with that, a slight romance between you and kento (he insisted). a romance that neither acknowledged but were both painfully aware of—the slight brush of fingers, the awkward hesitation before reluctantly pulling them away, the shoulder grabbing.

conversations that weren’t simply about yuji’s bean plant anymore but rather about each other’s personal lives, conversations that you found yourself lost in for hours on end.

“what made you decide to want to open your own shop?” the two of you were settled outside a cafe once your shift ended, yuji snacking on a muffin while the two of you talked.

you tapped your chin, letting out a quiet hum, “i was interested in flowers and growing them, but i never considered it a career path. i tried doing nursing, then communications, and nothing really stuck out to me. i saw that the local was open for renting and decided to try it out.”

“it’s a beautiful shop you have there. as selfish as it may sound, i’m glad that those career paths didn’t work out. otherwise we might’ve never met.”

“i’m glad they didn’t work out either,” you let out a quiet laugh of your own, a sound that nanami found himself wanting to hear more of. “how’d you get into stocks?”

nanami let out an exasperated huff, going into detail and talking about his long list of regretful career choices before diverting the topic onto something else. the two of you talked up until the cafe closed, and even then, nanami offered to walk you back home.

simply to be a gentleman, of course. not because he found himself wanting to spend time with you, no. and definitely not because yuji wanted to be around you nearly as much as he found himself wanting to be. nope. definitely not.

as much as he tried to deny his growing feelings, seeing you at least once a week had become a part of his routine. finding himself more irritable if he didn’t get his fix. until, that was, yuji had to submit his project in. giving nanami no more excuses to go into your shop.

that was, unless…

yuji skipped into the shop with nanami trailing behind him, a smile from cheek to cheek on his face. “hi,” he propped himself on the counter, looking over at the book you had opened in faux interest while he held a bouquet of yellow lilies.

“hey,” you returned the greeting with a smile of your own, “i’m guessing your project went well?”

“uh huh, mine was the biggest one there! thank you!” yuji ran up behind the counter, wrapping his arms around your leg. nanami was about to protest before he saw you wrap your own arms around the boy, welcoming the embrace.

instead, he settled for, “yuji, you had a question you wanted to ask them.”

“oh, yeah, me and papa wanted to know if you wanted to have ice cream with us! since i did so well on the project,” yuji beamed up, looking up at you with puppy eyes. he held out the lilies towards you, “papa picked these out just for you. i think he likesss you. saw him cheesing when you texted.” (or at least yuji assumed it was you; his papa didn’t have many friends).

you didn’t need to know that he’d tried to grow his own—only to have the same green thumb that his son did despite buying five different gardening books. not now, anyways.

somehow you doubted he was cheesing but you nodded along anyways. you glanced over at nanami, raising a brow before asking yuji, “you think your papa likes me?”

and you could’ve sworn you caught a hint of a blush on nanami’s cheeks before he cleared his throat, facing over to the gardenias. avoiding looking at you at every cost.

you leaned down, cupping a hand over yuji’s ear as if it were a heavily guarded secret, “i think i like your papa too,” your whisper was loud enough for nanami to pick up, you made sure of it, “i’d love to get ice cream with you.”

[snail-day]

Rahhh I feel like a broken record saying this, but I just, ugh. Satoru is just such a yearner. Masks himself with smiles, pretending there’s nothing behind those pretty eyes. But really, he craves love. Craves it so deeply that the very act of being loved repulses him. It’s too much. He simply doesn't know what to do with it.

I just think Satoru in love is a mess, not in the way people expect. He’s not stammering over his words, not showing up at your door with hundreds of roses. He doesn’t have time for grand gestures like that.

He’s the type to stare at his phone longer than he should, the screen time stacking up in seconds. Just scrolling through your Instagram, pausing on that photo you always say you’re going to delete. He really wishes you wouldn’t because while you see imperfection, he sees someone who might as well have hung up the stars.

He’s the type to hover over his keyboard, those slender fingers typing and deleting the same message five times, wondering what would be too much. Would a heart emoji scare you off? Do you actually care about what he ate today?

Kicking his feet under the blankets, a few roll-arounds, when you text him “Goodnight” or “Good morning.” He bites down on a smile when you call first, just to tell him about a report or how your students are doing.

The Satoru with a crush: waking up earlier than necessary, neglecting the sleep his body begs for just to see if you’re online. If that typing bubble will pop up. If maybe - just maybe - you’re retyping too. If you crave him, even a fraction of the way he yearns for you.

He’s brushing his teeth at 7 a.m., frustrated, because you still haven’t texted. It’s only been two hours but it feels like forever. A foamy grin takes over his face when he sees the typing bubble. He checks, read receipts off. Just in case. He can't be caught looking desperate. Can't break down that wall just yet. Using his ego as a barrier to the real him.

Then the chime. Your message. Choking on toothpaste. Satoru has to pace his apartment like an idiot to calm down. A little circle around the coffee table, just to burn off the nerves. The soft patter of his giddy footsteps. Then he finally types back, “Good morning :)", though what he wants to say is “Did you sleep well?” or “Did you dream of me?”

And then, his smile falters. Do you think of him as Satoru, or as Gojo Satoru? Because there’s a difference. To mask the loneliness, swallowing the negative thoughts, he imagines you still curled up in bed, cheek smooshed into your pillow. Wonders how warm you’d be. If he were there, would you two stay wrapped up for an extra hour? Would you press a sleepy kiss to his cheek? Would you peck his face as many times as he would to yours?

When the silly little crush turns into something more - when it becomes a relationship.

Your mug sits next to his in the cabinet now. You brush your teeth together in the mornings. A playful nudge here and there. Giggling when he tries (and fails) to perfect an omelet. He makes character bentos for you on his day off, baby-blues crinkling with every smile.

And still - Satoru tries to play it cool. He wants to love you like a dog loves its favorite person, unconditionally, shamelessly, wholly. He wants to claim you as his and forget the rest of the world.

But he’s scared.

Scared that if he reaches too far, you won’t be there in the morning. That he’ll lose the luxury of placing his toothbrush next to yours. That there won’t be any more grocery trips where you both pause in the sweets aisle for far too long.

Scared you’ll pull away the second he starts reaching for miles instead of inches.

So he smiles. He jokes. Keeps the Gojo Satoru mask on. Because love is terrifying. It’s carving out your heart and handing it to someone, hoping they don’t drop it.

The first argument starts over something stupid. Most do. But it spirals. You don’t understand why he’s distant. Why he won’t let you all the way in. And he doesn’t know how to tell you that he’s terrified.

Because loving you means showing you the sharpest parts of himself. The ones buried behind smug grins and careless jokes. And he’s not sure you’ll still love him once you see them.

So he says something awful.

“Let’s break up.”

The words leave him in shards, clawing their way out of his throat. Words he doesn’t mean. A defense mechanism that works too well.

You freeze. He sees it in your eyes, shock, then hurt, then that dreadful look like you’re already pulling away.

And maybe… maybe that’s what he wants.

Because if he ends it now, if he’s the one who walks away, then he doesn’t have to know what it feels like to lose you for real. Doesn’t have to picture your body in a morgue because he couldn’t save you. Doesn’t have to imagine the world moving on without you in it.

It’s easier this way. That’s what he keeps telling himself.

Even as he stares at that imperfect photo of you still sitting on your Instagram while all the imperfect ones of you together are long gone. Scrubbed clean, no more cheeky smiles. No more subtle photos of you both on dates. As if pretending you never happened will make it hurt less. But it doesn’t. He’s left behind with nothing but the silence. And the tears that fall quietly onto the screen, threatening to like that photo from ages ago.

You forgot your toothbrush. But you left your house key.

His bed is still cold.

And god, he wishes you’d just send one more text.

[berfgrimm]

nothing else matters | choi seunghyun

pairing: choi seunghyun x f!reader warnings: smut, oral, fluff, sneaking around, jiyong's sister!reader notes: this one is going to be part of a series that i'm really looking forward to working on. i hope you all enjoy! as always, thank you for reading and taking the time to like/comment/reblog. it means a lot to me.

You’d been secretly sleeping with your brother’s best friend for months. You weren’t proud of it, but you weren’t ashamed either — something about sneaking around made things more exciting. Besides, it was all for fun. It started with making out when you’d both had a few drinks, then moved to sober kisses when he would visit you at your apartment. It was only a couple of weeks of this before it moved to occasional late night hook ups at each other’s homes, sneaking out before the sun came up.

Neither of you ever discussed what you were doing. You simply enjoyed the time alone with one another and acted casual around everyone else. It was just a way to pass the time with someone you cared about, but you found yourself missing him when you couldn’t see him. You’re too scared to bring it up to him, for fear of him not feeling the same way, so you settle for what you have, hoping that it will be enough.

Today, the band is recording a few songs for the new album, and when you arrive under the guise of visiting your brother, Jiyong, he and the others are preparing to break for lunch. Everyone except Seunghyun, who Daesung informed you was hard at work and would not break until he completed his adlibs.

You chat with the group for a few moments before waving them off to lunch, saying that you’d stop by to say Seunghyun before leaving yourself. Once you are sure the others have left for lunch, you find your way to the control room for the booth at the far end of the building, where you know Seunghyun will still be working. He always favored this room to record his adlibs, because it was smaller and more secluded, affording him the opportunity to better focus without his bandmates distracting him. You almost feel bad about the thoughts your mind is currently feeding you.

“Hey,” you say, once you step into the room, closing the door gently behind you. Seunghyun, who is sitting at the control panel, turns quickly in his chair, his eyes widened in surprise.

“Hey,” Seunghyun says, glancing around to make sure you were alone, as if anyone else would be hiding the small space of the room. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped by to see Ji,” you reply, but then shrug your shoulders. “I thought I’d come say ‘hi’, at least. I don’t want to interrupt.”

It’s a lie, and judging by the look on Seunghyun’s face, he can tell. You didn’t need to come to the studio today to see your brother, but you needed to see Seunghyun. The group has been overwhelmingly busy and you’ve had less time to spend with Seunghyun.

“Are the others–?”

“They left for lunch just now,” you say, grabbing the only other chair in the room and rolling it closer to Seunghyun before sitting, merely a foot away from him. “Can I watch? I promise I’ll be quiet.” The small smile on Seunghyun’s lips is noticeable, but he quickly looks back towards the computer screen to hide his amusement.

“We both know you aren’t capable of being quiet,” he mutters.

“Oh, me?” you laugh. “What about you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Seunghyun says, still focusing on the screen.

You know he’s teasing, but you also know his neck looks really good right now, and that if you get him in exactly the right spot, you’ll prove your point. You grab onto the armrest of his chair, leaning your body closer so you’re able to press your lips to the spot where his jaw ends, leaving a playful bite. He jumps at the sudden contact, hissing your name as quietly as he can.

“Anyone can walk in,” he whispers.

“I told you, they’re at lunch,” you mutter, your mouth creeping closer to the spot on his neck that drives him crazy. He’s tense, his hands gripping the end of the armrests, still not convinced that you’re alone. “Do you want me to stop?” you ask, your tone more serious now as you pause to wait for his response. He lets out a sigh, tilting his head to the side to bare more of his neck to you.

“Please don’t leave a mark,” he whispers, his voice deeper now. “They’ll never let me hear the end of it until I tell them where I got it.” You chuckle quietly, returning to your previous task of kissing and biting along his pulse.

When your mouth finally reaches the spot you’re in search of, you bite just a little harder, earning the groan you were after. You chuckle against his skin, shifting towards him more to get a better hold on him. Placing one of your hands on the other side of his head to hold him still, your other hand rests high on his thigh, squeezing softly.

“Don’t get any big ideas,” Seunghyun warns. “They could come back at any minute.”

“I guess I’ll have to work fast, then, hm?” you reply, leaving bites along his jaw.

Seunghyun rolls his head towards you, pressing his lips to yours to kiss you deeply. As soon as his tongue slips into your mouth, it’s as though you switched places, with you being the one weak from his mouth, though it wouldn’t be the first time. You focus long enough to slip your hand up his thigh, pressing to his crotch to find that he’s already getting hard.

“Fuck, baby, c’mon,” he breathes against your lips.

Your mind goes blank for a moment. It’s the first time he’s called you anything besides your name. Sure, he would occasionally use other, more respectful honorific titles with you, but he would do the same with everyone, so it never felt different. But this? Hearing him call you something so casual yet so romantic sends your body into overdrive, making you whimper against his lips. You want to do everything you can to hear him say it again.

Seunghyun spreads his legs wider, so you continue to rub him through his jeans. When he breaks from the kiss, breathless as he looks down at your hand, you kiss his jaw again, desperation taking over. Seunghyun sets his hand on the back of your head, guiding your mouth back to the spot on his neck you were attacking before – you take the hint and start sucking softly on his skin.

“Your mouth is going to get me in trouble,” he mumbles, his fingers gently rubbing your scalp.

Through the sound isolated walls of the control room, you can hear another voice calling out what sounds like Seunghyun’s name. You both freeze in a panic, hoping that maybe they won’t come to this room, but the voice starts to get closer, and Seunghyun looks terrified. If you get caught, and Jiyong finds out…

“The desk,” Seunghyun says, scooting his chair back enough to give you the space to crawl under the control desk.

Once you settle in what you can only call a nest of wires, Seunghyun scoots his chair back under the desk, blocking you in and hopefully hiding you from the view of the owner of this voice. He quickly shoves your chair away from him, and adjusts his attention forward just as the door to the room opens.

“Hey, man,” the voice says, as the person walks into the room. You don’t recognize the voice as that of your brother, nor is it Taeyang or Daesung, so you attribute it to one of the engineers of the studio. “Where is everyone else?” they ask.

“Oh, uh, out to lunch,” Seunghyun replies, his voice noticeably shaky.

The man responds in kind, but you don’t hear what he says, your mind preoccupied with your proximity to Seunghyun’s crotch. The idea that pops into your head is devious, and you’re sure it will be quite risky, but you can’t stop yourself. You press your hands against Seunghyun’s inner thighs, urging them wider apart so you could scoot closer. When your fingers find the button of his jeans, he tenses, and you can hear him feign a cough to disguise his surprise.

The two men continue to chat, but you stop listening altogether, instead dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You’re thankful he chose to wear jeans that were even slightly looser than normal today, which gave you more room to slip your hand into his jeans to pull him free from his briefs. Seunghyun scoots his chair forward, inching closer towards you, and you smile at the subtle invitation.

It only takes a few strokes of your hand with your mouth softly sucking on his tip before he’s fully erect, leaking precum onto your tongue. His legs are fidgeting, but you can tell he’s trying to stay as still as possible to avoid getting caught. You can hear the way he speaks is strained, and thankfully the other man hasn’t caught on yet, but you don’t know how much longer Seunghyun will be able to keep quiet.

As much as you know you moan, Seunghyun is always much more vocal – you’re sure you could get off to a recording of his moans alone. His voice is always so deep, and his moans match the same tone, rumbling through his body to the point you can feel the vibrations when he’s inside of you. You feel yourself getting wet just from the thought of his moans.

You give him more languid strokes, licking your lips as you watch the way he looks in your hand. In the cramped space beneath the desk, you can’t get to Seunghyun like you really want to, not without giving yourself away, so you settle for what you can do. You angle your head forward again, taking his head into your mouth, sucking harder now as your hand strokes him a little faster.

“Are you okay?”

The man is catching onto the way Seunghyun is acting, and you’re tempted to push him even more just to add to the risk. But Seunghyun mutters a quick excuse about being scattered from how difficult the recording has been. His shaky voice tries to disguise just how turned on he is so you risk it, taking him a little deeper into your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks.

“Have you eaten today?” the man pushes.

“I think I’m about to,” Seunghyun replies.

You smirk around him, trying to hide the excited giggle that bounces through your insides. When Seunghyun’s hand slips under the desk, pressing to the back of your head, you find it more difficult to hide your own sounds of pleasure. You find your breathing getting a little louder, so you pull him from your mouth, stroking him from head to base with each motion. Seunghyun’s hand maneuvers from the back of your head, to your jaw, as if he wants to touch you but he doesn’t know where – you get an idea.

When his thumb brushes over your chin, you part your lips, waiting for his fingers to near your mouth again. When his digits try to trace your lips, you tip your head forward and tease his fingers with the tip of your tongue. You feel him tense again, so you keep pushing, taking them into your mouth, and he responds by carefully touching your tongue. Your mouth closes around his digits, sucking softly as you continue to stroke him as best as you are able to.

You need a little bit of relief yourself, so you unfasten your jeans with your free hand, carefully adjusting your position so you can slide your hand into your panties. As soon as your fingers make contact with your wetness, you pull in a small gasp, which Seunghyun thankfully quickly covers up by clearing his throat.

“Alright, man, I’m heading out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your heart rate increases when you hear the man excuse himself from the room, but you continue to tease both yourself and Seunghyun as you listen to the man depart. There is a distinct change in Seunghyun’s breath, as he waits for a few moments to give the man time to leave the building altogether.

“Jesus Christ,” Seunghyun groans, slipping his fingers from your mouth, and scooting his chair back from the desk enough to peer down at you. “Are you trying to get us caught?”

“I couldn’t help it,” you whine. “I needed you.” Seunghyun’s eyes dart around from your face, to your hand that still strokes him, until he finally sees your hand in your panties.

“You’re touching yourself right now?” he asks, his voice tight. “What turned you on the most? The taste of me or the risk of getting caught.”

“Your fingers in my mouth.”

“Mmm, I didn’t know you were into that,” he mumbles, stifling another groan when you trace your tongue along his tip.

“I want to hear you moan,” you whisper, giving him the most innocent look you can muster. “Is the live room soundproof?”

Seunghyun swallows hard, watching the way you bite your lip, still stroking him. In one swift motion, he grabs you by both of your forearms and stands from his seat, tugging you along with him towards the live recording room. He pulls you into the room with him, slamming the door closed as he moves in on you, pinning you to the wall so he can kiss you deeply. Your hand slips between your bodies so you can still work him steadily.

The first moan he releases is muffled by the kiss, so you break free and kiss along his jaw, biting gently every so often to try to coax it from him. When you twist your hand over him, stroking a little faster, he groans, grabbing onto your hips firm enough to bruise them. You know he isn’t going to last much longer, so switch places with him, pressing his back to the wall so you can drop to your knees.

With full range of motion now, you take Seunghyun’s into your mouth halfway, bobbing your head and stoking in time. One of his hands grips your shoulder, as if for balance, while his other hand curls around the hem of his shirt, lifting it so he can watch you from above. He loosens up enough to let his moans be heard – rich and smooth, he moans your name, mixed between a few swears.

When you drop your hand from him, instead grabbing onto his hips, you take him deeper into your mouth, moving faster and faster, humming around him to urge him onward. You can feel him throbbing on your tongue, so you pull him from your mouth, opting to press a few kisses along his shaft while you listen to his moans grow throatier. You take him into your hand again, stroking faster, knowing he’s just on the edge – to give him the final push, you slip his tip back between your lips, sucking harshly until finally he throws his head back against the wall and spills into your mouth.

“Fuck, baby!” he moans. “Oh, my god.”

You swallow everything, licking him clean and watching the way his body twitches with each touch of your tongue. As soon as you finish, you look up at him, wiping your mouth with your fingers and licking them clean. Seunghyun’s eyes are darkened, and you know he’s going to fulfill the vague threat from earlier.

Seunghyun tucks himself back into his pants, buttoning up quickly before he grabs you, dragging you to your feet and swapping places with you again. When he kisses you, he seems desperate to taste himself on your tongue, soft groans escaping his throat as his tongue touches everything it can reach. You can feel his hands working your jeans and panties down your hips, stopping at your thighs before he finally lowers to his knees.

“Did you plan all of this?” he asks, looking up at you as he works your jeans lower, struggling to pull one leg free from the clothing. “You didn’t care about seeing your brother...you just wanted to see me, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. You brace yourself against the wall with one hand, threading the fingers of your other hand through his hair.

“You got this wet just from giving me head?” he asks, his eyelids heavy as he peers up at you again. You nod slowly in response, and watch as he plants a quick kiss to your inner thigh, eyes still on you – his eyes look different than you’ve ever seen them, almost as though he’s trying to play soft and innocent like you had done. “You really need me, don’t you?” he asks, his fingers tracing through your folds, just barely touching your clit to make you whimper. “I’ll take care of you, baby. I know you’re just aching for me. It’s been, what, three days?”

Seunghyun has never teased you like this before. Usually, there wasn’t much talking between the two of you while you were together, but you’d always wanted to try, envisioning the way his voice would sound while he said filthy things to you. You let out a huff of breath, feeling your legs trembling when he hasn’t even touched you yet.

When Seunghyun slips one finger inside of you, his mouth immediately presses to your clit, teasing with the tip of his tongue. You pull in a deep breath, watching him close his eyes as he tongues you, acting as though he loves it more than you do. His finger pumps into you all the way to his knuckle, now sucking on your clit.

“Fuck, Seunghyun,” you mutter, your knees buckling.

“Mhm,” he hums, pumping a little faster, and suddenly slipping his middle finger inside of you as well. Your hips buck against his face, and he laughs against you, his mouth opening so he can flick his tongue over your clit – the sensation of him breathing hard against you, panting as he eats you out, makes your head reel.

When his fingers curl inside of you, pressing that spot within you, the moan that you let out is needier than you thought possible. You fist his hair and bring your other hand to grab onto his shoulder to support your weight. You moan over and over, pleading with him and saying his name as if it’s all you know. Seunghyun chuckles against you, amused at the way you’re acting, which you assume is fair based on what you did to start all of this.

“I’m gonna–fuck, Seunghyun! I’m–”

“Mhm,” he hums against you, fingers pumping harder and faster.

It’s never been like this – desperate and needy, sloppy. Maybe you were both waiting for the other to take the next step. You’d have to ask him later, because now your vision begins to blur, your legs trembling as you feel your climax building faster.

You grind yourself against him, moaning and whimpering like you never have. The sound feels louder in the walls of the booth, and you can feel your eyes watering, sensations overwhelming you. Seunghyun eats you like a man possessed, like he’ll never have another opportunity – like he needs you.

“Fuck!” you moan, your climax hitting you hard.

Seunghyun keeps going, working every bit of it from you so you can ride the high as fully as possible. His other hand grips you hard to support you as he feels your knees begin to buckle and give out. You can’t focus on anything other than the waves of pleasure coursing through your entire body, moaning and whimpering his name.

When he finally slows to a stop, he carefully eases your leg from his shoulder, making sure you can stand on your shaky legs as he looks up at you. Your eyes focus on his face, watching him wipe his mouth on the inside of his shirt as he stares up at you with awe in his eyes. You hope that you return the admiration in your own gaze, but your body still trembles as you try to regulate.

“Your legs are trembling,” Seunghyun points out, his hands gently rubbing them. You try to come up with something sarcastic to say in response, but your mind is blank from anything except him. He places his hands on the back of your thighs, tugging you so you are on your knees in front of him now. He kisses you deeply, and you have the opportunity to kiss him like he did you, tasting yourself in every corner of his mouth. When the kiss stops, he grasps your jaw softly, stroking his thumb over your lips as you both stare into one another’s eyes. “Do you want to stay over tonight?” he asks, his voice so soft.

“You want to have a sleepover?” you tease, kissing his cheek.

“We could have dinner,” he says. “Maybe watch a movie. I know we don’t usually do that sort of thing, but…I thought we could try something different.” You bite your lip when you see the anticipation in his eyes, as though he thinks you’re going to tell him you’re not interested. You lean in to kiss him on the corner of his mouth before you answer.

“That sounds nice,” you smile. “Of course I’ll stay with you.” Seunghyun grins wider, leaning in to kiss you again.

“You guys are so cute!”

The voice that rings out over the intercom of the booth scares you both, sending you scrambling away from one another as if you were on fire. Seunghyun’s eyes are wide, and you hurry to pull your jeans back on, out of view of the person on the other side of the window in the control room. Seunghyun stands up, peering through the window, a flush hitting his cheeks.

“I think we could mix some of these moans into a backing track,” the voice goes on, and you recognize it finally – Daesung.

“Fuck,” you grumble, finally fully clothed again so you can stand and join Seunghyun in looking through the window. Both Daesung and Taeyang are standing in the control room, laughing maniacally as they see the expressions on your faces.

“You assholes!” Seunghyun exclaims, his tone whiny and angry at once. “You didn’t record that, did you? Jiyong will kill us if–”

“No, we didn’t,” Taeyang says, calming his laughter enough to speak. “But you should really be more careful. Jiyong is in the booth down the hall, and he could have just as easily caught you.” Seunghyun sighs, taking your hand gently as he leads you from the booth and back into the control room.

“So, how long has this been going on?” Daesung asks, gesturing between the two of you.

“Do you pay my bills?” you ask, knitting your eyebrows together as you peer back at Daesung.

“No…” he answers, visibly confused.

“Then, it’s not your business what I do, is it?”

“Don’t push them, baby,” Seunghyun warns, laughing quietly.

“Oh, it’s ‘baby’, is it?” Daesung laughs. “It must really be serious.”

Seunghyun spends the next several minutes trying to convince his bandmates to keep your secret, begging and offering them whatever they wanted in exchange for their silence. You tune out, too focused on Seunghyun still holding your hand, fingers laced with yours. You focus on Daesung’s teasing of the nature of your relationship, and the way Seunghyun didn’t correct him. And most importantly, you focus on your night with Seunghyun, and what else will come of your relationship.

[stxary]

「 ✦ 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ✦ 」

❤︎ pairing : ex-bf!jungkook x fem!reader

❤︎ genre : non idol au, porn w a lil bit of plot, smut, angst

❤︎ word count : 2k

❤︎ warnings : yandere jk, jealous jk, possesive jk, obsessed jk, hes terrible but reader is still practically in love w him. extremely toxic relationship (dont be like them) degradation, car sex, rough sex, hate sex, love bombing, manipulation, obsession, creampie

❤︎ a/n: hellooo im finally back with another fic after a very long month.. my motivation has been in the dirt but its slowwwly coming back, im debating writing a multichapter fic but ik i would not stay consistent with it 😭😭 im not sure if this really counts as yandere but im js gonna tag it as that js in case.. let me stop yapping i hope u guys enjoy!! ^_^

you could barely hear your own thoughts in the crowded club. the music pounding in your ears along with your the light buzzing in your bones was making you feel sick, and you wanted nothing more than to leave.

“you should come.” your friends told you when they mentioned coming to the club earlier that day. they said itd be good for you, that you needed to loosen up and have a little fun.

at first you wanted to refuse, but after thinking on it (and your two friends begging) you decided it wouldnt hurt to come. they were right, you did need to have a little fun.

so here you were now, sitting at the club bar alone, on your fourth drink of the evening, regretting even coming at all. you rubbed your temple as you checked your phone, sighing at seeing that you had only been there for an hour. fuck, why was time going by so slow?

you were just about to order another drink when you saw someone sit down next to you in the corner of your eye. “negroni, please.” he met your gaze, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “and for the lady..” he dragged the last word out as he gave you an expectant glance.

you were a little stunned at first, surprised that he was offering to buy you a drink, and a little flustered by himself. you blink your attention away from the man, looking at the bartender. “oh, um.. ill just do whiskey.” the bartender nodded before moving away to help the people on the other side of the bar.

the man sitting next to you gave you another smile, breaking the silence between you two. “i hope you dont mind. you seem a little startled.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

you blinked, realizing he meant you were staring. partly because you were a bit startled, and partly because the guy was hot. really hot. maybe your friends were right, maybe this is what you needed.

“o-oh.” you say, shaking your head and laughing nervously. “im sorry. i just didnt expect anyone to come up to me, let alone buy me a drink. so thank you..?” you tilted your head as you dragged your last word out, urging him to say his name.

“hoseok.” he said, taking his glass that the bartender handed to him, and handing you yours.

hoseok. thats a nice name. and he seemed like a nice guy. thats usually hard to find in places like this.

“im y/n.” you say, taking a sip of your whiskey. you felt a little shy all of a sudden. you didnt want to mess this up.

“y/n.” he repeated, as if he was testing it on his tongue. “thats a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

youd be lying if you said that didnt make you want to smile. yes, that phrase might be overused, but somehow when he said it it didnt sound corny. or like he was trying too hard. it just seemed natural.

you smiled at him, hoping he wouldnt notice how flustered that simple sentence got you. “thank you.”

as you guys continued to talk, the time finally began to start moving, and your earlier nervousness faded away. so it wasnt really a surprise when you ended up dancing with hoseok.

you had only known hoseok for about an hour but it felt like you knew him for a year, maybe more. the way he talked to you, looked at you. like you were so important. it made it easy to get lost in him.

and he was a great dancer. a really fucking good one, it was like the music flowed through him when you were together. you never thought someone could sexy dance so well, but here he was.

you wouldve almost thought you were in a dream, the way your night instantly turned around as soon as he made an appearance. maybe hes like a guardian angel, you thought. protecting me from all these drunk assholes who would have bothered me.

hoseok leaned down and whispered something in your ear, the pounding of the music mixed with the alcohol making you unable to hear him. he repeated himself.

“do you want to get out of here?”

hell yes, you did. you nodded eagerly, his hands moving from your waist before one of them grabbed your hand and started to guide you off the dance floor.

then another hand wraps around your free wrist, yanking you out of hoseoks grip. you turn around to see who the fuck did that, ready to slap them.

but then your eyes land on his face and your stomach drops.

no.

why is he here? how did he know you were here?

why were you surprised? it was like he was always where you went. no matter how much you tried to avoid him, he was always there. you tried to remove him from your life, but the grip he had on it was too strong.

two months. you broke up with jungkook two months ago. but he wouldnt let you go. and deep down, a part of you knew it was your fault. because you kept letting him slither his way back into your life. because every time you saw him, it always ended the same. and of course, that night was no different.

“do you really think i’d let another guy fuck you?” jungkook rasped, his hips ramming into you from behind.

you whined in response, fingers clutching at the leather of his car seat. you wanted to say something, anything.

he had yanked you away from hoseok, all the way out of the club, ignoring your protests and weak attempts to pull away. he didnt stop until he shoved you into the backseat of the car, not even speaking a single word before his lips were on yours, already working at your clothes before you got a chance to say anything.

“dumb fucking slut.” he mused, fingers digging into your hips harshly as he watched the way you fell apart under him. he wanted to engrave the image in his brain forever.

he honestly couldnt believe you were about to let another guy fuck you. see you in the way only he could. touch you the way only he could. the thought of it made him push his cock deeper into you, your eyes rolling back from the feeling.

“youre mine. and mine only. you know that. dont know how many times i need to fuck you to get that in your dumb head.” he punctuated his last words with harsher thrusts, as if he was trying to prove something to you.

you whined again, nails digging further into his car seat. “f-fuck you..” you whimpered out, turning your head so that your cheek was pressed against the seat, looking at him behind you.

fuck, you were a mess. and you were all his. nobody elses. definitely not hoseoks.

jungkook smirked at your weak insult, slowing down his thrusts. “baby, you need to stop acting like you hate me.” he murmurs, his smirk growing as he sees you struggle to form words.

“i-im not pretending- shit, i do hate you.” you gasp out, trying to ignore the way his cock was sliding in and out of you perfectly.

he tilted his head, raising his eyebrows a bit. “really? if you really did hate me, you wouldnt be letting me fuck you right now. unless you dont care who gets to use you, which is what it seems like. you were about to let that guy in the club get in your pants.”

“t-that.. thats not true.” you whine out weakly. you hated how he was right. you didnt truly hate him, otherwise you wouldnt be in this position right now. you hated the fact that you couldnt hate him.

and he knew that he had that effect on you, and used it to his advantage. so every time he found his way back to you, it always ended like this. it was a neverending cycle, and as much as you wanted to remove him from your life for good, a part of you still loved him.

jungkook pulled out of you abruptly, flipping you onto you back. you yelped, not having time to react before he slammed back into you. it was then when you realize how close you were to cumming.

he leaned down, his breathing hot against your face as he panted. “you dont hate me. you love me.” he said, his voice rough. then, it changed to almost desperate, pleading tone.

“fuck, i-i love this pussy, i love you. nobody can even compare to you. youre the best thing thats happened to me, baby. i dont understand how you could just leave me like that. d-didnt you feel the same?”

jungkook was just rambling at this point, like he always did when he got close. his whole demeanor would change and his earlier anger would wash away, getting replaced with neediness.

if you didnt know better you would believe his words. but luckily you did. he didnt love you. he was obsessed, and it led to him not letting you breathe. its the reason you broke up with him in the first place, thinking if you cut it off, it would stop.

but it didnt.

after you broke up, the amount of text, calls, and voicemails he left you was insane. you tried blocking him, but he kept trying. then eventually he stopped, just to find you in person. you had to change your daily routine to avoid him, and he would still find ways to get to you.

“y/n, stop running from me, please. baby, i love you. im sorry, please talk to me. youre all i want. i cant live without you.”

no matter how much you tried to avoid him, or asked him to leave you alone, he wouldnt. then when you tried talking to other guys, is when whatever you would call this started.

“i love you- fuck baby, dont you see that? i cant let you go.” his talking was getting frantic, along with his thrusts, and you knew he was close too.

“jungkook, i-“ he cut off your words by bringing his hand down between you to rub at your clit, causing you to moan out.

“i know, babygirl, i know.” he cooed, his breathing labored against your face. “youre so fucking lucky i need to cum right now, otherwise i wouldve edged you for hours for being a dirty slut.”

you clenched around him at his words, nails scratching at his arms. his hips stuttered, and he let out a loud groan before filling you up, his cum shooting straight inside your fluttering cunt.

you followed right after, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let out a moan to match his. he leaned down and cut off your moan with a sloppy kiss, swallowing the small whimpers that followed when you came down from your high.

jungkook pulled out of you with a raspy moan, leaning his back against the car door. he lifted your leg up to stare at your cunt, biting his lip ring when he sees his cum dripping out of you.

it was then when you finally gained your consciousness, and at least a little bit of common sense. you pulled your leg away from him and began to search for your clothes, trying to ignore the way he watched you as you put them back on.

you got out of his car, only saying a simple 'bye' before doing so. and as you walked back to your own, a wave of shame washed over you. because once again, you let jungkook have his way with you. all because you were still in love with him.

you always felt guilty after the fact, but a part of you still felt like it was right, even though it was wrong. so wrong. you should tell him to stop, but you already tried that, and he won't listen. and honestly, you didn't want him to stop. you would let him in your life over and over again, because he could. it was the effect he had on you.

© stxary 2025, all rights reserved .

[mybigsnowman]

love is so nice

pairing sylus x (fat) reader

summary sylus takes your measurements for your dress for the banquet. based on his Within Reach memory.

tags second-person pov, fat reader, lots of touching, insecurity, sexual tension

word count 1.2k

note MDNI reader is left vague ! only specific features are that you're shorter than him and fat (but even that's vague enough) and that you're getting a dress. i directly use the word fat, so if that is an issue please don't read. first time posting my fics on tumblr so i’m first crossposting my ao3 ones! I’d love to talk about the characters here and make mutuals <3

cross posted from ao3

“I don't need my measurements taken.”

“Did you already find something downstairs?” Sylus asks as he drops down onto the sofa in the middle of the VIP room.

“No.”

Of course, you couldn’t find anything. Department stores were full of clothes that didn’t fit you and even if you did find a size large enough something was still off, it was too long or too loose at one part, you couldn’t win. 

“Then what's the issue, sweetie? It's better if we match, anyway. I am your date.”

“I don't think I can afford a custom dress right now,” You give him a random excuse, hoping he’d just drop it and let you head home. 

“That's not an issue. It's my treat, a thank you for the invitation.”

“You really don't have to.”

“I want to.” He’s too persistent.

“Fine.” There was no point arguing back. “Just be quick, and I'm not getting undressed.”

You throw him the measuring tape from across the room. He catches it swiftly, still too relaxed.

“C'mere.” 

Before you get a chance to walk over, the tethers of his evol wrap around you and drag you closer to him. You end up between his spread out legs. He looks good under you, handsome despite the usual unflattering lighting in fitting rooms. It pissed you off.

Sylus reaches out to tug at your oversized sweater. “You’ll have to take this off at least.” 

“Fine.” You hesitate for a moment before reaching down and pulling it off, the shirt you have under rides up slightly in the process. 

Sylus’ eyes immediately drop to the exposed skin. His gaze eager for something, heavy, almost palpable, that you can’t help but feel it. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just enjoying the view.” His hand reaches out and squeezes the fat at your waist. His touch feels cold on your heated skin. 

You stiffen up but let him continue.

But he can read you like a book, your discomfort is obvious. “Relax. I won't hurt you.” 

He pulls down your shirt where it rode up, his hand lingering for a bit. You can see a smile on his face as he brings the measuring tape to your waist.

You look anywhere but at him. Your entire body is tense as you try not to feel embarrassed by how intently he is taking your measurements. It’s not like he doesn’t know you’re fat, this just felt like too much, like he’d realise something else entirely. 

“You seem a bit distracted today.” 

His voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“‘M just a bit tired.” A believable excuse. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You hadn’t been sleeping well because of your nightmares and this shopping trip wasn’t helping. The lights were starting to be too much, and you were starting to feel your skin get clammy as you overheat under them.

Thankfully, he lets it go and moves on to take your hip measurement. His hands linger again, 

He jots it down before moving down to your thigh.

“It's for a dress, I really don't think you need to measure there.” You suddenly feel a jolt of embarrassment and reach down to push his hand away. Your thighs were an area you were particularly insecure of and having him so close to them was overwhelming. 

He tugs at the tape that's wrapped around your thigh making you stumble forward slightly. Your breath catches in your throat and you hold onto his shoulders to balance yourself. 

“I need to be precise, sweetie. You took my measurements so well, it’s only fair that I do the same for you.”

You feel yourself get warm at the compliment, and the large hand splayed on your thigh doesn’t help quell your embarrassment. You try to focus on the strong muscles of his shoulders, letting yourself tighten your grip on him as he takes his sweet time with you. 

“You’re awfully touchy today, kitten.” There’s a lilt to his tone, he’s teasing you again.

“As if you’re not.” You take your hands off his shoulders, suddenly ashamed for touching him so freely.

He lets out a deep hum, not bothering to refute your claim. The sound makes warmth pool in your stomach.

“I like touching you.”

You’re unsure what to say to his sudden sincere remark, so you ignore it, hoping he’d just hurry it up or just change the subject. 

But of course, he doesn’t let it go.

“Are you embarrassed?”

He looks up at you, hoping to meet your gaze but you’re staring off to the side again. 

“Or are you uncomfortable with me touching you like this?” His tone is serious now. 

“It’s not that.” You deny it vehemently, finally meeting his gaze.

“What is it then?”

“It's stupid.”

“Not if it's making you upset, sweetie.”

You pause for a moment before speaking up again, “It is embarrassing, and it is stupid. I don't want you measuring my body like this. I know I'm fat, and you can see it, but this is too much for me today.”

Your voice feels loud in the quiet room. Too loud in your own ears. 

“I just don't want you knowing exactly how big I am. Even though it is very obvious,” you try to end it off on a lighter tone, chuckling a bit at your comment but your voice betrays you. 

Sylus waits for you, making sure you're done before he starts talking again.

“I already have your measurements.”

“What?”

“Mephisto,” he answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Of course, it was that stupid bird. 

“Right. So why all this?”

“Just wanted to be close to you.” He admits; another sincere remark that makes you feel strange.

“Sure.”

You watch and he pulls the measuring tape away from your thigh, replacing it with his large hands. 

“I like touching you.” He repeats the earlier phrase. “And it is unfair to let you have all the fun.”

His hands trail up to your hips and then to your abdomen, their grip firm as he touches all of you. They end up at your ribs. Large and warm as they smooth the skin over, they stop there, holding you firmly.

“I want to get you clothes that make you feel good,” his voice is quiet as he gazes into your eyes, sincere and serious. “Can I do that?”

All you can do is nod, already too overwhelmed by his touch. You're afraid if you do speak your voice would crack, you'd already been too vulnerable with him. Instead of continuing, he pulls you down onto the sofa next to him, and he’s gentle like he always is. He hands you a catalogue.

“So, why don't we pick a few things out?”

[starconstruction]

Birthday Bash

Yandere Karina x Male Reader

woohoo, first actual sfw fic.

Word Count:1572

The room was dark.

Too dark.

Like always.

You woke up, hands firmly locked against the pipe on the floor, body laying against the hard concrete floor save for a tiny sheet and a singular pillow. You couldn't see, sat in the void all alone.

You didn't know if you'd rather be alone or with her, your captor, the one who controlled you. Claiming grandiose delusions of love, trapping you in this room for your own safety.

Escaping was an impossibility like this, perhaps that's why she did it. Make you know it was hopeless, keep you in the worst conditions possible and they could never leave.

Bread and circus's only work for the masses after all.

The smell was just bad enough to be unable to block out, an ever lingering torment that wasnt going to cease.

Time was completely gone.

Your life was entirely gone.

A creaking door sounded out, gulping down saliva as she walked down the steps. The light was stinging, tears welled up in the crevices of your eyes.

She appeared in front of you, that familiar look. That fucking look. Her smile was curved, eyes soft and pointed. It was all a ruse. Her outfit was monochromatic, all black as it attempted to blend into the surroundings.

"Morning baby, what do you want for breakfast today?" She asked, voice soft. Full of sucrose and sickly. Her knees dropping down to face you.

"Nothing." You said, voice sharp.

Karina's hand grabbed your chin, harsh enough to send a warning. Her head tilted slightly aswell, eyes furrowing just a bit. The soap on her hand being the only pleasant scent in this entire room.

"Such a fighter, but I guess that's what made me fall in love with you." She said, taking a deep breath.

"But, I was hoping you'd break by now. So I could be showering you in gifts, love, affection. Why are you being so difficult Y/N?" The question made you think for a second, filling you with an anger that threatened to blow up and consume you whole.

"Difficult?! I'm the one that's difficult? You ruined my fucking life Karina, trapping me here. Pulling me from my job, my school and my family all because I rejected you?! Fucking psychopath! I will-" Her hand clamped down onto your face, the rest of the words falling on deaf ears as they fell away in a dying whisper.

"Ah, well. That quite hurts Y/N, I thought you'd see the positives of this by now. Anyways, happy birthday. Think about your actions and maybe we can celebrate, no breakfast for you." Before you could object she disappeared, leaving you alone.

In the dark.

With just your own thoughts.

Again.

Birthday? How long has it been? If only you remembered when she whisked you away. Then you could piece it together, the presence of the handcuff felt stronger now. Like a physical representation of all the time lost, you couldn't give in.

-

The ever clawing hunger was all that you could focus on, waiting for Karina's inevitable return. And you wouldn't have to wait long.

The light returned, the demon returned. She looked a bit happier now, a pop in her step as she stood in front of you.

"Wanna be better for me now? I have a day prepared for us, you can leave the basement for the first time in so long. You want that right?" Those words, god they sounded good. Too good.

You couldn't give in, it'd be an insult to everyone you lost.

"No. Go to hell Karina." You growled, she was lucky you were restrained. Or was she? You haven't been able to work out or lift a muscle in months, she'd absolutely win.

"Come on, it'd be so fun sweetie." She tried to reason with you.

"No." You replied quickly.

"Fucking hell. I just want to celebrate my boyfriends birthday, but you want to be difficult. Tell you what, you can stay here and be defiant. But trust me, you will regret it." The words sent a shiver down the back of your spine, the tone she said it in so sweet compared to the words.

"I'm not going to regret shit." You yelled back.

"Sure?" She tested you, crouched down right next to you. Inches away, gazing holes into your eyes. Each syllable thick with amusement.

"Sure." You spat back.

"Well, I guess I just gotta take a visit to your parents. Maybe with a knife?" The words made you shiver, heart pounding. She started to walk away.

"Wait!" You yelled out, she didn't stop moving.

"No! Karina come back!" She still didn't stop.

"Karina please I'll do anything! Just leave my family alone!" She stopped.

"Anything? So you'll come with me?" Her mood shifted at once, smile returning.

"Yes! Just.. Don't hurt them." You sighed, calming down slightly. The resentment you grew harsher, hatred going deeper.

"Awee! Thank you, wish I didn't have to threaten you. But I'm happy either way, let's get you showered and ready."

-

Karina forced you into her arms, perfume filling your nose. Sat on her couch, present in your hands. You shuddered at the prospect of opening it she was so unpredictable. Your escape was inches away, but somehow it felt unreachable.

The room was super decorated, multi-coloured balloons pressed against the roof. Red tinsel laid neatly wrapped across every surface, a pile of presents rested on the ground. It all felt like a cruel mockery, everything your friends would have done.

What were your friends doing? The thought crossed your mind countless times, did they miss you? That was the only thing keeping you sane.

"Open it, you'll really like it." Her hand rubbed your hair, raking through it with a soft obsession.

Your hands gripped onto the decorated paper, tearing it open as you revealed the gift. A TV remote? The device laid in your hands, a reminder of the world before.

"I was thinking, if you be nice. I'll let you have everything in the world, starting with this." She whispered into your ear.

You didn't know how to respond. The fear of your family's safety lingering on the forefront of your mind, but you aren't property to be owned.

"I, can't." You said quietly.

Her nails dug into your arms, warning you to be careful of your next words.

"Stop thinking of your friends, I hate how much of your head they take up! I'll get rid of them if I must." She was once again angry.

Her threats started to make you worried, she was completely insane.

The rest of the birthday was tense, but you survived just about.

-

Karina was asleep next to you, eyes closed softly. She gave you the "luxury" of sleeping in her bed instead of the basement, was this a test? Either way there was no time to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You slipped out of her bed, placing a pillow into her arms. Each step felt terrifying, quiet taps against the carpet. Taking deep breaths, composing yourself.

Escaping was imminent, your friends were going to be so excited to see you. Your mother is going to tear up, Karina wasn't going to have a vice on you anymore.

The thought made you smile.

Your heart pounded.

The bedroom door was open.

Karina was asleep.

You had to go, now.

Your mind raced as you took steps down the stairs, each one careful and calculated. Touching the floor. Three steps from the door, three steps from freedom.

Your hand reached the handle, there was several locks. Trying to figure them out, grabbing the key and twisting the first one.

Then the hatch lock, and finally a... Keypad? Uh oh.

"Honey? Get away from the door." She called, stepping down slowly.

Your heart pounded, this couldn't end like this.

Your hand fumbled with the keypad, you had to guess. Your birthday?

The terminal went green and the door unlocked. The sight filled you with primal dread, countless acres of trees in front of you. Only trees.

"Fuck." You muttered, taking off.

You ran, Karina was right behind you. Sounds of two footsteps could be heard throughout the night, echoing against every leaf that hung around you.

"HONEY! IF YOU TURN AROUND I WON'T HURT YOU!" She shouted, that had to be a lie.

Your breath started to quicken, muscles starting to burn, the months of solitude had taken any ounce of sportiness.

Karina tackled you, a loud thud rung out. Head banging into the mud with a painful yelp.

She was on top of you, knife pointed at your neck. A sadistic smile on her face that was illuminated by the moonlight.

"Got ya! Why would you try to run?" Her voice was unstable, shaky, insane.

You spoke slowly, scared stiff. "Get off me!"

"No no no, how about this. I bring you back, you play along. And we can pretend this didn't happen?" She was lying.

You spat on her.

"Oh, wrong choice." You had no time to react, knife plunging into your leg. The pain was agonizing, excruciating, you moaned out in agony.

"FUCK! CRAZY!" You screamed, she slapped you harshly.

"You are mine, forever Y/N." She grabbed your ankle, dragging your face against the mud. Scratching your face on loose rocks and twigs.

You passed out from the pain, she won this battle.

You were hers.

[draculasfavoritewife]

Distracted

Summary: When Frank calls you during a mission after an extended period of radio silence, what could possibly make him break his own no-contact rule?

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!Reader

Warnings: Some language; this is practically just phone sex in every way except for me explicitly stating so ;)

I think I just need to accept at this point that my Frank fics will always get away from me in the end. This one started on the 🤭 side of the scale and by the time I reached the end it had somehow reached unprecedented levels of 🥵. In any case, I love the idea of normally taciturn Frank missing talking to reader and just calling her up out of the blue to tell her that. And then I guess everything just devolved from there, as it so often does.

When you answered your phone, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape from your body right through your chest wall.

He never called.

Had something gone so horribly wrong that he needed to say goodbye?

"Frank?!"

"Hey there, pretty girl." His voice sounded bone-tired, but warm with affection, and your panic started to subside. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's okay," you had murmured. "You just know how I worry."

"I do." The rough laugh on the other side of the line turns your insides into a melting mess. "Just needed to hear my girl's voice for a minute. Long day."

You lie back on the bed again, letting out a quiet breath of relief.

"I miss you, tough guy."

He hums wordlessly in acknowledgement, and you can imagine him settling back against a wall somewhere, finally letting his overexerted body relax.

"Tell me what you're wearing?"

He sounds softer now, almost a little hesitant. "I wanna picture what you look like right now."

Heat rushes to your face. "Nothing special. Just one of your shirts I uh...'borrowed'. I hope that's okay."

There's silence for a moment on the other end, then a sharp hissing sound that you imagine must be him sucking in a breath between his teeth.

"Shit, baby, lookin' like that without me there to see it? You know how I feel about you wearin' my stuff. Goddammit."

You smile and stroke the threadbare fabric between your fingers. "I know, Frank, I'm sorry. But it smells like you, and I missed you so bad today. It helps me sleep at night when you're not here with me."

He chuckles softly, a deep rumbling that you feel all the way in the pit of your chest even through the phone's less-than-ideal sound quality. "Alright, alright. Which one?"

"Black. Slightly thicker fabric, buttoned collar." You tap the worn-smooth buttons with your fingertips as you say the words, an unconscious fidgeting habit.

"That old one with the holes in the sleeves?" He's way too good at this, guessed exactly which piece you would've taken refuge in during his absence.

"Damn, Frank," you breathe out, shocked at his accuracy. "How'd you tell?" He does own at least four different shirts that match the brief description you'd given.

You hear him grunt, probably a blend of approval and the soreness that comes from doing god-knows-what for the past few days. "You like that one. Only reason it's still in the closet, to tell the truth. Would've thrown it out a long time ago otherwise."

A flood of memories rushes through your mind: cuddling up to him, in bed, on the couch, his hands in your hair and his lips brushing your forehead, warm and safe in the folds of this very same shirt. "I'm really glad you kept it, then."

"I am too." A long sigh, and the rustling sounds of his large body shifting position. "Your hair up or down?"

The warmth rapidly returns to your face. Is what you think is happening actually happening?

You wouldn't have guessed Frank was an over-the-phone kind of guy, he prefers to be hands-on in every aspect of his life, but the two of you had spent so much time together lately, maybe the separation is getting to him, too.

"It's down. I took a shower earlier and wanted to let it air dry for a bit." Your voice comes out soft, vulnerable as you answer him and lean further into the pillows behind you.

"Mmm. You know if I was there I'd help you get all the tangles out, yeah?"

You shiver at the thought of his big hands in your hair, those long, dexterous fingers patiently combing their way through, their passage sometimes halting where your comb had missed a spot. "You say that now, Castle, but how do I know you wouldn't be putting more tangles in?"

His taken-off-guard laugh rasps in your ear. "Hey now, you watch that pretty mouth of yours. Don't taunt me like that." A brief moment of consideration, a heavy pause as he imagines you on top of him, that damn shirt swallowing your figure and your teasing face looking down into his. "Maybe I would."

"Thought so." You stick the fingers of your free hand through the aforementioned holes in his shirt. "I hate this bed, Frankie."

"Yeah? Why's that? Don't be a smartass now, I practically built that bed for you."

"It's too big and empty without you." You channel all of the sad, bratty tone you can possibly muster into that simple sentence.

"Christ."

You're not quite sure if the strain you hear running beneath his voice comes from exhaustion or something else you're starting. "My girl's lonely there all by herself, huh?"

"Yeah. I need you to come back, Frank."

"Shit, I know, Sweetheart. I know. I need you, too." His breath hitches, barely noticeable but you know him, and you catch it.

"You lonely without me too, tough guy?"

He hums, a non-answer, deliberately drawing the conversation out. "Look, I like bashing faces in as much as the next guy, but the people I'm after are a little bit lacking in the affection department."

You put the phone down, switching it to speaker mode and settling into a better position. "So you're touch-starved, is what I'm hearing."

You know he must be scowling and shaking his head at the accusation on the other end of the line. "Nah, I wouldn't say that, exactly --"

"Well I am." Your admission comes out as little more than a breathy sigh. "Do you have any idea how hard that is?"

He only snorts at that, and you feel gratified that the implication landed.

"I can't even watch TV at night without wishing your hand was here resting on my thigh like usual," you tell him wistfully.

A long, huffed-out exhale precedes his next words, and you grin wickedly at the sound. "Yeah, Sweetheart. I miss how you count all my scars when we're just lyin' in bed and neither of us can sleep."

"You got any new ones for me?"

The unsteadiness is completely impossible to keep out of your own voice now as you close your eyes, remembering how it feels when his hands are the ones touching you instead.

"Probably." A sharp intake of air interrupts him for a brief moment. "Not gonna tell you where, though. I'll let you find 'em all on your own when I get back."

Your entire body shudders violently at such an invitation. "I will, Frankie. I'll find all of your new scars, I promise. I'll kiss 'em for you, too -- maybe even bite 'em, if they're in good places."

"Shit."

There's a sudden vacuum left in the air between you after his sharply spat expletive, only the uneven rhythm of two people dozens of miles apart trying to catch their breath breaking the delicate silence. You pick your phone up again and bring it close to your face so you can hear his breathing right in your ear; if you keep your eyes shut, you can almost imagine he's right there in the bed with you.

"You're dangerous, you know that," he mutters after a bit. "Got me all distracted out here like some asshole amateur."

"Hey, you called me," you point out, warmth pouring into your contrary words. "I know you're not completely naive, Castle."

"Ah, get off my ass. Was a momentary lapse in judgement, s'all. Happens to the best of us."

"Mmhmm." You trace a small heart on the blanket next to the phone. "Right. Well, you better get back here soon then, and avoid any more mistakes like this, huh?"

"I will." His promise is gentle, but steel-hard with sheer conviction underneath.

"Won't be long, baby girl. Can't wait to have you with me for real again."

[unintentionalseductress]

Hii!! So this is my first time requesting!! I only recently found you through LADS and I love your posts (I'm a degenerate through and through) 😌✊🏾

Anyway, I have a request for prompt #10 with Sylus or Zayne. I'm also hoping you write for FTM readers/ male reader with an afab body. If you don't write that pov and I missed it in the rules, I apologize and I don't mind you writing it as fem reader if that's the case.

In all I'll be good with anything you write and I can't wait to see more of your posts. Happy writing and don't forget to take breaks!! ( ^-^)ノ∠※。.:*:・'°☆

-Sincerely, Professor Boo

Hey there Professor Boo! So we've talked, and this has been changed to prompt #2, with a fem/gn reader!

Hardly anyone requested Zayne this time and it makes me a little sad tbh, so thanks for including him here.

"That's it, whine like a little slut." --------

A hand knots into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, your spine arching against the press of a solid chest at your back. Heat radiates from him, his breath heavy against the shell of your ear as he drinks in every little tremor that rolls through you.

A large hand gropes your chest, finding a hardened nipple and pinching, sending jolts of ecstasy straight into your core. Helpless, you utter a low, quivering whimper, desperate for more.

“That’s it,” Zayne murmurs, voice thick with amusement. His grip tightens, forcing your head back further, exposing your throat. “Whine like a little slut.”

A second pair of hands skims your hips, thumbs digging in just enough to make you squirm. The second man chuckles, his voice silkier but no less commanding.

“They're trying so hard to keep it together,” Sylus muses, fingers tracing a slow, torturous path down your sides. “Look at 'em. Desperate. Needy. Just waiting for us to decide how they get to fall apart.”

Your breath stutters, chest rising and falling with the effort to hold onto something—control, sanity, whatever scraps of resistance remain—but they see right through it. Zayne clicks his tongue, pressing in closer, letting the weight of his presence remind you who’s in charge.

"Still fighting it?" he taunts, lips brushing against your jaw before pulling back, denying you the contact you crave. "You can pretend all you want, but your body knows the truth."

Sylus grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his, ruby eyes darkening at the edges to a smoldering crimson. "You want this," he murmurs, his voice a slow drag of heat over your skin. "So stop acting otherwise."

The teasing, the restraint—it’s all designed to make you break, to wind you tighter until there’s nothing left but raw, aching need. They’re waiting for it, watching for the moment when you stop thinking, stop resisting, and just give in.

"Let's try a little edging hmm?" Sylus suggests and Zayne nods in agreement.

"I think that's just what they need to be at their loudest." His fingers start to probe between your legs, and your breath wavers, noises keening as he pushes you to an edge, then stops, leaving you gasping and almost thrashing from impatience on the bed.

Sylus and Zayne laugh at the sight, before Sylus grips your cheeks, bringing your face close to his.

"That was a good start little one. Be louder, and maybe you'll get to cum next time."

[karespocketboyfriends]

Hi hi I saw your requests are open. I hope your writing inspiration comes back soon. It’s tough. Raf knows. Cna I request a comfort fic with Rafayel where reader is sad and doesn’t seek him for help?

You’re a self-soother, through and through.

It’s as easy as breathing, to hide yourself away until the clouds covering your emotions move on. To huddle on your bed, wrapped in a blanket, sentenced to solitude until you could find the energy to pull yourself together. When you stopped seeking others for comfort, who knew. It probably started in your childhood, like most things do.

“Watch how you talk to me.” Your mother would scold when emotion bled into your attempts to communicate your feelings.

“What’s with the attitude?” Your siblings would fire when you tried to express how you felt.

Keeping to yourself hurt less, and thus, a self-soother was born.

Years and years of such practice meant you didn’t even consider calling anyone for a shoulder to lean on. He never even crossed your mind, not until his name popped up on your phone with a pleasant little tune along with it.

“There you are, cutie.” Rafayel’s voice is light and cheerful, a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “You’ve been so quiet today. I thought some girlfriend eating monster leapt out of the sea and gobbled you up.”

A single beam of sunlight breaks through the storm raging above your head. For the first time all day, you laugh. It’s short, quiet and exhausted, but it’s there. “Sorry. I’ve been occupied with… something.”

A pause. “What’s wrong?”

It’s strange, the way panic seizes you. “Nothing. Why?”

Rafayel doesn’t buy it. The little hum he lets out tells you so. “Yeah, no. Open up.”

Surprised, you blink. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, to piece together what the Lumerian is saying.

In disbelief, you untangle yourself from the sheets and shuffle towards the front door of your apartment. Rafayel stays on the line with you the entire time, only hangs up when you open the door to reveal that he is, in fact, standing outside.

“You’re here?” You ask, still trying to wrap your head around how and why he’s shown up unannounced.

Rafayel tucks his phone into his pocket and crosses his arms. You expect his familiar, adorable pout, but it doesn’t come. “I could have been here sooner if you told me you were having a rough day. Why didn’t you call me?”

Your mouth opens, only to shut again as words fail you. Opens and closes again. Third time is the charm. “H-How did you know?”

“Just a hunch.” He says with a casual shrug. “Are you going to invite me in, or would you rather talk about it in the middle of the hallway?”

That encourages you to move aside and let him in. The door closes and locks behind him, and when his pretty, tri-coloured eyes settle on you once more, you find yourself shying away.

Because this isn’t the usual, teasing Rafayel you’ve become so accustomed to. This isn’t the brilliant artist who tries to wiggle out of events or is scratching his head in search of inspiration. This isn’t the playful boyfriend who comes up with adorable excuses to drag you to the beach or engages you with playful banter.

The Rafayel before you now, though just as gentle, was on the hunt for something. Something you weren’t sure you would be able to give.

“Hey.” He says softly, slowly closing the distance between you and him. You allow it, and when his slender hands cup your cheeks, you don’t fight his guidance to meet his eyes. “Talk to me.”

A sharp inhale stabs at your lungs. Without meaning to, you break. “I can’t.”

“You can’t,” Gently, effortlessly, he catches a stray tear that escapes your eye. “Or you don’t know how?”

Another sharp inhale. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, just how observant he can be. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking my feelings out on you.”

It slips. You don’t mean for it to, but the truth slips. A hidden, fragile truth you’ve never allowed yourself to think too much about. One that, now upon finally finding freedom, lashes back at you with the might of a thousand swords.

Scabs that have never fully healed are torn open again. Memories of self-isolation and desires to be held and comforted make your throat sting with unreleased sobs.

Rafayel tilts his head, caresses your cheeks with his thumbs as he considers what you said. “I’m an artist. Do you think a spark of emotion bothers me?”

You try to keep it together. Really try. Try to hold back the tears, the trembles, the sobbing.

You fail.

And Rafayel gathers you in his arms, wraps your legs around his waist as he carries you to the couch. “Express yourself however you want to. Who knows? Maybe you can help me make a beautiful painting out of it.”

[ironworked]

Bucktommy in 8.11 and what's next

If the writers believed they'd closed the door with the 8.06 breakup, they wouldn't have brought Tommy back.

They did bring him back, though (and secretively!), but instead of any of the paths to create closure, like showing Tommy had moved on, or having them both realize their feelings had changed, or have Tommy state that that night changed nothing... what they did was 8.06 Breakup Redux 'The Soft Version':

I can't move in with you -> I'm not ready to move in

This is new to you, I'm not your last -> 'what about Eddie?' 'I'm not in love with Eddie'.

Buck -> Evan

You'd end up breaking my heart -> 'You're not afraid now?' 'not so much'

Impractical loft -> Family house

Wanting to call Tommy + Baking [downward spiral of abandonment issues] -> Wanting to call Tommy + Baking [learning to be okay alone]

Buck making an impulsive decision asking Tommy to move in -> Buck wondering if his loneliness was a factor.

We know the callbacks are intentional because they've happened before, and they had them dressed in basically the same outfits as in their 8.06 breakup.

Buck is in a better headspace now after 8.11, and I think 8.12/13 will show that (and probably rest on the Tommy mentions/baking, though if they don't they might as well start playing the wedding march) and that the point is to have Buck be OK so that when he meets Tommy again there's no doubts about where his feelings come from.

They clearly didn't use 8.11 for closure, but they made sure the audience knew it was needed by having Buck repeat he should call Tommy and by his baking.

And we know they'll meet again, and it'll be in a Big Emergency. So in my opinion the options are, from least to most likely:

Killing Tommy: killing characters is showrunner catnip, but not something 911 does. It's also weird to do it when Buck is on the up and only 3 eps from the end of the season (episodes that have more focus on Bathena and tying up loose ends).

Bad Timing Couple: another rom(com) classic, the couple that wants to be together but it's never the right time! Maybe Buck says he needs time alone; maybe Tommy says he's in therapy, or he accepted a job in Alaska. It's possible, but I'd think it'd be a letdown of a resolution for Buck's arc this season (and pretty much sets Tommy as The Endgame for Series Finale so if they try another LI they're going to be dead on arrival). Also... why not do this directly in 8.11?

Romantic Reunion: maybe Tommy is in danger, or saves Buck, or they kinda recreate the night they met as they work together to save the 118... they talk and/or make declarations and get back together. This would give Buck a deserved and climactic win, but they'd lose one of their bachelors (maybe if Eddie does leave and they incorporate Ravi, this is less of an issue).

I think it's also important to note that (afaik) 8.14/15 isn't the same filming block as 8.11, so it's not like they already had LFJ on set and went 'hey since you're here, mind hoping into that helo so we can do some action scenes?'. And they're not going to spring more money on an actor if their role could've been played by anyone (or even not have been a role to be filled at all).

[lowryuk]

HELLO! I saw that you’re doing requests now😍

Could I get a ex!bf eren x reader who’s about to get married? But she’s getting married to someone who’s like… useless. No job, no education, nothing really going for him. You’re just in a rush to get married because you believe it’s the next step but when eren comes back into your life, everything changes.

Thank you!

(Also could I be 🪿 anon?)

First request and first anon emoji?! Say less 😩🙏

Hope you enjoy, 🪿 anon <3

OTW

WC: 3.5K

tw: rough sex, cheating, possessive!eren, choking, dirty talk, fingering, toxic relationship, oral (f receiving), angst

Today was the day you’d dreamed of since you were a little girl.

Months of meticulous planning, dress shopping, vendor drama, flower arrangements, and all the wedding stress—it was supposed to be worth it. Your wedding day was meant to be one of the best days of your life, a celebration of two people coming together, ready to build a future.

Your fiancé was a great guy. He was sweet, charismatic, and came from a wonderful family. On paper, everything seemed perfect. In your mind, this felt like the natural next step, marriage, a family home, kids, a stable 9-5 job. You were on the right path. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Yet, no matter how many times you repeated it in your head, it still felt wrong. Because it was wrong. 

Your fiancé could barely hold down a job and had no ambition to further his education or build a stable career. Instead, he dreamed of making it as a streamer. He poured thousands of dollars into equipment while you carried the weight of all the financial responsibilities.

Fuck.

Fucking Eren Yeager.

Always showing up at the worst possible time.

Where was this logic when you said yes to your fiancé’s proposal? How did it take you until now, after everything had been paid for, with only an hour left before you walked down the aisle—to finally realize the truth?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Was it too late to back out now? Your hair and makeup were already done, the final step was slipping into the dress. But you couldn’t. You fucking couldn’t. The thought of stepping into that gown, walking down that aisle, and tying yourself to this life made your chest tighten. You didn’t want this. Not with him.

Or were you just overthinking because Eren was here?

Because one single text from him was all it took to unravel everything. A few words on a screen, and suddenly, your entire perspective on your relationship shifted. You should have blocked him. Maybe then, your heart wouldn’t be sinking with dread and doubt right now. But old habits never die, and Eren Yeager was the worst one of them all.

He was your on-and-off boyfriend, the bad habit you could never quite break. The two of you were stuck in a toxic cycle, one that always left you shattered by the end of it. No matter how many times you tried to walk away, you somehow always found your way back to him.

Until two years ago.

You finally cut contact, determined to move on for good. It didn’t take long before you found yourself in a new relationship, one that felt stable, safe, and predictable. A little over a year in, your fiancé proposed, and you said yes.

Eren didn’t find out about the engagement until a week before the wedding. You had practically begged your mutual friends to keep quiet, knowing exactly what he would do if he found out. Because no one knew Eren Yeager better than you. And if there was one thing about him, it was that he never let go of something he still considered his.

You heard that he tried to move on, that he tried to heal and become better. But relationships never seemed to work out for him. No matter how hard he tried, nothing ever stuck.

So when he found out about your engagement and realized your wedding was only a week away, he scoffed. What a fucking joke.

You hated to admit it, but it wasn’t Eren’s reaction you were afraid of. The real reason you never wanted him to find out was because of your reaction. Because the moment he came back into your life, all those feelings you worked so hard to bury would come flooding back, drowning you in something you thought you had left behind. It drove you crazy. Because marriage, commitment, a future, you couldn’t imagine it with anyone but him.

You tried everything to move on. Therapy, long talks with friends, convincing yourself that this new relationship was what you needed. But deep down, you knew the truth. If Eren came back, if he reached out even once, you wouldn’t be strong enough to resist. You would run straight back into his arms because no matter how much time had passed, that was the only place you had ever truly belonged. 

–

Eren wasn’t going to miss your wedding. Of course not.

You weren’t just some ex-girlfriend he could forget. You were the biggest part of his life, the one person who knew him better than anyone, the one he loved in a way that was all-consuming. His first love, his greatest mistake, his one true obsession. And call him the villain if you want, but he wasn’t about to let you walk down that aisle without a fight.

Because you didn’t belong to that man. You belonged to him.

And he knew, deep in his bones, that you wanted him too.

How? 

Because when his message was marked as delivered, when you didn’t block his number, when you didn’t ignore him like you should have, he knew. You could have deleted it, tossed your phone aside, pretended he didn’t exist. But you didn’t.

You read it.

And that was all he needed.

A slow smirk curled on his lips as he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lazily against his phone. You were probably staring at the screen right now, heart racing, pulse hammering, torn between doing what was right and what you really wanted. He had seen it all before. The guilt. The hesitation. The battle between logic and desire. But in the end, you always came back to him.

He exhaled, his green eyes wandering the cathedral. If you weren’t going to come to him, he would come to you.

So why wait?

Eren stood, adjusting his suit and tie, smoothing out the fabric because he wanted to look good for you. With quiet, purposeful steps, he made his way toward the back rooms, slipping past the crowd with ease. He knew exactly where you were.

And you knew he was coming.

The gentle knock at the door sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t need to ask who it was. You knew.

Your fingers curled against your dress, gripping the soft material as if it could somehow anchor you. If you let him in, this was over before it even began. The wedding. The life you had planned. The man waiting for you at the end of that aisle.

And if someone caught you?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, willing yourself to resist. But then, his voice pierces through, low and familiar, the sound wrapping around you like a ghost from your past.

“Can I come in?”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could stop yourself, you were already standing. 

You opened the door, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Eren’s breath hitched, his green eyes softening as he took you in. You looked breathtaking, the white dress hugging you perfectly, the veil framing your face like you were something holy. He had dreamed of seeing you like this one day, but not like this. Not when he wasn’t the one waiting at the end of that aisle.

He hadn’t expected to get emotional, but seeing you standing there, dressed as a bride, made his head spin. This was real. Too fucking real. He was an hour away from losing you forever.

He could barely maintain eye contact when he muttered, “Don’t.”

One word. Simple. But it was enough to make your throat tighten, enough for tears to well up in your eyes.

“Eren, I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head, trying to steady yourself.

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded, stepping closer, his voice rough with desperation. “You can. You know you don’t want this. Don’t do something you’re going to regret, something that’s going to hurt both of us. Listen to your heart for once.”

You let out a bitter laugh, wiping at your eyes. “Fuck you. How many times have I listened to my heart, only to get hurt over and over again because of you?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t back down. “It beats being tied to someone you don’t even remotely like for the rest of your life, doesn’t it?” His voice lowered, dangerously steady. “Because you can’t stand there and tell me you don’t feel anything. You wouldn’t have opened this door if you didn’t.”

Eren never let you bullshit him. He saw right through you, every single time.

He exhaled sharply, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Tell me. Do I have to sit there and watch you marry another man? Or are we getting the fuck out of here?”

Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.

You knew the answer before you even spoke.

“Let’s go.”

–

Eren’s lips were glued to yours as the elevator ascended, the weight of everything you had just done crashing down on you both. The kiss was frantic, messy, filled with a desperation that neither of you could suppress. It was like you had been drowning for the past two years, and now, finally, you could breathe again.

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist like he was terrified you would disappear, like this was all some fever dream that would slip through his fingers if he let go. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until you were completely lost in him.

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open, but neither of you moved. Not until Eren finally tore himself away, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with something unrestrained.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low and thick with want.

He didn’t have to ask twice.

Fingers laced together, he pulled you down the hall, fumbling with the keycard until the door swung open. And the second it shut behind you, he was on you again, lips claiming yours like he had every right to. 

His hands tore at your dress, fabric splitting beneath his grip as he ripped it apart from the top. If you were in your right mind, you would have yelled at him for it. But right now, you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was being closer to him.

The ruined dress slipped from your body, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare except for the white lingerie beneath. The moment Eren laid eyes on you, his breath hitched. His gaze darkened, pupils blown wide with desire.

“Fuck me,” he rasped, dragging a rough hand over his mouth as if to contain himself. “You were gonna give all this to him? Hmm? He wouldn’t even know what to do with you.”

His words sent a wicked thrill down your spine, but before you could respond, his lips crashed into your neck, hot and possessive. His tongue flicked against your skin, followed by sharp nips that made your head tilt back with a gasp. He sucked until he left deep purple splotches blooming along your throat and collarbone, evidence of his claim.

Large hands slid down to knead your ass, squeezing as he pulled your body flush against his. Then, just as quickly, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you toward the bed. The softness of the mattress barely registered before his weight caged you beneath him.

As much as he loved the sight of you in delicate white lace, he couldn’t wait to see you bare. His fingers made quick work of your bralette, unclasping it with ease. The moment the fabric slid away, exposing your breasts, Eren groaned, his head dropping for a moment as if the sight physically weakened him.

“Eren,” you whined, tugging at his tie, your nails grazing his chest through his half-unbuttoned shirt. “Take it off.”

The way you pouted, eyes round and pleading, made something snap inside him.

“Yeah?” His smirk was lazy, teasing, but his fingers worked fast, yanking at the knot of his tie before hastily unbuttoning his shirt. He barely had the patience to shrug it off because he knew how desperate you were to touch him, and fuck, he was just as desperate to feel you.

Eren barely got his shirt off before your hands were on him, raking over the ridges of his stomach, tracing the deep lines of his abs. He was so fucking warm, muscles tense beneath your fingertips like he was barely holding himself back. But you didn’t want him to hold back.

“Eren,” you murmured, nails digging into his skin.

He groaned, low and deep, before crashing his lips back onto yours, kissing you like he was starving. His tongue slid against yours, claiming, demanding, as his hands roamed lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace panties.

“You know,” he muttered against your mouth, “I should make you beg for it.”

You whined in protest, arching into him, but he only chuckled, slow and dangerous.

“Yeah?” His fingers trailed teasingly along the inside of your thigh, barely there, not nearly enough. “You want me to take them off?”

“Yes,” you breathed, legs shifting restlessly.

His lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, over the marks he’d left on your throat, and still, his fingers didn’t move any higher. “Use your words, baby.”

You huffed, frustration curling in your stomach. “Eren, please.”

His grip tightened suddenly, possessive, like he loved hearing you beg. “That’s my girl.”

And then, with one smooth motion, he ripped the lace away. A gasp left your lips, half-shock, half-anticipation, but Eren only groaned in satisfaction, sliding his palm over your now bare skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, green eyes locking onto yours. “Look at you.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, lips and tongue tracing fire down your body, taking his time, savoring every inch of you like you were something to be worshipped.

His fingers dipped into you, sinking past the tight resistance of your walls, and your back arched instinctively, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips. The stretch had your thighs trembling, pleasure crackling through your nerves like fire.

“Fuck,” Eren groaned, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “So fucking tight. His dick didn’t stretch you out like mine, did it?”

You barely had the mind to shake your head before he slid in another finger, the added pressure making you whimper. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that had your stomach tensing.

A broken moan escaped you, but before it could fill the room, Eren pulled his fingers out and shoved them between your lips. “Suck.”

You obeyed without hesitation, swirling your tongue around them, tasting yourself as your gaze locked onto his. His pupils were blown, lips parted as he watched you, completely transfixed.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice thick with arousal.

Before you could process the praise, he lowered himself between your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled in. His breath ghosted over your slick heat, and then his mouth was on you.

The first flick of his tongue made your entire body jolt, and when he latched onto your clit, swirling, sucking, teasing, you couldn’t stop the way your hips bucked against his face.

“Eren,” you gasped, fingers flying to his hair, tugging, holding on for dear life as he devoured you.

He groaned into you, the vibrations making you shudder, and before you knew it, you were falling apart, pleasure cresting over you in waves. Your body tightened, back arching off the bed as his name spilled from your lips like a prayer.

Eren pulled away, lips glistening, but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. He was already getting up, hands moving in a rush. His belt clattered to the floor, pants shoved down just enough before he was on you again.

His cock dragged against your entrance, teasing, tip slick with your release, and you whimpered, hips shifting, chasing the fullness you knew was coming.

Eren smirked at your desperation, but he didn’t keep you waiting. With one slow, deliberate push, he sank inside, stretching you inch by inch until he was fully seated.

You swore you could pass out.

It had been two years since you’d been filled like this, since someone had reached this deep, and your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let go.

Eren didn’t give you a second to adjust. There was no patience, no teasing this time. He pulled out almost entirely before slamming back in, punching a gasp straight from your throat.

Your body jolted with the force of it, nails digging into his biceps as he set a brutal pace, each thrust knocking the breath out of you.

“Fuck—” you choked, toes curling as the head of his cock dragged against that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

Eren only growled in response, his grip tightening as he forced your body to take every ruthless stroke. One hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing it, keeping you exactly where he wanted. The other dug into your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, as if he was afraid you’d slip away.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked. “Taking me so fucking well. This pussy was made for me.”

Your walls clenched around him at his words, and he smirked like he felt it.

“Yeah?” His pace stuttered for just a second, just enough to make you whine, before he rammed into you even harder, making the bed creak beneath you. “You like that? You like being fucked like you’re mine?”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Your moans were all he got, loud and desperate as pleasure built inside you, white-hot and unrelenting.

Eren leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath heavy and uneven. “Say it.”

You shook your head, stubborn even now, but he only chuckled darkly, his thumb pressing against your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your whole body seize.

“Say it,” he demanded again, voice dropping, dripping with possession. “Or I don’t let you come.”

You let out a broken whimper, so close you could taste it, pleasure teetering on the edge of unbearable. He kept moving, hips snapping against yours, cock driving so deep it felt like he was splitting you open.

“Say it,” Eren repeated, voice softer this time but no less dangerous, lips skimming your jaw as he fucked into you, relentless.

And when you finally broke, when the pleasure coiled too tight to fight it anymore, you gasped it out, barely above a whisper.

“Yours. I’m yours, Eren! Fuck–” 

A groan tore from his throat, and his hips slammed into you with a new, desperate force, like he was trying to fuck the claim deeper, brand it into your bones.

“That’s right,” he growled, breath ragged, his fingers tightening around your throat. “You’re mine. This pussy—” he punctuated it with a brutal thrust, making you cry out, “—mine. Say it again.”

Your body shook beneath him, legs trembling, but you didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yours,” you gasped, fingers clawing at his back, trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, as he wrecked you. “Eren, I’m yours.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, his pace stuttered, like he was trying to control himself, like he was on the verge of unraveling completely. But then his hand slid down, hooking behind your knee, hiking your leg up to spread you even wider.

And fuck, the new angle had you seeing stars.

A sharp gasp left your lips, back arching off the bed as his cock hit even deeper, so deep it felt like he was ruining you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, watching the way your face twisted in pleasure. “You feel that? Feel how good you take me?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t do anything but moan as the heat in your stomach coiled impossibly tight, tension building, about to snap.

Eren must’ve felt it, how your walls fluttered around him, how your breath hitched in that telltale way, because his fingers moved to your clit, rubbing fast, ruthless circles that made your whole body jerk.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice strained, barely holding on himself.

You shook your head weakly, trying to fight it, trying to make this last just a little longer, but Eren wasn’t having it.

“Don’t fucking hold back,” he rasped, slamming into you harder. “Come. Now.”

That was all it took.

Your body locked up, pleasure hitting you in a crashing wave that ripped through your veins, hot and all-consuming. A sob tore from your throat as you clenched around him, shaking as the orgasm washed over you, leaving you completely wrecked beneath him.

Eren wasn’t far behind.

“Fuck—” he hissed through gritted teeth, hips stuttering as your tightness milked him. His grip on you turned bruising, and then he was burying himself deep with one last thrust, a low groan spilling from his lips as he filled you.

The room was silent except for your ragged breaths, your skin slick with sweat, bodies still tangled together.

Still breathless, Eren leaned down and kissed you, softer this time. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, pressing you so tightly against him that you could feel the wild thrum of his heartbeat. “I fucking love you so much,” he murmured against your lips. “Never gonna leave you, baby. Never gonna let you leave me either.”

Apologies for any mistakes, I’ll edit in the morning with fresh pairs of eyes 👀.

[writesvani]

Dear Me | 03

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress, unresolved feelings, unspoken grief, jealousy, insecurity, avoidance, mentions of lost friendships, nostalgia, mild self-deprecation, strained relationships, anxiety, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter | next chapter (pending...)

wc: 3,4k // date: 25th of March

CHAPTER THREE — Saturdays are for Yoongi; happy reading my gummies...

AN (DON'T SKIP): this chapter was so much fun to write, and i genuinely hope you all love it as much as i do! starting now, my new update schedule is officially in motion, and with that comes my note goal: 200. yup, you heard me right, two hundred. am i being ambitious? maybe. am i manifesting? absolutely. but hey, dear me usually hits that, so let’s keep the streak alive!

and here’s the deal—once we hit that goal, chapter 4 will drop faster than y/n dodging her feelings. so, leave your comments, send me asks, scream in the tags—I’m dying to hear your thoughts!

also, yes, i know these first few chapters are on the shorter side, but they're just here to introduce you to the story and its dynamics! i promise, longer chapters are coming soon

— love, vani ♡

The best part of your week is Saturday. There’s something about it—a sense of idle calmness, as though the world has momentarily slowed down. It’s the one day where you can embrace doing absolutely nothing, soaking up your unproductivity like a ray of sunlight. Saturday is the calm before the storm of the week, and that’s why, despite your constant need for structure and routine, you let it unfold naturally.

It’s funny, really. The simplicity of having one messy, unplanned day brings an unexpected thrill. You find joy in the uncertainty of how the day will pass, how it’ll surprise you. It’s a break from the usual schedule, a breath of fresh air in the middle of your carefully organized life.

Yoongi sits across from you, his usual aura of coolness interrupted by his bizarrely slouched posture. His hair is a mess—tousled and looking as though he’s been trying to tame it all morning, but it stubbornly refuses to cooperate. In front of him sits a caramel latte, the steam curling lazily as he takes occasional sips, his eyes flicking between you and your phone.

“Damn, that looks good,” he says, his voice a low murmur, but his gaze is anything but casual. He’s practically staring at the picture on your phone like it’s holding the secrets of universe.

You smirk, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “Mhm, that’s what I’m talking about,” you reply, practically grinning from ear to ear. The pride you feel is almost tangible as you show him the picture—a shot of the crème brûlée you recently made at work. It’s perfect, golden, and just begging to be devoured.

Yoongi’s eyes are wide, his expression a mix of admiration and hunger. “I’m not even gonna lie, I’d eat that straight off the screen if I could,” he admits, a little too eagerly.

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair. “Well, you can’t. But if you want, I’ll make you one next time.”

His face softens into a grin, and he leans forward, his hands wrapped around his latte like it’s his only lifeline. “Deal. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think I do,” you say, the ease of afternoon gently swallowing you.

You lean back in your chair, tapping your fingers lightly on your cup, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of your lips. “But seriously, Yoon, I could teach you how to cook. You might actually impress someone with your skills for once.”

He raises an eyebrow, the amusement in his eyes barely hiding his disbelief. “Me? Cook? Please, I can barely make instant ramen without setting off the smoke alarm.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head in mock disbelief. "I remember the last time you tried cooking. The whole apartment smelled like burnt toast for days."

He slouches slightly in his chair, shoulders tensing as he glances away, a sheepish expression crossing his face. “Okay, that was one time. I may or may not have gotten distracted by my playlist. But I’m definitely not cut out for the kitchen.”

“You say that like you’ve given up entirely,” you tease, leaning forward with a playful glint in your eye. “Come on, hun. Everyone can cook if they try. Even you could pull off something other than cereal or microwaveable noodles.”

His hands wrap tighter around his latte, and he shrugs slightly, eyes flicking to the side as though he’s mentally weighing his options. “What’s the point? You’re the one with the magic touch. Every meal you make is basically a Michelin-starred dish.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling the pride swelling in your chest despite your modest shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, his head tilting just slightly as he observes you. His lips curl into a small smirk, though there’s a hint of skepticism in his eyes. “Yeah, right. Last time I tried, I couldn’t even boil an egg without making it look like a science experiment gone wrong.”

Your eyes widen, and you nearly choke on your drink. “That’s because you didn’t even know the difference between boiling and frying! You can’t just throw an egg in a pan and hope for the best, dude.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning slightly forward as he feigns annoyance, but the playful gleam in his eyes betrays his true feelings. “Hey, I was improvising!” His lips curl into a mischievous grin. “It’s not my fault the egg didn’t cooperate with my vision.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at your lips. “I’m sure the egg was just terrified by your lack of culinary expertise.”

Yoongi’s posture stiffens as he glares at you, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward, giving him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m a cooking disaster. I’ll just leave the meals to you, Chef Extraordinaire.”

You sit up straighter, tilting your head slightly, the teasing glint never leaving your eyes. “Smart choice,” you reply, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “But, just so you know, next time I’m cooking, you’re the official taste tester. And trust me, you don’t want to disappoint me.”

He leans back again, hands resting on his lap as he stares at you with mock seriousness, though his lips are still twitching into a grin. “Challenge accepted,” he says, his tone a bit more dramatic than necessary. But you know he’s secretly terrified of the idea of cooking for himself.

A soft shift moves through the air, a gentle shift of calm that settles between you and Yoongi. Quietness. His fingers dance over the screen of his phone, tapping at the surface with practiced ease. You can guess he’s texting someone—maybe Nina, maybe a friend, maybe… Jungkook. The thought makes a knot tighten in your chest, but you push it away. It’s not something you want to think about right now. Instead, you pull out your own phone, your fingers flicking through the screen aimlessly.

Nothing exciting. Nothing new.

You let out a soft breath, your eyes drifting up to meet Yoongi’s. There’s a quiet comfort in the air now, the type that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket. The kind that settles into your bones, making your muscles relax and your fingers stretch out in a lazy ease. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from familiarity, from knowing someone well enough that you can just be—no words needed.

The thought makes something soft bloom in your chest.

Yoongi’s presence brings a sense of grounding, like you’ve known him forever and there’s nothing that could change that. The fact that, despite everything, there’s still someone you can rely on, someone you can lean on when the world feels too heavy. It’s a rare comfort.

You haven’t seen him much lately. The demands of his job as a publisher, your own strict schedule—it’s hard to make time. Too hard for regular drinks or coffee, even calls. But somehow, there’s always that one day of the week that pulls you two back together, a day when the chaos of your lives fades just enough for you to enjoy each other’s company.

And that day is usually Sunday.

Maybe that’s why you love Sundays so much. The way everything slows down, the world becomes a little softer. The way Yoongi's presence feels like a breath of fresh air. It’s those moments, those quiet moments, that you cherish more than anything else.

You glance at him again. His eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief moment before he looks away, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You feel it, the shared understanding between you two. And in that second, you realize that, even though you can’t always be together, these Sundays are enough to keep you close. To remind you that, no matter what, you have this.

You have him.

But alas, the silence, unfortunately, can’t last forever. A small motion, a sound disrupts the calm, and you find yourself briefly flinching at the sharp ring of Yoongi’s phone. You blink, your attention drawn to the screen before you can stop yourself. It’s ringing, and without thinking, your eyes are already glued to the name flashing across it.

“Nin 🫶🏻,” it says.

Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t swallow down. Of course, there’s nothing strange about Nina calling him—she’s his sister, after all. It has happened countless times in the years you’ve known the twins.

Nina has visited him more times than you can count, and you’ve met up with her, too, shared easy conversations and laughter like before. But this… this is different. This time, seeing her name on his screen feels like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time you’ve seen it since that day—since the day you saw it written in beautiful, flowing cursive on that damn envelope sitting in your desk drawer (well, except the day you saw it tangled in your emails from the past you, but you're choosing to ignore that).

The one you’ve kept hidden, locked away.

The one that still reminds you of a friendship that’s lost.

A friendship with Jungkook that once meant everything but now feels like it belongs to another lifetime.

A friendship that has been broken, shattered beyond recognition.

That envelope, that name, that moment—it's a reminder of the bond between you and Jungkook, the one you once cherished, now reduced to something unrecognizable. And it stings. It always stings. The ache doesn’t go away, even though you try to heal it.

Desperately.

Eagerly.

You force yourself to move on, to pretend like you’ve moved past it, but the wound is still there. Still fresh, deep beneath the surface.

You inhale sharply, trying to mask the uneasiness threatening to bubble up inside you. You flash your teeth at Yoongi, offering him a soothing smile—one that feels more like a mask than anything genuine. You can feel the tightness in your chest, but you push it down.

"I gotta take this. I’ll be back," Yoongi says, his voice breaking through your thoughts. His movements are quick, almost hurried, as he stands and brings the phone to his ear.

You nod, though it feels like a distant gesture, your eyes still locked on his phone screen even as he turns to leave. The words “Heey” drift back to you just before he’s out of sight, and suddenly, the space between you and him feels much larger. Much emptier.

You’re left in the quiet once more, but this time, the stillness feels heavier. The silence is louder now, pressing down on you as the ache grows, gnawing at your chest.

You’re reminded again, in the simplest of ways, that you’re not the number one in Yoongi’s life. That place is always reserved for his sister, Nina. And though you know it’s natural, normal even, a small part of you can’t help but envy her—for being the priority in the lives of everyone you ever cared about the way you always wished you could be. It’s irrational, you know it is, but it still stings in the way that only silent truths can. The hurt lingers, no matter how much you try to reason with it. You push it down, bury it beneath the smile you’ve perfected over the years.

Yoongi’s footsteps return before you can fully process the pain, the familiar sound of his shoes brushing against the floor, and he moves past you with an energy that immediately pulls your attention. There’s an excited gleam in his eyes—bright, almost too bright for his usual self. It’s contagious, but you can’t quite bring yourself to smile the way he does.

He’s joyful. Too joyful for Yoongi. And it’s a little too much, but you lean forward instinctively, elbows planted on the table, your hands cradling your face.

“You won’t believe this,” he says, his voice light with excitement as he takes a sip of his latte, the warmth of the cup seeming to match his newfound energy.

You stare at him, curiosity piquing despite the heaviness in your chest. “What happened?”

“Nin and Kook are coming to town next week, to check the venues,” he continues, his words rushing out of him like a wave breaking against the shore.

And just like that, the names—Nin and Kook—splash over you like ice water. They burn, sharp and familiar. The names of people you loved, people who are no longer yours to love. The uneasiness quakes through you, a familiar sting at the back of your throat. You try not to let it show, though. You won’t let it show.

Yoongi keeps talking, trying to act oblivious to the weight his words carry. “And they want us to grab a coffee together when we’re free,” he adds, a casual air to his voice, as if the idea of sitting in a café with them—laughing, reminiscing about high school, pretending like everything is fine—doesn’t rip at the edges of your heart. It feels wrong, the thought of being in the same room as Jungkook again, when so much has changed, when so much has been lost.

You swallow, forcing yourself to sit up a little straighter, letting the fake calmness wash over you. “Really? How did that plan come to life?” you ask, your brow quirking in an exaggerated show of curiosity, anything to mask the storm bubbling inside you.

Yoongi shifts, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, his gaze flitting between you and his empty cup. “Nina asked where I was… I told her I was grabbing coffee with you,” he rambles, his voice quieting slightly. “Then she mentioned that she and Kook were coming to town next week to check the venues. And, well, yeah, the rest is history.”

You nod slowly, trying to pretend that the mention of Jungkook doesn’t twist something deep inside you. The urge to respond, to say something that doesn’t betray the knot tightening in your gut, claws at you. But you just nod again, this time with a tight smile.

“Sounds… fun,” you manage, though the words feel foreign in your mouth.

“Could at least try sounding a bit more excited,” Yoongi says, giving you that look—the one that knows you too well. It’s the look that cuts straight through the act, the one that makes you feel like you’re not hiding anything at all. It’s funny, in a way, how he can pick up on your discomfort so quickly, but still, for all his sharpness, he never seemed to notice that you used to be in love with his sister’s fiancé. Or maybe, a small part of you wonders, he did know. And chose not to bring it up. Because acknowledging it would make it real, and if it was real, things would get messy. Yoongi would have to choose a side, and both of you knew exactly where his loyalty would lie.

You shift uncomfortably, forcing a smile, but it feels like the most unnatural thing in the world. “I am, I swear,” you say, but your fingers twitch against your cheeks, a small gesture as they trace the scar you’ve long since tried to forget.

Yoongi watches you closely, his gaze softening as he picks up on the subtle shift. “You don’t have to pretend for me,” he says quietly, almost too quietly. But the weight of it lands in your chest, sending a quick flutter through your heart. "I know this is gonna be a lil weird for you."

You blink, trying to clear the lump in your throat, but the words feel too heavy, too loaded. The silence lingers for a beat, thick and raw. Then Yoongi’s voice breaks through again, a little more careful this time.

“I mean, the four of us haven’t been in the same room together in years. I get it. I know you haven’t seen Kook in a while.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you say, but your voice catches just slightly. “But it doesn’t make it weird...”

Yoongi tilts his head, the tiniest smirk curling on his lips. “You know, Nin says he mentions you a lot.” He leans back in his chair, watching you with those eyes that know too much, the ones that see past all the masks you wear.

Yoongi's words linger in the air, sinking in slowly, creeping up on wounds that you thought had healed. The fact that Jungkook still mentions you, still thinks about you—it shouldn’t sting this much, but it does. It really does.

Two years have passed since you last saw him, and the memory of that moment is sharper than you’d like to admit. The last time you sat down with Jungkook was after an awkward run-in outside his parents' house, where he invited you in for a drink. And it was… weird.

You both were strangers by then, with too much history between you to ignore, and yet not enough common ground to feel like you truly knew each other anymore. It was like trying to force something familiar into an unfamiliar shape. The conversation, stilted and uncomfortable, quickly drifted to small talk—safe topics about childhood and high school memories, things that kept the ground beneath your feet solid, even if it felt like you were both standing on shaky ground.

You blink, breaking out of the fog of that memory. Yoongi’s eyes are still on you, waiting for you to say something. Anything. You open your mouth, but the words falter, unsure of where they’re going. “Look, Yoon, okay, maybe…” You pause, trying to form the thoughts swirling in your head. “Maybe it’s a little weird because I haven’t talked to both of them in a while. But so what?” You shrug, trying to play it off, but the unease bubbling inside you is hard to ignore.

Yoongi tilts his head, studying you with that familiar, knowing gaze. “So what?” he echoes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re telling me you’re not worried about it?”

You don’t answer immediately, your fingers tapping lightly on the table as you try to steady yourself. The truth is, you’re not sure what you’re worried about. The past? The present? The strange space in between?

Yoongi's buzz slowly fades, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The joy that had been on his face when he finished that call, the spark in his eyes—it all starts to slip away, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow extinguished it. He was so eager, so excited for the four of you to hang out again, and now, with all your overthinking and awkward thoughts about Jungkook and the thing that happened between you, you’ve managed to ruin it.

You glance at Yoongi now, watching him carefully, as if he’s trying to decode something that’s impossible to read. His eyes are focused on you, sharp and observant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle with every little shift in your expression.

Your eyelashes flutter, and instinctively, your tongue darts out to wet your lips, but they feel dry, a little too dry. You take a sip of your coffee—cold, bitter, the taste of it almost mirroring the ache in your chest.

"I have nothing to worry about," you say, your voice a little softer than you intend. You scratch the back of your head. "I know that once we get past those first five minutes of awkward hell, it'll be like back in the days."

Yoongi shrugs, and a small, almost nostalgic smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah... like when we were young," he agrees, his voice carrying a bittersweet edge.

Your eyebrow quirks up, and you let out a short laugh, though it’s not entirely a pleasant one. "Dude, are you seriously quoting Adele right now?"

He looks at you, unbothered. "What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood."

"With a depression anthem?" you joke, the corners of your mouth lifting despite yourself.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Don’t kill my creative vibe, okay?"

You shake your head, but the tension loosens just a little. Maybe it’s stupid, but his attempt at humor, however ridiculous, makes things feel a little less heavy. The fact that Yoongi can still make you laugh, even in the middle of all this weirdness, is oddly comforting.

The conversation shifts, both of you silently agreeing to steer clear of Jungkook, Nina, and the storm their arrival will inevitably bring. No mention of wedding venues, no talk of Nina with a ring on her finger—the ring you haven’t even seen, don’t even know what it looks like.

And maybe that’s for the best.

So instead, you devote yourself to Yoongi again, clinging to the safe space he provides. You let him pull you into a discussion about a new book he’s reviewing, something he’s beta reading for a supposedly famous writer. Supposedly being the key word, because despite his insistence that they’re a big deal, you’ve never heard of them. Then again, maybe that just says more about you than it does about them—about the fact that you haven’t picked up modern fiction in a while, about how your shelves are still filled with books from a past version of yourself.

You laugh at his dramatic retelling of the plot, roll your eyes when he insists the main character is "literally the most annoying protagonist ever written," and for a while, it works. You manage to push the conversation from earlier to the back of your mind.

But not far enough.

Because the weight of it still lingers—heavy, unfiltered, sitting right there in your heart. And no matter how hard you try to ignore it, no matter how fast you try to outrun it, the truth remains.

It’s still there.

Just like Jungkook.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7