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sincerelyneo · 1 year ago

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could i request a mark smut 😣😣 where reader and mark just had an intense argument but in the end, they cant be mad at each other for long so they just fck it out of each other 🤐🤐🤐🤐

mad at you | l.mk

“then i try to leave, but baby i just can’t stay mad at you”

💿now playing: mad at you by why don’t we

❯ summary: Mark learns that you’ve made a ‘selfish’ decision that’s bound to put a strain on your relationship. Next thing you know, you're knee-deep in an argument that somehow ends with you sprawled out beneath him; because, let’s be honest, he’s never really been any good at staying mad at you.

❯ pairings: idol!mark x fem!reader

❯ genre: angst, smut, established relationship, make up sex

❯ words: 4.3k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, lots of arguing, swearing, reader is lowkey dramatic, makeup sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), nipple play, dry humping, brief clit play, slight needy mark bc i can't help myself, creampie, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader and mark argue and resolve it by fucking.

an: i love writing angsty arguments (testament to my real relationships lol) so thank you so much for this request. it lowkey brought me out of writer’s block.

The honeymoon stage lasts approximately thirty months or two and a half years – which would make sense considering you and Mark were approaching your third year together and have argued more recently than you ever had.

But this time it’s different. You’ve never seen Mark like this, so angry that his face is bordering red and his jaw ticks so hard it might crack as the both of you drive in complete silence from your work dinner. He doesn’t even bother sneaking his usual glances at you when he pulls up at stoplights, the hand he likes to place on your thigh is gripping the wheel instead, and the only noise in the car is his rugged and frustrated exhales.

You could feign ignorance about why he's upset, but you know the reason all too well. And while a part of you acknowledges his right to be angry, another, more prideful part, resists the idea of apologising, especially when you think his reaction seems so disproportionate to your mistake.

So you sit in the passenger seat, arms crossed and body frozen, contributing to the cold silence settling between the two of you. You prepare yourself for the earful of a lecture you’re about to get when he pulls up outside your shared apartment.

He parks the car, slams the door shut, and strides towards your building without a backward glance. You scoff at his pettiness; he's never been so angry that he wouldn't at least wait for you to get out of the car with him. He doesn't even slow down when you trail behind. And when he nearly lets the elevator doors close without you, any chance he has of receiving an apology from you flies out the window, you think.

He does, however, show some decency by leaving the front door open for you as you both step out of the elevator and head towards your apartment – how chivalrous.

The chivalry doesn’t last long because the minute he hears you clasp the door shut, he’s glaring at you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and you can't help but notice that he's rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt in frustration. If he weren't on the brink of yelling at you, you'd be tempted to make him do more than just roll up those sleeves — you'd want the fabric torn off and thrown on the floor in an instant.

“Paris, Y/N?!” Mark seethes, voice deep and uneven. “You signed a fucking contract to work in Paris?!?”

You pause, attempting to gather your thoughts, but the momentary silence doesn't offer much clarity. Eventually, you settle on, "It's just a six-month gig..." – a statement that seems to send him into a frenzy.

“Just six months?” He rubs his jaw repeatedly in disbelief, “That’s six months that we won’t get to see each other, did you even think about that huh?”

You scoff, “You’re one to talk, need I remind you that your job takes you away from me for months at a time.”

"That's not fair," he protests. "You knew exactly what you were getting into when you agreed to date me. I didn’t agree to not seeing my girlfriend for months because she’s gallivanting away in Paris without me."

Your eyes narrow and your nostrils flare, “So what? If you would have known, you wouldn’t have wanted to be my boyfriend?”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. His hands fly to his hair and he tugs at the strands as he huffs out a breath.

“How the fuck did you get that conclusion from what I said?” He asks, voice sounding baffled. “The reason I’m so mad is because I like being your boyfriend, but I’m not going to see you for the next six months.”

“You’re being a hypocrite right now.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Right, because I’m always the one being unreasonable.”

“Yes, you are,” you scorn, “This job is my dream, don’t you see how selfish you're being?”

“I’m selfish?” He gasps, “That’s rich considering you didn’t even consult me when making this decision, I had to find out from your smug little co-worker in front of everyone. You were thinking solely about yourself, Y/N.”

You're on the verge of screaming. How is he not seeing things from your perspective? He's usually so understanding, so open to hearing your side. But the razor-sharp look in his eyes tells you that there's no getting through to him. He's convinced you're wrong, and nothing will change his mind.

“It’s for my job, Mark,” you cross your arms and shrug.

“And how many times have I told you that you don’t need to work? How many times do I need to tell you I can look after the both of us?”

“And how many times have I told you that I don’t want that? I don’t want to have to always rely on you!” You snap.

Your teeth grit as the words spit out of your mouth. They seem to hit Mark, deep, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment before sharpening again. He swallows thickly and blinks before running a hand through his hair.

“Then what are we doing, Y/N?” He asks deflated, “What are we if you don’t want to rely on me?”

You're not sure what compels you to say it – whether it's the way you're all worked up, the entire context of the argument, or some inner recognition that you're the one who's fucked up this time despite you both having stuff to apologise for. Still, you escalate the situation from zero to one hundred without a second thought.

“Oh, so you want to break up?”

He shakes his head and tongues the inside of his cheek, “When did I say that?!”

The fight only gets worse after that, the two of you blowing up after every sentence. You run around in circles, throwing accusations and insults at each other to the point the original premise of the argument is lost along the way of a thousand new arguments. It’s like every little thing you’ve both done to irk each other over the last month is brought up; and by the end of it, the two of you swear you’re done with each other.

Sure, you've had your fair share of arguments, but the biting finality of the word "done" as it leaves his lips sends a sharp pang through your stomach – it hurts like hell. You've reached your limit with this endless cycle of back-and-forth; you've had enough of him. Storming past him, you head towards your shared bedroom.

Mark sighs and reaches out for your arm, but you pull away. He doesn't like this, doesn't like the chilliness he feels from you. He doesn't want to end the argument like this; it's never gone this far without a resolution before.

“You can’t just storm away when we argue Y/N, it’s childish.”

“If you don’t like it then leave!” You slam the door shut after you and lock it.

Mark hates this more, not being able to talk this out because you’ve put a wall between the two of you. Then your words register in his mind and he’s the most hurt he’s ever felt. You want him to leave. Fuck that, he thinks. He’s not going to watch his relationship go down the drain over a petty argument.

He knocks on the door a few times, then jiggles the doorknob, calling out your name and pleading for you to let him in. But you remain unmoved, denying him even the satisfaction of hearing your voice telling him to go away. This only adds to his frustration. He's the one you've upset, and yet here he is, begging for you to open up so he can fix things.

After a few more tries he scoffs, your words echoing in his mind once more. Leave. It crosses his mind as he makes his way to the front door of the apartment. He swings it open, ready to clear his head and crash at Johnny's for the night. But just as he's about to step out, he catches sight of a picture of the two of you on the coffee table where he keeps his keys.

It’s from your honeymoon phase when it was easier for the two of you to say you’d never let anything come between you – when love seemed to blind you both. Mark picks up the photo, memories flooding back to the day it was taken. It was the day you met his parents and shared your aspirations of becoming a fashion designer. You reassured them that you had your own dreams and weren't just with their son for his wealth – though his parents wouldn't have minded either way; they would have been content with any girl that made their son happy. And you made Mark happy – you make Mark so fucking happy.

Which is why he can’t believe he’s even considering leaving you in this apartment on your own after a fight. He shuts the front door and makes his way to the couch. He's eager to resolve things with you now, but both of you are too caught up in emotions, spouting shit you'll likely regret in the morning. So he opts to grab a few sofa pillows and a blanket from the storage closet instead. He strips down from his dress shirt and pants, throwing them to the floor before lying back and resting his eyes with a heavy mind.

Regret doesn't hit you until 2:00 am the following morning, when you're met with the chill of an empty space beside you as you reach out to cuddle your boyfriend, only to find him absent. Sure you thought he was overreacting to the news, but you're also painfully aware that your own words were uncalled for. You shouldn’t have asked him to leave – you didn’t want him to.

As you heard the front door open and then close with a clink, a thick lump formed in your throat. The realisation that you had driven him away hit you hard, and you lost all motivation. You lay on your bed, makeup still intact, as you sniffled and sobbed quietly into your pillow. And even now, after tossing and turning from your mind running laps, you’d only managed to sleep for a few minutes.

You stretch your stiff legs and reluctantly leave your bed, unlocking your bedroom door with sleepy eyes. You're taken aback when you see Mark sleeping soundly on the sofa, his breath steady with his eyes closed. You thought he had left, but there he is, covered only by the blanket from the storage closet. It breaks your heart to see him like this; he's likely cold, and he'll probably have a stiff neck in the morning for practice. And you know it's all your fault.

The guilt eats away at you, and without hesitation, you rush to the bedroom to grab his pillows and an extra blanket. Realistically, you should wake him up and insist he sleeps in bed, but the fear of his lingering anger keeps you from doing so. Instead, you kneel in front of him, attempting to swap the sofa pillows for his own bed pillows.

However, your efforts prove futile because Mark is a light sleeper – a detail you foolishly overlooked in your worried state of mind. He blinks as he wakes up once, then twice, appearing confused to find you in front of him in the living room instead of beside him in bed.

“Baby?” He whispers, his eyes hazy as he tries to make sense of what you're doing. It doesn’t take him long once he spots the sofa cushion in your hand to put the pieces together.

You bite your lip and sigh, “I know you're mad at me, but I didn’t want you to wake up stiff in the morning.”

Mark's chest constricts. How could he possibly stay mad at you when you're so cute, fussing over him like this? He notices the smudge of black makeup beneath your eye, and his heart tightens once more – this time with sadness rather than affection.

His hand reaches out to touch your cheek, and you’re shocked at the touch. “You’ve been crying?” He asks and you bow your head.

"I thought you left..."

Mark wants to laugh at the irony. You asked him to leave, and yet here you are, upset at the idea of his departure. He swears if he weren't so in love with you, he'd rant about how much you mess with his head, pushing him to the edge only to pull him back again.

“Would never leave you, baby, you know that,” his voice is soft and comforting as the rough edge of his fingertips finds your jaw.

You can't control it; tears fall freely from your eyes. He's being incredibly considerate and gentle with you, even after you acted like a bitch. Honestly, you almost wish he'd just yell at you instead. But he doesn’t, his eyes widen and he immediately sits up straight letting the blanket fall to the floor as he pulls you up to sit on his lap.

He shushes you, his hands finding your waist where he rubs soothing soft circles into the fabric of your tank top, “Hey, why are you crying? I’m here…please don’t get upset, Y/N.”

His kindness only amplifies your guilt.

"I'm so sorry," you stifle in short sobs, your voice almost cracking. "I should've talked to you about the job offer before signing the contract... I-I didn't mean to act so selfishly. I just... I wasn't thinking."

Mark gives you a half-smile as he runs a hand through your hair. "It's okay, baby... You got caught up in your dream. I'm sorry for not realising that. I'm the one being selfish by always expecting you to put me first."

"No—"

He interrupts you to continue his apology. "You were right, you know. I always expect you to wait for me while I'm on tour. I never considered it from the other side, with me waiting for you... But I will. I'll wait because I know how much this job means to you."

Your face buries itself in the crook of his neck as you cry even harder, and he tuts gently while rubbing your back.

"Please don’t cry, Y/N," he murmurs softly. "I hate seeing you upset."

"Can’t help it," you muffle. "I hate that I upset you…"

Mark pulls you away from his neck, needing to look into your eyes as he speaks. "It's normal for couples to argue, baby. We just need to promise to communicate better, okay?"

His fingers stroke your cheeks again, and you lean into his touch. The warmth of his hand feels so comforting as if he was made to soothe your skin, the only person capable of bringing you relief. You bite your lip and nod against his palm, because you're more than willing to work on your communication if it means never feeling like this again.

"Now, give me a smile. You know, the pretty one I like," he says with a laugh. "If I'm not going to see you for the next six months, I don’t want one of our last moments together to be so... sad."

You smile at him and press your forehead against his with a whisper. "Me neither.”

You’re so close to each other that you’re practically sharing the same breath, if you had said that two hours ago you wouldn’t have believed yourself. But here you are, lips so close that your heavy breathing practically begs him to kiss you.

Mark feels it too, so when he does, it's like the softness of his lips is a bandage, mending the angry tension between the two of you. It patches up the last few hours that have transpired, and when he pulls away, it feels as if nothing even happened.

His hands grip your hips firmly, his fingers pressing down as he guides your body to grind against his clothed crotch. His lips find yours again, accompanied by a groan that escapes into your mouth. It's only when you feel him harden beneath you that you remember he was half-naked on the sofa – clearly after you locked him out of the bedroom.

Suddenly feeling suffocated by your own clothes, you pull away from him to strip off your tank top, tossing it over your head before discarding it somewhere in the living room. You yearn to meet his lips again – the only place you truly feel safe – but Mark wants to savour the way you look. Your clothed cunt eagerly grinding against his hard-on, hips chasing a high so eagerly that your bra strap has slid loosely down your arm.

You're a vision, Mark thinks, one that has him salivating and desperate to fuck you. He almost curses at himself for nearly ruining it all, for nearly walking out on the most beautiful person on the planet, the best sex he's ever had – and not only that but also the funniest, sweetest person he knows he'll ever meet.

He leans into your neck, his nose nuzzling into you as he whispers softly, "I'm sorry... so sorry, Y/N." His hand leaves your hips to cup your breast over your bra, massaging the mound with just enough pressure to elicit soft moans from your lips.

“‘s okay,” you whimper.

Your head falls back as his hand snakes around to unclasp it. He wastes no time brushing his intrusive fingers down your chest, wearing a filthy smirk because he knows just how sensitive you are there. The tip of his finger circles around your nipple until he’s right in the centre, feeling it harden under his touch. He pinches it, and you jolt forward on his cock, making his boxers tighten, and he groans.

He loves how responsive you were to him, watching you writhe over him as he touched you in torturous pleasure. Just the way you arch your back into his touch has pre-cum leaking out of his cock.

He leans in this time, sucking on your nipple and opening wide to get as much of the tender tissue of your breast in his mouth as possible. He holds your waist in place to keep you grinding on him to entice enough friction for him to feel good too.

And when he looks down to see where the two of you meet, he moans when he sees the wet patch leaking through your shorts onto his boxers.

“Fuck, so wet for me, baby. Just for me.”

You whimper, and his hand slips into the hem of your shorts. You’re glad you never wear panties to bed because his fingers find your clit immediately, relieving you of some of the neediness you’ve been feeling from grinding down on him. He rubs small circles as his mouth licks and sucks and nips at your bud.

“Mark…”

“Shhh baby,” he coos, “wanna make it up to you. Please let me make it up to you, let me make you feel good.”

You whimper with a nod of your head, humping into his hand, legs opening wider to give him easier access to the place you’re most sensitive. You let out mild pants, hips bucking more aggressively from the stimulation on both your nipple and clit.

And when Mark notices you getting close, he pulls off your tit to look up at your face. It’s his favourite part — watching your features contort when the bliss is at its highest. It makes his chest swell with pride knowing he’s the one making you cum, knowing his touch is enough to make you shake and moan. And if he wasn’t such a selfish lover, he’d think the sight is something everyone should see at least once.

As you come down from your orgasm, your eyes flutter open to meet him. Mark doesn’t know whether it’s from seeing your orgasm paired with the argument from earlier but he’s the hardest he’s ever been.

You notice it too, looking down and giggling. “Now it’s my turn to make it up to you.”

He lets out a soft huff, and a muscle in his jaw twitches with his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat before he nods. You free his cock from his boxers and shimmy yourself out of your shorts. You let out identical gasps when your bare cunt brushes against the tip of his cock.

Slowly, you sink onto him, fully feeling him inside of you. Your head falls forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you take in the size of him, the way he fills you just right — the way he always does.

The stretch as you take him in never gets old, eliciting the same whimpers and whines. You can feel his hands resting on your hips, then slipping to the bend of your waist, silently urging you to move as he presses you downwards.

You lift your hips, slow and steady as you let the sensations wash over you, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. His grip on your body tightens as you sink back down, blunt nails digging into your skin. The sounds he makes only drive you further into finding a teasing rhythm because his voice is just so pretty. The sounds are soon muffled to your disappointment when his mouth presses into your skin, so his tongue can slide along the top of your breast — making the disappointment fade away real quick.

You let out a breathy cry, hands rising from where they’ve been resting, flattening against his chest, to wrap around his shoulders. The slow pace you’d adopted was becoming not enough. And you could tell from the way Mark is rutting his hips up to meet you, he shares the same sentiment.

Your mouths collide as you pick up the pace, using his shoulders to leverage yourself as you bounce up and down on his cock. When he breaks from the kiss, an unrestrained groan slips past his lips, low and rough, followed by another, and you have to bite back a whimper of your own.

Mark can’t help the noises, he just loves the way you swivel your hips in a way that makes him see stars. He loves watching you work yourself on him for pleasure – he loves when you ride him.

And right when you squeeze around him, he rewards you with a loud, obscene groan, a sound that makes you dizzy and limp. Everything about Mark is intoxicating and downright addicting, and you were in no hurry to kick that addiction. In fact, you craved more of it – needed more.

You grab his hands and guide them across your body. He squeezes them at your hips, smoothing across your thighs, your stomach. His hands were everywhere, eyes dark and desperate, wordlessly begging for you to give him what he needed, the same thing he’d been kind enough to already give you.

So you rock yourself forward, providing a new type of friction that makes you whine helplessly into his skin. Blunt nails mark into the plush of your thighs, a futile attempt at grounding himself. The upward thrust of his hips and the strained catch of his breath tells you that he's growing impatient. You know the pace was slow, but damn it, it felt so fucking good to feel him like this, every inch of him sliding into you, hitting all the spots that makes your brain stop working. It also felt like a sick little way to get revenge...

“Faster,” you hear him say. “Please baby, need it faster.”

You could feel his hips bucking up to meet you. Then his thumb finds your clit, working in circles and making you squeeze around him with a shrill, gasping cry. It was his attempt at bargaining with you, doing anything to make you speed up and shamelessly fuck yourself on his cock. Maybe if he pleases you, you’ll let him cum.

“Please fuck me properly baby, need it,” he rasps, “You want me to forgive you right?”

And then you remember what led you here in the first place. You’d upset him and now you’re teasing him – you suppose it’s only fair if you pick up the pace a little more, fuck him messily and desperately enough to have him dizzying towards his climax.

And once you do, his thrusts grow sloppier, and your thighs start aching. It feels too fucking good so all that you can do is cling to him and let him take the lead, strong hands guiding you as he sucks against your neck. And even though you’re supposed to be the one making him cum, you find yourself buried in the crook of his neck, gasping as your walls clench and nails dig into the skin of his strong back.

The slight stinging sensation is enough to work Mark over the edge, and you feel him twitch inside of you, sending shock waves up your spine as he fucks his cum inside of you with a final powerful thrust. You roll your hips to help him along, taking all you can get from him and he moans his appreciation as you do.

You remain tangled up in one another as you come down from your respective highs with foreheads pressed close. You wrestle to find his hand, lacing your fingers with his as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles. He kisses your nose, then your lips, with a tenderness that makes your heart feel like it’s being squeezed.

You don’t want to move just yet, so you release your hands and wrap them around his neck, nuzzling your nose against his before you speak.

"Mark?" You mumble, your voice tired and hazy. He hums in response.

"I’m sorry," you say softly.

You feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses your lips. "It’s okay, baby. I don’t even remember what we were fighting for."

#🏷frompaige #mark lee smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct smut #mark lee x reader #nct dream x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct x reader #kpop smut #nct hard hours #nct oneshot

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joemama-2 · 3 months ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 12.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

YEAR: FEBRUARY, 2017

You don’t think you’ve ever felt more scared than you do at this current moment. No screams from your mother, preparation for a big exam, nothing. None of it compares to the way your hands tremble, your heart racing faster by the second, followed by a sinking feeling in your stomach. You gulp, sweat falling down and stinging your eye, but you don’t wipe it. All you’re focused on is the tiny, white stick in your hand. The even tinier two lines stare back up at you, laughing in a taunting way that almost makes you hurdle it across your room.

Pregnant.

You’re fucking pregnant.

“God…oh…oh my god, no…no, this can’t be—”

“Y/N! Did you not clean the rice like I asked?!”

Your mother’s angry voice snaps you semi-back into reality. You gasp with a jolt, head swiveling around. “Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter to yourself in a dazed panic, hearing the approaching steps of hers coming to the bathroom door. Without any other solution, you lodge the pregnancy test into the pocket of your sweats, flattening out your oversized sweater and praying to whatever gods that are watching that it doesn’t slip. You open the door just as she’s about to yank it open. “Sorry, I…I forgot.”

She eyes you with suspicion, her sharp gaze flickering over your face. "Forgot?" she repeats, arms crossing over her chest. "What could possibly be more important than doing what I asked you to do?"

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes despite the suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. "I just—I'm not feeling well," you lie, trying to keep your voice steady. "I was gonna do it in a minute."

Her frown deepens. "Not feeling well?" She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "You're always holed up in here, wasting time. Get out of the bathroom and go wash the rice before my date gets here."

You nod quickly, brushing past her, heart hammering so hard you're sure she can hear it. The test in your pocket feels like a burning secret, each step making it press heavier against your thigh. You rush to the kitchen, hands clammy as you reach for the bag of rice.

Pregnant.

The word echoes in your mind, taunting, terrifying. You grip the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut. This isn't happening. It can't be. You don't realize your breathing has turned shallow until you hear the faintest of footsteps behind you. "Y/N," your mother's voice is sharper now. "Why are you just standing there?"

Your eyes snap open. You force your fingers to move, pouring the rice into the bowl, submerging it in water. The grains slip between your fingers as you swirl them around, but your mind is far, far away. “Sorry, Mom.”

She scoffs and walks over to plop onto the couch.

What are you going to do? And the better question is, how in the fuck are you going to tell Satoru?

You remember going over to his that night, considering his parents were once again out of the country for business. Even driving there, you felt the need to pull over because your wobbly hands were inhibiting you. Somehow, you persevered and made it to his estate. Quickly hopping out of the busted-down 2001 Toyota pick-up truck, striding over to the front door. He must’ve seen you through the window, opening it before you could knock, with his usual smile. “Hey, baby, I mis—”

You push past him to go inside, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Satoru pauses mid-sentence, blinking as he watches you storm inside. His usual playful demeanor falters when he catches sight of your expression—wide, panicked eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “Uh… okay?” he mutters, shutting the door behind you. He turns, arms crossing as he watches you pace back and forth in the grand foyer, your hands running through your hair like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start guessing?”

You stop abruptly, looking at him. Your throat tightens, and your nails dig into your palm. Just say it. Get it over with.

But the words refuse to come out.

Satoru’s brows furrow. His teasing lilt is gone now, replaced with something softer—concerned. He steps toward you slowly, hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Y/N… what happened?”

You take a deep breath, fingers curling around the pregnancy test still hidden in your pocket. Your heart pounds so loudly that you swear it echoes off the expensive marble floors. Your eyes water, but you force yourself not to shed any tears. Not now, at least. “I…there’s something I have to t-tell you, Satoru.”

He tilts his head slightly, white lashes fluttering as he studies you. The concern in his expression deepens, but there’s something else—anxiety, maybe. You’re not sure, and you don’t have time to analyze it. Your fingers tighten around the test like a lifeline, the plastic digging into your palm. Your entire body is tense, stiff like a tightly coiled wire that could snap at any moment. The air between you is thick—too thick—like the walls of the estate are pressing in on you, suffocating you beneath their weight.

Satoru notices. He always notices.

His hands fall to your shoulders, firm yet gentle, his thumbs grazing over the fabric of your sweater in slow, soothing motions. “Y/N,” he says your name again, softer this time. “You’re scaring me.”

You swallow hard, willing yourself to look up at him. His gaze is piercing, searching for something in yours, and it only makes this harder. He looks so young, so unburdened, like he hasn’t even considered the possibility of the life-altering news you’re about to drop on him. And that makes you feel even more terrible. Your breath hitches as you pull the test from your pocket, your hand trembling as you hold it out between you. The two little pink lines stare up at him, just as they had at you hours before.

Silence.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He just stares, like his brain is struggling to process what’s right in front of him. His lips part slightly, then close again. The usual easy confidence, the endless supply of teasing remarks—it all vanishes in an instant. His hands slip from your shoulders, falling uselessly to his sides. “...Is…is this real?” he finally breathes out, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

His eyes dart back to the test, then back to you, something unrecognizable flickering across his face. For the first time since you met him, Satoru looks… lost. The strongest man you’ve ever known, the boy who never seems to falter, suddenly looks like a scared kid. That terrifies you even more.

“Shit,” he murmurs in thinly veiled panic, grabbing the test from your hands and looking closer. As if doing that will magically make the two lines revert to just one.

You almost want to scoff at his initial reaction. Shit. The word you say when you do something wrong or when you make a mistake. Though, you’re not surprised. How could you be? Why would he be happy right now? Why would he want a child at just twenty-one with someone like you, of all people? But the reality starts to sink in even more as you gauge his reaction. The furrow of his brows, the way his lip pulls downwards, the agitated hand he runs through his messy hair, then the shaky exhale he lets out when he looks at you. Nothing is said, not that it needs to be. Your eyes blur with tears, and your heart twists at the fact that he looks this close to telling you to get rid of—

“What do you want to do, Y/N?”

His voice cracks slightly, low and steady, but the tension in it is unmistakable. The words hang in the air between you, heavy, unspoken fears weighing on both of you. It’s not a question of blame—there’s no accusation in his tone. But there’s a raw vulnerability in it, as though he’s searching for an answer he doesn’t know himself. You swallow hard, struggling to find your voice again. You almost don’t want to answer. You don’t want to say the words out loud because hearing them could make this all feel too real. Too permanent. Your eyes drop to the test in his hand, the two lines mocking you like they were always meant to be there, unyielding, undeniable.

You don't know what to do. You don’t know what the right choice is, and that's the part that terrifies you the most.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice cracking on the words. It’s the truth. You don’t know what you want. What you can want when the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting, crumbling. But you should know, right? You know, having a kid right now is the last thing you should ever think of, especially with a boy you’ve only been dating two years. So then, why are you still hesitating?

The silence stretches long, and all you can hear is the rapid pounding of your heart, the heavy rhythm of his breath matching yours. You watch him closely, his gaze flickering between the test and your face, eyes searching, unsure. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening with the weight of something neither of you wants to confront but both of you can’t avoid. For a second, he doesn’t speak, just looks at you. He seems to be considering something, maybe weighing every possible outcome, every potential consequence. Then, as if making up his mind, he shifts closer to you, his presence overwhelming, his warmth enveloping you. You didn’t expect it, but the way he steps into your space feels grounding—like he’s silently promising to bear this weight with you.

“I’ll be here,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Whatever you decide... I’m here. We’ll figure this out.”

His words feel like both a relief and a burden, and you can’t help the hot tears that sting your eyes as you look up at him. You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But there's a part of you that feels like this is the moment where everything could fall apart. The moment where reality finally crushes everything that was once easy between you two. “I don’t know if I can do this, Satoru,” you confess, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't even know if I want to." The weight of your words crashes down on you both. You never expected this. You never thought you’d be here, standing in front of him like this, unsure of everything.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he gently squeezes you tighter, his grip steady and warm. It’s all he has to offer for now. And, somehow, it’s enough. For the first time, you realize he’s not trying to force an answer out of you. He’s just... here. And for the moment, that might just be the thing you need the most.

The air feels charged, thick with unspoken promises.

Satoru takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” he says, but his voice cracks at the end, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to comfort you.

But you feel it in your chest—the fear, the doubt, the uncertainty of everything. “I just… I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, your breath hitching with the weight of it all. "I never thought this would happen. I never thought—god, we’re so stupid, so…so fucking stupid. If my mom finds out—"

“She’s not going to find out,” he cuts off your rambling, his hands cupping your face. A mix of uncertainty and determination is written on his face. “She…she won’t okay? You, um—you stay here until we figure things out. The guest house in the back, it’s yours for now. I’ll make up some shitty excuse to my parents, and you do the same for your mom. O-okay?”

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of his words as they rush past you. His hands on your face are warm and grounding, but you can feel the tremble in his fingertips. His words, though filled with urgency and a bit of fear, somehow settle inside you like a strange, fleeting comfort. He’s offering you a solution, a way out of this terrifying uncertainty, and yet the weight of it still feels like it could break you at any second.

"I don’t... I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing, Satoru," you whisper, your voice cracking at the end. "This isn't... this isn’t how I imagined it. I can’t even look at my mom, I—" Your voice trails off, caught in the overwhelming mess of emotions swirling inside of you. The fear of disappointing her, the panic over the future, the terror of doing something you might not be able to undo.

He shakes his head, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears still trailing down your cheeks. His touch is steady and soothing in its own way. “I know, baby. I know,” he says, his voice low, as if the words themselves are meant to protect you. He presses a soft kiss to your lips. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out, okay? Together.”

But even as he says it, you can see the doubt in his eyes, the fear that lingers beneath the surface of his reassuring words. You don't know what’s worse—the fact that you two got yourselves in this predicament or the way Satoru looks at you like he’s already bracing for the worst. You want to believe him, you want to believe that this—all of this—can somehow work out, but you're not sure how to convince yourself. Satoru’s hands move from your face to your shoulders, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together. "I won’t let you face this alone," he mutters against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "We’ll figure this out. I don’t care how hard it gets...we’ll get through it. You and me."

For a long beat of silence, all you can do is hold onto him, the only thing you know you can rely on right now. The tears continue to fall, but this time, you don’t feel as alone. You don’t feel as scared. But the reality still sits heavy in your chest, and you can't push away the nagging feeling that nothing will be the same after tonight.

PRESENT TIME:

Satoru wakes with a small groan, the morning sunshine rays doing their duty of rousing him from a very deep sleep. The first thing he feels is an annoying crick in his neck. The second thing he feels is the reason for that crick. You lay on top of him, a cover hiding both of your bodies from the rest of the world. Your hair tickles at his nostrils, causing him to wiggle his nose a bit. Legs tangled with one another, his arms rested securely around you, one hand on the small of your back and the other on top of your ass. The way your sleeping face is positioned has made him sleep most of the night with his head turned to the left. Usually, he would’ve been annoyed. But all he feels now is a deep sense of reverie—happiness.

He lets out a wistful sigh, shifting carefully so he can get a tiny look at your face. It’s relaxed. Though there’s a small crease in between your eyebrows, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about. He spends a few more minutes just looking. In any other situation, this would’ve probably been creepy.

Technically, it still is.

But can you blame him for wanting to admire your beauty?

His thumb hovers, reaching out to soothe the skin between your eyebrows before a tiny, stifled giggle catches his attention. He looks to his left. There stands Koji, still clad in his matching pj’s. Holding his two hands to his mouth, but he can still make out the way his lips upturn at the edge, the hint of his dimple peeking out, and how his eyes crinkle with delight. His hair is messy; he must’ve just woken up.

He looks like you when you used to deny having witnessed him do something so utterly embarrassing like missing a step when walking up the stairs.

God, I’m in heaven.

“And what are you doing, huh?” Satoru asks, keeping his voice low so as to not wake you. His tone is still tinged with a raspy sleepiness, however, he still laces it with a faux annoyance at his son. “Spying on us?”

“Noooo,” Koji replies, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m watching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You and Mama are sleeping together.”

“We are.”

“Why?”

“Because it was too late to go home yesterday, so Mama let me stay.”

“But Mama usually sleeps in her room.”

He sighs. Damn curiosity. “She does, but things can change too sometimes.”

Koji makes an “oh” sound, nodding. He pads his tiny feet closer, craning his neck to get a look at you. His hand reaches out in an effort to touch your face, but Satoru stops him short.

“Careful, buddy. Mama’s sleeping. Will you be gentle?”

“I’ll be gentle,” Koji pouts, wiggling his hand in his father’s grasp.

“And quiet?”

Koji pauses for a moment, his tiny white brows knitting as he considers the request. “Like a ninja?” he whispers, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of his new plan.

Satoru lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand loosening just enough to allow Koji to slip his small fingers free. “Exactly like a ninja,” he says with a grin.

The little boy nods vigorously, his excitement evident in the way his body practically vibrates with energy. He tiptoes closer to the couch, his steps exaggeratedly careful as he approaches you. Satoru watches him, both proud and amused, as his son carefully reaches out, his fingertips brushing lightly against your cheek. You stir slightly at the touch, your face softening in the way it always does when Koji’s close. Koji freezes, holding his breath for a second before smiling at the success of his mission.

Satoru watches the scene unfold with warmth in his chest, his mind replaying everything that’s led to this moment—how, after everything, this is what he has now. It’s not perfect, far from it, but it feels right. He looks down at you, his heart full. He could get used to this. "Good job, ninja," Satoru whispers, his voice full of pride.

Koji beams, looking back at his father. "I didn’t wake her up."

"You didn’t," Satoru confirms, his eyes flicking back to you, your peaceful face still nestled in sleep. "Now, let’s keep it that way, okay?"

"Okay, Papa!" Koji whispers enthusiastically.

Koji climbs onto the couch, settling down on Satoru’s free side. His father sighs, playfully rolling his eyes and wrapping an arm around Koji to stabilize him. Koji watches you sleep, and they’re each lost in their own thoughts. Satoru rests his chin on top of Koji’s head, the weight of his emotions settling in quietly. Life is a bit of a mess, but moments like this? That is everything. He’s already dreading the time you wake up, plus the inevitable conversation you two will have about last night, but he’ll greedily enjoy this while it lasts.

You woke up to the sound of pots clanking together and bacon sizzling on the stove. Normally, you’d question why Satoru was up, let alone cooking for you, but after last night, it felt more like a silent offering—maybe a ‘thank you’ or an attempt at normalcy. Whatever the reason, you had more pressing matters to focus on.

Stepping outside, you lean against the cool railing of your apartment floor, phone pressed to your ear. In your free hand, you toy with the sleek black business card, running your thumb over the gold-embossed lettering. Evelyn Carlisle. The name alone carries weight. Your stomach tightens as the dial tone rings, your finger tapping anxiously against the back of your phone in sync with the robotic sound.

For a moment, you think the call won’t go through—until a woman’s voice answers, curt and businesslike.

“Who am I speaking to?”

You clear your throat, straightening up instinctively. “Uh… Y/N L/N.”

There’s typing on the other end, quick and efficient. You hear the faint sound of gum popping. “And your business for today?”

“I’m trying to reach Ms. Carlisle. She gave me this number about a job opportunity.”

A pause. More typing. You grip the railing a little tighter.

“Uh-huh,” the woman drawls, followed by the unmistakable crack of her gum. There’s another beat of silence, long enough for doubt to creep in. Did you dial the wrong number? You glance at the card again just as the woman speaks up.

“Ms. Carlisle has a meeting in thirty minutes. I’ll be redirecting you, but use your time wisely.”

You barely have time to process her words before the line clicks and the dial tone starts again—only for a familiar voice to answer almost immediately.

“Evelyn speaking.”

Your breath hitches.

“Oh, hi,” you start, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “This is Y/N. I’m not sure if you remember me, but you gave me your business card not too long ago…”

Evelyn doesn’t respond right away. For a split second, you think she might not remember you, but then she hums in acknowledgment. “Y/N,” she repeats your name as if testing how it sounds on her tongue. “Yes, of course. I remember you. The woman from the café.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I wasn’t expecting your call so soon,” Evelyn continues, her voice smooth and professional. “But I’m pleased you reached out. Are you still currently employed?”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “But… I’m looking for a change, better opportunities.”

“Good,” she says, as if that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. “Well, yes, as I mentioned briefly before, we’re currently hiring for a personal secretary position. Given the nature of our clients, discretion and adaptability are crucial. With experience in service, that tells me you may be able to handle fast-paced environments, but I’d like to know—how comfortable are you with high-profile clientele?”

High-profile. Meaning rich. Possibly powerful. Maybe even dangerous.

You grip the railing tighter, thinking about your answer. “I’m comfortable,” you say, steadying your voice. “I’ve worked with all kinds of people for many years now.”

“That’s what I gathered.” There’s the faint sound of papers shuffling on her end. “I won’t waste time with formalities. If you’re interested, I’d like you to come in for an interview. How does tomorrow sound?”

Tomorrow? So soon?

You swallow. This is happening fast—faster than you expected. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’ll hopefully be moved in completely within the next couple of weeks, and if you can secure this job now, that’s even better. “That works,” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Good. I’ll have my assistant send you the details. Be prepared, Y/N. This is more than just a desk job. I’ll explain everything when we meet.”

And with that, the call ends, leaving you staring at your phone. More than just a desk job? Everything seems so vague, and that doesn’t do very well to reassure you. You’ve never exactly been a secretary before, especially for a company as luxurious as this one.

Your fingers tighten around the phone as you glance down at the business card again. The elegant gold lettering seems to mock you, reminding you that this isn’t just some ordinary job opportunity. You’ve worked in fast-paced environments before, dealt with demanding customers, and handled your fair share of stress—but this feels different. More exclusive. More… intense.

What exactly does she mean by more than just a desk job?

A part of you wonders if you should be cautious, if maybe this isn’t the right move. But then you think about your dwindling savings, the past bills stacking up, the debt collectors calling nonstop, and Koji’s future. Stability is a luxury you can’t afford to second-guess.

With a deep breath, you tuck the card away and turn back toward your apartment. Whatever this job entails, you’ll find out soon enough. But for now, you have a morning to get through.

You step back into the apartment, closing the door behind you. Koji is in the living room, playing with his action figurines and little playhouse. Glancing to the left, Satoru is washing your dishes. He must’ve cleaned up in the short time you’ve been outside. The sight is domestic—cute, even. You did always have a thing for men doing household chores.

With a determined nod, you walk over, standing beside him, ensuring your voice is not too loud for the nosy child to hear. “Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to.”

Satoru glances up at you with a soft smile, a dish towel draped over his shoulder. His movements are fluid, like he’s done this countless times before, even though he’s far from being a regular guest in your home. “No problem,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a light, teasing edge. “Figured I’d help out after crashing your place all night.”

You nod, your arms folding across your chest. “I didn’t ask you to. But…” You hesitate for a moment before continuing, your gaze drifting back to Koji, who’s deeply engrossed in his playtime. “It was… nice.”

He looks over at Koji, too, before focusing back on you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, that familiar smirk of his appears. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to try so hard to be charming, you know. It’s a little much.”

He chuckles, the sound light but genuine. “I’ll tone it down for his sake.” His eyes flicker toward Koji again before meeting yours. “But seriously, if you ever need help, just ask. I can’t exactly be around all the time, but I can make myself useful when I am.”

A small part of you wants to brush it off, to remind him of the boundaries between you, but the other part of you—the part that’s constantly stressed about everything and everyone—feels comforted by the offer. Not to mention, you two have already crossed said boundaries in just the span of a night. You nod once more, slower. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gives you a quick, half-hearted salute, returning to the dishes with a hum. The atmosphere between you two is light and easy, but there’s something heavier hanging in the air. The space between your words says a lot more than either of you care to admit.

Satoru clears his throat, breaking the silence that was settled too thick. “So… what’s next for you today?” he asks, clearly trying to keep things casual.

You consider the question for a moment, still distracted by the thoughts swirling in your head about the job opportunity and everything that comes with it. “Nothing much. I guess just prepare for a meeting I have tomorrow,” you finally reply, your voice steady but the unease barely hidden. “With someone who could… offer me a job.”

Satoru glances at you over his shoulder. “A job, huh?” His tone is light but curious, and you can’t tell if it’s genuine or just his usual flippant nature.

“Yeah,” you reply, your gaze flicking back to Koji. “It’s nothing permanent, yet. Just something to help out.”

Satoru doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel his eyes on you, but when you look back, he’s already back to the dishes, like he’s trying to give you space without making things awkward. Still, there’s a noticeable tension in his shoulders—something he’s not letting show.

Which reminds you…

“Hey, so…” you start off, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have a little question for you.”

“Mhm?” He hums, turning the sink off and drying his hands, body facing you now as he gives you his full attention.

You tilt your head, a little unsure of how to bring this topic up. “The company it’s for, it’s called Carlisle & Harlow. Have you heard of it?” Play dumb, play dumb.

He blinks, then nods. “Yeah, I have. Why?”

“Well, I was looking through their website and saw they’ve been in partnership with the Gojo Group for a good few years now.”

“They have been.”

You bite your lip. His nonchalance is annoying you a little bit, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s feeding you just the right amount of information on purpose. Maybe he knows something you don’t? “Well, she—Evelyn—approached me during my shift a while back and gave me her business card. That’s how I got this opportunity in the first place.”

His hands reside in his pockets, eyebrows raising with a small hum. “Wow, that sounds like a lucky offer.” His tone is light, like he’s trying to make a small joke. You make a noncommittal chuckle, eyeing his reactions.

But he’s giving you nothing.

Maybe you really were just being superstitious about this all.

“It’s just…it seemed a little too good to be true, you know? Almost like someone put in a good word for me.”

You force a small laugh, hoping the remark can ease him into revealing a possible clue. However, you start thinking to yourself: Would it be better to know that Satoru played a part in getting you a job with his business partner? Would that make you feel more inadequate of your own abilities? Would it just lead to another argument about him doing something without considering your feelings first? Or would you rather be left in the dark?

Satoru’s eyes meet yours again, but this time, there’s a flicker of something you can’t quite place. He leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed, though there’s a quiet tension in the way he watches you. For a second, it feels like he’s weighing something in his mind. “You’re a hard worker,” he says, his voice still light but with a hint of something deeper, like he’s carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think you need someone to put in a good word for you. If you’re getting an offer like that, it’s because you’re capable. Simple as that.”

You nod, your eyes lingering on him, not quite convinced by the simplicity of his answer. But he’s always been the type to brush things off with a smile, to make everything seem like it’s no big deal. Still, there’s that nagging feeling at the back of your mind, the thought that he knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe he didn’t have a hand in it. Or maybe he did, and he’s just not ready to tell you because he knows you better than anyone else.

You’ll take things at a surface level—for now.

“I guess,” you mutter, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But it still feels… a little too perfect, you know? I mean, why me? Of all people?”

Satoru’s smile softens a little, and there’s a quiet intensity in the way he looks at you now. He steps closer, closing the distance just enough that you can feel the heat of his presence. For just a split second, your heart skips a beat, but you quickly brush it off. “Maybe it’s just your time,” he says softly, his voice low, like he’s trying to soothe you. “Sometimes, things just fall into place when they’re supposed to.”

You nod again, though it doesn’t really make you feel any better. It’s just too easy, too convenient, like someone’s pulling strings behind the scenes. But you can’t quite figure out who. Or why.

Silence follows, and you practically force yourself to tear your eyes away from him because you can already feel the magnetic pull they have on you. You clear your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Well,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone, “guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

Satoru hums, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s watching you again, that unreadable look back in his eyes, and you hate how easily it makes your stomach twist. You should be used to this by now—the way he always seems to see right through you, the way his presence alone makes you feel like you’re standing too close to a flame.

And, of course, there’s still the silent, lingering question of when you two will discuss what happened last night. However, even saying that question out loud makes you nervous—guilty even. Like you’re coming to terms with the fact that you did something you know wasn’t the best thing. It complicates things even more, and you distinctly remember him saying something along those lines to you a while back—back when you tried kissing him.

You’re feeling the embarrassment all over again. But the embarrassment starts turning to fascination when your eyes rove over the way his shirt fits so perfectly around his waist—his biceps. He opted for just putting on one of the old shirts you still had of his from years ago, waving off your protests of how it hasn’t been washed.

Black does look sexy on him.

And if you look closer, you can even make out the slight perkiness of his—

“We should head out soon.” Satoru’s voice snaps you back into reality. “Got to drop off the donation stuff in the car and head to my place to grab some of Koji’s things.”

“Right, right,” you respond, a little breathlessly, shaking your head free of lewd thoughts. “I’ll go get ready.” You turn on your heel, eager to put some distance between yourself and the weight of his gaze. It’s frustrating—the way he manages to make you feel so self-conscious without even trying. It's almost like he’s waiting for you to bring it up first, like he knows you won’t.

The moment you step into your bedroom, you let out a slow exhale, pressing your palms against the dresser. Get it together. Last night happened. You can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t change it. But you can control how you handle it moving forward. You two are grown adults who can hash out their shit maturely and respectfully. You rummage through your drawers, pulling out something casual but presentable. Something that makes you feel like yourself—whoever that is these days. As you slip on your shoes, you hear the faint sound of Koji’s laughter from the other room, followed by Satoru’s easygoing voice, and it tugs at something in your chest.

This fragile balance you’ve built—it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Because every time he fits so seamlessly into your life, it becomes harder to remember why he shouldn’t.

That thought stays with you longer than you’d like. It lingers as you pull your coat on, as you grab your bag, as you catch your reflection in the mirror before heading out. There’s something unsettling about the way things feel almost… natural with him again. Like muscle memory, like something you once knew by heart but tried to forget.

Now, if that isn’t the truth.

You step back into the living room, and Satoru is crouched beside Koji, helping him tie his tiny sneakers. His voice is light, patient, as he guides him through the motions, and Koji is beaming up at him like he’s the whole world, nodding along to his father’s explanation of the great process of tying your own shoelaces.

It makes your throat tighten.

Satoru looks up just then, like he can feel your eyes on him, and for a second, neither of you speaks. There’s an understanding there, something unspoken but felt. Then, he straightens up, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “You ready?” he asks, voice even.

You step closer. “Yeah.”

Koji cheers, raising his arms as Satoru effortlessly lifts him, settling him against his hip. It’s so natural, so easy, and you hate that your heart aches at the sight. How you start imagining how it would’ve been coming home to Satoru holding an infant version of Koji.

It is dangerous.

And yet, you still follow them out the door.

Your smile doesn’t feel forced as it slowly creeps its way onto your face. You don’t flinch away from the hovering of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you to his parked car. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s a nice, sunny day out. Or, the more optimistic side of you, believes that it’s a possibility that maybe things don’t have to be as complicated as you make them out to be. That for once, you can just exist in this moment without thinking too hard about what it means.

The drive to Satoru’s place offers you enough time to sit back on your current decisions and more so, trying to decipher whether or not he was just lying to your face. Because no matter how smoothly he played it off earlier, there was something about his reaction that didn’t sit right with you. The way he barely blinked at the mention of Carlisle & Harlow. The way he didn’t seem surprised at all. Almost like he already knew. You glance at him from the passenger seat. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. Sunglasses perched on his nose, shielding his eyes, making it impossible to read him. Maybe it’s best not to dwell on things and just enjoy the opportunities that have been cast your way.

Before you know it, he’s parked and carrying Koji out his car seat, plopping him down onto the ground and holding his hand while he leads you two up the way to his penthouse, a route that’s becoming vaguely familiar to you now.

You’ve already dropped off boxes of donations to your local thrift store in order to make enough space to fit whatever was left at his place into his car. Inside the elevator, Koji chatters excitedly about something—you’re not entirely paying attention—his small hand still wrapped securely in Satoru’s. The sight of them together, so natural and effortless, is something you’re still working toward getting used to. Your mind wanders to six months ago, fascinated just over how much things have changed. For the better, yes. But there are also some things or people you wish hadn’t entered your life. You keep your eyes trained on the ascending floor numbers, trying not to let your mind spiral. It’s too easy to overthink, to read into every little thing, to get caught up in what-ifs and maybes. But as you steal another glance at Satoru—still effortlessly cool, still impossible to read—you can’t help but wonder if you’re the only one doing that.

When the elevator chimes, doors sliding open, Koji tugs on Satoru’s hand eagerly, practically bouncing on his feet. “Can I see the big TV again?”

Satoru chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, buddy. I’ll put on whatever you want.”

You exhale softly, following them down the hall and inside his place. It still looks the same, you haven’t been here since you slept over.

The familiarity of it all unnerves you. The faint scent of his cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with something warm—probably the remnants of whatever coffee he drinks. The living room is neat, save for a few stray items Koji must’ve left behind during his last visit. A toy car sits near the edge of the coffee table, a small sweater draped over the back of the couch. It’s the kind of lived-in mess that makes the space feel less like a showroom and more like… a home.

You hesitate in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, watching as Koji makes himself comfortable, already climbing onto the couch, eyes lighting up as Satoru turns on the massive flat-screen TV.

“Want anything to drink?” Satoru asks, his voice casual, as if you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You shake your head. “I’m good.

He nods, but his eyes linger on you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s waiting for you to say something more. Maybe you should. Maybe you should bring up what happened the last time you were here. Rip the bandage off before it festers into something worse. But instead, you cross your arms, glancing toward the hallway.

“I’ll, um, start packing up Koji’s things,” you say, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

Satoru doesn’t argue, just hums in agreement before following you toward the spare bedroom, where most of Koji’s stuff is still tucked away. “There’s a couple things in my room too, I’ll come help after I’ve put his show on.”

“Got it.” You shrug off your jacket and turn around, walking down the long hallway and into the room where your son’s toys reside.

The room is neatly organized but still carrying traces of Koji’s presence. His small clothes are folded in the drawers, and one of his favorite stuffed animals is sitting on the bed like it’s waiting for him to return. You let out a quiet sigh as you step inside, running a hand over the soft fabric of his tiny hoodie.

This shouldn’t feel so strange. You should be used to this by now—the quiet moments, the back and forth between two spaces. But standing here, gathering your son’s things from a place that feels more and more like a second home, there’s a weight in your chest that you can’t quite shake.

You hear Satoru’s footsteps before you see him. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You alright?” he asks after a beat.

You force a small smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He hums, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room. “Thinking about?”

You hesitate. Because how do you explain this feeling—the unease of being in limbo, of not knowing where you stand with him, of feeling like you’re caught in a current you can’t control?

Instead, you opt for something easier. “Just how much stuff he has,” you say, motioning to the half-packed bag on the bed. “I swear it multiplies when I’m not looking.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching down to help you pack. “Yeah, well, that’s kids for you.”

You work in silence for a while, folding clothes, stuffing small toys into the bag. It’s easy—too easy, the way you move together in sync, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

“He doesn’t even stay here that much, and he has so many things. Maybe I should donate some of these toys, he doesn’t use them anymore,” you comment, picking up a figurine from one of his favorite TV shows he hasn’t watched recently.

Satoru glances at the toy in your hand before shrugging. “You could, but you know how kids are. The second you give it away, he’ll suddenly remember it’s his favorite.”

You huff a small laugh, rolling the figurine between your fingers before setting it aside. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

He zips up one of the bags, sitting back on his heels. “If it makes you feel better, it’s not that bad. Koji having a bunch of stuff here just means he’s comfortable, yeah?”

You pause at that, fingers lingering over the next item you’re about to pack. It’s such a simple statement, but something about it makes your chest tighten. Koji is comfortable here. He has space here. Enough for his clothes, his toys, his laughter to fill the rooms. And maybe, a quiet part of you wonders, that’s why it’s starting to feel like you do, too. You shake the thought away, focusing on finishing up the packing. “I guess that’s true. But I still think I need to cut down on the clutter. When we get to the new place, I really want to emphasize cleaning with him.”

Satoru smirks. “Good luck. Just don’t expect me to help if he throws a tantrum about his missing toys.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully. “Some protector you are.”

He grins, the easy warmth of the moment settling between you. But underneath it, there’s still that lingering feeling—that nagging question you’re not ready to ask. And finally, after more minutes of pure silence and bags rustling, you decide to bite the bullet. Your lips pursed with a big sigh escaping you, turning to face him wordlessly. He feels your gaze and simultaneously looks over.

Just do it, before you pussy out.

“Look, I—” you scratch your neck. “I really don’t…like all this weird tension between us. And it seemed we came to a good agreement yesterday. But I…I just want to know if—if what happened between us…changed anything.”

Satoru's expression flickers—just for a second. So quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. But you don’t. You see the way his fingers pause in their movements, the slight shift in his posture, like he’s bracing himself. Then, just as quickly, he exhales, a slow, measured sound as he leans back on his hands, tilting his head slightly. “Changed anything, huh?” he repeats, almost like he’s testing the words on his tongue.

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. And then, “Did you want it to?”

Your stomach twists. Because he’s throwing the question back at you, forcing you to answer first. Classic Satoru. Never giving anything away unless he absolutely has to. But the way that question has heat pooling in your stomach, like he’s testing the waters, just barely revealing his true thoughts, it makes you wonder if it has changed things for him.

You shift awkwardly, arms crossing over your chest. “I—I don’t know.” It’s the truth, as frustrating as it is. “I just… I don’t want things to get complicated.”

Satoru lets out a small, humorless chuckle. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “I just need to know where we stand, Satoru.”

Something in his expression changes then. Softens, just a little. He exhales through his nose, sitting up straighter. “We’re still us,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “Whatever that means.”

“I need a better answer than that,” you admit. “We’re supposed to be doing this for Koji, not our own selfish desires. I want to be on an equal playing field with you, but we can’t have that if we’re….ya know.”

Satoru watches you carefully, his gaze sharp beneath the shadow of his lashes. You’re asking for clarity, a definitive line in the sand, and yet… you don’t even know what you want the answer to be. His lips press into a thin line, tongue running over his teeth as he considers his response. “So what, you think we’re being selfish?” His voice is even, but there’s something unreadable lurking beneath it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I think this—whatever it is—could make things messy. And Koji is the most important thing in all of this.”

Satoru hums, rubbing his palm over his chin in thought. “And what if I said I don’t think it changes anything?”

You frown. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” he says simply. “You and I? We’ve been complicated from the start. One night doesn’t change the fact that we’re still trying to figure things out. It doesn’t change that I want to be in Koji’s life—or yours, for that matter.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you hate the way your pulse flutters at his words. “Satoru…”

He leans forward then, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know what you want me to say. That it meant nothing? That I regret it? I won’t, because that’d be a lie. But I also know we can’t afford to lose sight of what really matters.”

You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt. It’s not a declaration of love, not some grand confession, but it’s honest. And that almost feels a tad bit worse.

He sighs, raking a hand through his snowy hair. “Look, if you want to draw a line, I’ll respect it. If you want to figure this out, I’ll meet you halfway. But I won’t pretend like nothing happened, and I sure as hell won’t act like I don’t care.”

His words sit heavy between you, the weight of them pressing into your chest. The choice, as much as you hate it, is yours. That should be a good thing, right? He should be letting you take control, steering your “relationship” into wherever the hell you want it. But the pressure of it all feels more drowning by the second. “What about Himari? What happens when she finds out?”

Satoru's jaw tightens just slightly, the only visible crack in his composure. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the wall, as if trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. “What about her?” he finally says, voice low.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by his casual response, confused. “What do you mean, what about her? She’s your girlfriend, Satoru.”

His fingers tap idly against his knee, a slow rhythm, measured. “She and I… it’s complicated.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Sounds like your favorite word.”

Satoru huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.” He turns his head to look at you then, eyes sharp. “You think I don’t know how messy this is? That I don’t realize what this means? But you keep asking me where we stand, and I’m trying to tell you—we’ve never been simple, and I don’t think we ever will be.”

“But what if I just want to be simple for once?”

“Then we can try.”

We. Your throat feels tight. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Satoru watches you for a moment before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “When—if—Himari finds out, I’ll handle it.”

There��s a finality in his tone that makes your stomach churn. Your eyebrows furrow, pushing for more. “Handle it how?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flickering away for a second before landing back on you. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

That should bring you some relief, but instead, it just unsettles you further. Because deep down, you know Himari will find out eventually. And when she does, the consequences won’t be something either of you can just walk away from. You run your hands through your hair, shaking your head as you stand to your feet. “I’ll go get the rest of the stuff from your room.”

Satoru doesn’t stop you as you step around him, making your way down the hall toward his bedroom. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching your retreating figure, like he wants to say something but chooses not to. The air in his room is cool, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the space. Koji’s things are tucked neatly in the corner: some folded clothes, a few toys, his favorite blanket. You bend down, gathering them into your arms, but your mind is still racing.

What happens when Himari finds out?

Satoru’s words replay in your head. You don’t need to worry about her.

But you do worry. How can you not? Satoru might not think much of it now, but Himari isn’t just going to sit back and accept this. She’s from his world—a world that doesn’t take kindly to secrets or betrayal. And whether you like it or not, you’ve just stepped right back into it.

You hear the sound of glass crunching under your shoe, which momentarily halts your running mind. Peering down slowly, you remove your shoe from the shards. The sight you’re met with makes your mouth dry instantly, stomach dropping. A picture stares up at you. But not just any picture. The one of you and your son on one Christmas back then, the same picture you specifically remember framing before wrapping it into a small gift for him.

Then why is it on the floor?

Why is the glass of the frame broken?

Why is the picture itself dirtied, the mark of a footprint staining right on top of your face, the side with your son crumpled?

You look up, a disbelieving scoff sounding from you. You’re then met with the sight of his king-sized bed. But the sheets are all rumpled, the pillows thrown about. And if you focus hard enough, there are a few noticeable stains that could really only mean one thing.

You look between the bed, the picture on the ground, the bed, the picture, the bed, the picture, and before you know it, you’re calling him in. “Satoru.”

No response.

“Satoru!”

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall before he appears at the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “What?” he says, though there’s something in his voice—something hesitant, wary.

You bend down, picking up the shattered frame, holding it up for him to see. “Care to explain this?” Your voice is tight, barely holding back the storm brewing inside you.

His eyes widen, brows furrowing as he steps forward, blue eyes flickering between the picture in your hands and the mess of his bed. Then, something shifts in his face—realization, maybe, or something darker. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“T-That’s all you have to say?” You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “This was a gift. A gift, Satoru.” Your fingers tighten around the cracked edges of the frame. “And it’s stomped on. Crumpled. What the fuck happened?”

He exhales sharply, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know. I didn’t—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “I didn’t do that.”

“You didn’t do it?” you repeat back, incredulousness in your voice. “That’s the excuse you’re coming up with?”

He stays quiet, a look of confusion and anger present on his face. But for some reason, it’s only making you even more pissed. You scoff and push past him, but he grabs your arm. “Y/N, I’m serious. I didn’t do this.”

“Then who did?” You attempt to yank your arm back, glaring up at him with eyes of fury. “I–I gave you this as a gift. I did this for you, I—and you just treat it like it’s nothing? How could you?”

Satoru’s grip tightens on your arm as you try to pull away, his eyes not meeting yours as he steps closer. His expression shifts again, like he's processing something, but it’s not a calm reaction—it’s frustration, maybe guilt, and it's doing nothing to calm the storm inside you. “Y/N,” he says, his voice lower now, like he's trying to de-escalate the situation. "I didn’t stomp on it. I didn’t break the frame. You think I would do that?” He doesn’t let go of you, but the way his thumb rubs over your wrist is almost soothing—almost, but it doesn't make the anger fade.

“You didn’t do it. Then who the hell did?” you snap, tugging your arm again, but his grip holds firm.

He exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with the effort to keep himself calm. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it again, his hand falling from your wrist as if he’s choosing his words carefully, but you’re not in the mood for careful right now. The room is thick with tension, and you can barely stand to be near him, especially when his presence is only making everything feel more complicated.

“Maybe you didn’t do it,” you say, your voice shaking with suppressed rage, "but something about this—this situation—it doesn’t…."

He looks at you for a long moment, then seems to give in, running a hand over his face as if tired. “I don’t know what’s going on, Y/N. I swear, I didn’t touch the damn picture. Please just listen to what I’m telling you, I didn’t—.”

“Then who did?!” You swiftly cut him off.

He exhales deeply, trying to tone down the situation. “...I don’t know for sure. But I think I do.”

You bite your lip, your fingers still wrapped tightly around the broken frame, your heart pounding. “You think, you think?” You shake your head, momentarily looking up. “You’re the one who keeps making things more complicated,” you reply softly, glaring at the crumpled picture again, the smile you once wore in it now tainted with every bit of the hurt you feel.

Satoru’s face softens, but the regret doesn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it only makes everything more confusing. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, though it doesn’t exactly reach your heart.

You set the frame down carefully on the dresser, not trusting yourself to hold it any longer. “Then why does it feel like you’re always doing it, even when you’re not trying to?”

Satoru stays quiet for a long moment, looking between the bed and the shattered picture, the distance between you growing as the weight of everything hung heavy in the air. His lips twitch, as if he’s about to say something else—but you don’t need more words right now. You need actions.

“Just fix it,” you finally whisper, your voice raw. "I can't do this anymore, Satoru."

You turn to exit the room, feeling hot tears sting behind your eyes. You barely make it two steps before he’s once again hauling you back to him, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and delivering a sweet, but firm kiss to your lips. He swallows your surprised squeak. However, it’s short-lived, and you didn’t even have the chance to reciprocate. He pulls back, looking down at your widened eyes with his own set of determination. Leaning down to rest his forehead against yours and you almost hate the way you tilt your head up, a sad attempt to chase after his lips.

“I'll fix things. For us.”

The lights above cast a soft glow, but nothing about the setting seems to calm the sharp edges of her demeanor. Himari is flanked by assistants, one adjusting the hem of a sleek, modern black dress while another fusses with her hair, tugging at the strands to give them more volume. But Himari’s patience is thin, and her mouth, a thin line of frustration, shows no sign of softening. She pulls at the fabric around her waist, glaring at the assistant. "This doesn’t look right. It’s too tight here,” she snaps, voice laced with annoyance.

The assistant hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with her tone, but follows her orders. "We can adjust it, Ms. Nakamura, just a few more minutes."

“No," she cuts in sharply. "I told you last time. I don't like anything that pinches or restricts me.” She lifts her hand, a clear signal that she’s done with the discussion. “Start over. I’m not going out like this.”

The assistant stammers out an apology and steps back, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes to fetch another dress from the rack. Himari’s eyes shift to the mirror before her, taking in the sharp lines of her reflection—perfect, poised, and controlled. It’s the version of herself she’s always put forward, a product of her family’s brand, her father's influence, and the high standards that come with it.

Her gaze flickers briefly to the phone on the nearby counter, buzzing with an incoming message. Her eyes narrow slightly as she sees the name. Gojo. A smirk plays at the edge of her lips, but it's cold and calculating. She’s been holding her ground, making sure that he knows she’s still here, still the one in control. Yet, a small, insidious part of her can't help but feel a twinge of unease, something she won’t admit even to herself.

“I should be the one to get everything right, not them,” she mutters under her breath, frustrated, as she adjusts herself in front of the mirror. The moment passes, but the irritation lingers in her sharp expression.

She has half a mind to just throw a fit in the middle of the studio, no matter what other pompous bitch is here for the same reason she is. Everyone here should know by now that when Himari visits, there’s no time for screw-ups. She whips out her red lipstick, reapplying some in the mirror just as the assistant and stylist come back. Himari’s eyes flicker over the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick with deliberate, steady strokes, her fingers so controlled it’s almost an art form. She’s not looking at herself, not truly. She’s too busy calculating—how she can assert her dominance here, how she can make everyone bend to her will.

The assistant and stylist stand quietly in the corner, their movements hesitant, trying not to disturb the storm brewing in Himari’s gaze. The silence between them stretches, thick with tension, before Himari finally breaks it.

"You should have known better," she snaps, voice sharp as a blade. "I’m not here to babysit, I’m here to be seen, and seen perfectly. Do you get that?" Her tone makes it clear there’s no room for mistakes. The weight of her presence, her reputation, presses down on the studio like a vice.

The assistant tries to salvage the situation, taking a few cautious steps forward. "I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Nakamura, we just—"

"No excuses," Himari interrupts, eyes flicking to the stylist, who’s now stepping forward with a different outfit. "This had better be right. If you can't get it together, I’ll find someone who knows how to make me look good."

The stylist immediately holds up the new dress, his fingers trembling slightly. "This one is different, I made sure the adjustments were perfect this time."

Himari doesn’t even look at him, just taps her finger on the counter impatiently. "Put it on me, then. I don’t have all day to waste here."

The assistant exchanges a quick glance with the stylist before moving to remove the current dress from Himari. The whole room feels like it’s walking on eggshells now, every movement a little too slow, too careful, as if they’re afraid to provoke her. Himari watches it all unfold, satisfaction curling in the corner of her lips. She relishes in this—being the center of attention, holding the power. But under all the poise and control, there’s that small, gnawing voice. The one that wonders if her grasp on Gojo’s attention is starting to slip, even if only slightly. She pushes it down quickly, focusing on the next move. The game isn’t over. Not yet.

“Shit!” she gasps, pushing away the stylist. “You just pricked me, you idiot!”

The stylist stumbles back, his face paling as he fumbles with the needle in his hand. "I-I’m so sorry, Ms. Nakamura," he stammers, eyes wide with fear. "It was an accident, I—"

“An accident?” Himari hisses, her voice sharp with venom. She reaches up to press a finger to the small puncture mark on her arm, staring at him like he’s the source of all her frustration. "You people can’t even do the simplest things right." Her voice oozes contempt as she glares at the poor man, who is frozen in place.

The assistant, clearly distressed, starts to panic. "Please, just let me get you something to stop the bleeding—"

“I don’t need your help!” Himari snaps, her eyes narrowing. She turns away from them both, walking toward the mirror. "Just fix the damn dress, and keep your hands away from me. If you mess up again, I’ll have your job. Do you understand me?"

The stylist, his hands shaking now, nods vigorously. "Yes, of course. I’ll be more careful."

She sneers at his response before looking at herself in the mirror, rubbing her arm as if the sting of the prick is the least of her concerns. But deep down, there’s a simmering unease, a feeling of being off that she can’t quite shake. Everything has to be perfect, especially today. She’s had enough of feeling like things are slipping through her fingers.

She fixes her gaze back on the assistant and stylist. "I’m not leaving here until I look flawless. Fix it. Now."

The assistant and stylist exchange nervous glances before scrambling to comply, working as quickly as possible to avoid the wrath of the woman who could ruin their careers with a single word. Himari watches them with a predatory calmness.

“Such a shame my father pays you,” she scoffs, eyebrow raising as the stylist kneels by her side to focus on the hem.

The stylist’s hands tremble as he adjusts the fabric of her dress, trying to avoid eye contact. "I'm just doing my job, Ms. Nakamura," he murmurs, not daring to look up from his task.

Himari rolls her eyes dramatically, letting out a sharp sigh. "Your job is to make sure I look perfect, not to give me excuses." She takes a step back, examining herself in the mirror again, as if she can already sense the imperfection of the dress lingering in the air. "But I suppose that’s what happens when you hire amateurs desperate for dimes and nickels."

The assistant, sensing her frustration, hurries over, offering a forced smile. "We’re doing our best, Himari. The fit will be flawless in no time."

Himari doesn’t even glance at them. She crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "Best? Best doesn’t even come close. Don’t make me regret bringing my business here."

The assistant’s face flushes, but he keeps his voice steady. "Of course, Ms. Nakamura. We’ll make sure it’s exactly what you want."

Her gaze shifts from her reflection back to the stylist, who looks like he might crumble under the pressure. "You should be thankful my father is paying for this. He could have gone elsewhere, but he chose you. Don’t waste his generosity." Her voice drips with sarcasm as she smirks, watching the man scramble to finish his work. The tension in the room thickens, and for a moment, it feels like the entire studio is holding its breath, waiting for her next move.

“Mr. Gojo! It’s nice to see you again.”

The name snaps her out of her stupor in the blink of an eye, and she whirls around. Oh, he looks so sexy today. Satoru doesn’t even bother greeting the worker who called out, his steely gaze focused solely on her. Usually, she would’ve been flattered, joyous even that she’s being spared the accurate amount of attention she so desperately needs. But today feels different.

He feels different, looks different.

“Satoru,” Himari puts on a charming smile, nonchalantly pushing the stylist to the side, holding her arms out. “You’re here, you didn’t tell me you were comi—”

“What the fuck did you do?” his cold voice startles her, his hands pushing her inviting embrace away with not much of a care.

Himari blinks, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. She gulps and shakes her head. “I…what are you talking about, Satoru?”

“Don’t play dumb right now, because I have zero patience for you,” he cooly grits back out.

The studio quiets, the stylist and tailor awkwardly going silent at the public display of an argument between their client and her boyfriend. The two look away, though that’s not saying much. Himari’s lip trembles, biting down on it. “Satoru, I really don’t know—”

“You come into my place, you trash my bed, and then you leave the evidence all over the floor.” Satoru steps closer, invading her personal space. She’s forced to take a small step back, wide eyes staring back up at the man who’s looking at her like she’s worth nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. That thought angers her more than she’d like to admit. “I let you get away with a lot of things, Himari. A lot. More than I should. So why shouldn’t I have you arrested for breaking and entering?”

Himari gasps, eyebrows shooting up. “W-what?! You’d never.”

“Keep trying me, and I will.”

Her face pales, her throat tightening as a mix of guilt and frustration rises within her. “You can’t—no, you’re being ridiculous. That frame… it’s just a thing! A stupid, insignificant thing of you and that—that leech!” She forces a laugh, though it sounds hollow and brittle. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not like I—”

“Not like you what?” Gojo steps forward again, closing the space between them. His towering figure looms over her, eyes locked with hers, piercing through her, tilting his head. “Not like you’re jealous? Because from where I stand…” he leans his neck down, voice lowering, “it looks like you’re trying to erase the one thing you’ll never be."

Himari’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes flashing with anger, but her lips remain tight. The words he’s throwing at her feel like daggers, each one sharper than the last. She doesn’t want to admit it—doesn’t even want to acknowledge it—but the sting of his words is undeniable.

She forces herself to stand tall, pushing down the fluttering in her chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spits, a slight tremor in her voice betraying her. “You think I’m jealous of her?” The words come out in a cruel laugh, but it’s weak. A façade. “Please. She’s nothing. You should’ve let her rot in impoverished obscurity. I never wanted anything to do with her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, his posture unwavering. “But you still do, don’t you? You can’t stand that she’s still a part of my life. That she’s always going to be a part of it.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, suffocating in its intensity. Himari’s chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, her fingers flexing at her sides. The reality of the situation is dawning on her—this isn’t about a broken picture frame. It never was. This is about something deeper, something she refuses to confront. The jealousy she’s spent so long hiding. The truth she’s tried so hard to bury. She forces a smile, trying to mask her vulnerability with arrogance. “You think I’m scared of her, Satoru? You think she matters to me? She’s just some pathetic little woman you got caught up with. A mistake you’re too proud to admit. But I will be the one who gets everything you’ve worked for. I’ll be the one standing beside you. I’m the one you chose, remember?”

Her words feel empty, hollow. She doesn’t believe them anymore. And Satoru knows it.

He steps back, his expression unchanged, cold and calculating. “If you’re so sure of that, Himari, then why don’t you start acting like it? Because right now, you look like a jealous little girl throwing a tantrum. And I’m done with it.”

Her breath catches again, and for a moment, she feels small. Smaller than she ever wanted to feel. Her fingers twitch with the need to lash out, but the weight of his words keeps her still. He’s right. Her limbs shake.

“You’ll never be her,” Satoru adds, his voice low, almost pitying. “And that’s something you’ll have to live with.”

Himari’s eyes flash with something unreadable, and for a second, the mask she’s worn for so long falters. But she quickly regains control, lifting her chin with a defiant snarl. “I’ll make you regret this, Gojo. I’ll make you regret ever even meeting me with the shit I’ll send your way if you do this to me.”

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react. He simply turns on his heel, walking toward the door. “You already are,” he says over his shoulder, the words hanging in the air between them like a final nail in the coffin.

Her breath hitches, fingers curling into her palms. “C-Come back here….you’re—you’re not doing this! You’re not breaking up with me, Satoru! You’re not! I won’t allow it!”

But he says nothing, continuing to walk, and then, he’s gone.

Himari stands there, rooted to the spot, the silence around her deafening. The anger, the humiliation, the fear—they all swirl inside her, a storm she can’t control. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something she won’t dare admit.

She’s lost him.

A gut-wrenching scream sounds out through the floor, with employees flinching. The stylist and assistant cover their ears, grimacing and not even daring to look her way.

But the reaction of a white haired woman, holding back a laugh, differs from all. Looking at herself in the floor-length mirror, the elegant, silk purple dress was not nearly as satisfying as the dramatic scene she had just witnessed. She’s glad she decided to indulge this very fine afternoon.

Things are getting good, she thinks to herself, pressing the button on her phone to stop the voice recording.

Very good.

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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kiwriteswords · 7 months ago

Note

could you write a hotch x reader story where reader is literally a knockout bombshell and the team meets her for the first time and both are humbled and shocked tht Hotch could pull that. Also maybe she works in different department of the FBI, but not BAU and derek and others have always talked about how hot reader is but happy id they cnt have reaader that hotch can!

The Beauty and The Boss

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: Thanks so much for the request! Sorry, it took me so long to get it written :)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: Mild language, fade-to-black smut scene, reader wears makeup, workplace flirting, commentary about reader's appearance by BAU, jealous!Hotch, mention of a Holiday party, mentions of a bar scene.

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner’s professionalism hides a secret: he’s been in a relationship with you, the stunning agent who turns every head at Quantico. While his team spends months admiring and teasing about you—unaware of the truth—Hotch quietly enjoys keeping the relationship private. But when the BAU holiday party reveals the truth, the team is left shocked, realizing the woman they’ve been swooning over is already spoken for by the man they least expected.

The Quantico breakroom buzzed with life as Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, a grin stretching across his face. “I’m telling you, there’s not a person in this building who doesn’t turn their head when she walks by.”

Emily Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms as she perched on the edge of the counter. “Understatement of the year, Morgan. She’s practically stopped traffic in the hallways more than once.”

Penelope Garcia, seated with her tablet, chimed in. “More like a goddess descended from Mount Olympus, wielding a to-do list and a killer power suit. The woman is unreal.”

You had no idea you were the current topic of conversation as you breezed through Quantico’s corridors. Your heels clicked against the tiled floor with the kind of authority only a seasoned professional carried. Your fitted blazer hugged your form just right, the kind of attire that screamed competence but still left a trail of stunned admirers in your wake. You were a boss, and you knew it—not in an arrogant way, but in the way a woman who worked twice as hard to get half as far in a male-dominated field knew her worth.

Little did they know that, as much as they admired you from afar, you had a certain someone who saw all those layers they missed—someone who knew how you carried the weight of your team, your projects, and your life with equal parts grace and grit.

That someone was Aaron Hotchner.

Unbeknownst to the BAU, the stoic Unit Chief had been keeping a significant secret. You and Aaron had been together for over a year. Though you both worked under the same massive roof, your respective departments didn’t often overlap—an intentional boundary to keep things professional and out of sight from prying eyes.

Aaron entered the room just as Morgan’s laughter rang out. “No, but seriously, Hotch, you’ve seen her, right? You can’t tell me someone that fine doesn’t have half the men here wrapped around her finger.”

Aaron’s sharp gaze flicked to Morgan, his jaw tightening subtly. “Morgan, shouldn’t you be focusing on case files rather than office gossip?”

Morgan raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying, man, beauty like that deserves to be appreciated.”

Emily grinned. “Don’t let Strauss hear you. She’d have you running sensitivity training for a month.”

Garcia waggled her eyebrows. “Maybe Hotch is just annoyed because she’s his type. Dark hair, smart, confident—maybe there’s some unspoken pining we don’t know about.”

Aaron’s lips pressed into a firm line as he reached for a file, “Let’s keep the speculation to yourselves. We have enough on our plates without playing matchmaker.” His tone was calm but carried enough weight to signal the end of the conversation.

He didn’t let his composure falter, but inwardly, he found himself caught in a tug-of-war between amusement and annoyance. You were undeniably stunning, and he couldn’t blame his team for noticing, but their casual banter skirted dangerously close to the truth.

Later that afternoon, the sun streamed through the tall windows of the BAU bullpen, casting golden streaks across the room as you entered. Your heels echoed confidently against the polished floor, their rhythmic click commanding attention as you moved with purpose. A fitted pencil skirt emphasized the natural sway of your hips, and your blazer was tailored perfectly, hinting at the strength and grace beneath. Loose curls framed your face, falling just so, and your makeup—subtle but flawless—added to the aura of a woman who meant business.

Conversations quieted as you passed by the desks. Agents glanced up from their work, some stealing longer looks than they should have, while others leaned toward their neighbors to murmur something under their breath. You didn’t acknowledge the attention. You were used to it. Your focus remained locked ahead as you carried the neatly bound folder in your hands, its weight a mere fraction of the responsibility you carried daily.

You reached the door to Aaron Hotchner’s office just as it opened. He stepped out, his posture as straight and commanding as ever, but his sharp eyes softened for the briefest moment when they landed on you. The shift was imperceptible to anyone else, but you caught it—it was the kind of look he reserved only for you.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted evenly, his voice steady but low enough that it felt personal.

“Agent Hotchner,” you replied with a nod, the professionalism in your tone betrayed by the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of your lips.

Behind you, Morgan's voice rose in a stage whisper. “And there she is…”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, keeping your expression neutral as you extended the folder to Aaron. “I just need your signature on these budgetary adjustments. It’s time-sensitive.”

Aaron’s brow furrowed slightly as he accepted the folder, his long fingers brushing against yours briefly. “Of course,” he said, already flipping it open to skim through the pages. “Give me a moment.”

As he turned and walked back into his office, you followed without hesitation, pushing the door closed behind you. The muted sound of the latch clicking shut seemed to signal a shift in the atmosphere. The second the door was closed, your composed expression melted into something softer, teasing.

“I heard Morgan,” you said in a low voice, a mischievous glint dancing in your eyes. You set a hand on your hip, leaning slightly as you watched him work.

Aaron’s lips curved into a subtle smirk as he scribbled his signature onto the documents. “They talk about you often,” he replied, not looking up right away. “Morgan more than most.”

You tilted your head, your brow arching playfully. “Jealous?”

Finally, he looked up, setting the pen down and stepping closer. “Observant,” he corrected, his tone dry but his gaze warm. He handed the folder back to you, and as his fingers brushed yours again, the slightest spark of electricity passed between you. “You look stunning today, by the way.”

“Today?” you teased, your voice dropping slightly as you tilted your chin. “What about yesterday?”

Aaron’s smirk deepened, the rare expression enough to make your stomach flip. “Every day,” he replied smoothly, his voice dipping into that low, velvety tone that sent a thrill through you. He stepped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—subtle and clean, just like him.

For a moment, the space between you felt charged, but you straightened, breaking the tension with a soft laugh. “Careful, Agent Hotchner,” you said, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Someone might notice.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rare but rich. “Let them speculate.”

The corner of your mouth twitched in amusement, but you turned on your heel, your exit as purposeful as your arrival. Behind you, Aaron watched, his expression softening again as the door clicked shut. The office suddenly felt emptier without you in it, and the faintest hint of a smile lingered on his lips.

Moments after, when you stepped out of Aaron’s office, the door closing softly behind you, you nearly collided with David Rossi. The veteran profiler stepped back gracefully, offering you a warm smile as his eyes flicked to the folder in your hands.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he greeted smoothly, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “You’re lucky Hotch doesn’t have a ‘No Stunning Women’ policy in his office. Makes the rest of us forget what we’re working on.”

You gave a polite laugh, your smile measured but warm. “Always a pleasure, Agent Rossi. Don’t let me distract you too much.” With a nod, you stepped past him and continued down the hall, your heels clicking confidently on the polished floor.

Rossi watched you leave, shaking his head slightly before stepping into Hotch’s office, and shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t tell me your office doubled as a runway, Aaron,” Rossi quipped as he took a seat across from Hotch’s desk, still grinning.

Hotch didn’t look up from the report in front of him. “Rossi.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi continued, leaning back in his chair. “Agent Y/L/N is quite the… presence. Can’t imagine you get much work done when she’s around.”

Hotch finally glanced up, his sharp eyes locking on Rossi with a calm but pointed look. “She’s one of the most competent agents in this building.”

Rossi raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin still on his face. “No offense, Aaron. I’m just appreciating fine talent when I see it. Professionally, of course.”

Hotch’s expression didn’t shift as he returned to his paperwork. “Make sure it stays professional, Dave.”

Rossi chuckled, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. “Noted. I’ll leave you to your work, but for the record… you’ve got good taste.”

Hotch’s eyes flicked up for a brief moment, narrowing slightly as Rossi turned to leave. Once the door closed behind him, Aaron exhaled, his jaw relaxing as the corners of his mouth twitched faintly. You had that effect on people. Rossi wasn’t wrong about that, but Aaron wasn’t about to let anyone reduce you to just that. Not on his watch.

It wasn’t much later in the week when the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the dimly lit bar as the BAU team finally unwound after wrapping a grueling case. At their usual table near the back, JJ, Penelope, and Emily leaned close together, conspiring with mischievous smiles. Derek Morgan leaned back in his chair, his beer in hand, as he glanced across the room toward you.

You were with your own team, sitting at the far end of the bar. The laughter coming from your group was infectious, and more than a few heads in the bar had turned to admire the sharp, confident woman at the center of it all. You were a vision, dressed in a fitted, dark emerald blouse that complemented your glowing skin, your hair falling perfectly into place despite the long week.

Emily nudged Derek, her grin widening. “Now’s your chance, Morgan. She’s right there, and she’s smiling. That’s basically an invitation.”

Penelope nodded eagerly, swirling her cocktail. “Seriously, Derek. You’re Mr. Smooth—to make one of your famous sweet moves. She’s gorgeous, brilliant, and, let’s face it, probably way out of your league, but you’ve got charm. Use it!”

JJ smirked, sipping her drink. “They’re not wrong. She’s definitely the type to keep you on your toes.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment. “You ladies make a good point. Pretty boy over here has been staring so hard, I think he forgot how to blink.”

Reid’s head snapped up, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. “I haven’t been staring—I was observing!”

Penelope laughed, reaching out to pat his arm. “Sure, sweetie. Keep telling yourself that.”

Meanwhile, Aaron Hotchner sat quietly at the edge of the table, nursing his drink and doing his best to keep his expression neutral. He caught Rossi’s amused glance and ignored it, his attention drifting toward you. Across the room, your eyes flicked to his, and in that instant, the noise of the bar seemed to fade. Your lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, and Hotch’s lips twitched in response, his gaze steady but warm.

“Alright,” Derek announced, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “Time to show you all how it’s done.”

As he sauntered toward you, the rest of the team watched with poorly concealed anticipation. Hotch leaned back slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he took another sip of his drink, clearly amused.

At the bar, Derek slid into the seat beside you, his trademark charm on full display. “Well, well, Agent Y/L/N,” he began, flashing you a dazzling smile. “A woman like you at a place like this—it’s like a shooting star landing in a parking lot. Rare. Unexpected. Stunning.”

You turned toward him, your smile warm but professional. “Agent Morgan,” you greeted. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m just wondering if I can buy you a drink. You look like someone who deserves only the finest.”

You chuckled softly, tilting your head. “That’s kind of you, but I’m good for now. Thank you, though.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You sure? A woman like you turning down a Morgan Original? That doesn’t happen often.”

You smiled, leaning in slightly, your voice light but firm. “I’m flattered, Derek, really. But no, thank you.”

Derek blinked, clearly surprised but respectful, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Can’t blame a guy for trying. You have a good night, Agent Y/L/N.”

As he returned to the table, Rossi leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “I think I know why she turned you down.”

Derek arched a brow. “Oh, yeah? Enlighten us, wise old man.”

Rossi swirled his drink lazily. “She’s already seeing someone.”

That caught the team’s attention. JJ frowned thoughtfully. “She doesn’t wear a ring.”

Emily shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. Rossi’s probably right—someone like her? Definitely taken.”

Penelope gasped. “She’s got to be dating some rich CEO type. Like a Christian Grey situation—minus the creepy stuff. You know, private jets, expensive suits, maybe even his own island.”

Reid tilted his head. “Statistically, high-powered women often prefer partners who are equally accomplished, so it’s not unreasonable to assume…”

Hotch, listening quietly, couldn’t help but chuckle softly under his breath. It was rare for him to indulge in such amusement, but their wild guesses about your personal life were too far from the truth to resist.

“Something funny, Hotch?” Derek asked, narrowing his eyes playfully.

Hotch met his gaze evenly, his lips twitching. “Just enjoying the show, Morgan.”

From across the room, you glanced at him again, your eyes meeting his with a spark of shared amusement. You knew, just as he did that the truth was far more satisfying than any of their guesses.

That night, the familiar warmth of your shared apartment enveloped you as you stepped out of the bathroom, your hair still damp from the shower. The soft glow of the bedside lamp lit the room in hues of gold, casting a gentle light over Aaron as he stood at the dresser, folding his tie with precision. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and his expression was calm, though you could tell from the faint tension in his jaw that something was on his mind.

There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—calm, methodical, and yet there was an intimacy in the gesture that always left your heart fluttering.

You crossed the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old FBI academy T-shirts that hung just above your thighs. It was soft and familiar, smelling faintly of him, and you loved how it made you feel wrapped in his presence.

As you climbed into bed, you leaned back against the headboard, watching him with a small smile. “You’re quiet tonight,” you teased, running a hand through your damp hair. “That’s usually my thing.”

Aaron glanced at you, his lips quirking slightly before he shook his head and continued folding. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He sighed, placing the tie in the drawer before turning to face you, his arms crossing over his chest. “My team.”

You raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Oh? What did the BAU do this time?”

Aaron smirked faintly, shaking his head as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his watch. “It’s not what they’ve done. It’s what they keep saying.”

You tilted your head, your curiosity piqued. “Do tell.”

He exhaled, his voice even but carrying a hint of frustration. “They don’t stop talking about you. Derek, Emily, Penelope… even Reid, apparently. It’s constant.” He turned to look at you, his dark eyes warm but serious. “I’ve been patient. I’ve let it slide because they don’t know. But I think I’ve hit my limit.”

A slow smile spread across your face as you scooted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’re jealous,” you teased, your voice light and laced with amusement. “Aaron Hotchner, stoic leader of the BAU, is jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied firmly, though the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I just don’t appreciate them… ogling you.”

You chuckled softly, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin against his shoulder. “You know I think it’s kind of hot when you’re jealous, right?”

He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you said with a grin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s sweet that you care so much. But you don’t have to worry, Aaron. I’m yours. Completely.”

He turned fully now, his hands coming up to rest on your knees as he looked at you with a rare softness in his eyes. “You have no idea how much I appreciate hearing that.”

You smiled, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Good. Because it’s true.”

He kissed you back gently, one hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. When you pulled away, you saw the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Aaron lingered close for a moment, his thumb brushing your cheek in a rare display of vulnerability before he exhaled softly and pulled back. Standing, he moved toward the dresser with the same calm, deliberate manner that always captivated you.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt, working them loose one by one. The sound of each button sliding free seemed amplified in the quiet of your shared space. You couldn’t help but admire the way the soft light played over his features—his strong jaw, the tension in his shoulders, and the faint lines around his eyes that only made him more striking.

Aaron shrugged off his shirt, revealing the toned muscles of his chest and the scar along his side that you knew he sometimes still tried to hide. He folded the shirt with the same precision as his tie, setting it neatly aside before slipping out of his slacks and into the lounge pants he favored at night.

“Don’t stop on my account,” you teased, your voice warm and playful as your eyes lingered on him.

He glanced back at you with a small, knowing smile. “Enjoying the show?”

You grinned. “Always.”

Aaron shook his head slightly, his smirk growing as he crossed the room and slid into bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the familiar warmth of his body radiated toward you as he leaned back against the pillows, one arm sliding around your waist to pull you close.

“You really don’t have to worry about what your team says,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. “I only have eyes for you.”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, gently tilting your face toward his. “You’re sure about that?” he asked softly, though the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed the question’s seriousness.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one who gets this version of me. The rest of them don’t even come close.”

Aaron deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that still sent your heart racing. His hand slid down to your hip, pulling you closer as your fingers tangled in his hair, and for a moment, the world outside your shared room ceased to exist.

The soft rustle of sheets and the low hum of your shared laughter filled the space as your words became unspoken reassurances, translated into the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he kissed you as though you were his lifeline.

In the darkness, as the lamp flicked off and the night stretched on, you made it perfectly clear—he was yours, and you were his, completely. Always.

The annual Bureau holiday party arrived soon after and was in full swing, the large event hall buzzing with laughter and conversation as agents and staff mingled under the soft glow of festive string lights. Tables lined with food and drinks flanked the room, and a DJ played a mix of holiday classics and upbeat pop songs. The BAU team had claimed a table near the center, already deep into their drinks and holiday banter.

Derek leaned back in his chair, scanning the room with an easy grin. “Alright, I’m calling it now. This year’s party MVP? Gotta be me. I’ve got the charm, the moves, and the mistletoe strategy ready to go.”

Emily rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. “Your confidence is astounding. Let’s see how it plays out when someone turns you down again.”

Penelope chuckled, adjusting the festive reindeer antlers perched on her head. “Maybe don’t aim for anyone who’s already out of your league, like a certain Agent Y/L/N.”

“They’re never letting that one down,” Reid laughed.

Derek smirked. “She’s not here yet, but hey, holiday parties are all about surprises. Maybe she’ll get a look and change her mind?”

JJ raised a brow. “Speaking of surprises… does anyone else feel like Hotch is acting weird lately? He’s been way too quiet during our usual teasing.” Will was at her side, with an arm wrapped over her shoulders.

Rossi, swirling his glass of whiskey, gave a knowing smirk but said nothing.

The conversation halted abruptly as the door to the hall opened, and heads turned to see Aaron Hotchner entering with you at his side.

The two of you stepped into the room, hand in hand, your fingers loosely intertwined as Aaron scanned the crowd with his usual composed demeanor. You looked radiant in a fitted emerald dress, its sleek design effortlessly elegant, while Aaron’s sharp black suit was understated yet commanding.

The BAU table fell silent, their jaws collectively dropping.

“Is that…?” Penelope started, blinking rapidly.

“Hotch,” JJ finished, her voice barely above a whisper. Will let out a breathy laugh.

“And Agent Y/L/N,” Emily added, looking between the two of you as if she’d seen a ghost.

Morgan leaned forward, his grin faltering. “No way.”

Hotch’s lips twitched into the faintest smile as he caught their stunned expressions. He led you toward the table with a calm confidence, his hand still firmly in yours.

“Evening, everyone,” he greeted, his tone as steady as ever.

You smiled warmly, giving a little wave with your free hand. “Hi, guys. Hope we’re not late.”

The team exchanged glances, still struggling to process what they were seeing.

Derek was the first to recover, though his grin was more sheepish than his usual swagger. “Well, damn. Hotch, you really know how to keep a secret.”

Hotch arched a brow, his hand resting protectively on your back as he pulled out a chair for you. “It’s never been a secret. Some things are worth keeping private.”

Emily leaned closer to Penelope, muttering, “Okay, I officially feel bad for every single comment I’ve ever made about her in front of him.”

Penelope nodded vigorously. “Same. Oh my gosh, same.”

JJ shook her head, laughing softly. “And Derek, all the flirting?”

Morgan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know! But I’ll admit when I’m beat. Respect, Hotch. You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch’s expression softened slightly as he glanced at you. “I know.”

Rossi, still sipping his drink, chuckled. “For the record, I knew when to quit. The first time I made a comment about her, the look Hotch gave me said everything I needed to know.”

You raised a brow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what look was that?”

Rossi smirked. “The one that says, ‘Say one more word, and you’re not making it to retirement.’”

“Back into retirement,” Hotch corrected with an amused look. The table erupted into laughter.

Emily leaned forward, her curiosity winning out. “Alright, spill. How long has this been going on?”

You exchanged a glance with Aaron, his hand still resting lightly on your back.

“A little over a year,” you admitted, and Hotch nodded.

“A year?” Penelope gasped. “And you managed to keep it quiet this long? I’m impressed.”

Hotch’s gaze swept over his team, his voice calm but with a subtle warmth. “We wanted to keep things professional. But we both agreed it was time.” A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes as he added, “Especially before one of you asked her out on a date next.”

The team erupted into laughter, though Derek groaned, throwing his head back. “Aw, come on, Hotch! You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

Emily smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You really did shoot your shot, Morgan. Respect for the boldness, but hindsight? Not your best moment.”

Penelope covered her mouth with her hand, barely containing her giggles. “I’m never going to stop picturing Hotch sitting back in his office, watching that go down and just... waiting.”

JJ joined in, shaking her head with a grin. “Honestly, Derek, if looks could kill…”

Derek held up his hands in surrender, chuckling despite himself. “Alright, alright! I didn’t know, okay? And for the record, I was nothing but a gentleman.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand as you smiled at him. “You were, Derek. I thought it was sweet.”

“Sweet?” Hotch interjected, his tone laced with playful sarcasm as he glanced at you. “I’d call it… bold.”

You nudged his arm with your elbow, your smile widening. “Aaron.”

His lips twitched into a faint smirk as he looked back at the table. “But in all seriousness, I can’t blame anyone for noticing how incredible she is. I just happen to be the lucky one.”

The table quieted for a moment, the sincerity in his tone catching everyone off guard. Emily was the first to break the silence, raising her glass with a grin. “Well, here’s to the two of you. A BAU power couple if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Cheers to that,” Penelope chimed in, her eyes sparkling.

As the team raised their glasses once more, you glanced at Aaron, your fingers brushing his under the table. His quiet smile and the gentle squeeze of your hand told you everything you needed to know. You were his, and he was yours, and no amount of teasing or surprise from his team could change that.

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dollishmehrayan · 7 months ago

Text

BATBOYS JEALOUSY HCS ── .✦

a/n: I just ate which like now my stomach hurts because I ate this spicy burger (10/10) and my stomach is hurting so let’s hope i don’t die from a burger😭 also request from anon (here) tysm!

(Tags: batboys when jealous of crush!reader)

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Internally Brooding, Externally Stoic: Bruce keeps a calm, composed exterior, but inside? Full-on brooding mode. He watches every move, his jaw clenching just slightly whenever the other guy laughs a little too much.

Passive-Aggressive Moves: Bruce subtly but effectively tries to interrupt. Maybe he’ll walk by and offer you something he never does, like coffee or water, just to make his presence known. “You looked thirsty,” he’ll say, while the guy looks confused.

Petty Rich Guy Move: He’ll ‘accidentally’ mention something about Wayne Enterprises, as if to remind everyone just how wealthy and powerful he is. “Funny, we were discussing corporate acquisitions the other day,” he’ll drop casually, as if it relates. (Let’s hope he doesn’t drain his bank 😞🙏)

The Comedy: When Alfred catches him glaring, he’ll dryly say, “Master Wayne, perhaps you should try blinking before you permanently furrow your brow.” Bruce will immediately deny he’s bothered, even as he side-eyes you again.

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Charm Dial Up to 100: Dick doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy. He’ll swoop into the conversation, throwing in his most dazzling smile. “Hey, I didn’t realize we were letting random guys have all the fun,” he’ll say with a teasing grin, while subtly nudging the guy aside.

Over-the-Top Compliments: He’ll suddenly become your biggest hype-man. “You know, she’s literally the smartest, funniest, and most beautiful person in the room, right? No offense to you, man.” The other guy feels awkward, and you just laugh while Dick grins smugly.

Puppy Dog Eyes: If you keep talking to the other guy, Dick’s smile might falter just a little, and he’ll stand in the background, clearly pouting. It’s so obvious that even you can’t help but laugh.

The Comedy: He’ll mutter, “Didn’t even know jealousy could feel this personal,” under his breath while side-eyeing the guy like it’s a soap opera.

JASON TODD ── .✦

Grumpy But Trying to Play it Cool: Jason’s jealousy is obvious in how stiff and silent he gets. He leans against the nearest wall, arms crossed, glaring like the other guy just insulted his whole family.

Blunt Interruptions: He doesn’t have the patience to be subtle. He’ll walk up and ask, “So, who’s this?” in the least friendly tone possible, with a fake smile that could curdle milk.

Accidental Intimidation: Jason’s sheer presence is intimidating, so the poor guy talking to you will probably start feeling uncomfortable as Jason looms over, cracking his knuckles or adjusting his jacket dramatically.

The Comedy: If you don’t notice, Jason will mutter sarcastically, “Oh sure, talk to Captain Chit-Chat over there. Not like I’m standing right here or anything.” Roy, nearby, might add, “Jason, you’re doing that ‘death stare’ thing again,” and Jason will growl, “I’m not jealous.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Awkward and Overthinking Everything: Tim doesn’t get jealous often, but when he does, it’s a mess. He watches from a distance, wringing his hands, thinking, Should I interrupt? Maybe she likes him? Maybe I’m reading too much into it…

Accidental Sulking: He tries to focus on something else, but his mind keeps wandering. He sits down nearby, pretending to work on his laptop, typing nonsense just so he can stay close without being obvious. “Haha, yeah…no big deal…” deletes everything he just typed.

Passive Observing: Tim eventually tries to casually stroll by, acting like he just happened to be there. “Oh, hey… didn’t see you there. Weird, right?” He’s so awkward it’s endearing.

The Comedy: If Kon or Bart sees him sulking, they’ll tease him mercilessly. “Dude, go talk to her.” Tim panics, “I can’t. She’s busy… laughing… with him…” Kon: “You’re hopeless.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Silent Judgment Mode: Damian watches with narrowed eyes, judging every aspect of the guy talking to you. He might even mutter things under his breath like, “He stands like a fool,” or “He can’t even articulate properly.”

Direct Interruption: Damian doesn’t have time for subtlety. He’ll walk up and flatly say, “Are you finished with this conversation? It’s becoming unbearable.” The other guy is usually too shocked to respond.

Unintentional Comedy: He’ll start critiquing the guy’s conversation topics. “She doesn’t care about your opinions on sports,” he’ll state matter-of-factly, as you try not to laugh.

The Comedy: If you ask if he’s jealous, he’ll scoff. “Jealous? Of that imbecile? Hardly.” But the tips of his ears are turning red, and you know he’s lying.

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kamospeach · 7 days ago

Text

(any pics without tags are bc i didn't know who they belonged to!)

plot: sukuna gets injured, good thing you're always there to help

content warning: sukuna himself is a warning, mechanic + boxer sukuna, because they're the same in my head

dean's (aka peachy) yap: broke mechanic rising boxer sukuna makes so much sense to me also makes more sense after watch Isi and Ossi on Netflix.

days like these were rare. it was so rare that when it happened, nobody knew what to do. it started like every other friday night. sukuna was warming up in the ring for his fight in the next hour and a half. you sat on the stool, legs crossed, watching his fluid movements.

“you'd better not mess up his face!” you yelled to the other boxer he was practicing with. one thing about sukuna, he hated to get hurt because when he did, you were at his beck and call. he hated being waited on, especially by you. you were overprotective and wouldn’t let him step outside if injured.

“please, he couldn’t even land a hit on me even if he tried! no one could.” but he was wrong, terribly wrong. because that’s how he ended up sitting on the nurse's bed as you stood between his legs, patching up the long scar under his eye.

“so tell me what happened, ryomen,” you tell him, and he smirks, looking down at your frustrated state. he loved the way your brows furrowed when you took care of him.

“was fightin’, you were there, you saw it.” he huffed, and you gave him a look that said ‘you know what i mean’. “fine. i took my eyes off of him for a second.”

“ryomen.” you gave him a look to explain further. it was like sukuna to tell half the story to avoid being scolded. “if you tell me what really happened, i’ll have your back when you talk to coach yaga,” you offered, and apparently, he was a fan of that deal.

“i was tryna make sure someone was watchin’, that’s all.” he shrugged as if that was nothing. he knows better than to be looking at the crowd when he’s fighting. “she was looking, so that’s all that mattered.”

“no, it’s not, you’re hurt, sukuna, that’s what matters,” you said, walking over to the ice bin to fill a bag of ice for him. he stood behind you a little closer than usual, but you didn’t even notice.

“it’s fine if i get hurt, you’ll be there to take care of me,” he said, and it almost sounded like his voice was softer, maybe even caring. yet you didn’t notice that either, but sukuna sure did and cleared his throat to hide the embarrassment. “at least you better be, since this is your job and it’s what you're getting paid for.” his voice was back, monotone and demanding.

“not by you, by the school, so you better watch that tone of yours,” you playfully said back, and it surprised sukuna how you heard the bad attitude in his voice, but never the times when he got ‘soft’. he grabbed your chin, squeezing your cheeks, making your kissable lips form into a pout.

“you’re getting too bold, brat,” he said, and you rolled your eyes at his nickname for you, that he never retired even after 4 years. you placed the bag of ice on his scar, which was slowly starting to swell.

“what girl were you looking for?” you asked, cleaning up the athletic room while sukuna followed you around like a lost puppy.

“someone,” he cleared his throat, and you snorted at him, trying to be secretive. “wanted to make sure she saw me knock him out.”

“and then you didn’t. tell her to come to the next fight,” you tell him as you pack your bag, getting ready for the night. he was silent; you paid it no mind since he was usually quiet anyway.

“she’ll be there, she comes to all of them,” he tells you. you nod, picking up your bag, and sukuna grabs it out of your hand, slinging it over his shoulder. you locked up the door as the two of you walked to his car. he usually took you home on days he had fights, so this was routine.

“you workin’ tomorrow?” you asked, and he nodded, sighing, opening the passenger door for you and going to the driver's side.

“‘course i’m working, money don’t grow on trees,” he says clearly, not looking forward to going to work. “can’t wait til i go pro, i won’t have to worry about working on rich asshole’s car.”

“but then you won’t be able to fix my car,” you pout, and he looked at you with a lopsided smile. whenever he gave you that smile, it almost made you see him in a different light. you loved his smile, it was like a rainbow: you don't get to see it often, but when you do, you appreciate it deeply.

“i’d still fix your car after i go pro, ma,” he said, and you scoffed, not believing a word he was saying.

“you’ll be too busy for me then, you probably won’t even remember me,” you say, and it hits you that he may not want to be bothered with you. you would call sukuna one of your best friends or even your best friend. he was one of the first people you met in your freshman year, so he meant a lot to you.

you both spent a lot of time together outside of practices and matches. you’d frequently visit him at work, sitting in his manager’s office. who just so happened to be the father of a mutual friend of sukuna and yours. or you’d spent time in his dorm watching his film, even helping him notice where he went wrong.

sukuna had become a big person in your everyday life. after classes, you’d be sitting next to the ring, patching up his cut knuckles when he was done. and hopping in his car after so the two of you could get dinner and go home. it was a simple routine, but it was all you knew.

“won’t remember you? every time i get hurt, all i’ll think about is you.” he scoffed, offended that you thought you meant so little to him. “shit i might even hire you.”

“what?!” you said, shocked, and he parked the car, turning to look at you.

“you’d like that, huh? getting to fix me up even after college.” you looked at sukuna, and you weren’t even sure what you were feeling. you almost felt as if you liked him, but you knew that wasn’t possible. maybe it was just joy that he appreciated you that much.

“‘course i would, i’d get to yell at you for getting hurt forever.” you smile, grabbing your things to leave the car. “i’ll bring you lunch tomorrow after i go see my parents. i asked them to make extra for you and your coworkers.”

“tell your fine ass mom i said-” you cut him off by slamming the door shut and he rolled down the window laughing at your disgusted expression.

“good night, sukuna! i won’t be telling her nothin’,” you said, walking to the front door of your apartment.

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

“you going to see sukuna after you leave here?” your mother asked as you got in the car. she knew where you were going; she just wanted a reason to say that you and sukuna should go together.

“to drop this food off, yes, he’s been working since 6 am.” you say as a smirk spreads across her face, ready to taunt you about it.

“you know, the two of you should date. he cares about you, and you must care about him too since you invited us to his championship fight.” she smirks, and you chuckle at the predictability of your mother.

“no thanks, ryomen’s mean and angry all the time. i can’t take that,” you said truthfully, sometimes his mean and brooding attitude scared you.

sure, he was a great-looking guy, and he was built like a greek god. and just maybe he was really good at fighting, and he always stood up for you. and he always took you home, and he never let anyone touch him except you. and maybe he never made you drive anywhere if he was going too.

“maybe that’ll be good for you so you can stop being a pushover,” your mom said with a shrug, snapping you out of your thoughts. she started walking towards the house, turning around to say one last thing. “your dad likes him, too! but anyway, see you soon!” she gave her usual smug smile, knowing your dad was trying to marry you off.

you laughed driving to the car shop where sukuna worked. your parents weren’t fond of any man you brought around. they always compared them to sukuna since when he came he was a big suck up.

he offered to help your dad fix his old school car, and cleaned all the dishes by himself once dinner was done. refusing to let your mom touch a thing, had you been at your apartment, he’d make you do it all alone.

not to mention, one time in his dorm, he instructed you to grab him a beer. of course, you told him no, and he went and got it himself. sukuna wasn’t the sweetheart your parents thought he was, and you knew that better than anyone else.

“finally, you’re here, woman,” he huffed, opening your car door and leaning on it. because your mom used her voodoo magic on you (not really), you’re currently finding him oddly attractive. not a lot, just a little, because he’s all roughed up and sweaty and manly looking.

his hair was disheveled, and sweat was still on his forehead. the overalls were now wrapped around his waist, and his wife-beater was stained with oil. that cocky smirk was on his face again and he looked at you expectedly.

“you’re lucky i didn’t let your ass starve.” you scoff getting out of the car and he closed the door for you. he followed behind you as you walked into the shop. sukuna's eyes were wandering to your ass, he didn’t want them to but they did. the little shorts that you wore left nothing to the imagination, and to be honest, sukuna was loving it.

“your shorts are small,” was all he could figure to say, and you laughed, turning around to look at the shorts with a shrug.

“i thought they were cute, you don’t like 'em kuna?” you asked, looking up at him, and he wanted to take you right then and there. but he had to remind himself he’s at work and you guys are best friends.

“i never said i didn’t like them,” he mumbled, pulling on the belt loop that snatched you back. you gave him a nasty glare, but he was looking down at you like you were a full-course meal. you paid him no mind, continuing your walk to his manager’s office.

once both of you entered, you handed over the bag full of food for everyone. your mom made you help her cook a lot since you told her that sometimes you stop by and bring them lunch. unfortunately for you, your mom’s voodoo magic (again, not really) infested the men who worked with sukuna.

“you sure you don’t want to marry her man? we’ll be eating good every day,” he said, and sukuna scoffed, stuffing his face with food.

“she didn't even make this, her mom did,” he said, and you hit his arm, giving him a death glare.

“i helped cook it, and actually, i made yours all by myself,” you bragged, but it only made your situation ten times worse. because the men thought it was cute how you made sure you were the one to make sukuna’s food.

you were getting tired of the nagging and were soon ready to leave. sukuna noticed immediately and told everyone you’d be back another day before leading you to your car. it was going on 3, meaning his shift would be over in the next hour and a half.

“i’ll come see you later, okay?” he said, opening the door for you, and you shrugged. he usually came over after he got off work to hang out anyway, but today it felt different.

“you don’t have to if you don’t want, i’ll probably end up just taking a nap anyway,” you tell him, getting in the car.

“stay awake, i’ll be there at 5,” he says, not leaving any room for discussion. he closed your car door and walked away, not even bothering to say bye.

“the nerve of him,” you mumbled to yourself as you drove to your apartment.

to be continued...

one two three four five six

university masterlist

taglist (open):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @keraawrites @soldmysoulto @k-a-m232 @ac27dj @buttershea07 @charminstasia @ane5e @satorupied @miksolosss @nanamisbbygirl @beabamboo @sweetshrew @gurllss @rhicambo @v3rdee @vamppirez @y8zuriha @probablynotleahhhh @snapcracklen @emma-37 @thabiddie23 @sunset-euphoria @ami-s-k @angelita-uchiha @antikaiii @meganwiththebody @certifiedchangbinlover @desirehorizon @meowshiki @cypherthecreator @p1nkfl0wers @emoedgylord @kpopslur @palestrawberrycollection

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wileys-russo · 6 months ago

Note

Alessia “babe… I don’t know how to tell you this, but I lost my ring” living room

lost property II a.russo

it wasn't until you got in the car that evening that either of you tweaked anything was wrong, alessia having surprised you with a dinner reservation at your favourite japanese restaurant.

"oh less, why?" you'd questioned right away when you'd arrived home from work and she'd told you, the blonde giving you an odd look and a smile.

"just because." the englishwoman grinned, pecking your lips and sending you upstairs to get ready while she put on a load of washing. an hour later and you were both ready to go, alessia holding up the procession as she hunted for her car keys.

"baby this is why i bought you all the air tags for christmas!" you reminded gently, a thin lipped smile on your face as you tapped your foot, the pair of you now running late for your reservation as alessia dug through her training bag for the second time.

"i don't need them! i don't have a problem with losing things, this is a one off." your fiance huffed stubbornly as you exhaled, sinking down into the sofa. "we could just order in?" you suggested, knowing it took a lot to tip the level headed blonde over the edge but recognizing she was close to snapping.

"no. we're both ready, and you look gorgeous. they're here somewhere!" alessia paused to send you a smile before resuming her digging through her bag, moving quickly onto her favourite handbag and purse but also coming up empty handed.

"i'll go check upstairs less, and you look beautiful!" you rose up from the lounge, ducking down to kiss her cheek and taking the steps two at a time, disappearing into your bedroom.

"found them!" you called out within seconds, a roll of your eyes as you snatched her keys off the bathroom counter and also her phone with a scoff. "where?" alessia was already waiting at the bottom of the steps with wide eyes.

"bathroom, where you showered right after training." you laughed, twirling them around on your finger and holding them out of the taller girls reach, hovering a few steps above her.

"should you call them? let them know we're running late?" you suggested, alessia nodding and slipping a hand into the pocket of her blazer, the temptation to grin swallowed down at the frown on the footballers face as she patted herself down.

"i can't-" "bit hard to call without a phone?" you questioned, eyebrow raised and the device held in your other hand as alessia's cheeks flushed pink. "you'd lose your head if it wasn't attached to your body darling." you teased, her keys and phone slipped into her hands as you squeezed her face in your free hand as you passed.

"this is just a bad example. i do not have a problem with losing things!"

only as your fiance finally pulled out of your driveway and you hung up with the restaurant who agreed to hold you table, did you note there was something quite noticeably missing from her left hand which gripped the steering wheel.

"less." you called for her attention as she hummed, eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, slowing down at a red light and glancing toward you with a raised eyebrow.

"baby wheres your ring?" you asked quietly, the strikers eyes dropping immediately to her hands which she balled up and moved to her lap. "i uh-well i-" the blonde stumbled over her words, jolting in her seat as she light turned green and the car behind her honked twice telling her to move.

"alessia. did you lose your engagement ring?" you asked slowly, eyes narrowing as your fiance could almost feel the tension rise ten fold within the car, hairs on the back of her neck prickling at the hardened look which burned the side of her face.

"no! babe of course not, of course i didn't lose it." the blonde assured, reaching across to squeeze your knee. "right. so then where is it?" you questioned, arms moving to cross as your fiance shifted in her seat, eyes refusing to meet your own.

"its uh, its being cleaned!" alessia excused, flashing you a nervous smile as you hummed. "the engagement ring that you've had for two weeks...needed to be cleaned?" you asked clearly not believing the poor attempt at a lie.

"yes! yes i was uh, i was showing the girls and i forgot to take it off while we were training. then of course it rained today, and the ring well it got muddy." alessia lied, nodding as if to convince herself more than you, turning right into the carpark.

"it got muddy?" "yes, muddy." "and you couldn't have just wiped it?" "wiped my engagement ring? you don't wipe diamonds!" alessia scoffed, putting her car into park and giving you a look of shock which you met with a blank stare.

"look at this baby, see how it sparkles? catches the light? thats because you take such good care of it, much better care than me. but i would never lose my ring! never." alessia laced her fingers with yours, holding up your engagement ring as you rolled your eyes.

"you spin a decent story russo." you gave her a slight smile, unclicking your belt as the blonde kissed the back of your hand and let go to do the same, the pair of you exiting the car.

"now my love, would i lie to you?"

"leah!" the blonde glanced up from her breakfast at the call of her name, eyebrows furrowing together at the younger girl practically barreling through the cafeteria to get to her, dropping into her seat and trying to catch her breath.

"less?" leah questioned, taking a bite of toast, a few odd glances thrown alessia's way whose chest heaved, not even dressed for training yet as she'd run right from her car to the table.

"i lied to my fiance and i think our marriage might be over before its even started." the blonde stated bluntly, leah choking on a mouthful of toast at the sentence, beths hand smacking her on the back as she joined the pair with a plate of food.

"you right? you know you're old enough now to know you have to chew before you swallow leah." the norhterner smirked as her friend gave her an evil side eye, quickly chugging the last few mouthfuls of juice.

"alessia you've not even been engaged for a month, how is your marriage over already? you've loved that girl for years!" leah asked once she could speak again, beths eyes near bugging out of her head.

"what did you do to that poor lovely girl alessia?" she spoke up sternly, eyes narrowing as alessia scoffed. "why do you assume i did something?" the striker questioned, leah clearing her throat capturing the attention back to her.

"to quote well uh, you. 'i lied to my fiance and i think our marriage might be over before its even started'." leah mocked, fixing the younger girl with a look who paled and sunk into her seat with a sigh.

"i lost my ring." "sorry speak up please some of us don't speak whisper." "i lost my ring."

"uh i hope you mean literally any other ring and not your engagement ring alessia!" beth gasped as the striker winced and shushed her. "oh less forget the wedding being off, you're a dead woman. can any of the venues you were thinking of accommodate a funeral?" leah questioned, alessia shooting her daggers before dragging her hands down her face with a quiet groan.

"she is always on you about being more mindful of your possessions, little miss forget a lot!" beth reminded as your fiance exhaled heavily.

"i know i know! i didn't mean to i just..." "forgot?" both beth and leah chimed in sync sharing a grin as alessia huffed. "are you two going to help me or not?"

"right. so we need to retrace all of your steps from yesterday, where did you start?" leah asked as the three of them made their way out of the canteen, having merely an hour to do so before they were required on the pitch.

"my car. but i already tossed that last night after she fell asleep, and i searched the house top to bottom it's definitely not at home." alessia affirmed as leah hummed.

"so you walked in through the front doors and-" "alessia!" a new voice interrupted them, one of the trainers waving from the end of the hall as he chased after the trio.

"not now henry i'm so sorry, girl talk." alessia called back, jolting the man in his tracks who nodded with a strange look, opening his mouth to speak but they'd already disappeared into the change rooms.

and an hour later as the trio wandered out onto the pitch, alessia was still ring-less, word spreading throughout the team some of whom checked in with her and others (kyra) who seemed to think it was hilarious.

it was obvious her mind was elsewhere during the first session, missing easy goals, easy passes, tripping over herself with her head in the clouds as your voice echoed around in her head.

renee pulling the striker aside to check in alessia assured she was just having an off day and everything was fine, beth and leah watching a few feet away as they hung back after the whistle, the rest of the team filing inside for lunch.

"hey less!" again henry called after her as alessia joined beth and leah, the trio already trying to plot where else the ring may have been left, leah now making an excuse that they all had recovery and couldn't be late as she ushered them back inside.

the later in the day it became, the more alessia's stress grew, now going as far as to be dodging your calls and ignoring your texts, having a day off from work and trying to do the groceries without the list you'd asked her to write out yesterday, another thing she'd forgot.

"the more ya dodge her the more its gonna bite you in the ass later less." beth cautioned, watching the younger girl silence your call and slip her phone into her pocket with a wince, trudging through the car park with slumped shoulders and a face like she was being marched to her execution.

"good luck mate, its been lovely knowing you." leah sighed squeezing her shoulder as alessia pushed her hand off with a scowl, the older blonde snickering and jogging off to catch up with steph who she'd driven in with.

you were starting to grow worried the later in the day it became and your fiances car still hadn't appeared in the driveway, all your calls going to voicemail and texts unanswered.

you paced around the living room, darting to the window like an excited puppy every time you thought you heard her, only to deflate seeing it was just one of your neighbours.

though when afternoon turned to evening and still there was no sign of her, all of the girls confirming she'd left right after training same as them, your worry began to fester and stew, doubts creeping in no matter how much you tried to push them out.

you bounced your knee and bit your lip as your mind drew itself to a conclusion you tried to refuse to believe.

the fancy dinner last night, the insistence to make you breakfast in bed before she'd left for training, the cute little note on the fridge, the lack of a wedding ring, the unexplained absence, the dodged phone calls and messages you could see she'd read.

then finally, the engine, the hurried footsteps and a key in the door.

"baby? it's just me!" she sang out, the thump of her training bag against the floor and shuffle of her shoes wiped against the welcome mat sounding afterward, but you didn't make a move to go and greet her.

"hey i thought we agreed to watch that together! its thursday night that means takeout and trashy tv shows." your fiance whined seeing you already a half an hour into an episode of the real housewives.

a show alessia had been adamant she would never watch or enjoy however after days of her 'curious' questions and hovering around the sofa pretending to be busy whenever you'd put it on you'd worn her down to actually sit and watch, and since then she was hooked.

"are you cheating on me?" it came spewing out of you before you could even take a beat to process, pausing the television and head whipping around to meet your fiances gobsmacked features.

"am i what?" "are you, cheating, on me?" you repeated a little firmer this time, swallowing the fear of her answer and trying to give her the hardest look you could muster.

"i-why would you think i would ever in a million years cheat on you?" alessia rounded the sofa in the blink of an eye as you sat with arms crossed and a frown.

"you took me out for a fancy dinner to distract me, you didn't wear your ring, you've been ignoring me all day and you finished training hours ago but you only just got home and no one can tell me where you've been!" you accused, alessia's face falling.

"baby-" "no alessia, where have you been? who have you been with? does she work at the restaurant? is that why you took me there so you could-" you gasped, shooting up to your feet as the blonde groaned.

"no! no no no no. can you please sit down? i will explain everything." alessias hands fell to your shoulders, very gently pushing you back down to the sofa, shifting uncomfortably under your prickly glare.

"babe i don't know how to tell you this. but...i lost my ring." alessia mumbled quietly, foot nudging a scuffed patch of carpet. "you what?" you asked, not quite hearing her properly as she winced.

"i uh, i lost my ring." "you mean the cleaner lost your ring?" "no...it was never at the cleaners." "right. so you lied to me about it?" "no!" "alessia you are skating on thin ice-" "okay yes! yes i told a little lie. but i promise you i have spent the entire day trying to find it, thats why i'm so late!" alessia collapsed onto the sofa beside you and buried her face in her hands.

but before you could say anything the doorbell rang, and when your fiance made no move to get up to answer it too busy indulging in her little pity party you got up to get it.

"uh hi?" you spoke to the unfamiliar man on your doorstep who took a step back as you pulled the door open. "i'm so sorry to bother you this late, but is alessia here?" you noticed the arsenal badge on his jacket and the word staff sewn underneath, nodding and calling out for the blonde.

"henry? is everything alright?" alessia questioned, surprised to see him to say the least as his hand fished around in his pocket. "look i tried to talk to you all day but-" he grunted and rummaged deeper into his pockets.

"-but i didn't think you'd want to wait any longer for a reunion." with that he fished a sandwich bag out of his pocket and at the sight of its contents alessia's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"my ring! jesus christ henry if i wasnt engaged i'd kiss you." alessia breathed out as he handed it over and you rammed your elbow into her side with a glare making the trainer chuckle.

"i've been married for three years now. good luck! see you tomorrow." the man grinned and with a wave he was walking back down the driveway, the door closed as alessia scrambled to slide the ring back onto her finger with a deep exhale of relief.

one which was interrupted by a clearing of your throat.

"baby-" "no. nope! no, not a word." you warned, a hand held up to stop her advancing toward you as she'd started, a sheepish smile and guilt ingrained deep in her features.

"i'm really sorry?" "thats three words." "i love you?"

"lie to me again and you can have this back." you warned seriously pointing to the ring on your own finger, your fiance nodding eagerly and launching at you for a hug which you ducked.

"baby where are you going?" "to find a needle and thread." "...why?"

"because alessia we are going to take those air tags i got you for christmas and sew one into everything you own, and then after that i'm going to stitch that ring permanently to your finger!"

#woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo imagine #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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suuuupernovaaa · 2 months ago

Text

claw clip

summary: reader misses claw clips the most of anything pre-apocalypse. joel is obsessed with her, and fixes her issue.

warnings/tags: jackson joel, obsessed joel, simping, fluffy, HEA

MASTERLIST

The question is: what do you miss most about life pre-apocalypse?

Some at the table, like Ellie and Dina, were born into this world, so sit in rapt attention, listening to everyone else discuss before.

Some, like me, were early teens at the time. There’s things we miss, but maybe not as much as those at the table like Joel and Tommy, who were in their 30s.

“Your turn,” Tommy turns to me, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“Oh, I don’t know…” I say, folding my hands on the table. “I was 14 at the time. I’ve lived like this more than, yknow, like that.”

“Come on,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes playfully. “Name one thing.”

I sigh. “Claw clips.”

Joel next to me lets out an ungentlemanly snort. “Like, for hair?”

Without thinking, my hand raises up to bring my braid over my shoulder. “Yes! This is why I didn’t want to share. It’s stupid. I’m sure there are some out there, but they’d be so brittle and useless by now. I loved wearing my hair in a claw clip. I did it every day, so I would look just like my mom.” I shrug, wrapping the long braid around my hand. “I just miss it.”

I let my braid fall behind my back again, and an awkward silence falls over the table.

“That’s not stupid,” Dina says, offering me a smile that I return eagerly.

Joel reaches over, pulling my braid back over my shoulder, and I look to him.

“Sometimes I miss the small things, too,” he says, and I reach over to squeeze his thigh.

xxx

It’s a few days later when I’m reminded of this conversation. I’ve just finished dinner at Joel’s house, and Ellie is helping me clean up.

It’s been a few months that I’ve been dating the man that I know she considers a father, even if she doesn’t say it, and Ellie has been nothing but kind to me in that time. She’s strong willed and a little goofy, a perfect and dangerous combination that makes her endearing to me.

“Are you in love with Joel?” she asks as I hand her a plate to dry. One thing I have learned about the teenager is that she isn’t shy, not in the least. If something crosses her mind, she says it.

I let out a laugh that’s equal parts nervous and entertained.

“I can’t tell you that before I’ve told him that,” I reply, dipping a bowl in the water.

“Hm,” she says quietly. “Sounds like a yes to me.”

When we’re finished, she heads out to meet up with Dina, and I join Joel in the living room on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh.

Joel is reserved in front of other people. I don’t think anyone would realize at a glance what we are to each other. He keeps a polite distance, greets me with curt nods and barely-there smiles.

It’s different when it’s just the two of us. Joel is touching me, always. A hand on my thigh, or my lower back, maybe playing with my hair, or enveloping me in his arms.

It’s why I don’t mind the distance in public. It doesn’t feel cold because sometimes, I catch his stare lingering or wandering, and I know he’s longing for us to be alone, just like I am.

He wraps his arm around me, pulling me tight to him, and I rest my head on his strong shoulder.

“I have something for you,” he tells me, his voice like dark honey pouring over me in the dimming evening light.

“Oh?” I say, leaning away to look at him. He stands up, looking a little nervous, running his hands down his shirt.

“Wait here.”

He stalks off then, his boots clicking on the floor, and I wait anxiously until he returns.

I can’t tell what it is in his hands at first, until he sits next to me and extends it my way.

“I wasn’t sure how big it should be. I can make a smaller one, or larger. You have a lot of hair so I thought this would, uh, work.”

It’s a claw clip. Made of polished wood, shiny and beautiful. I open it and close it, hearing that familiar click that I’d almost forgotten.

I can see my mother, standing in the kitchen, expertly twisting her hair up in a way I was always trying to replicate.

My heart is pounding, tight in my chest as I stare at this gift with eyes that are filling with tears.

“Did you make this?” I ask, even though the answer is obviously yes.

He just nods and clears his throat.

With shaking fingers, I pull my hair back, twisting it as best I can in the way I remember my mother doing 20 years ago. I feel like a child, practicing in my bedroom, wanting to be as lovely as she was.

The clip feels secure on my head. A little heavy, since it’s made of wood instead of plastic, but that makes it special.

It fits perfectly, holding all my hair in a twist that probably looks messy, and tears are falling from my eyes now.

“You’re crying,” Joel says matter of factly. I try to remember if I’ve cried in front of him before. I think this might be a first.

“Joel, I…” I struggle to find the words to explain how I feel, so instead, I pull him to me by his shoulders and press my lips to his in a searing, desperate kiss that I hope tells him.

He holds me tight to him, returning the kiss with enthusiasm, and when I pull away, he wipes the tears from my face.

“This means a lot to me. I can’t believe you did that for me.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Why? Can’t you believe it, I mean?”

I reach up, running my fingers over the clip again. “No one has ever done anything like this for me. You must like me a lot,” I say with a smile, my voice still thick with emotion.

“You might say that,” he says, pulling me in for another soft kiss. “You might say I even love you,” he murmurs, his lips still a whisper away from mine, our eyes still closed.

I’m going to cry again. “I love you too, Joel Miller.”

He smiles at me then. A true, ear to ear smile, so rare from this serious man of mine, and the tears do flow then.

But he doesn’t seem to mind.

#Joel miller #Joel miller fluff #Joel miller fic #tlou

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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

Text

A Hot Mess

Chan x Possesive Bestfriend! Reader

“If this is what it takes to finally have you… then I’m not letting you go.”

Tags: Smut (18+ only), unprotected sex, Angry sex, Emotional breakdowns, toxic possessiveness, Verbal fighting, physical altercations (pushing, grabbing, punching the wall), Angst, hurt/comfort, raw emotions, jealousy.

Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: You were supposed to be best friends. It wasn’t supposed to get this ugly — this violent. It wasn’t supposed to break you. But one look at him — one look at the girl who hurt you standing by his side — and you lost it. Words were said. Things were broken. Lines were crossed. And when the dust finally settled, there was only anger, heartbreak, and two people who hated each other so much it burned. Or maybe… it was never hate at all.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You spotted him before he spotted you.

Through the thumping bass and drunken laughter of the party, you caught the flash of his familiar profile — head tilted back in a laugh, hand lazily cupping a plastic cup, eyes crinkling in that way that used to be reserved for you.

And standing beside him… was her.

You froze, drink slipping between your fingers, ice-cold beer soaking through your jeans.

You didn’t even feel it.

All you could feel was the sudden, ugly heat creeping up your throat, strangling your breath.

Her hand brushed his arm, nails trailing casually down the sleeve of his jacket like she had every right to touch him. And Chan — your best friend, your supposed ride-or-die — didn’t move away.

He smiled.

He smiled at her.

The same girl you had cried over. The same girl who had betrayed you and left you gasping for air, choking on your own hurt.

And he knew.

He knew.

You stood there, chest heaving, the world blurring around the edges. You couldn’t hear the music anymore. Couldn’t hear the chatter, the laughter.

All you could hear was the pounding of your own heart in your ears, drowning everything else out.

He laughed again, leaning closer to say something in her ear.

You saw red.

You shoved your way through the crowd without thinking, barely registering the annoyed grunts and curses as people stumbled out of your path. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything except getting him the fuck away from her.

“Chan.”

Your voice was low, sharp — cutting through the noise like a blade.

He turned, and for a second, his face lit up — the way it always did when he saw you — and it made something inside you crack even deeper.

Because he looked happy.

Happy with her.

Then his smile faltered when he saw your face.

“Hey—” he started, but you were already grabbing his wrist.

“We need to talk. Now.”

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t care if she was still standing there, pretending not to gloat.

You dragged him through the crowd, yanking him into the nearest hallway and finding the first door you could slam open — an empty guest room, dark except for a sliver of light leaking through the window.

You shoved him inside and shut the door with a hard bang.

The tension snapped into the room like a live wire.

Chan stood there, shoulders stiff, eyes cautious.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, chest heaving.

He ran a hand through his hair, already looking exhausted. “Can you just tell me what this is about?”

You laughed, sharp and ugly.

“As if you don’t know.”

He stared at you, jaw clenching.

“She’s nothing,” he said finally. “It wasn’t—”

“You think I’m stupid?” You stepped closer, voice rising. “You think I didn’t see the way you were looking at her? Laughing with her? Letting her touch you?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“You knew what she did to me!” you screamed, voice cracking on the last word. “You knew, and you still—God, Chan, how fucking stupid are you?”

He flinched — barely, but you saw it. And it only fueled the wildfire already tearing through you.

“I’m not your fucking possession,” he snapped, voice cutting sharp. “You don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t talk to.”

You shoved him — hard, hands flat against his chest.

“You’re my best friend!” you cried. “You’re supposed to be on my side! You promised—”

“I’m not your fucking pet!” he exploded, grabbing your wrists to stop you from hitting him again. “You treat me like I’m some trophy you own—like you’re the only person allowed to breathe around me!”

You ripped your arms out of his grasp, stumbling back a step.

“Maybe if you acted like my friend for once, I wouldn’t have to!” you threw back, voice shaking. “Maybe if you didn’t run to the first fucking slut who batted her lashes at you, I wouldn’t have to remind you who’s always been here!”

His eyes went wide — not in shock, but in fury. His whole body tensed, fists clenching at his sides.

“Careful,” he said lowly, voice trembling with restraint. “You’re crossing a line you can’t uncross.”

You laughed bitterly, blinking through the hot, angry tears gathering at your lashes.

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

Without thinking, you grabbed a decorative vase off the nightstand and hurled it across the room. It exploded against the wall, shards raining down onto the carpet.

“FUCK!” Chan roared, spinning and slamming his fist into the drywall — a sickening crack splitting the room as the wall dented under his knuckles.

You didn’t flinch.

You welcomed it.

You wanted it.

You wanted to see him break the way he was breaking you.

“Come on,” you sneered, shoving him again, harder this time. “Hit me too, if you’re so fucking mad!”

He grabbed your wrists again — tighter this time, bruising — and backed you up until your spine hit the wall.

His chest heaved against yours, breath hot and furious between you.

“Stop it,” he growled. “Before you make me do something we’ll both regret.”

You stared up at him, wild and reckless, breathing hard.

You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t stop.

You struggled in his grip, nails digging into his skin, kicking at his shins — and you saw it happen.

Saw the exact second something snapped inside him.

His mouth crushed against yours, bruising and violent, teeth clashing against teeth.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a fucking battle.

You fought him back just as hard — shoving at his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, trying to push him away even as your body betrayed you and pressed closer.

When he finally tore his mouth from yours, panting, his eyes were dark with rage — and something else, something dangerous.

You barely had time to register it before you were shoving him again, both of you stumbling away from the wall.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaking with fury.

“Good,” Chan snarled, chest heaving. “The feeling’s mutual.”

You swung at him — open-palmed, catching his shoulder — not really trying to hurt him, just needing to strike something.

He caught your wrist mid-air, twisting it just enough to make you gasp.

“You always do this!” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “You fucking push and push until I’m ready to snap.”

You ripped your arm free, staggering back a step.

“Because you deserve it!” you screamed. “Because you pretend you care, but the second someone else gives you attention, you forget about me!”

He laughed — a short, cruel sound that didn’t suit him.

“You’re fucking delusional.”

Your hand found the nearest thing — a picture frame — and without thinking, you hurled it at the floor.

Glass shattered, shards skittering across the carpet like tiny knives.

Chan flinched but didn’t move toward you.

Not yet.

“You think you own me?” he said, voice dangerously low. “You think just because you’re my best friend, I’m not allowed to have a fucking life without you breathing down my neck?”

“You promised,” you hissed, tears burning your eyes. “You fucking promised you’d always be on my side.”

“I never promised to be your fucking puppet!” he roared, stepping toward you now, looming, furious.

“You’re so fucking selfish. You don’t want me happy. You just want me miserable with you.”

You slapped him across the face.

The crack of it echoed in the room.

Both of you froze, breathing hard.

His head turned slowly back toward you, jaw tightening until you thought it might snap clean off.

“Don’t,” he said, voice a deadly whisper. “Don’t push me.”

You shoved him again anyway — fists pounding weakly against his chest.

“I hate you!” you screamed, voice raw. “I hate you for making me love you!”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Hung there between you, thick and poisonous.

Chan stared at you like you’d just ripped open your own chest and bled out at his feet.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

Then he snapped.

He grabbed you by the waist, yanked you up against him so hard your teeth clacked together.

His mouth was on yours again, biting, punishing — but not out of lust.

Out of desperation.

You hit him again — fists pounding uselessly against his shoulders — and he just grunted, shoving you backward until you hit the bed frame, falling back onto the mattress with a gasp.

He followed, caging you beneath him, hands gripping your wrists so tight it burned.

“I hate you,” he growled against your lips, biting the words into your mouth.

“I hate you for never fucking trusting me.”

“I hate you for thinking you own me.”

“I hate you for making me feel like this.”

Each word was a thrust of his hips against yours, even though you were both still mostly clothed, bodies grinding in frantic, angry friction.

You struggled under him, kicking, writhing — but not to get away.

Never to get away.

You wanted him closer.

You wanted to tear him apart.

“I wish I’d never fucking met you,” you gasped, tears spilling over now, hot and furious.

“Liar,” he snarled, mouth dragging down your jaw, your throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d feel for days. “You fucking liar.”

You whimpered, trying to buck him off, trying to flip the balance of power — but he just pinned you harder, grinding his cock against the desperate heat between your legs, making you arch up into him.

The friction was unbearable — jeans rough against jeans, too much and not enough all at once.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice breaking. “Say you hate me.”

“I fucking hate you,” you sobbed, nails clawing down his back, leaving burning trails through his thin shirt.

He groaned, low and guttural, and for a second you thought he was going to hit the wall again — or maybe just leave —but instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and bit down.

Hard.

You cried out, clutching him closer without meaning to, thighs locking around his hips.

“Fucking need you,” he muttered against your skin.

The words broke something loose inside you — something dark and desperate.

You grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him up to your mouth again.

The kiss was messy, wet, lips bruising.

Neither of you could catch your breath.

Neither of you wanted to.

When his hand finally found its way under your shirt, rough fingers dragging up your bare ribs, you didn’t stop him.

You invited it, arching into his touch like you were starving for it.

He pulled back for a second — just a second — forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

“This is a mistake,” he whispered, voice shredded.

You smiled through your tears — sharp and mean and broken.

“Then make it worth it.”

And Chan finally, finally gave in.

His hands were shaking when he pulled your shirt off, tearing it over your head like he couldn’t stand another second of anything between you.

You weren’t any better.

You clawed at his hoodie, yanking it up, your nails scraping over his ribs, his stomach.

He ripped it over his head, tossed it somewhere into the room without looking.

You barely had time to register the sight of him — flushed, breathing ragged, muscles twitching with pent-up violence — before he was on you again, mouth bruising yours, teeth dragging your bottom lip so hard you whimpered.

Clothes vanished — torn, yanked, shoved down legs in frantic, clumsy movements.

Neither of you were gentle.

Neither of you asked permission.

You were a tangle of limbs, cursing, gasping, biting.

Needing.

When he finally yanked your panties down and flung them somewhere, he didn’t even pause to look at you — he just shoved his jeans down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed dark and angry against his stomach.

No words. No condoms. No hesitation.

You didn’t want careful.

You didn’t want protected.

You wanted this — raw, reckless, filthy.

Chan grabbed your thighs, spread you wide open, dragged you to the edge of the bed with a bruising grip.

You hissed when the cool air hit you, instinctively trying to close your legs — but he growled, low in his throat, and forced them wider, positioning himself between them.

“Fucking mine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, one hand wrapping tight around his cock as he stroked himself once, twice.

You reached down without thinking, guiding him to your entrance, the head of him dragging hot and heavy against your soaked folds.

He paused — for just a second — trembling.

Last chance.

Last warning.

You lifted your chin, eyes burning into his.

“I hate you,” you whispered again.

That was it.

With a broken, guttural noise, he thrust into you — deep, brutal, to the hilt — stealing the air from your lungs.

Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry ripping from your throat.

It hurt — the stretch, the force of it — but it hurt so good, exactly what you wanted, what you needed.

Chan didn’t move at first, just stayed there, buried to the base, forehead pressed hard against your collarbone, shoulders shaking.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You dug your nails into his back, hips shifting, trying to pull him deeper even though there was nowhere left to go.

“Move,” you demanded, voice hoarse.

He did.

The first thrust was vicious — dragging almost all the way out before slamming back in, the sound of it obscene, wet and raw.

You gasped, grabbing fistfuls of the bedsheets, your body jolting with every punishing snap of his hips.

There was no rhythm at first — just frantic, furious thrusts, like he was trying to fuck the hate out of both of you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, locking him in, forcing him even deeper.

Chan growled, low and animalistic, grabbing your throat — not choking, just holding, grounding himself — as he fucked into you with brutal, relentless force.

“You wanted this?” he hissed against your ear. “You fucking wanted this?”

You couldn’t answer — could barely breathe — but you nodded frantically, sobs and moans ripping from your chest in equal measure.

“Fucking piss me off,” he muttered again, hips pistoning into you so hard the bedframe slammed against the wall with every thrust. “Sometimes, I hate you so fucking much.”

You clawed at his back, desperate, delirious, body burning from the inside out.

“Chan — fuck — Chan —”

He lifted your hips higher, changing the angle, and you screamed when he hit the perfect spot, stars exploding behind your eyelids.

“Right there,” you sobbed. “Please — don’t stop — don’t fucking stop—”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He was a man possessed, lost, unraveling with every thrust, every broken gasp that fell from your lips.

You felt yourself spiraling, pleasure building sharp and fast, coiling tighter with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Gonna come,” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “Fuck, I’m gonna —”

Chan slammed into you harder, faster, his own rhythm stuttering.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Come on, baby — fucking come.”

And you did.

You shattered — sobbing, clinging to him like you were drowning — your body convulsing around him in waves of white-hot pleasure.

Chan cursed, low and filthy, and a second later you felt him spill inside you, thick and hot, cock pulsing deep as he rutted into you through his orgasm.

Neither of you moved for a long, long moment.

Just tangled together, breathing hard, shaking.

When he finally collapsed beside you, dragging you half onto his chest, his hands were still trembling.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the wreckage between you, raw and undeniable.

—

The silence was deafening.

The only sound was your breathing — wrecked, uneven — and the frantic pounding of your heart against your ribs.

You lay there for a moment, tangled in the sheets, Chan’s arm heavy around your waist, his skin slick with sweat.

And then you opened your eyes.

And saw.

The shattered frame on the carpet.

The broken lamp.

The deep cracks in the wall where his fist had slammed through.

The wreckage of your clothes scattered like battlefield debris.

You looked down at yourself — bruised, bitten, shaking — and the reality of what you’d just done slammed into you like a freight train.

You gasped — a high, broken noise — and covered your mouth with both hands as the first sob tore out of you.

Chan jerked up instantly, heart hammering against your back.

“Hey—hey, no—shh—baby—”

His voice cracked with panic, arms tightening around you as if he could physically hold you together.

But you couldn’t stop.

The sobs wracked your body, wild and uncontrollable, years of fear and fury and guilt all pouring out at once.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, curling into yourself, trying to shrink away from him, from everything.

“I’m so sorry, Chan, I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

He caught your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him even as you tried to pull away.

His expression was a mess — pain, regret, confusion, and something far worse: helplessness.

“Hey. No. Don’t—” He shook his head, frantic. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.”

You hiccupped, trembling in his grip.

“I broke everything,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“I hurt you— I ruined—” Another sob. “I hate myself—”

“Stop,” he said sharply, voice low and fierce.

Then softer, thumb brushing your wet cheeks, trembling.

“Please. Stop.”

You clung to him then, fisting his ruined shirt in your hands, burying your face in his chest as the tears soaked into his skin.

“I was just—” you gasped between sobs, “I was scared, Chan, I was so scared— I thought I lost you— I thought—”

He pulled you tighter into his arms, rocking you gently even as his own body shook.

“You didn’t lose me,” he murmured against your hair.

“Baby, you could never fucking lose me.”

You sobbed harder, the sound raw and ugly in the shattered quiet.

He kissed the crown of your head, again and again, desperate and apologetic, murmuring nonsense — shh, baby, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m not leaving — over and over until your breathing finally started to slow.

When you pulled back, your face was a wreck — tear-stained, puffy — and Chan cupped your cheeks tenderly, thumbs wiping away the mess without a trace of judgment.

His own eyes were wet too.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For everything. For yelling. For breaking things. For fucking you like that when we were both so fucked up.”

You shook your head weakly, hands still fisting his shirt like you were scared he’d disappear.

“I wanted it,” you whispered. “I needed you. I just— I didn’t know how else to—”

He kissed you — slow and soft this time, no teeth, no rage — just lips pressing against yours like a promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice barely a breath.

“Why were you really so upset?”

You shuddered out a breath, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I thought you didn’t care anymore,” you whispered. “I thought you were choosing her over me after what she did to me. That I didn’t matter to you, it’s stupid I know.”

Chan closed his eyes, breathing out a long, shuddering sigh, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile and precious.

“You matter to me more than anyone,” he said fiercely. “Always have. Always fucking will.”

You clutched him tighter, heart breaking all over again.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered.

“Not the first time.”

He let out a soft, broken laugh, half pain, half affection.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”

He kissed you again — slow, aching — and when he pulled back, he brushed his thumb tenderly across your swollen bottom lip.

“But fuck, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“If this is what it takes to finally have you… then I’m not letting you go.”

You broke into fresh tears, but this time it wasn’t from pain.

It was from something terrifying and beautiful and blindingly real.

Hope.

He held you tighter, pressing you against his chest, and you knew — no matter how messy, no matter how broken — he was always gonna be yours.

And you were his.

Finally.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: So i did the angry sex headcanon yesterday and my friend was going crazy about it 😂 and that my loves is what gave birth to this craziness!

Thanks a lot for following me and always engaging on my fics, i always appreciate you guys, so please leave me a like or comment and reblog if you enjoyed this!

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jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room.

Jeon's fucking room.

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions.

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh.

That's nice. Really nice.

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly.

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks.

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it.

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks.

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement.

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue.

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable.

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before.

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat.

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say.

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours."

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately.

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh.

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud.

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns.

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits.

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking.

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back.

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement.

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out.

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern.

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath.

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels.

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing.

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much?

Heady. Bargaining material.

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now.

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight.

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh?

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor.

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking.

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again.

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties.

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?"

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy.

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble.

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it.

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch.

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated.

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

He loves it.

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind.

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it.

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk.

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?"

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?"

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely.

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind.

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy.

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit.

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all.

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely.

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him.

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his.

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—"

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it.

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases.

It's addictive.

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes.

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress.

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you.

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face.

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo.

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious.

Then he's right there, lining himself up.

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red.

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely.

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you.

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly.

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it.

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out.

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you.

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked.

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough.

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him.

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before.

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full.

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal.

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs.

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense.

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow.

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that."

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious.

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard.

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied.

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is.

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it.

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side.

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath.

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom.

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious.

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you?

He doesn't know you any more than you know him.

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch.

But that's all this is.

All it can be.

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself.

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird.

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did.

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

if you’ve enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

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🔪 taglist 🔪

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @redcherrykook @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @rpwprpwprpwprw @jimineepaboya @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @vialattea00 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097 @jeontae

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certaimromance · 11 months ago

Text

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Allegation of Love.

Boyfriend!Hotch x Lawyer!reader

Summary: When you arrive at the police station to defend a client's innocence, you don't expect the man accusing her to be the same man you've been dating for months.

Words: 1,6k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!reader. mentions of crime and serial killers. established relationship. aaron already divorced. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I just love Hotch and wanted to write something with him here. To me, he is definitely the kind of man who is so tired from work that he tries not to mention it on a date (of course, after all the trauma he has been through).

It wasn't that you were annoying, particularly aggressive, or obsessed with being right, you just did your job to the best of your ability. Even if that meant being the villain of other people's stories and mentally going over every law to make sure it was obeyed.

The issue was that not everyone saw it the same way. In the workplace, where you managed, your exact memorization of the rules wasn't always appreciated if you were the one carrying the defense and doing everything to overthrow the other side's theories. For the same reason, you usually had to argue with cops, prosecutors, judges, and—on this occasion—even an FBI agent who wasn't happy with your presence.

You had in your hands an alleged confession of several murders delivered by your client under the coercion of the man who was interrogating her, without your presence there and with some pretty questionable methods to put her in an empty room without concrete evidence or an order from the judge. Unbelievably, it was a fairly common occurrence in your day-to-day work.

At least it was until the boss of the agent you were arguing with showed up and everything started to get complicated.

“What's going on here?”

The cross words and your intensity in emphasizing the injustice of the manipulation of the confession did not allow you to realize that there was someone else in the room. Much less that it was someone who looked exclusively at you until one of the police officers present cleared his throat.

“There has been a violation of the law.” You slowly turned to look behind you, and that's when you saw him.

Aaron stood stiffly, trying to look professional and serious, wearing a tie that matched your dress.

“There wasn't one, Hotch. We just got the confession.” Agent Morgan interjected into the silence provoked by the exchange of glances between you and his supervisor.

For the first time in the half hour you'd been there, you were completely silent. Even when two more agents showed up to try to defuse the situation, you didn't stop repeating the same arguments and insisting on your point. Now, however, you seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

There was a long pause before Aaron spoke carefully. “I'll take care of clarifying the situation.”

Trying to remain serious and stoic, he led you to one of the station's offices with the excuse that he wanted to talk about the case quietly so as not to attract the attention of his team. The strange thing was that he called you by name in front of everyone, without anyone having introduced you before. Maybe one of you two would have noticed if you had been a little less attentive to the other and more attentive to how the situation looked in the other's eyes.

“What are you doing here?” He asked as soon as he closed the door behind you, loosening the tension in his jaw a little, at least now it was just the two of you.

“Where's my 'Good to see you, sweetie. Please don't sue us' or anything like that?”

He raised an eyebrow at your comment, hoping you would take it seriously. Automatically and unconsciously, he had begun to move away from you and sat down on the other side of the desk, marking a distance between the two of you. Aaron had brought out his work side and you had hidden it at the mere sight of him.

“The woman your team pressured into confessing to a crime is my client.” You finally spoke in a serious tone, staring at him with some surprise. This wasn't the usual dynamic with him—you usually had a more relaxed side to him.

“Since when do you take cases like this?”

“Since it's been assigned to me.” You said, raising your shoulders. “One of the buffet partners is on vacation and left me to his clients, as I mentioned the other night.”

The other night when you were in his car, when he had his hand on your thigh as he drove home, when he smiled at you every chance he got to turn around and look at you. When the two of you weren't on completely different sidewalks and weren't supposed to act like strangers.

“This is pretty weird.” You said after watching him for a few seconds and noticing that he seemed lost in his memories. “I hope the agent I was arguing with isn't your friend. That would be awkward.”

Aaron looked at you, trying to figure out what could have happened before he showed up. He already knew you were a good lawyer, very capable and, above all, a good striker. It was too weird for him to think that you had been using your skills against his own team, against the friends he once wanted to introduce you to and that you had now met for the first time in the most unimaginable way.

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing.”

“You look at me like I'm a ghost.”

His brow furrowed again.

He didn't want to say out loud that everything related to his work had ended badly and was completely destroyed, just like his ex-marriage and any attempt to fix it. He had always felt comfortable with you because your work was just as demanding but less dangerous than his. You usually handled family cases, divorces, estates, and coordinating child care. You were away from the blood, the killers, and all the atrocities he lived with.

“I'm worried about you being in the middle of this. It can be dangerous.” He showed his concern for you and had to hold back from holding your hand.

“You should worry more about the lawsuit.” You pointed out in a tone somewhere between teasing and serious. You didn't like him worrying too much. “I'm very good.”

“This is serious.” He finally let his guard down and placed his hand on your knee from under the table, giving it a gentle touch.

That was the man you know and love.

“Me too, it's my job.”

“And you're making my job harder.” He pointed out with a small smile in response to yours.

What were the chances of your love life and work life crossing paths like this? You thought they were pretty slim, which is why you steered clear of talking about work when you were together.

You were just about to answer when you heard a tap on the door and one of the agents who had been watching you during your discussion came over to give Aaron some information about the profile. You couldn't understand him very well because he seemed to be speaking in code because of your presence.

“I'll be there in a moment, Rossi. Get the team together and we'll talk.” Hotchner finished earnestly. You could still feel the warmth of his touch on your knee. “I'm just finishing up here.”

As soon as he left the office, you looked at Aaron with surprise.

“Is he who you always mention?” You asked, and he nodded. “I thought it was 'Rosie,' not 'Rossi,' and that he was a woman.”

“Now I understand why you grimace when I mention his name.” He replied with some amusement. “You were jealous.”

Yes, especially when you found out that they'd shared a room once.

“Don't mock me, I'm about to sue you.” You advertiste in a fake threatening tone, pointing a finger at him. “And I don't care how handsome you look right now, I'll do my job.”

“Me too.” He replied, trying to ignore your compliment to keep a serious expression on his face. “And you look pretty too, I like that dress.”

The love between you seemed to be bubbling anyway, and it was impossible to hide it when you had breakfast together just a few hours ago. You went from making him coffee to offering him a lawsuit if he didn't agree with you.

“I know, I'll use this dress while I debunk your profile theory.” You got up from your seat suddenly after taking your phone out of your bag. It was then that you looked him in the eye. “Are you going to release my client now or should I call the judge?”

“You're not going to take a suspect in five murders. I'm not going to let her off the hook.” He copied your action.

“Give me the evidence then, love.”

Oh, to call him that at that point was a cheap shot, especially when you were the one who won because he had no concrete evidence, only theories and his complex profile.

“But stay away from her anyway, she can be dangerous. My agents will keep an eye on her.” He snorted after a few seconds, trying to find an argument, but failing.

At that moment, you gave him a little smile, proud of yourself and what you had accomplished. “See you at dinner?”

“Sure.” He replied without being able to help but give you a small smile in return. “But I'll pick the place.”

“Well, that's an argument I'll let you win.” You put your phone back in your bag and took a couple of steps towards the door, stopping when you saw him coming after you. “Can I kiss my opponent?”

“This is pretty unprofessional.” He said, putting a hand on your waist and leaning you against the door. Without hesitation, he kissed you firmly on the lips.

After a few minutes, the two of you walked out of the office as if nothing had happened, and the professional scene continued. Your heels clicked towards the exit with your client at your side, while Aaron met with his team, trying to find new ways to solve the case and refine the profile. The only problem was that he happened to be working with people who were very detail-oriented.

And, gosh, it was impossible not to notice the traces of your lipstick on his lips.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch fanfiction #thomas gibson #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotchner x you #my own rom coms ! ᰔ

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inseobts · 3 months ago

Note

hiiii!! i LOVE ur fics so mucchh and lowkey felt shy to dump my very vivid and detailed request lmao 🤣 i just thought of a random blurb bc i’m in my feels from reading angst and hurt/comfort, but can you do a fic of angst (ending happy/fluff) with ace x y/n? y/n and him are together on whitebeard’s crew and they got into an argument and stuff when they landed on an island to get supplies and chaos erupts when the marines arrive. their argument hasn’t been resolved but everyone is obviously occupied in getting back to the ship and fighting to escape. ANYWAYS y/n was actually their target and captured her bc she is actually a powerful fighter with a fruit that could be useful to them (idk u pick lol something that’s important as robin-level where it’s vital they retrieve her like idk her fruit can read any script i.e. poneglyphs yadda yadda). and then when the crew depart and do a headcount they realize one member is missing (womp womp) and ace gonna go FERAL to get her back and digging that knife of regret of saying hurtful things during their unresolved argument and cutscene to y/n getting beat tf up like how robin was beat up in water 7 from that mf spandam when imprisoned. OUHHH AND IMAGINE ACE’S REACTION WHEN HE SEES THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE ALMOST DEAD TO A PULP AND COMMITS ARSON and ends happily with y/n back and recovering and them finally resolving their arguement (cue: fluff). tl:dr basically an ace x y/n centered fic in a water 7-type scenario. IM A VERY ACTIVE MALADAPTIVE DAYDREAMER AND I NEED TO BE FED (tysm if u take on this request lmao ik it’s so detailed i hope it’s not too much i’m just itching for more one piece fics and i love ur work) 😭🫶🏼

Embers of Regret

portgas d. ace x reader

a/n: the more detailed a request is, the easier it is to write the fanfic, so don't worry—I actually appreciate it a lot! \^o^/

words count: 4.7k

tags: violence, romance, angst to fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“You never think, Ace!”

“And you never let things go!”

The argument has been boiling for days, maybe even weeks, but now it’s all spilling over in the middle of the town square, where the crew is supposed to be stocking up on supplies. The streets are noisy with merchants and villagers, but to you and Ace, it may as well be just the two of you standing here, tearing each other apart.

“You act like nothing matters!” you snap, glaring at him.

Ace crosses his arms, irritation flashing in his dark eyes “And you act like everything does!”

“Because it does!” You throw your hands up “This crew, the people we care about, you—none of it is guaranteed, Ace! But you just charge ahead without thinking, like you’re invincible, like nothing can touch you!”

“I can handle myself” he says, jaw tightening.

You shake your head, frustration clawing at your throat “That’s the problem! You think it’s just about you, but it’s not! We... I care about what happens to you!”

Ace scoffs “Right. Because you love worrying so damn much. Maybe you should focus on your own fights instead of wasting time on mine.”

The words cut deep as your breath catches.

You shake your head, frustration boiling over “You act like nothing can touch you... but newsflash, Ace, you’re not invincible! One day, you’re gonna get yourself killed, and—”

He scoffs, cutting you off “And what? You’ll cry about it?”

You freeze.

The air shifts.

Ace seems to realize what he just said, but his pride keeps him from taking it back. The damage is done.

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to push down the sting “Got it,” you say flatly “You don’t need me watching your back or even care about your damn life. Noted.”

Before he can respond, you turn and walk away.

Ace watches you go, his fists clenched. He should call after you. Should apologize. But he doesn’t.

Then the Marines come fast and hard, hitting the town before anyone even realizes what’s happening.

Civilians scatter as armed soldiers flood the streets, and the Whitebeard Pirates instantly snap into battle mode. Marco takes to the skies, Thatch barks orders, and Ace ignites.

He fights like he always does, fast and reckless, flames cutting through the chaos. But his mind keeps drifting, eyes flicking toward the battlefield, searching for you.

He sees you in the distance, fighting off a wave of Marines. You’re holding your own. Of course you are.

And then someone shouts “Retreat to the ship!”

The command echoes through the town, and the crew begins pulling back toward the harbor. Ace doesn’t see you right away, but he assumes you’re moving with the others. You’re strong. You can handle yourself.

He fights. He runs. He gets to the ship.

And he doesn’t notice. Not yet.

The Moby Dick sails away from the island, the battle fading into the distance. Everyone is breathing hard, wounded but alive. The crew takes a moment to regroup, catching their breath, tending to injuries.

Then Marco speaks.

“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders “Let’s do a count.”

Ace leans against the railing, arms crossed. His chest is still tight with lingering anger, but he tells himself he’ll talk to you once you’ve both cooled off.

“One, two, three… is anyone missing?” Marco is counting the division commanders first, then working his way through the rest.

The atmosphere is still tense, but there’s relief too. They made it out. Everyone’s here.

Until Marco stops and looks at Ace with a frown.

Ace barely registers it at first, lost in his own thoughts.

Then Marco lifts his head “Where’s Y/N?”

Silence.

The world seems to stop.

Ace’s heart slams against his ribs. His stomach drops.

“I don't know... We had a fight, she's probably just avoiding me?” he says, too sharply.

Marco scans the deck again, his expression darkening “So... she’s not here.”

Ace laughs shortly, disbelieving “What are you talking about? She was fighting, I saw her—”

“And did you see her get on the ship?” Marco’s voice is serious now.

Ace opens his mouth, then stops.

A cold, terrible realization creeps up his spine.

No.

No, he didn’t see you board.

He assumed. He thought you were strong enough to make it back. That once you were safe on the ship you were just avoiding him. That you needed space.

But now...

His hands start shaking.

“Turn the ship around” Ace demands, voice low, dangerous.

Marco’s expression is grim “Ace...”

“TURN THE SHIP AROUND!”

Flames burst from his body, flickering wildly with his panic, his fury at the Marines, at himself.

He left you behind.

He left you.

And if the Marines wanted you enough to set a trap for the whole crew... Ace’s breath catches. His vision blurs with pure, unfiltered rage.

He doesn’t care if he has to burn the entire damn ocean.

He’s getting you back.

Pain.

That’s the first thing you register when you regain consciousness. A deep, searing pain spreading through your body, sharp and unrelenting.

You try to move, but your wrists are bound, shackled in heavy seastone cuffs that sap your strength. Every inch of you aches, bruises blooming across your skin, blood drying where fists and rifle butts had struck you.

The Marines didn’t go easy on you.

“You’re awake.”

A voice.

You lift your head, forcing your swollen eyes open. A high-ranking Marine stands in front of you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You’re quite the prize,” he muses “A rare Devil Fruit ability, strong enough to stand alongside Whitebeard’s division commanders… No wonder they keep you so close.”

You glare, lips cracked, but you manage to spit out, “Go to hell.”

The Marine smirks “I think you misunderstand your situation.” He steps closer, his shadow stretching over you “The World Government has big plans for you, Y/N. You have two choices: cooperate… or break.”

You bare your teeth, eyes burning with defiance “Screw your choices.”

The Marine sighs like he expected that answer. Then his fist collides with your ribs, hard enough to make you choke on the pain.

You don’t scream. You won’t give them the satisfaction. But deep down, there’s a gnawing fear.

Where is Ace?

Does he even know you’re gone?

Or did he leave you behind without a second thought?

Aboard the Moby Dick, Ace has never felt this kind of terror before. Not when he faced death, not when he fought impossible odds.

But now that he knows you are out there, captured, hurt, alone… It’s unbearable.

The moment Marco looks everywhere on the ship and then confirms you’re missing, Ace doesn’t hesitate. His flames surge, wild and desperate, as he grips the ship’s railing “We turn back now.”

“Ace!”

“NOW!” His voice cracks, his body trembling.

Marco exhales, sharp and frustrated “You think we don’t want to?! The Marines planned this... if we storm in recklessly, we could lose more than just Y/N.”

Ace knows that. He knows.

But all he can think about is the last thing he said to you. The way your face had twisted in pain before you walked away.

The regret is suffocating.

“Then tell me where they took her,” he growls “I’ll go alone if I have to.”

A heavy pause.

Then a voice cuts through the tension “We’re not leaving her.”

Ace turns. Whitebeard stands at the helm, his expression unreadable “She’s family,” he says simply “And we don’t abandon family.”

Ace’s breath shudders.

They’re going back.

He’s getting you back and nothing in the world will stop him.

Your head throbs. Your body is battered. The seastone cuffs burn against your skin, draining your strength, making every breath feel heavier.

Time is a blur, hours, maybe days, lost between moments of pain and exhaustion. But you refuse to break. Even when they strike you. Even when they try to force your cooperation. Because if there’s one thing they’ll never take from you it’s your will.

Footsteps echo down the corridor. A different Marine this time, younger, hesitant. He kneels in front of you, his voice low “I don’t know if you can still hear me,” he mutters “But Portgas D. Ace?”

Your heart stops.

He leans in, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard “He’s coming for you.”

A weak, broken breath escapes you.

Ace.

The Marine shifts uncomfortably and mutters “Looks like he's ready to burn the world down.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time since you were captured, hope flickers in your chest.

Ace is coming, and he’s bringing hell with him.

Later on the Marine base is eerily quiet, the dim torchlight casting long shadows against the damp stone walls. Somewhere outside, the sound of crashing waves echoes, but inside your cell, there is only the distant clatter of boots and the dull throbbing of your wounds.

You’re too exhausted to keep your head up, but you force yourself to stay conscious. Every second you stay awake is a second they don’t win.

Then the door creaks open again.

“Still alive?”

You barely react, but the voice isn’t one you recognize.

Another Marine, older this time. Not the usual guards. His uniform is crisp, and his presence carries an air of authority. He steps closer, hands behind his back, looking down at you like you’re some rare specimen.

“You’re lucky, you know,” he says casually “Most pirates we capture don’t get this much attention.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the strength to waste on his games.

“You’re valuable,” he continues “And I’m not just talking about your affiliation with Whitebeard.” His sharp eyes scan your injuries, as if calculating how much more you can endure “Your Devil Fruit, that’s what the higher-ups are interested in.”

You don’t flinch, but inside, your stomach knots.

Of course. Your ability to manipulate minds with a single command. A fruit so rare, so dangerous, that in the wrong hands, it could change the tides of war. Or worse.

“Imagine what we could do,” the Marine muses “With just one word, you could make entire enemy fleets surrender. You could make criminals confess. You could turn Yonko commanders against their own crews.” He kneels in front of you, voice dropping lower “Or you could make Whitebeard himself bow.”

Your jaw tightens.

They don’t just want to use you.

They want to turn you into a weapon.

For a moment, you don’t say anything. Then, through cracked lips, you force out a bitter laugh.

“You think I’d help you?”

The Marine tilts his head “You will. Eventually.”

Your glare is unwavering “Never.”

“You’ll come around.” he smiles “Or I could just kill you and find the Devil Fruit later on so that I can eat it myself. One way or another. The question is how much pain you’ll endure before you give up or die. Either way we win.”

Then he turns to leave.

“Get some rest,” he says “Tomorrow, we start breaking you properly.”

The door slams shut.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the fear creeping in your chest.

They won’t break you. They can’t.

Because Ace is coming, and when he does, this whole damn place is going to burn.

Aboard the Moby Dick, Ace is losing his patience.

It’s been a day since they turned the ship around. A day too long.

He paces the deck like a caged animal, flames flickering around his fingers, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. The crew keeps a careful distance, no one is dumb enough to try and calm him down.

No one can.

He keeps replaying it in his head. The argument. The way you walked away. How he let you.

And now you’re gone.

“Oi, Ace.”

Marco’s voice cuts through his storming thoughts.

Ace turns, his glare sharp, but Marco doesn’t flinch.

“We found the base.”

Everything inside Ace goes still.

“Where?”

Marco tosses him a map, already marked “Marine stronghold, isolated island. Not heavily fortified, but enough of a problem if we’re reckless.” He gives Ace a pointed look “We need to be smart about this.”

Ace grips the map so tightly it crumples “They have her.”

“I know,” Marco says evenly “And we will get her back. But you losing your head won’t help.”

Ace’s fists tremble. He knows Marco’s right, but all he can think about is you, locked in some cell, hurt, alone, and how he left you.

“How soon can we be there?” he demands.

“By sunrise,” Marco says “We’ve got a plan. But Ace...”

Ace looks up, and Marco’s expression is grim.

“You better be ready for what we might find.”

Ace doesn’t hesitate “I don’t care if she’s at death’s door. I’ll bring her home.”

His flames surge brighter, hotter.

He will get you back, and if the Marines think they can keep you than they’ve never seen what happens when fire goes unchecked.

The moment the Moby Dick reaches the Marine base, chaos erupts. The crew descends like a storm. Thatch, Marco, and the others carving a path through the soldiers, clearing the way for Ace.

But Ace barely registers any of it. All he knows is that you’re in there, and he needs to find you.

“Ace!” Marco calls, dodging a Marine’s sword “Stick to the plan!”

But Ace is already breaking away.

He storms through the base, his fists burning, taking out anyone who gets in his way. The halls are a maze, twisting corridors that all look the same, and with every empty cell he passes, his panic tightens like a noose.

Where are you?

His breathing is ragged, flames licking at his skin as his frustration builds. She should be here. You should be here.

He shoves a Marine against the wall, his grip searing into the man’s uniform “Where is she?” Ace growls, his voice sharp with fury.

The soldier screams, thrashing “I—I don’t know!”

Ace snarls and knocks him out cold.

Then he runs.

And runs.

But every hallway looks the same. Every door leads to nothing. He’s not finding you.

A new kind of fear claws into his chest, but he knows he can’t think like that. He won’t.

“Ace!”

Marco’s voice.

Then hands gripping his shoulder, yanking him back.

Ace whirls around, flames flaring “What?!”

Marco doesn’t let go. His expression is firm, unwavering “You’re wasting time.”

Ace shoves his arm away “I’m finding her!”

“No, you’re panicking!”

Ace’s breath is uneven, his vision blurred with frustration “She’s not here, Marco!” His voice cracks, desperation leaking through “I don’t—I don’t know where she is!”

Marco’s gaze softens just slightly “Then we regroup.”

Ace shakes his head violently “No.” Every second he isn’t moving is a second you’re suffering, a second too long “You don’t get it—”

Marco grips his collar, dragging him close “I do get it” he says, low and fierce “But if you let yourself fall apart now, we lose her for real.”

Ace stops breathing for a second.

Lose you.

The thought is unbearable.

Marco keeps his hold steady “We will find her. But not like this.”

Ace swallows hard. His body is still shaking, fire curling around his fists but he forces himself to listen. To stop running in circles. To think.

He exhales sharply “Then tell me what to do.”

Marco nods “We need intel. And I know where to get it.”

Pain is a familiar companion now.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days?

It doesn’t matter. You’re still here. Still breathing.

Your body is too weak to fight. Your mind too drained to resist. But you keep holding on because you know he’s coming.

Even when the Marines laugh about how the Whitebeard Pirates will never breach the base. Even when they say you’ll be locked away forever.

You know better.

Then a distant explosion. Shouting. Gunfire. And fire.

Your heart lurches.

He’s here, but the door doesn’t open, and the sounds of battle grow further away.

Your stomach twists.

Did something happen?

No. No, you won’t think like that.

You force yourself to move, just slightly, leaning against the cold stone wall. You don’t have much left in you. But if there’s even a small chance, you have to believe Ace will find you. He has to. Because you don’t know how much longer you can last.

“Alright, talk.”

Ace slams the Marine officer against the table, his fire dangerously close to igniting the man’s uniform. Marco stands behind him, arms crossed, while the rest of the Whitebeard Pirates keep the room secure.

The officer trembles, sweat dripping down his forehead “I—I don’t—”

Ace tightens his grip “Wrong answer.”

The flames grow hotter. The Marine yelps, eyes wide with terror “Okay! Okay!”

“Where is she?” Marco demands.

The officer swallows hard “She—she’s in the lower dungeons. Isolated. Special containment.”

Ace’s flames flare. Of course... Seastone.

That’s why he couldn’t find you. Why his Haki wasn’t sensing you.

Ace lets go, and the officer slumps against the chair, gasping for breath.

Then Ace turns and runs.

Your vision is swimming now.

You don’t know how much longer you can hold on.

Then an explosion. Not distant, but actually really close.

And then your cell door is ripped open.

A burst of fire floods the room, bright and blinding. And through the smoke you finally see Ace.

You think you might be dreaming.

Because his face, his expression... he looks destroyed. Like something in him has been broken ever since you disappeared.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over your battered body like he doesn’t know where to start.

“Y/N.” His voice is raw, barely more than a whisper.

You try to smile “Took you long enough.”

Ace lets out a shaky breath, a laugh, but not really. More like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Shut up,” he mutters “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But he doesn’t sound convinced.

His fingers tremble as he undoes the seastone cuffs, his flames immediately warming your ice-cold skin. His touch is so careful, so gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll break apart in his hands.

You lean into him, too weak to do anything else.

His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close.

You feel him shaking.

“I thought I lost you” he chokes out.

You close your eyes.

“I knew you’d come.”

Ace swallows hard, burying his face in your hair.

Then, quietly “I’m so sorry.”

But there’s no time to say more, because the base is still burning and the fight isn’t over yet.

Ace holds you tighter, his fingers pressing against your bruised skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp again. But you barely register it.

The exhaustion, the pain, the relief, it’s all too much.

The world tilts and then everything goes dark.

When you wake, everything seems slow and heavy, like surfacing from the depths of the ocean, your body weighed down by the bruises, the fatigue, the lingering ache of the seastone cuffs.

You shift slightly, wincing at the pain, and that’s when you realize there’s warmth. Ace.

He’s slumped over at your bedside, arms folded against the mattress, his head resting there like he’d been watching you and passed out. His face is hidden by his wild mess of black hair, but his breathing is deep and steady.

He looks exhausted.

You blink slowly, taking in the dim light of the infirmary, the distant sound of the waves outside. It’s quiet. Safe.

You made it back, and Ace never left your side.

You manage to lift a hand, your fingers brushing against his hair.

He tenses as his eyes snap open, unfocused for a second before locking onto you.

“Y/N.”

Your throat is dry, your voice barely a whisper “Hey.”

For a second, he just stares, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

Then his jaw clenches, and he sits up, running a hand down his face. “Shit.” His voice is raw, hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours “You—you scared the hell out of me.”

You offer a weak smile “Pretty sure you did more damage than I did.”

Ace exhales sharply, his fingers twitching against the sheets “Don’t joke about that.”

His voice is too tight. Too strained.

And when you really look at him he looks like hell.

There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin paler than usual. His hair is messier than normal, his hat discarded on the floor. His usual reckless energy is gone, replaced by something quieter.

Something heavy.

“You didn’t sleep, did you?” you murmur.

Ace scoffs, but it’s humorless “How was I supposed to sleep?” His hands curl into fists “They had you. They hurt you. And I…”

He cuts himself off, looking away, jaw clenched so tight it might shatter.

Guilt.

That’s what it is.

The weight of everything he said before. The things he didn’t say.

You swallow, shifting slightly, ignoring the way your ribs protest “Ace.”

He doesn’t look at you.

You push yourself up on weak arms, reaching for him “Ace.”

His gaze flickers to you.

“I should’ve been there.” His voice cracks “I should’ve gone after you the second you walked away. I should’ve—” He shakes his head violently “I let you go. And because of that, they took you.”

You take a slow breath “Ace...”

“You could’ve died, Y/N” His hands tremble where they grip the sheets “Because of me.”

You watch him carefully.

This isn’t just guilt.

It’s fear.

You reach for him again, your fingers curling around his wrist “But I didn’t.”

His eyes snap to yours.

“And you found me.”

Ace swallows hard “Barely.”

“But you did.” You squeeze his wrist, grounding him “Ace, I knew you’d come for me. No matter what.”

His breath is uneven, his entire body tense “What if I had been too late?”

“You weren’t.”

He shakes his head, but this time, his shoulders tremble “I can’t—” His voice lowers, raw and broken “I can’t lose you.”

Suddenly, all the anger, all the bitterness from your fight before, it feels so small. Because none of that matters now. Not when you almost lost each other.

You tug gently at his wrist, and after a second, he moves. Slowly, hesitantly, he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.

His skin is warm. His breathing is shaky.

But he’s here and so are you.

Your fingers lift, brushing against his cheek “You won’t lose me.”

Ace lets out a shuddering breath, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm against his face like he never wants to let go.

You stay like that for a long moment, the storm inside him settling just slightly.

Then he whispers “I’m sorry... For everything.”

You smile softly, thumb brushing over his cheekbone “I know.”

He exhales, pressing his face further into your touch “I love you, Y/N.”

Your heart clenches.

Because despite everything, despite the pain, the fear, the regret, you never once doubted that.

You smile, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I love you too, hothead.”

Ace lets out a breathless laugh, wet and shaky, but real.

And when he finally kisses you it tastes like fire, and ash, and home.

He holds onto you like you’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead is still pressed against yours, his breath uneven. You can feel the heat of his skin, the way his fingers tremble slightly against yours.

Everything feels so fragile. Like the moment could slip away if either of you move too fast. But you don’t want to move. Not yet.

Not when you can feel the way his heartbeat stutters under your touch.

Not when he’s finally here, safe, with you.

And then, quietly “You really scared me, y’know.”

You let out a breath “You scared me,” you murmur “Burning down a whole Marine base like a lunatic.”

Ace scoffs, but his grip on you tightens “Would’ve burned the whole damn world if I had to.”

You believe him. You always believed in him. Even when you were angry. Even when you walked away.

That fight. The reason you stormed off in the first place. It feels so distant now. But still, it lingers.

You take a slow breath “Ace…”

He pulls back slightly, eyes searching yours “Yeah?”

You hesitate “Before all this… before we landed on that island…”

Ace tenses. He knows what you’re talking about.

Your fight.

The argument that hadn’t been resolved before everything spiraled into chaos.

Ace shifts, running a hand through his messy hair “You were mad at me.”

You raise an eyebrow “Oh, you think?”

Ace sighs “I know.”

You look away, your fingers gripping the blanket draped over you. The memory of the fight comes rushing back. You had been reckless during a raid. You thought you had it handled. But Ace had jumped in, flames blazing, telling you to stop being so damn stubborn and let someone help you for once.

And you had snapped because it wasn’t just about the raid. It was about everything.

The way Ace always threw himself in danger, like he had to do it alone. The way he always acted like his life didn’t matter as much as everyone else’s.

And when you told him that, when you yelled at him for it, he threw it back in your face.

And now, after almost dying, after being taken, after him almost losing you, the weight of it crashes down on both of you.

Ace lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Guess I really was an idiot, huh?”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow “Oh? Now you realize?”

Ace groans, dragging his hand down his face “You’re really gonna rub it in while you’re still half-dead?”

You smirk “Absolutely.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, but then his expression softens. His golden eyes flicker with something raw, something real.

“You were right” he says quietly.

That makes you pause.

Ace doesn’t say things like that often.

“You were right,” he repeats, voice hoarse “I do act like that sometimes. Like it doesn’t matter what happens to me. Like…” He swallows hard, gaze dropping “Like I don’t deserve to be saved.”

Your chest tightens.

“But then you got taken,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper “And I—” He clenches his fists “I would’ve burned the whole world down to get you back. No hesitation. No second thoughts.”

He looks up at you then, something pleading in his expression.

“And that’s how you felt, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away, because you don’t need to. Ace already knows.

You sigh, leaning back against the pillows “You do deserve to be saved, Ace.”

Ace exhales, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah, well. Guess I finally get it now.”

You shake your head with a small smile “Took you long enough, hothead.”

He lets out a weak laugh, then leans forward again, pressing his forehead against yours.

It’s warm. Comforting. Safe.

You close your eyes, exhaling softly “Next time we fight, can we just skip to this part?”

Ace huffs out a laugh “What, the part where I almost lose my mind looking for you?”

You nudge him weakly “No. The part where you admit I was right.”

Ace groans dramatically “Ugh, never mind. You’re insufferable.”

You smile, your fingers brushing against his. But then you feel something wet against your skin.

You pull back slightly, confused “Ace…”

He blinks, startled “What?”

You reach up, brushing a thumb under his eye.

“You’re crying.”

Ace freezes. For a second, he looks caught off guard, like he hadn’t even noticed.

Then, before you can say anything else, he lets out a choked laugh, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

He sniffles slightly, then smirks at you through his tears.

“Look who’s the one crying at the end.”

You stare at him. Then you laugh with him. A real, genuine laugh.

Ace grins, his hand finding yours again, fingers lacing together. His grip is warm, steady, alive.

And when he squeezes your hand gently, you know neither of you will ever walk away again.

649 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 2 months ago

Text

style | z.cl

“i heard…that you been out and about with some other girl”

💿now playing: style by taylor swift

❯ summary: Midnight. Lipstick. Tight skirt. You swore you were done with Chenle. But then he drove you home, looked way too good in your kitchen, and said all the right things. He might always leave. But he always comes back. Because you always let him.

❯ pairings: idol!chenle x fem!reader

❯ genre: co-workers with benefits, smut

❯ words: 4.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, slight jealousy, arguing, angst, mentions of sneaking around, commitment issues, oral sex, fingering, rough blow job, hair pulling, dirty talk, praise, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, dom!chenle, swearing, ambiguous ending, reader uses she/her pronouns, basically just a toxic situationship and pure filth for 4k words.

an: y’all can thank @bbina for triggering this idea in my head. chenle being style coded has made me go insane 😛

You told yourself you wouldn’t do this again.

And yet here you are, sitting in the passenger seat of Chenle’s car, completely silent and still, whilst his jaw ticks and one hand strangles the steering wheel.

If it were any other man, you’d be concerned about how often his eyes leave the road. But this is Chenle. Your Chenle, with wild, dark eyes that seem to dart everywhere but forward—flicking to your legs, lingering shamelessly on the exposed sliver of thigh peeking out from that tight little skirt you decided to wear. The same skirt he swears is taunting him.

Him, and every other fucker in that room tonight.

He had no choice but to get you out of that damn afterparty and into his car. Straight home. He still remembered the route—of course he did.

Honestly, part of him expected you to tell him to get fucked. He would’ve deserved it. Because truthfully, Chenle had no right offering to drive you home. No right to act territorial or interject your conversations with other men. He never did.

Not when he was the one who could never quite figure out what he wanted.

Still, deep down, you hoped it was you. A part of you still does. Because you're just so stupidly drawn to him.

That’s why you don’t say a word when he pulls into your driveway. That’s why you don’t stop him when he kills the engine, steps out, and follows you inside like it’s second nature.

You know damn well you should tell him to leave.

Especially when you already know the consequences of letting him—this man—walk through your door, shrug off his jacket like it still belongs here, and drape it over the back of your chairs like he never left. You know the routine. The toxic, repetitive cycle. The inevitable crash.

You know exactly where it leads.

Chenle tosses his keys onto your kitchen counter without bothering to turn on the light. He doesn’t need to—he knows your place just like he knows your body. Thoroughly.

He leans back against the marble counter, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you kick off your heels and flick the switch. For a split second, in the soft glow of the kitchen light, it almost looks domestic.

If you were any other couple, it might’ve been.

But you weren’t any other couple.

Because you were you, and Chenle was Chenle—unconventional, uncommitted, undefined. Definitely not a couple. Just three long years of messy arguing, sneaking around, and dirty sex.

“You looked friendly with Sungchan tonight,” he mutters finally, like it’s nothing more than an observation. But the bitterness in his voice bleeds through every word.

You glance at him over your shoulder, folding your arms to mirror his stance. You can’t believe him right now.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting," he shrugs nonchalantly, but his jaw still ticks. “I just thought the two of you looked…cosy, is all.”

“Cosy?” you repeat, brow arching. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He scoffs, pushing off the counter. He rakes a hand through his slicked back hair, leaving it all messy.

“I’m not jealous. I just didn’t realise the two of you were that close.”

“That’s because you don’t know the meaning of close, Chenle.”

His jaw tightens whilst you rant.

“Seriously, I haven’t heard a fucking peep from you in months,” you quip, stroming towards him. “No call. No text. Nothing. And now you wanna walk through my door like it’s yours, drop your shit on my counter, and act territorial about who I talk to at a work party?”

“I’m not acting terr—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut in. “You always do this. You disappear for weeks, then show up acting like you have some kind of claim to me. You don’t.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it. And still, you press on, because it’s the only way to survive conversations like this with him.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you shout. “Not when you’ve been out and about with some other girl on your arm.”

“Don’t turn this around on me,” he grits out. “You think it didn’t fuck with my head, seeing you smile like that at him? He’s my friend, Y/N, and it looked like—it looked like you wanted him.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t soften. “And if I did?”

“Watch it,” he growls.

You shake your head, jaw clenched. “No! I’m done doing this with you. I’m sick of waking up to every damn gossip site and fan account showing pictures of you with other girls!”

His eyes darken.

Then, he's crossing the room and closing the distance between you two in quick, hasty strides. You don’t move. You should. But you don’t. Because some reckless, masochistic part of you wants this. Enjoys it.

You like it when he’s angry. Because at least then, you know he cares.

His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around the side of your neck—firm enough to steal your breath, soft enough to make you remember exactly who he is and who he always will be to you.

“You’re not done with me, baby,” he says, voice gravelly. “You’ll never be done with me.”

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest. Warmth pulsing low in your belly, spreading outward in a burning ripple that leaves goosebumps along your forearms.

You hate the effect he has on you—hate how easily he can crack you with nothing more than a look, a brush of his fingers, the goddamn rough scrape of his voice. But what you hate most is how it keeps pulling you back. Every time. No matter how often you promise yourself you won’t.

His thumb drags slow strokes along your jaw, studying and possessive.

“What you’ve heard and seen is true,” he continues, searching your face. “I’ve been out, but I swear, none of them meant shit. None of them stuck. Because every damn night, I come back to the same thought.”

You swallow hard. “What thought?”

He leans in, breath hot against your ear, and your knees almost buckle.

“You,” he exhales. “What you do to me. What we do to each other,” he says. “You haunt me, Y/N. You get in my fucking head and you stay there. Even when I know I need to let you go.”

His forehead presses to yours, and you’re met with eyes that burn. Eyes that are so raw and pleading.

“You think I don’t hate this too?” he whispers. “I hate how I ruin everything the second it starts to feel real…but baby, I swear to God, no one—not a single person—makes me feel the way you do.”

His grip softens, fingers sliding down your neck to your collarbone, then teasingly tracing the hem of your shirt over your lower abdomen.

You suck in a breath at his cold fingertips, voice cracking. “Then why do you keep leaving?”

“I don’t know,” his eyes screw shut as he breathes. “Maybe because wanting you this much scares the shit out of me.”

God, you hate that too.

Hate the way your chest aches at his voice when it drops so low. Hate the fact that you’re always his secret. His weakness. His maybe. His fear.

He can parade around with other girls, laugh with them, be seen with them. Smile for the cameras and let them touch his arm, lean into him. He can be theirs in the way that matters—publicly.

But you?

You’re the one he hides. The one he ghosts and crawls back to. The one he craves in the quiet. Behind closed doors. Always behind closed doors.

Because you’re staff.

And this is what happens when you cross the line and start sleeping with idols.

Still, you stare up at him, furious with how good he looks tonight. Black hair a little messy, pushed out of place by his own frustrated fingers. White t-shirt clinging to the ridges of his torso like it was stitched onto his skin. Your eyes wander before you can stop them, and you curse yourself for it—because he notices.

His own eyes dip to your mouth, that familiar lustful haze clouding his features. It’s hot. The kind if look that makes you wet your lips without thinking.

He follows the movement. Tracks it like instinct.

Then his hand lifts, almost unconsciously, and his thumb drags a featherlight line across your bottom lip. You let him. You always do. You always will. Because this has always been his thing.

He stares at his thumb now, at the smear of lipstick staining the pad—a deep, bruised red. The classic kind. The one you know he likes. The only reason you still wear it, really.

His throat bobs as he brings the thumb to his mouth and wipes it along the plump flesh.

He doesn’t lick. Doesn’t taste. Just wipes. Lets it brand him.

“You still wear this shade,” he murmurs. It’s not a question—just a statement, the memory of him buying it for your first birthday together flashing vividly in his mind.

“You liked it.”

“No,” his eyes flick to yours. “I loved it.”

A beat passes.

“I hate this, Chenle,” you breathe.

“I know,” he says, gaze dropping to your mouth again. His thumb brushes your lip once more, slower this time. “I hate it too.”

Maybe he means it. Maybe he really does this time. But it doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like you’re the last good thing he’s ever touched.

“I hate when you do this,” you continue, even as your fingers fist into the hem of his shirt.

“I know.”

“No.” You shake your head, pressing your forehead to his chest. Your voice breaks a little. “You don’t get to show up like this. All hot and brooding and act like you’re—”

“Yours?” he cuts in gently, lifting your chin, just enough to meet your eyes. “I don’t get to show up here all hot and brooding and act like I’m yours, Y/N?” He asks. “But I did. Because I am.”

You sigh.

“You don’t mean that,” you say, barely audible.

“I do,” he says, and his voice—God, his voice—it’s so damn raw. “I do, baby.”

You see it flicker.

Right there, behind his eyes. That look that never lies or fades. That want. That need. That ache. And your brain, the traitorous thing that it is, clings to it like a lifeline. Because that flicker means he still wants you. Means he always has.

No matter how long he disappears. No matter how many nights you cry yourself to sleep. No matter how many months pass with nothing but radio silence and reruns of memories you swore you’d forget. No matter the girls, the headlines, the cruel, painful game of pretending he’s not your favourite mistake—you always come back.

He exhales a shaky sigh, brushing his hand against your cheek. And you lean into it. Into him. Into the quiet, stupid comfort that still lives in his touch.

Because the thing about Chenle (the thing that wrecks you) is that he never touches you like it’s an accident. He knows your skin. He remembers exactly what makes you tick.

His other hand slips to the hem of your skirt, fingers dragging lightly along your thigh. Not to push. Not yet. Just to remind you that he knows.

And then, with a soft breath, he whispers, “You and me, baby… we just fit. We’re perfect for each other.”

“Perfect?” you echo on a scoff. “Chenle, we’re a fucking disaster.”

His fingers press just a little more into your waist as he leans in, forehead resting gently against yours again.

“I don’t care,” he says. “This is how we work. You know it is.”

And goddamn it, you do.

This push and pull. This mess of a relationship. This history that keeps bleeding into the present. It’s yours. All of it.

The midnights. The 3 a.m. fights and 4 a.m. kisses. The long drives. The missed calls and texts. The way he disappears for weeks—only to show up again, looking at you like you’re perfect, like you’re sin, like you’re all his.

You close your eyes, forehead tilting into his hand as his thumb brushes along your cheekbone. He’s breathing you in harder than he needs air.

“I don’t know how to let you go,” he admits, brokenly.

Your heart aches, splits right down the middle, but you don’t move. You never do. Because deep down, you don’t know how to let him go either.

“But we don’t make sense,” you whisper, words trembling. “Not to anyone.”

Chenle shakes his head, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “We don’t have to. You make sense to me. I get you, baby. I always have. No one else needs to.”

Then he kisses you.

And it’s not gentle. It’s not soft or sweet or anything close to safe. It’s a collision—raw and explosive and possessive. A kiss that ruins, devours, and breathes life into the parts of you he’s broken. Everything he needs to say to you pours into that simple press of his mouth against yours—like an apology. He knows you deserve one.

It feels like drowning and crashing down. But still, you’re willing to hold him in your bare hands.

Because even if you don’t necessarily make sense… you look right together. You feel like fate. And for now, that’s enough. All you can think about is how good it feels to burn—and how right it feels to fall.

Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because you need to feel the heat radiating from his skin, need to know that he’s here and equally burning for you too.

Without breaking the kiss, Chenle’s fingers hook under the hem of your skirt, dragging it down lower until it slips off completely, pooling at your ankles. You don’t feel embarrassed standing in front of him wearing your panties anymore. You no longer tense under his stare or shiver at his fingers teasing the tender skin just above the waistband.

His eyes flare, and without another second’s hesitation, he flips you around, caging you against the counter he was leaning on. He pauses for a moment, watching you, but when he sees you bite down on your lip and nod once, it’s enough for him to drop his voice.

“Get your ass on that counter, baby,” he commands lowly, hooking you under the arms and helping you up. “And open these pretty legs.”

He doesn’t give you a second to comply, eagerly prying your legs apart himself before dropping to his knees, eyes clouded and lip caught between his teeth. His fingers hook into the lace of your underwear, a groan escaping him as he inches them down gradually.

His eyes stay locked on you, tracking every nervous flex of your stomach, every sharp inhale of breath.

Fucking beautiful. Fucking perfect, he thinks.

He leans in, mouth gliding along the inside of your trembling thigh, letting his breath ghost across your skin that’s already burning. His hands grip your knees, firm, keeping you spread open for him, exposed under the flickering kitchen light.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he whispers.

Then his lips brush closer. Close enough for his mouth to find your puffy and aching clit. And he sucks. Hot. Slow. Languid. Worshipful sucks.

Your head tips back with a whimper, hands scrambling behind you for balance against the counter’s edge. He doesn’t rush. He savours, tastes, tongue mapping every sensitive inch, locating every spot he knows that makes you squirm, makes you pathetic for him.

Each sound you make has him groaning against you, his fingers digging hard into the plush of your thighs, anchoring himself as he drowns in you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Chenle says, pulling back just enough to speak—lips slick with a mix of his spit and your arousal. “Dripping, baby. You like this? Like letting me bury my face in this tight little pussy?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer—not really—your heavy eyes say everything he needs to get his tongue on you again. Rougher now, harder, dragging filthy little moans out of you that ring around the kitchen. He eats like he owns you—like he’s starving for you and only you.

Your hips twitch, legs wobbling and borderline threatening to close, but he growls low in his throat, fingers pressing into your thighs as he keeps you wide open.

“Don’t you dare fucking move,” he groans against you. “You take it. Just like that. Let me make this cunt all nice and messy.”

You sob, a high, needy sound, head thrown back as pleasure builds fast and brutal.

“That’s it,” he coos. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. You taste so good—fuck—I could eat this sweet pussy all fucking night if you’d let me,” he grits out, lips brushing your clit with every word.

He slides two fingers inside you then, without warning, curls them deliciously just to watch the way you shudder.

“God, listen to that. So fucking wet. Gonna cum all over my face, baby? You’ll let me taste it, won’t you?”

You can’t even answer. All you can do is shake, pant, fall apart while he keeps going, keeps sucking and licking and fucking his fingers—relentless, filthy, starved.

“Chenle—” you whimper, but it catches in your throat.

You feel it now, the heat, the pressure coiling tight in your gut, the obscene wet sounds of him between your legs, eating your pussy shamelessly.

“Come on, baby, give it to me,” he rasps. “Be good. Cum for me. Let me have it. Right here on my fucking tongue.”

He carries on, nose pressed tight against your clit, moaning into you like the taste of you is driving him insane. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Not when he talks like that. Not when he touches you like this.

“That’s it,” he whispers hoarsely. “I can feel it. This pretty cunt’s clenching around my tongue.”

You nod frantically, a broken sound ripping from your throat as your back arches, thighs jerk, and you moan out his name. He keeps licking you through every wave, holding you wide open and helpless, until you’re too spent to even twitch.

When your breathing begins to slow, he starts rising to his feet—pupils black, cock straining hard against his jeans.

“We’re not done, baby,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen, soaked lips. “Not even close.”

He leans over you, chest heaving, trapping you in with his arms on either side of your thighs. His mouth is swollen, glistening with your orgasm, and he drags his tongue across his bottom lip like he’s still hungry and relishing the taste of you. Then he tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“Want you to return the favour for me,” he demands, voice all raspy and low. “Like the good girl I know you are.”

Your stomach clenches at the praise, excitement pulsing between your legs as you nod. You slide off the counter, legs feeling a little like jelly, and Chenle steps back, giving you space. But the moment your knees hit the floor in front of him, something in him snaps—his jaw tightens, the vein in his neck flexing hard.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, hand slipping into your hair—not pulling, not yet, just holding you there. “On your knees for me. God, you look so fucking pretty like this. All ruined and ready.”

You reach for the waistband of his jeans, hands trembling slightly as you undo them. He watches you the entire time, completely focused, completely in awe.

Once he’s free—thick, hard, already leaking—he taps his cock against your lips.

“Open up,” he rasps. “Wanna see those pretty red lips wrapped around my cock.”

You part them without hesitation, tongue flicking out to taste him, and he lets out a sharp hiss, head dropping back for just a second.

“Jesus fuck—yes. Just like that. So damn good.”

You take more of him, inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and you gag slightly, tears welling in your eyes. He mosns from deep in his chest, both hands threading into your hair now, holding you steady to take him.

“Doing so fucking good for me,” he pants. “Taking me so deep. You love choking on my cock, don’t you?”

You hum around him, the vibrations pulling another harsh string of curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, that’s it. Look at you—glassy eyes, drool dripping down your chin. So fucking eager to please me.”

His hips begin to move, rolling forward as he starts to fuck your mouth like he owns it. Every time your throat clenches around him, his grip on your hair tightens right back.

You whimper, and it only spurs him on to go deeper. One hand slides to your cheek, thumb brushing away the spit and tears there with a surprising gentleness, despite how hard he’s breathing.

“My messy, filthy, perfect girl,” he groans. “Keep looking up at me like that, baby. Shit—those eyes. Could cum just from this fucking view.”

He rocks into your mouth again—deep, greedy—pushing past your limit before pulling out to the tip. Only then does he let you catch your breath for a second… only to thrust back in deeper.

Eventually, a harsh hiss leaves him, his hands locking you in place as your mouth works him harder, your throat fluttering with every push forward. He’s close—too close for his liking—and he knows it. That coil tightening low in his stomach.

“Fuck—no,” he growls suddenly, breath strained.

He pulls out abruptly, cock slick and glistening, flushed at the tip with a string of spit connecting you in one filthy, shining line before it breaks. You’re left panting, mouth swollen, eyes cloudy and wet with tears—but there’s no shame in it. Not with Chenle. There never is.

“Why’d you stop?” You blink up at him, all dazed and breathless. “I can take it. I want it.”

His jaw flexes. He knows you can—he’s seen you take it, again and again—but hearing you say it like that? With that much need? Holy fuck.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he leans in to press his forehead against yours again.

“Not like that,” he exhales. “Not wasting it down your throat, baby. Not when I need to be inside you.”

He nudges your legs apart again with his knee, pushing you gently back onto the counter. The cold surface shocks your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the intense look in his eyes—all focused, all fire, locked on the soaked mess between your legs.

His fingers trail between your thighs. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Could slide right in, no fucking problem.”

One finger sinks in with ease, and your back arches with a cry. He adds another, bending them just right, watching the way your body twitches at the sensation.

“Desperate little thing,” he chuckles, mouth grazing your jaw before biting lightly at the hinge.

“You haven’t heard a peep from me in months?” he mocks your earlier words, amused. “Bet you’ve still been thinking about this. About me. Every night though.”

You nod wildly, hips grinding down to chase his hand. He smiles darkly against your throat.

“Yeah? Been touching yourself to the thought of my cock buried deep inside you?” His fingers press harder, deeper, stretching you open. “Tell me. Because I’ve only ever fisted my cock for one girl. One girl—you.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes. All the time. I only ever think of you too.”

His mouth slams onto yours, teeth biting and tongue hot, as he slowly pulls his fingers out, leaving you aching and empty.

“Then you’re gonna take it now,” he grits out, lining himself up with no warning. “All of it. Every inch. All of me.”

You whimper as he presses the tip against you, easing into your cunt with little resistance. You’re so wet, so ready—but the stretch of him, thicker than his fingers, triggers that tightening ache in a way that makes you spiral faster. He’s filling you, claiming you inch by inch, like he owns you.

Because right now, he does.

You think, maybe, he always has.

“Fuck, baby,” he lets out a strained moan, hips rocking forward in relentless thrusts. “You were made for this. For me.”

He’s deep now—buried to the hilt—each thrust making you clench and tremble. His rhythm quickens, hips snapping harder, pressing you back against the counter. The air thickens with sweat and breathless curses.

Then his hand finds your face—fingers curling around your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek as he squishes them together, making your lips pout around soft moans.

“Look at this fucking mouth,” he grumbles, slowing just enough to admire you. Lipstick smeared, red and messy, your spit slicking your chin from earlier. “You never wear that colour for anyone else.”

It’s not a question. It’s a demand. A rule you already follow. You didn’t need him to say it, because you only ever wear it with him in mind. Only when there’s a chance you might see him.

You shake your head, eyes half-lidded, mouth still caught between his fingers. He knows the answer—but fuck, he wants to hear it.

“Say it,” he demands, thrusting deep and slow now, grinding against that sweet spot until your eyes roll back. “Tell me who you wear it for.”

“You,” you gasp, voice muffled by his grip. “Only you.”

He smirks, eyes dipping down to where he’s buried inside you, glistening with the proof of just how badly you’ve needed this. “Yeah, that’s right. All dressed up for me.”

Then he slams into you again—harder this time, relentless. The slap of skin echoes through the room, each thrust forcing filthy little sounds from your throat as your slick spills and drips down his length. Your lipstick is undoubtedly smeared across your cheek now, mouth pouty, chest heaving

“No matter how long it’s been,” he says more to himself than you, “I always end up right back here. With you. Fucking losing it over you.”

You’re shaking, right on the edge, and he can feel it—the way your pussy flutters around his cock, clinging to every thrust, so hot and tight. You don’t even have to say a word. Your body’s begging to cum.

But he’s not letting you just yet.

“Tell me this doesn’t feel right,” he growls, snapping his hips forward as the counter creaks beneath you. “Tell me my cock doesn’t fucking fit like it was made for me.”

“It does,” you gasp, voice breaking. “Fuck—it always has, Chenle.”

He groans at that all guttural, and crashes his mouth to yours again. It’s less desperate now, more possessive, like he’s trying to seal the truth between your lips. Because you’ve both tried. Tried to forget. Tried to move on. Tried to tell yourselves your situation wasn’t healthy.

But this—you two—never really ended. It never could.

And when he drives into you one last time, burying himself to the limit as you shatter around him—slick and pulsing, your cunt squeezing him so perfectly—he groans and lets go, spilling his cum inside you with a shudder.

It’s filthy. It’s messy. It’s everything you swore you wouldn’t do again.

But some things don’t change.

Some things never go out of style.

Especially not him.

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