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covenofagatha · 6 hours ago

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A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 6)

You go to confront The Witch and Lady Death

Word count: 3900

Warnings: smut, fingering, more murder

You try to call Tony on the way over, but his number isn’t there. You scroll through your text messages, his thread isn’t there either. You try recent calls. Nope.

It’s like he’s been entirely erased from your phone.

You’re getting frantic, desperate, and you know that you can’t exactly look up the personal phone number for the director of an FBI branch, so on a complete whim, you check your blocked contacts.

Fucking Rio.

She must’ve gotten into your phone when she came by to get your clothes that night and made sure there was no way you could reach your life outside of Westview. No way you could get help.

Fingers gripped around the blade of the knife, you’re about to leave the room when your phone lights up with a call. Tony. You scoff, decline it, and block him. You don’t have time for that.

Grimacing, you massage the area between your eyes. You’ve made a huge mess of everything.

You unblock him and call him and he picks up on the first ring.

“Y/N, where the hell have you been?” He barks and you wince at his scolding tone.

“Things here have…developed,” you start, weighing how much you should tell him.

He scoffs. “None of my calls or texts have gone through. I thought you were dead!” You try to say something but he barrels over you. “I’m on my way to Westview right now. I’m supposed to land in about an hour. I don’t know what’s going on there, but I’m bringing you back to Miami.”

“No!” You cry out. He can’t. “Please, Director, I’m so close, I’m about to get them right now. I know who they are and where they are, I’m on my way.”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath when he realizes what you’re about to do. “Agent, stand down. That is a direct order. You are not to engage with them.”

A blush spreads through your body as you remember just how much you’ve engaged with them.

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. “They don’t want me dead.”

The sound of him hitting the tray table on the jet reverberates through your phone and you almost jump. “Dammit, Y/N, this isn’t a game! This is life or death, and you are not to try and get them all by yourself. Turn around from wherever you are and go back to your motel and do not leave until I get there!” You’ve never heard him this mad.

But you can’t. You’ve come too far to let them slip away like this. You have your gun and maybe the element of surprise on your side. You have the power to end this tonight.

Tony’s still ranting about how irresponsible and impulsive and stupid you’re being, so you hang up. The call ironically disconnects in the middle of him saying how you never listen to anything he says.

You’re more convinced than ever that Agatha and Rio did something in the woods that day that fucked you up beyond measure.

And who was that other woman?

Somehow, after all of that, you had ended up in the hospital with hypothermia and pneumonia, and the post-traumatic and retrograde amnesia accounts for the block in your mind. Did you hit your head on something?

Or did someone hit you on the head with something?

Agatha and Rio and the mystery woman had been so shocked and afraid when you came across them doing something bad that they had clobbered you in the hopes that you would forget, or die?

It’s plausible.

If nothing else, you need answers before you kill them tonight. Maybe knowing what they did will give you some semblance of peace and you can sleep without fearing that you’re going to murder innocent people.

It can hopefully get rid of your headaches, at the very least.

When you get to the address left on the note, Agatha’s car is already parked out front. You breathe a sigh of relief and the tension in your shoulders you didn’t know you were carrying seeps out. They’re here. They didn’t send you on a wild goose chase.

Your heart is beating so fast you think it might fly right out of your chest and you try to slow down your breathing before entering the viper’s nest.

There’s no telling what you might find in there, or what tricks they have up their sleeves, so you want to be mentally prepared.

When your breaths are finally under control, you get out of the car and immediately slip on ice. You crash down to the pavement with a thud and you struggle to get your bearings and

Snow.

Clearing in the woods.

The woman beckons you forward and you find her with two other women. Out of the three, there’s two brunettes and one with gray hair. The gray-haired one looks older, lines prominent on her angry face. She’s standing against a tree.

The two brunettes smile.

When you get closer, you can see that the gray-haired lady is standing in the middle of a big mound of sticks and branches.

Why doesn’t she just move?

The cold ground bleeds through your pants and brings you back to reality. The big mound of sticks and branches coupled with the fire you started seeing…was she on a pyre?

One thing at a time, you remind yourself, pushing yourself up with the help of the car next to you.

You silently slink up to the front door. It’s slightly open. You pause and press your ear to the wood, listening for anything that might indicate a struggle happening.

Nothing.

You push it all the way open and carefully step inside, wincing when the floorboard creaks under your foot. It’s so silent in the front corridor of the house that you think you can hear your blood rushing under your skin.

There’s flickering light coming from the living room and you make your way in that direction when you hear something. You strain your ears and stop against the wall to try and discern what it is – is that a smacking noise?

Are they kissing?

You dare to peek around the corner and yes, not really to your surprise, Agatha and Rio are making out amidst a crime scene.

A dagger sits on the kitchen table next to a plate of the same cookies from their house, two purple azaleas, and two containers.

Two people, a man and a woman, are laying on the ground gasping for air. Their skin is getting tighter, shriveling, lines etching into their face as their cheeks hollow out.

Their chests are still intact though. Maybe they haven’t gotten to that step yet? Clearly Agatha and Rio have been sidetracked.

You should go help them. You should go in there and save their lives, you should stop The Witch and Lady Death. Why do you feel so hot? You must have a fever, there’s no reason your body should be this warm.

But then you look in their direction and you’re enraptured, all other thoughts leaving your head.

The skeleton mask is thrown on the floor and the glow of the fireplace lights up Agatha and Rio trying to devour each other’s mouths.

A flush of heat stutters through your body as Rio reaches her arms around Agatha’s neck and tries to pull her even closer. Agatha’s hands are clasped on her wife’s cheeks and you can see her tongue sliding into Rio’s mouth. The electricity under your skin is back, roaring to life, while your eyes move from the people on the floor, taking their last breaths, to Agatha and Rio, still kissing like their lives depend on it, to the

Snow.

The clearing.

The sound of a match striking against the matchbox.

You watch it fall, almost as if in slow motion.

A brilliant blaze of fire erupts.

Agatha’s foot squeaks on the floor as she walks Rio backwards, mouth never leaving hers. Your fingers tighten around the gun so hard you think you might snap them. You should shoot them. You should shoot them both right here, right now.

But you can’t move.

You’re stuck, rooted to the same spot around the corner, watching as Agatha’s lips trail down Rio’s neck. The younger woman’s head drops back to give her wife more room and you can almost feel the pleasure she does.

“Agatha,” Rio whines and you never thought you would hear her beg. But the mighty therapist, the same woman who poisoned you after eating you out on your couch, is reduced to holding her wife’s hair so she doesn’t move away.

Your breath comes out in sync with Rio’s, like you’re imagining that you’re her instead of you, that you have Agatha pressed up against you instead of being pressed against a wall.

Rio’s fingers dig into Agatha’s thick locks and she switches positions, whirling Agatha around, and she takes control of the kiss. Your eyes are wide, rapt with attention, not daring to look away as Rio moves down to Agatha’s chest and rips her flannel open, revealing her pale chest and lacy black bra.

Your mouth waters and the ache, the same one you felt in the woods and in your motel room, the same one you feel whenever you’re around them, floods through you, settling right between your legs.

Rio nips at Agatha’s breast over the fabric, mouthing at her nipple, and you would kill to be with them. Agatha is watching her fondly, with heat in her eyes, and you think Rio must be looking up at her.

Now would be the perfect time to shoot, so why can’t you move?

Because you like this too much, your body answers for you. You have to tug at the neckline of your sweater as you feel too hot.

Rio kneels down, hands sliding up and down Agatha’s thighs while she sucks on the smooth expanse of her wife’s stomach. Your body is swimming with desire, it’s dizzying almost, and you think you need to cum soon or you might die.

Agatha gasps when Rio sinks her teeth into her skin roughly and then soothes the spot with her tongue. She reaches up, moves Agatha’s hair out of the way, and unclasps her bra and you feel a guttural moan form in your throat. You have to bite your lip hard so it doesn’t escape.

The pale skin of her chest is flushed red and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on her clavicle. Her nipples are a dusky rose color, pebbled and hard, and you want them in your mouth so fucking bad.

Rio surges up to do exactly that, tugging on them with her teeth, and Agatha groans, eyes fluttering shut.

Your brain finally forgets about shooting them, forgets about the fact that they’re serial killers at all, and you do possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life.

You put the gun into the waistband of your pants and you step out from behind the corner.

Agatha’s eyes fasten on to you immediately, but instead of looking surprised, she looks impatient. Like you should’ve been here thirty minutes ago.

“There’s our superstar,” she drawls, hands tangling in Rio’s hair, forcing her still. “What took you so long?”

You try to think of something to say, anything at all, perhaps a remark about how you caught them, when Rio rakes her eyes up and down your body and chuckles. “Look at her, Aggie. She didn’t just get here. She’s been watching.”

Agatha smirks in agreement. “I wonder what got her more hot and bothered, watching us” She nods to the surely dead couple on the ground. “-or watching them die.”

“You two are crazy,” you say, willing your hand to grab your gun, but it doesn’t obey. The heat in your voice betrays you, though.

Rio simpers, advancing toward you with Agatha in tow. You clench your teeth as they start circling you like sharks. “Want to know how we do it?” Rio purrs into your ear and you shudder.

“No,” you spit out, trying desperately hard to keep your eyes from darting down to Agatha’s breasts. She’s made no move to cover up. Her nipples are still hard.

“First,” the detective starts. “We lace the cookies with a delicate mix of hydrofluoric acid, acetone, isopropyl, and a few other things meant to just confuse test results. It slowly decomposes their body from the inside out and they’re dead within minutes.”

Rio moves your hair out of the way to press kisses to your neck and it sends goosebumps down your spine.

“And then,” Rio says right against your skin while Agatha’s hand slithers from your waist to your stomach up to around your throat. You can feel your pulse throb against her fingers. “I take my knife and carve out their hearts. The first cut is always the sweetest. After that, we use bleach to wash it away and hydrogen peroxide to eat away anything we left: blood, fingerprints, DNA.”

“Voila,” Agatha says, snapping her fingers that aren’t around your throat. You hate how wet you can feel yourself getting. “That’s how you get away with murder.”

Rio’s hands are on your hips now, squeezing in time with the hand on your throat. Your airway is constricted, you know you should be scared, but you meet Agatha’s blown-out pupils and are sure yours look the exact same.

The therapist finds your gun and disarms you. “Or in your case,” she says right into your ear, jabbing the muzzle into your back. “You just lure them into the woods while you’re unconscious and slit their femoral arteries.”

All the air leaves your lungs, both from their proximity and your own weapon being used against you.

“Get on your knees,” Agatha orders, letting go of your throat so you can immediately drop down.

Your knees hit the ground hard, but you barely even register the pain, looking up at them eagerly to await what’s next.

Rio slowly walks around until she’s standing next to Agatha and tucks the gun under your chin, forcing it up even more. “Look at how much she’s getting off on this,” she says in a hushed voice. The air between the three of you is thick with tension, the dead bodies only a few yards away completely forgotten.

“You’re capable of so much more than just being a profiler,” Agatha says wistfully, stroking your hair with some sort of affection. “You can be so much more.”

Snow.

The match drops.

Fire.

The gray-haired lady screams.

You’re running through the woods. Are you being chased?

There’s a crack as your head hits the ground.

“What did you do to me?” You ask, voice breaking. “What did you do to that woman?”

Rio drags the gun up the side of your face, traces your cheekbones, and then presses it to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darts out to flick at the cold metal, and both their eyes flash. “You still don’t remember everything?” Rio asks.

“I remember that you killed her, and it fucked me up,” you tell them, voice level as it’s finally making sense to you. “I found you two in the woods. You burned her, and then what? You tried to kill the ten year old who saw it? And this is — what? Your way of finally tying up all those loose ends?”

Agatha snorts and Rio scoffs.

“Look at our superstar, thinking she knows everything. We don’t want to kill you,” Agatha says, rolling her eyes. Rio takes the gun away from your mouth and tosses it onto the couch.

Your gaze flicks between them, not sure who to look at. “What do you want then?”

Agatha winds her fingers through your hair and yanks you off your knees, dragging you in for a kiss, biting your bottom lip hard. A metallic taste fills your mouth and it only makes you hungrier, so you open your mouth and shove your tongue into her hot and waiting mouth.

You feel Rio’s body pressing against your back and her hand delves under your waistband to cup you over your soaking underwear. Your hips involuntarily jolt at the contact and you moan, but it’s swallowed up by Agatha’s lips.

The detective pulls your shirt over your head as Rio pushes your underwear to the side and lazily spreads your wetness around your cunt.

There’s a tugging in your gut, a burning, aching, guttural tugging that is going to be the death of you. Electricity skates through your veins, lighting up your blood and setting it to a boil.

You’ve never felt so hot in your life.

Agatha’s lips on your neck do little to quench your thirst for more and Rio shoves two fingers into you with no warning and a gasp tears its way out of you. Agatha bites on your collarbone as Rio twists her fingers and you groan loudly.

“She loves this, Rio,” Agatha says like you aren’t even there. Rio whimpers and curls her fingers, her other hand snaking around to grab Agatha’s throat. The older woman’s breath hitches as she kisses along your bra, tasting the perspiration on your cleavage.

Rio’s fingers inside you and Agatha’s mouth now sucking on your nipples, having pushed your bra down, somehow isn’t enough.

You need to feel them.

Your hands find Agatha’s breasts, kneading them and pulling on her nipples. She makes a noise against your skin and it only sears you more. You slide your fingers down her stomach, over the red marks from Rio’s mouth, and dip them into her pants.

She’s just as wet as you are, and you gingerly rub her clit, gathering wetness from her entrance and bringing it back up to swirl at her. She pants hotly against your skin and you can feel her hand creep behind you to Rio, who has set a slow pace inside you.

“Aggie,” Rio breathes and bites down onto the back of your shoulder. Agatha chuckles breathlessly and you’re able to twist your head just enough to see Agatha’s hands down the therapist’s pants too.

It makes you clench around Rio’s fingers. You’re all being fucked, and fucking someone, and you can feel Agatha’s wetness the same way Rio is feeling yours, the same way Agatha is feeling her wife’s.

You slide your middle finger into Agatha, groaning when her walls flutter around you. Rio squeezes a third finger into you and you keen at the stretch, but then she starts fucking roughly and it’s everything you need and more.

Her thumb swipes at your clit and you try to time your thrusts into Agatha with Rio’s into you.

Rio’s teeth find your shoulder blade again and dig in, and the pain just makes your body feel even more alive.

You’ve never felt like this before. The intensity is tenfold what anyone else has ever given you.

Your ring finger joins your middle and Agatha nips at the curvature of your breasts. Your free hand palms hers and you roll her nipple, enjoying the way she gets tighter around you. Rio plays with her wife’s other boob, and you don’t think you could move a muscle either way because the two women are wrapped so firmly around your body, holding you in place in the middle.

But that’s nothing new. You’ve been intertwined with them since you’ve gotten here, maybe even almost your whole life.

Agatha’s lips capture yours and you can feel her muscles in her arm strain against your bicep. You curl your fingers and find the spongy spot that pulls a resounding gasp from her mouth right into yours. Rio pauses, pulls out, and when she presses back at your entrance, your head almost falls back when you feel four fingers posed.

The detective seems to know because she chuckles against your lips, sucks on your tongue.

And then she pulls away as Rio plunges four fingers into you, the stretch burning. But the pain gives way to even more pleasure and when she twists them upward, you almost cum.

“I’m so close,” you moan and Agatha leans behind you and out of the corner of your eye, you see her kissing Rio. And then Rio pulls your head back by your hair and her mouth is on yours and then there’s a flurry of tongue and teeth and lips and you don’t even know who you’re kissing but it’s someone and it’s so good and you’re about to —

— Rio’s fingers stop inside you and you whine, frantically rolling your hips. Your fingers are still pumping at a steady rhythm inside Agatha and you can feel by the movement in her arm that she’s still fucking Rio.

“Why did you become a profiler?” Rio asks into your ear. “Tell us and we’ll let you cum.” Her thumb brushes against your clit and you’re so sensitive, you think you might be able to cum anyways with that and the fullness.

“You guys…you killed her so I wanted to know why you did, how you could,” you choke out and Agatha peppers kisses all over your chest. The livewire in your body is about to snap.

Rio gives you one harsh thrust and you almost sob. “Try again,” she orders.

Tears prick in your eyes and your fingers falter inside Agatha. You can hear Rio’s breaths becoming shorter and shallower, indicating how close she is. Agatha’s eyes dart from your dark pupils to your swollen lips. She’s still holding onto her composure, better than you and her wife are at least, but you can tell she’s on the edge.

“I don’t know,” you say, but is that the truth?

The thrumming in your head comes back, like a memory knocking on your brain, asking to be let in.

You give in.

Snow.

The clearing.

The three women: two brunettes and one with gray hair.

You can now see that the gray-haired lady is tied to the tree.

The sound of a match on the matchbox.

The match is flicked onto the sticks by someone, igniting the stake and a brilliant blaze of fire erupts.

Who set the fire?

Your eyes snap open, the entire block in your mind gone and the memories flood through your head.

“I wanted to understand why I did it,” you gasp and you know that you finally got it right when Rio starts fucking you with a renowned vigor.

It takes no time at all before you cum explosively all over her hand and the two of them follow shortly after. The feeling of Agatha orgasming around your hand triggers another one in you and you cling to both of them while you come down from the most intense high of your life.

They soothe you, whisper sweet nothings, press kisses all over your face, and you wince when Rio pulls her four fingers out of you, the emptiness filling you.

You start to shake and you don’t realize you’re sobbing until they’re kissing your lips and you can taste the saltiness from your cheeks.

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Agatha says, and they wrap their arms around you, holding you and letting you cry. “We got you. We’re not letting you go.”

You sniff and lean into their embrace, feeling whole for the first time in your life.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #agatha x rio #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal x reader #rio x reader #agathario x reader #agathario #rio vidal smut

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sillymercury · 7 hours ago

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In the first tags it says most movies/books are not meant to be torn apart but I disagree completely. In fact I think most books/movies are made to dissected and understood on a deeper level. Because whether you like it or not and whether the author meant to or not, books/movies have themes and messages and many people enjoy finding them.

I don’t think it smart to write something(esp things so popular) off as mindless entertainment bc your being fed a message even if you don’t know it. There is nothing wrong with enjoying a book despite whatever message is being sent but when you blatantly ignoring the fact that these things exist is how propaganda propagates. If you are being intentionally fed a narrative without knowing you are likely to internalize it on some level which can be particularly dangerous. The danger presents itself abundantly in this day and age especially when you see people who have such hard stances but cant tell you/explain where those stances originate. Sns thrives off of the want to ‘turn your mind off’ and just consume/enjoy, but that’s never what actually happens. Your subconscious is still processing information but since you’re not consciously dealing with it that leaves room for issues like anxiety, depression, and personality disorder. This seems off topic but ‘mindless consumption’ isn’t a thing, your brain keeps score even when you don’t.

Also a book can have multiple “messages” and you can like some and not the others while still enjoying the piece overall. When I truly love a piece of media I acknowledge is flaws and shortcomings and can see the issues with a story/message while still enjoying it thoroughly. An example for me is I enjoyed the book The Picture of Dorian Gray while recognizing and rejecting the way the characters/book discusses and depicts women.

Like in Nestas book specifically, the main themes are empowerment (specifically female) and growth. This book was my favorite in the series and yet I can still acknowledge all the things wrong with it. Main character were incredibly hypocritical throughout the book, verbal abuse was seemingly over looked/excused, Stockholm syndrome parallels, etc. I identify these things but that still doesn’t detract from my experience instead, adds to it.

Another thing I wanted to mention before bringing this to a close; authors. For the sake of not rambling due to personal feelings I’ll just say, there is nothing wrong with calling out behavior or publicly disagreeing with ideals when it come to public figures. How it’s handled, whether it works, or it’s longevity is a different conversation but there is nothing wrong with speaking out against people in the public eye/people who create mass consumed media.

I understand your take, and I agree people take things way to seriously, but I think your frustration may be displaced. I think the issue with ACOTAR fandom specifically is the same issue with most fandoms. People are delusional, mean, and spoiled. People identify to hard or personalize characters/celebs to the point it becomes an parasocial and problematic. People are also very spoiled in the sense that we feel entitled to the things we want, like we deserve them intrinsically and when there is the threat of not getting what you want (esp is fandoms when discussing this almost mob mentality) or someone challenges your belief/opinion people lash out and get nasty, even feeling personally wronged but a differing stance. When you bring all of these things together it can get nasty very quickly. I’ve been and am still in so many fandoms that I hardly interact with because so much content is toxic or rage bait or whatever. Platforms like Reddit or discord where you can have controlled conversation with a group of people just as dedicated to a topic as you, and you can discuss thoughts and opinions in (what should be) a safe space is an incredible experience but most platforms don’t have moderation that can harbor that so then your left with a mess of often times toxicity and division.

I rambled and diverged a little bit but I thought hard about what I had read and this is what I came up with. Also I feel I should say I’m not a lit major lol but I am educated and I work hard to form my own opinions while still listening to other people takes. And that this is not an attack on op this is pretty much my stream of consciousness after reading the post and I am open to discussion.

my hot take as to why the acotar fandom is a shit show is because too many people with english degrees infiltrated and cannot read a book simply to enjoy it, they must pick it apart and analyze it to the point of just tearing it, the characters and the author apart. and gullible people adopted that same mindset.

in simpler terms: too many people take it way, WAY too seriously lol. like this series is meant for entertainment. sarah didn’t write classic literature with underlying themes on morals and society that’s meant as think pieces. y’all do too much and can never just enjoy things. you’re like the cinephiles that cannot just watch a movie for entertainment purposes, you need citizen kane otherwise you’re shitting on everything because it’s not up to your snobbish standards

#ACOTAR #acotar fandom #acotar fanfic #acotar fanart #elriel #elucien #gwynriel #anti inner circle #pro inner circle #books and reading #booklr #media consumption #fandom drama #fandom discourse #sarah j maas #jk rowling #stephanie meyer

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cheshireliam · 1 day ago

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"Wrapped in Wicked Romance" Story Event: Chapter 2

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

(Now… I wonder what I should talk to Ring about.)

(... Huh?)

While I was trying to think of a conversation starter, I realised that Ring was already way ahead of me.

Kate: Ring! Wait up!

Ring: !? Why are you so far behind…?

I hurriedly chased after him and he rushed back toward me.

We met halfway and started walking side by side again.

Kate: Perhaps my strides aren’t as long as yours. I’ll try to keep up.

Ring: No, I should’ve slowed down to match your pace. … My bad.

Ring: A-anyway, you can hold onto my arm.

Kate: Thank you.

Ring: Actually… I wanted to have you hold my arm back at the meeting point.

Kate: Was that during your sudden warm-up session just now?

Ring: Yeah. … I should've let you hold my arm earlier if I knew you were going to be left behind.

Ring: I’m not good at acting like a lover at all. Even if it's Dari’s orders…

Kate: Neither of us are acting the part right now, so don’t let it bother you.

Kate: Is there anything else you wanted to say but couldn't?

Ring: There is. It’s about… your outfit.

Ring: “I love your outfit today. It suits the little robin very well”.

Ring: “Where did you get that bracelet? I want to get a matching one”.

Kate: Huh…?

Ring: “The design around the collar is fun. It really looks like your kind of thing. Also—”...

Kate: Um… are those your own words?

I couldn't help but interrupt when Ring, who had been acting awkward the whole time, suddenly started complimenting me so smoothly that it felt unnatural.

Ring: … Y-you’re sharp. As expected from a member of Crown… you’re dangerous.

(It’s not that I’m sharp, it’s that Ring’s behaviour is so obviously unnatural…)

Ring: Actually… I had Nica teach me some words to compliment you, so that I can do a better job at pretending to be your lover.

Kate: So that’s what happened…! I’m happy you prepared yourself in advance, but…

Ring: “But”?

Kate: I’d much rather hear you use your own words, Ring.

Kate: Do you usually compliment your lover using words someone else said?

Ring: N-no, I don't… I-I think.

Ring: A-anyway, give me a moment while I think of the words to compliment you.

Kate: … You don't have to force yourself to compliment me if nothing comes to mine, okay?

Ring: No, I really do think your outfit looks nice, it's just… umm…

He took my comment about wanting to hear him use his own words seriously and struggled to respond.

I couldn't help but find it endearing that he was trying so hard…

(You can do it…!)

I silently cheered him on in my heart.

Ring: Your outfit today looks… frilly and soft… I-I think it’s c-cute.

Ring: It reminds me of a purple Hardenbergia flower… the subdued color is comforting to look at.

The words he finally managed to string together sounded hesitant and awkward, but they struck me deeper than any borrowed praises could ever.

Kate: I never would've thought of comparing the colour of my clothes to Hardenbergia flowers! It makes me so happy to hear that.

Ring: …! I-I see… that's good to know.

Kate: You must know a lot about flowers, don’t you?

Ring: Y-yeah… I probably know more about flowers than most other things.

Kate: There are some flower beds on the way to The Scala.

Kate: If you don't mind, could you tell me what flowers they are?

Ring: … If I can identify them.

…

And so, on our way to The Scala, Ring taught me about the flowers blooming along the road…

Thanks to that, his nervousness seemed to have eased significantly by the time we reached Piccadilly.

Ring: … It’s about time for the play to start. We made it just in time.

Kate: You’re right! The Scala is right up ahead. Let’s go.

(... He’s still a little awkward, but I feel that he’s conversing more naturally now as compared to this morning.)

Even Ring was wary of me and said some disturbing things earlier on…

He was an honest, upright person who was willing to listen to what I had to say.

That honestly was likely the reason why I could freely interact with him without feeling on edge myself.

(I’m looking forward to watching the play. I wonder what kind of reactions Ring will have.)

(... Huh?)

Ring: … Why did you suddenly stop? Is something wrong?

Kate: P-pardon me. There’s something I want to verify… you come too, Ring!

I grabbed Ring’s arm and led him toward an alley in the opposite direction of The Scala.

…

Ring: … What business do you have in an alley like this?

Kate: There’s been a rise in child abduction cases in the area lately, and I thought I saw someone resembling the suspect on the run…

Kate: Ah… it’s him!

I lowered my voice and pointed at a man lurking in the shadows of the alley.

Kate: There’s a chance I got the wrong person, so I’m going to act casual and try to get information out of him—

While I was explaining the situation to Ring, a young girl wandered into the alley, perhaps by accident.

At that moment, the man made a move.

(Ah…!)

He crept up behind the girl and covered her mouth with a piece of cloth he had in his hand. It seemed to have been laced with some sort of drug.

The girl fell unconscious, and the man skillfully stuffed her into a bag before attempting to flee the scene.

Kate: Ring, let’s go after him!

Ring: … No, we need to report this to Dari and have him make a decision first.

Kate: What…? B-but there's a kidnapping happening right in front of our faces! We must act now!

Ring: I was ordered to only ensure you return to the castle safely today. Any actions taken beyond that are prohibited.

Ring: Getting involved in strange situations would be going against Dari’s orders.

Ring: I understand that you want to help, but we should only act after reporting to Dari.

(How can he say such things when a serious crime is being committed right under our noses…?)

Just a couple of minutes ago, I concluded that Ring was an honest and upright person that would never tell a lie.

But it was precisely because of that, I instantly knew that his words right now weren’t lies.

In other words… Ring had no intention of stopping the crime from happening at all.

Ring Schwartz, the person I thought I was starting to understand, became a complete stranger to me once more.

Kate: … F-fine. Then I’ll go after that criminal MYSELF!

Ring: H-hey…!

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikevil translations #otome #ikevil story event #ring schwartz

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niallerspayno · 2 days ago

Text

Black and White - Part 3

Masterlist

As One Direction’s hair and makeup artist, you’ve always had a flirty friendship with Niall. But one wild night in Las Vegas changes everything when you wake up married—and management insists you stay that way. Will you keep hiding your feelings, or finally admit there’s more than friendship between you?

Tags: Niall x reader, friends to lovers, forced proximity, fluff

Part 1 | Part 2

...

The day unfolds in a blur, and you do your best to avoid Niall. It’s not that you don’t want to see him—it’s that you’re scared of what might happen when you do. The morning’s kiss lingers in your mind like a ghost, haunting you with its sweetness and the vulnerability it demanded.

You stick to the crew, throwing yourself into the tasks of the day: managing schedules, prepping supplies, and assisting with the stage setup. Every time you catch sight of Niall, he’s looking for you. His eyes scan the room with a focus that makes your heart race, but you always manage to duck behind someone or slip out of sight.

Niall, however, isn’t making it easy.

When lunch is delivered, you find your favorite sandwich waiting for you at the catering table with a small note in Niall’s handwriting: Don’t forget to eat, love. -N.

Your cheeks burn, and though you try to ignore the flutter in your chest, you find yourself clutching the note tighter than you should.

Later, during the soundcheck, you linger in the shadows at the side of the stage, watching the boys run through their songs. Niall’s voice rings clear and confident, his presence on stage magnetic as always. But between verses, he glances toward where you’re standing. His eyes meet yours, and the smile that spreads across his face is enough to make you duck your head and retreat further into the wings.

By the time the concert rolls around, you’re emotionally exhausted from dodging him all day. You station yourself behind the mixing desk, far from the stage where Niall’s charm feels almost weaponized against you.

But you can’t avoid him forever.

Midway through the set, Niall’s voice comes through the speakers, quiet but purposeful. “Alright, this next one’s special.”

The crowd cheers wildly, and Niall steps closer to the mic, his guitar hanging loosely around his neck. “I want to dedicate this song to someone who’s been with me through thick and thin. She’s smart, funny, and way too good at avoiding me, but I think she knows how much she means to me.”

Your heart stops.

Liam shoots you a knowing smile from his spot on stage, and Louis, ever the instigator, points right in your direction. The fans pick up on it immediately, and a wave of cheers and screams ripple through the arena.

Niall chuckles, his eyes locking with yours across the distance. “This one’s for you, love,” he says, his voice low and earnest.

As the opening chords of Little Things fill the air, your chest tightens. Every lyric feels like a confession, a quiet declaration of everything he hasn’t yet said out loud. Tears sting your eyes, and you turn away, suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment shared with thousands of strangers watching.

When the concert ends, you slip out before Niall can corner you. But back at the hotel, you know you can’t avoid him forever.

...

Back at the hotel, you pace outside the door to your shared room with Niall, your heart pounding in your chest. You can’t face him, not after the dedication, not after dodging him all day. The sincerity in his voice, the way his eyes had found yours even among the chaos of the crowd—it was too much.

Without thinking, you turn on your heel and make your way down the hall to Lottie’s room. She opens the door almost immediately, her brows furrowing in concern when she sees your face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, stepping aside to let you in.

“I can’t…” you begin, your voice cracking as you slump onto the edge of her bed. “I can’t stay in that room with him tonight.”

Lottie closes the door and crosses her arms, leaning against the wall. “Why not?”

You bury your face in your hands, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Because I’m a mess, Lottie. He’s… perfect, and I’m…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Lottie says sharply, moving to sit beside you. She places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You need to stop tearing yourself down like this.”

You shake your head, unable to meet her gaze. “You don’t understand. Niall deserves someone who—”

“Stop,” Lottie interrupts, her tone firm but kind. “What Niall deserves is someone who makes him happy. And that’s you. You’re so caught up in your insecurities that you can’t see how much he loves you.”

Your stomach twists, her words hitting too close to home. “He doesn’t love me,” you mumble, though the words feel hollow even as you say them.

Lottie scoffs, standing up and pacing the small space. “Oh, come on. You heard him tonight. He dedicated Little Things to you. Do you think he does that for just anyone?”

“He was just trying to—”

“To what?” Lottie cuts in, turning to face you. “Embarrass you? Show off? No, he was trying to tell you how he feels because you’re too stubborn to listen when he says it outright.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands twisting in your lap. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Lottie says softly, sitting back down and taking your hands in hers. “You’re the one making it complicated.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes on the bedside table. You glance at the screen, your heart skipping a beat when you see Niall’s name.

Goodnight, love. Wherever you are, I hope you’re okay. I’m here when you’re ready to talk.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the message. The simplicity of his words, the patience and care behind them, is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

Lottie leans over, reading the message, and lets out a soft sigh. “See? He’s not giving up on you. And you shouldn’t give up on him—or yourself.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling in your chest. “I just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” Lottie says firmly. “And you will. But maybe you need to stop running long enough to let him show you how much he cares.”

As you lay down on Lottie’s spare bed that night, Niall’s message still glowing on your screen, you can’t help but wonder if she’s right.

...

The soft morning light filters through the curtains, and you stir awake in Lottie’s room, stretching against the unfamiliar sheets. A glance at the bedside table reveals your phone buzzing incessantly with notifications.

Groaning, you reach for it, only to see your lock screen flooded with mentions and retweets. Your stomach twists with unease as you swipe to unlock it.

Your heart sinks as you spot the culprit: Lottie’s tweet, sitting proudly at the top of your feed.

“Couldn’t be happier for these two❤️ Congrats to Mr. & Mrs. Horan! 🥂 #CoupleGoals”

Beneath the caption is a photo. You blink in surprise when you realize it’s from months ago—a candid of you working on Niall’s hair in the dressing room. You’re mid-concentration, a comb in one hand and a bottle of spray in the other, while Niall sits relaxed in the chair. But it’s not the act of you doing his hair that catches your attention—it’s the way Niall is looking at you.

His blue eyes are soft and adoring, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips, as though you’re the only person in the world. The sheer intensity of the expression makes your breath hitch.

“Lottie!” you exclaim, sitting up abruptly.

She groans from her bed, half-buried in pillows. “What?”

“This,” you say, holding up your phone. “What the hell is this?”

She cracks an eye open, smirking when she sees the screen. “Oh, that? Just a little public service announcement.”

You glare at her, your face heating. “A public announcement? Lottie, this is—”

“Beautiful,” she interrupts, sitting up and stretching. “It’s beautiful, and so is the way he looks at you in that photo. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Your protests falter as you glance at the picture again. The comments are filled with excitement and positivity:

“They’re so cute together!” “Honestly, this is the most wholesome thing I’ve seen all day.” “Niall looks like he’s totally smitten.”

A lump forms in your throat when you see that Harry has retweeted it with, “Finally. #TeamNiallAndY/N” Liam’s retweet simply reads, “Told you it was true love.”

Even Zayn, who rarely gets involved, has chimed in with a single heart emoji comment.

Your heart aches as you lower the phone, the reality of the situation settling heavily on your chest.

“I thought you wanted people to think the marriage is real,” Lottie teases, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

“This isn’t about that,” you mumble, clutching the phone.

“No,” she agrees, her tone softening. “This is about you finally realizing that maybe the rest of us aren’t crazy for thinking you two are perfect for each other.”

You don’t respond, staring down at the photo again. The way Niall looks at you is overwhelming, like he sees something in you that you can’t bring yourself to see in yourself.

“Do you hate it?” Lottie asks gently.

You shake your head slowly, your thumb brushing against the screen. “No. I don’t hate it.”

“Good,” she says with a smile. “Because neither does Niall.”

Your chest tightens as her words sink in, and for the first time, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s right about you being enough.

The room feels quieter than usual as you gather your things from Lottie’s bed, trying to ignore the way your heart is fluttering at the thought of Niall. You’re grateful for the space you’ve had overnight, but now that it’s time to pack, you can’t help but feel the weight of the conversation still hanging between you. It’s been a difficult few days, but the photo Lottie posted earlier has somehow shifted something inside you. You can’t put your finger on it yet, but something feels different.

You take a deep breath and finish packing your bag, taking your time so you don’t have to face Niall just yet. You know you can’t keep avoiding him, but part of you is terrified of what will happen when you do finally face him.

When you walk into the hallway, you spot Niall just outside the door to your shared room. He’s standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, looking down at his phone. His hair is messy, as if he’s just woken up, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as soon as he spots you.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice warm and a little too hopeful for your liking. You feel your heart race, and you can tell he’s trying so hard to close the distance that’s been between you these past few days.

“Hey,” you reply quietly, avoiding his gaze as you make your way past him to the elevator. You feel the subtle pull of his presence, and though you don’t look at him, you can sense how close he’s standing.

He catches up to you before you can escape, placing a hand gently on your arm. “Listen, I wanted to talk,” he begins, but you cut him off before he can say anything more.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, still avoiding his eyes. “Just… let me get to the airport.”

Niall looks at you for a moment, his hand lingering on your arm as if he’s searching for something in your eyes. Then, with a deep sigh, he lets go and nods, his voice quieter than usual. “Okay, yeah. I just… I’m glad you’re back with us today.” He hesitates, as if trying to find the right words. “You’re coming with me and the boys on the jet today, by the way.”

You pause mid-step, confused. “What? I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, smiling at the disbelief in your voice. “You’re flying with us. This time, it’s not commercial. I’ve been thinking about it, and I just… I want you around. I’m tired of not being able to see you.”

You blink, trying to process the change. You’ve always flown commercial with the crew, a quiet observer of the chaos that comes with touring. But now? Now, Niall’s pulling you into his world—his world with the boys, a private jet, and the kind of attention you’d never expected.

“I—Niall, I didn’t expect—”

He cuts you off with a gentle grin. “I know. But I’ve missed you, and I figured you deserved a little upgrade. You’ve been working so hard, and I just want you to be a part of everything. I don’t want you to be so far away.”

The sincerity in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “Niall, you don’t have to do this,” you say softly, still unsure of your place in all of this.

But Niall shakes his head. “I want to. I need you there, Y/N. You’ve been an important part of all of this for so long, and I don’t want to make you feel like an outsider.”

You’re caught in the warmth of his words, the weight of his care settling around you like a blanket. You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you nod, and that’s enough for Niall.

“Great,” he says, his smile widening. “It’s settled, then. I’m just happy you’ll be with us.”

He steps closer, brushing a hand over your shoulder briefly. The touch is gentle, filled with a tenderness that leaves you breathless. Niall’s always been this way—open, kind, and unafraid to show you how much you mean to him. But the way you’ve been pulling away has left a gap that you’re not sure how to close.

“Ready for the flight?” he asks as you walk together toward the door. “We’re gonna have a blast.”

You nod, but you can’t help the swirling uncertainty that still tugs at your insides. You know Niall’s trying to break down your walls, but your fears still hold you back. He may be right about how much he cares, but you’re still struggling to believe that you deserve it.

...

The private jet hums softly, the engines a steady purr beneath the gentle chatter of the boys. You sit next to Niall, the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours as he gently rubs soothing circles over your knuckles. The soft pressure of his touch helps ease some of the tension in your shoulders, though you still feel the storm brewing inside.

The boys are scattered around the cabin, talking easily amongst themselves. Harry and Liam are in the seats across from you, joking around with Zayn, who’s sitting by the window with his headphones on, looking like he’s trying to shut out the noise. Paul, ever the calming presence, is chatting with Louis at the back, but you can tell he’s observing everything with a quiet, watchful eye.

Even with all the noise and chaos of the tour life, it’s peaceful here. The small, intimate setting of the jet feels like a little world unto itself, one where it’s just you and them, removed from the constant spotlight. And for the first time in days, you let yourself breathe a little easier, the weight of everyone’s teasing and attention putting you at ease.

Liam, leans over and gives you a teasing smile. “So, is it official yet? You two going public or are we still keeping the mystery alive?” he says, his eyes flicking between you and Niall.

“Lottie already let the cat out of the bag,” Zayn adds with a smirk, nodding toward his phone. “Her tweet’s all over the place now. I’m surprised you two didn’t already do the big reveal.”

You look down at your hands, your stomach flipping. The tweet. The photo of you and Niall from months ago, when you were working on his hair in the dressing room, and the way Niall was looking at you in that moment… like you were the only person in the world. The comments were all filled with warmth and support, even from the boys. Still, you felt exposed, like something too private had slipped out into the world too soon.

Niall’s thumb traces your skin gently, grounding you in the present. “You okay?” he asks softly, his voice filled with concern as he notices your discomfort.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, trying to push away the unease, “just... a lot to take in.”

Harry leans forward, grinning. “The fans are loving it though. Lottie’s tweet got so many likes, it’s almost like she’s made you two official.”

“You two are the worst,” you mutter, giving them a small smile, though the teasing only heightens the feeling of everything being just a bit too real.

Niall chuckles beside you, but there’s a softness in his gaze when he meets your eyes. “I don’t care about the fans, love,” he says gently, his hand squeezing yours. “I just care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache, but you can’t bring yourself to respond right away. Instead, you turn your head toward the window, trying to find something to focus on outside, anything to distract yourself from the weight of his words.

After a few minutes, Niall shifts a little, his voice low and a little hesitant. “I miss us,” he says quietly. “I miss the way we used to joke around, you know? You always kept me on my toes, and now... I feel like you’re pulling away.”

His words are like a gentle tug at your heart. You glance at him, meeting his blue eyes that are full of warmth but also a trace of concern. “I’m not pulling away,” you whisper, though even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to handle everything now that it’s... real.”

Niall leans in closer, his hand still holding yours. “What do you mean by that?”

You swallow, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. You’re afraid to say it out loud, but the words spill from your lips before you can stop them. “It feels like... we’ve crossed a line, Niall. It’s not just fun and games anymore. It’s real. And I’m scared.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just holds you in that steady gaze, his thumb continuing to trace circles on your skin as if he’s trying to calm the whirlwind inside of you.

“It’s always been real for me,” he says quietly. “But I get it. Things change when you stop pretending, when you stop playing around. But just ‘cause it’s real doesn’t mean it’s something to be afraid of. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

You close your eyes, the warmth of his words sinking into you like a balm. You want to believe him, really, you do. But all the doubts that have plagued you still linger, and you’re not sure how to let them go.

The conversation is interrupted when Louis, who’s been watching the two of you with a mischievous grin, pipes up from the back. “I still don’t get why you two are so quiet. Just kiss already, for God’s sake. You’re making me uncomfortable!”

The boys all laugh, and even you can’t help but chuckle, though the laughter feels a little strained.

Niall grins at Louis, “You’re incorrigible,” he mutters, but his hand squeezes yours again, bringing you back to the quiet, intimate moment you’re sharing with him.

As the plane begins its descent, you find yourself looking at Niall in a new light—still scared, still unsure, but also hopeful in a way you haven’t been in a long time.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to take a step forward.

...

The dressing room is buzzing with the usual chaos as the boys get ready for the night’s performance. Lottie is finishing up Liam’s hair while Harry cracks jokes with Zayn about their latest tour antics, and Louis pretends to choreograph a full-on dance routine in the corner. The atmosphere is lighthearted, the easy camaraderie that’s always existed between you, Lottie, and the boys filling the air once again.

You're moving between them, carefully applying makeup, adjusting hair, and adding finishing touches to their outfits. Your hands feel steady as you work, but you can’t ignore how much it means to be surrounded by all this laughter and warmth. Things feel more normal now, the distance between you and Niall beginning to melt away. You find yourself joking along with the boys, teasing them like you used to, and for the first time in what feels like ages, your heart feels lighter.

“I’m telling you, Louis,” you tease, “you’ve got the best moves out of anyone here. But, you know, the world’s not ready for all that talent just yet.”

Louis strikes a ridiculous pose, causing the entire room to burst into laughter. "You're just jealous,” he jokes, putting on an exaggerated pout.

You roll your eyes, and Zayn smirks, chiming in, “Someone better tell Louis he can’t dance in the front row during the show. It’s too distracting.”

The playful teasing continues, and in the middle of the laughter, Niall suddenly catches your eye from across the room. He’s sitting in the makeup chair, a content smile tugging at his lips as he watches the chaos around him.

You glance at him, a small smile of your own creeping up as you go back to touching up Harry’s hair. Niall’s expression softens, his eyes warming as he catches your gaze, the fondness in them unmistakable. You know the moment he speaks, his words will be full of that open, heartfelt honesty he’s always had.

“Oi,” Niall calls from his seat, his voice light but full of affection. “When are you gonna stop making everyone else look so good and give me some attention, eh? You’ve already got half of us looking like movie stars.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Someone’s feeling a little too confident today.”

Before you can say anything else, he pats the chair next to him. “Come here,” he says, but instead of waiting for you to sit, he reaches out, gently pulling you into his lap. It’s so natural, so easy, and you can’t help but melt into the warmth of his embrace. “I missed you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and you feel a rush of emotions you’ve been trying to avoid. You've been putting distance between you, but here he is—pulling you into his arms, not letting you pull away.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to respond, but then you give in, leaning in to kiss him softly on the cheek. It's quick, but the tenderness of the moment makes your heart flutter.

“You alright?” Niall asks, his blue eyes locking onto yours. His voice is quiet, like he’s afraid to push you too much.

You nod quickly, offering a faint smile. “Yeah, just... it’s been a long day, you know?”

He nods in understanding, his hand resting lightly on your waist, keeping you close. For a moment, the noise and chaos of the room fade away, and it’s just the two of you in the space between the teasing and laughter.

Louis, noticing the exchange, gives you a mischievous grin, waggling his eyebrows. “Aww, look at that. Mrs. Horan making Niall blush,” he teases, causing everyone to pause and look your way.

Your breath catches, your cheeks flushing at the playful remark. But there’s no malice in it—just warmth, just lighthearted teasing. And you can’t help but smile, even though the idea of being “Mrs. Horan” feels foreign and suddenly so real.

“Stop it,” you mutter, feeling your heart race. “We’re just friends.”

Niall, ever open with his feelings, flashes you a playful grin and says, “Not for long, Mrs. Horan. You’ll see.”

The room bursts into laughter, but it's not mocking—it’s full of warmth and affection. The teasing doesn’t bother you, not anymore. For the first time, you let yourself enjoy the moment, the connection you share with Niall and the boys.

As the laughter dies down, Niall gets up to leave with the others, already heading toward the stage. Before he goes, he pulls you into a tight hug, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. His voice is low and sincere as he whispers, “See you out there. I’ll be looking for you.”

You watch him walk away, your hand instinctively going to the spot where his lips lingered, and your heart skips a beat. You’re not sure what the future holds, but for the first time in a long while, you feel hopeful.

Lottie catches your eye from across the room, a knowing smirk on her face. “You two,” she says softly, teasingly. “It’s so obvious, you know?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays the way your heart is fluttering. “Not a word,” you warn, though deep down, you’re starting to accept what’s been right in front of you all along.

...

The concert has ended, and the buzz of excitement is still thick in the air as everyone begins packing up. Roadies move efficiently, coiling wires and dismantling equipment, while the rest of the boys joke around and take selfies with crew members. You hang back near the edge of the stage, watching the scene unfold with a soft smile.

“You alright there, love?” Niall’s voice cuts through the hum of activity, gentle and warm.

You turn to find him standing a few feet away, his guitar slung casually over his shoulder. There’s something easy in his posture, like he belongs exactly where he is, but the glint in his eye is entirely focused on you.

“Yeah, just… soaking it all in,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“C’mere,” he says, nodding toward the center of the stage. “Stay with me for a bit.”

You hesitate, but the way he holds out his hand—steady, patient, and inviting—makes it impossible to say no. Slowly, you make your way toward him, your fingers brushing his as he helps you up onto the platform.

The stage feels vast and quiet now, the crowd long gone, the energy of the night lingering like a distant echo. Niall settles onto one of the stools left behind, patting the one beside him.

“Sit,” he says, his tone light but his eyes serious. “I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

You sit, curiosity flickering to life. “What are you up to, Horan?”

He grins, adjusting the guitar in his lap. “You’ll see.”

The first few chords are familiar, soft and aching, and as he begins to play, your heart skips a beat. It’s Irresistible.

His voice is low and smooth as he starts to sing, the words weaving through the air like a spell.

“Don’t try to make me stay, or ask if I’m okay

I don’t have the answer…”

There’s something different in the way he sings, something intimate, like each lyric is meant for you and no one else. You can’t help but watch him—his fingers dancing over the strings, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, the way his voice carries every ounce of emotion in his heart.

When he reaches the chorus, your breath catches.

“I find your lips so kissable

And your kiss unmissable

Your fingertips so touchable…”

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world feels impossibly small, just the two of you in this vast, empty space. The words seem to hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning, and you wonder if he’s trying to tell you something he can’t quite say out loud.

“Niall,” you murmur as the song fades, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sets the guitar aside, leaning forward just slightly, his blue eyes searching yours. “Yeah?”

“That was… beautiful.” You can feel your cheeks warming under his gaze.

He shrugs, but there’s a softness in his smile. “Felt like the right song to play.”

Your stomach twists in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “You sang that like it meant something,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Niall doesn’t hesitate. “It does.”

The silence that follows is electric, charged with all the things neither of you is saying but both of you are feeling. His hand moves, just a little, brushing against yours where it rests on your knee. The touch is light but deliberate, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’re irresistible, you know that?” he says softly, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart race.

You laugh nervously, trying to break the tension, but it doesn’t work. “You’re just saying that because I let you drag me up here.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And I think… you’re startin’ to believe it too.”

The vulnerability in his words is disarming, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to run from it. Instead, you let yourself lean into it, even just a little.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

Niall’s smile grows, and for a moment, you think he might close the distance between you. But instead, he just leans back, picking up his guitar again.

“Alright, love. Your turn,” he says, strumming a playful chord.

You raise an eyebrow. “My turn for what?”

“Tell me your favorite song, and I’ll play it for you. Consider it my way of keepin’ you here a bit longer.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but you can’t help the way your heart swells. As you sit there, watching him wait for your answer, you realize that maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind staying.

“You & I.” You respond.

Niall tilts his head at your request, his brows raising slightly. “You & I? Proper classic that, isn’t it?”

You nod, biting your lip. “It’s one of my favorites. Please?”

His smile softens, and without another word, he adjusts the guitar in his lap and begins to play the familiar opening notes. The sound is achingly beautiful, filling the quiet stage with a gentle melody that feels like it’s wrapping around you both.

His voice, smooth and rich, carries the lyrics effortlessly.

“I figured it out

I figured it out from black and white

Seconds and hours

Maybe they had to take some time…”

The way he sings feels personal, each word dripping with quiet emotion, as if he’s speaking to you and you alone. His eyes flick up to meet yours occasionally, and every time they do, it feels like the floor beneath you shifts.

The boys, who had been lingering further back on the stage, grow quiet. Louis leans against a stack of amps, his arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. Harry nudges Liam, who just shakes his head with a soft smile, while Zayn raises an eyebrow at the scene unfolding.

“Would you look at that,” Louis whispers, pulling his phone out silently.

The camera clicks, capturing the image of you perched on the stool beside Niall, your expression a mix of awe and affection as you watch him sing. Niall’s focus is entirely on you, the guitar cradled in his hands as the stage lights cast a golden glow around you both. Louis grins, opening Twitter.

“Look at these two. My heart can’t take it. 🎶💙 #YouAndI #UnmissableMoments”

He hits post, shoving his phone back into his pocket as the song builds to its crescendo.

“You and I

We don’t wanna be like them

We can make it ’til the end

Nothing can come between

You and I…”

Niall’s voice is steady, strong, yet tender, and you can feel the emotion swell in your chest. By the time he reaches the final note, the room feels heavy with unspoken words.

The applause is soft but heartfelt as the boys clap quietly in the background. Niall gives a small, bashful smile, his fingers still resting on the strings.

“Didn’t butcher it, did I?” he teases, his voice low, a hint of nervousness lacing the question.

You shake your head, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. “No. It was perfect.”

For a moment, you just look at him, the air thick with something unspoken. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest, and you’re almost certain he can hear it.

“Niall,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you can see the surprise flash in his eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something deeper, warmer.

“You sure about that?” he asks, his voice gentle, his tone teasing just enough to make you smile.

You nod, your pulse quickening. “I’ve never been more sure.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “C’mere.”

He shifts the guitar off his lap, placing it gently to the side. His hand moves to your cheek, the pad of his thumb grazing your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. His touch is light, careful, like he’s afraid you might break if he holds on too tightly.

The world around you seems to fade, the faint hum of the stage lights the only sound as he leans in. Your breath catches when his lips brush yours, feather-light at first, testing, as though he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

You lean in, meeting him halfway, and the kiss deepens. His lips are soft and warm, moving against yours with a mix of confidence and tenderness that leaves your knees weak, even though you’re sitting down. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you just a little closer.

There’s no rush, no urgency. It’s slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring every second. The faint scent of his cologne lingers in the air, woodsy and fresh, mingling with the warmth radiating from his skin. His thumb strokes your neck absently, sending tiny sparks of electricity through you, and it feels as though he’s memorizing the moment, etching it into his bones.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, the rhythm echoing in your ears, but it’s not the frantic kind of beat you were expecting. It’s steady, like a quiet reassurance that this—whatever this is—is exactly where you’re meant to be.

When he finally pulls back, it’s gradual, like he’s reluctant to let the moment end. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips as he lingers close. His thumb makes one final pass over your skin before his hand drops to your lap, where it stays, his fingers brushing lightly against yours.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you hums with something unspoken, something fragile and new, and yet somehow ancient, like it’s always been there, waiting for you to find it.

“You alright?” he asks softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nod, your lips curving into a faint smile. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his thumb tracing idle circles over the back of your hand. “Good. That’s all I want.”

The stage feels impossibly small now, like the only two people in the world are you and him. You don’t know what this means—what happens next—but for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to figure it out.

You lean back slightly, your gaze locked on his. “That song,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “It felt like you meant it for me.”

Niall smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he squeezes your hand gently. “Maybe I did.”

Your chest tightens at the quiet honesty in his voice, but instead of retreating, you let it settle over you like a warm blanket.

For now, that’s enough.

…

The walk back to your shared hotel room is wrapped in a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with words. Niall stays close, his hand brushing against yours now and then, the occasional touch sending a flutter through your chest. The air is cool, but his presence beside you is a steady warmth, grounding you in the moment.

When you reach the room, you slip inside together, greeted by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. The room feels cozy, a quiet sanctuary from the emotions of the evening. You kick off your shoes and let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from both relief and exhaustion.

Niall lingers by the bed, watching you with a small smile as you grab your pajamas and head into the bathroom. The mirror reflects a version of yourself you haven’t seen in a while—your cheeks have a faint flush, your eyes softer, lighter. There’s something there, a little glow you hadn’t expected, and it makes you pause.

When you emerge, changed into your soft cotton pajamas, Niall’s already under the covers. His hair is mussed, and the dim lighting casts a golden halo over his features. He looks so effortlessly himself, so inviting, that it takes no second thought for you to climb in beside him.

The bed is warm, and the moment you settle, Niall pulls you into his side, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. You rest your head on his chest, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat greets you. It’s a soft, grounding sound, steady and constant like him.

“Long day,” he murmurs, his voice low and honeyed, the vibration of it resonating through his chest beneath your cheek.

You hum in agreement, nuzzling into him a little closer. His body radiates warmth, and the faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and clean—lingers on his shirt.

“You okay?” he asks softly, his hand beginning to move in slow, soothing circles over your back.

“Yeah,” you whisper, the word coming easier than you expected. “I think I am.”

A soft smile curves his lips. You feel it more than see it, his chin brushing lightly against the top of your head.

The quiet stretches out, comfortable and full of something unspoken but deeply understood. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back—circles, swirls, lazy lines that melt the last bits of tension from your body. The motion is hypnotic, your muscles relaxing one by one as you sink deeper into the warmth of him.

He shifts slightly, just enough to press his lips to your forehead. The kiss is feather-light, but it’s enough to send a wave of warmth through you, pooling low in your chest.

“I meant it,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rasp in the quiet room. “I’ll wait as long as you need. No rush. No pressure. Just… us.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm and reassuring. You shift against him, your nose brushing the curve of his neck as you let out a quiet, contented sigh.

“Thank you,” you mumble sleepily, your voice barely audible against his skin.

His hand pauses on your back for a moment before resuming its slow, rhythmic movements. “Always,” he whispers, his breath warm against your hair.

He tugs the blanket higher around you both, cocooning you in the shared warmth of the bed. His fingers trace over your shoulder now, up to your collarbone, and back down again in a soothing, lulling rhythm. The sound of his breathing, steady and calm, blends with the faint hum of the city outside, and you let yourself relax fully, cocooned in his care.

As sleep pulls you under, you feel his lips brush your temple one last time, a quiet promise etched into the night. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe in the safety of this moment, in the warmth of him, and in the possibility of something beautiful waiting just ahead.

...

The morning light filters softly through the curtains, bathing the hotel room in a warm, golden glow. You wake slowly, your senses gradually piecing the world together—the crisp scent of the linens, the weight of the blanket over you, and the steady rise and fall of Niall’s chest beneath your cheek.

His arm is still draped around you, holding you close even in sleep. His face is serene, every line and feature softened by the quiet vulnerability of slumber. His lashes rest against his cheek, and his lips are slightly parted, his breath slow and even.

You don’t move at first, content to simply watch him, the peace of the moment wrapping around you like a second blanket. But as your gaze lingers, an ache stirs in your chest—a deep, quiet longing that feels equal parts terrifying and wonderful.

Before you can think too much about it, your hand moves on its own, reaching out to gently trace the curve of his jaw. Your fingers barely skim his skin, hesitant at first, but the warmth of him pulls you in. You let your thumb glide over the rough stubble on his chin, the texture grounding you in the reality of him.

He stirs under your touch, a soft sound escaping his lips as his eyes flutter open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, his gaze hazy as it settles on you. But then he sees the way you’re looking at him, and a soft, sleepy smile curves his lips.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, the Irish lilt more pronounced in its drowsiness.

“Morning,” you whisper back, your fingers stilling on his cheek.

He shifts slightly, his arm tightening around your waist as he blinks himself further awake. His gaze searches yours, his eyes warm and curious. “What are you doing?”

“Just… looking at you,” you admit, your voice quieter than usual, as though the moment might shatter if you speak too loudly.

His smile grows, softer and more genuine, and he turns his head slightly so your palm rests fully against his cheek. He leans into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. “Like what you see?” he teases gently, though there’s an undercurrent of sincerity in his tone.

You nod, the weight of your emotions catching in your throat for a moment before you manage to speak. “Yeah. I do.”

His expression shifts then, his teasing giving way to something deeper, something quieter. His free hand comes up to cover yours, holding it against his face as he watches you, waiting.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice soft but steady. “About everything. About you and me and…” You trail off, searching for the right words.

“And?” he prompts, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing gesture.

“I’m ready,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m ready to really try with you. A real relationship—not just this… married-on-paper thing we’ve got going.”

His breath hitches slightly, his eyes widening just a fraction. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and your heart starts to race. But then his lips part, and his voice comes out soft, almost disbelieving.

“You mean that?”

“I mean it,” you say, your hand pressing a little firmer against his cheek. “I’m scared, but I don’t want to be anymore. I want this. I want you.”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow and radiant, like the sun breaking through a storm. He shifts, propping himself up slightly so he can look at you properly, his hands framing your face now.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll take it slow. However you need. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you feel safe with me.”

“You already do,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Niall’s gaze flickers down to your lips, and the air between you grows thick with an unspoken tension. His hands remain gentle on your face, his thumbs brushing over your skin as though you’re something precious. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, your lips meet in a kiss that starts soft and sweet but deepens quickly.

It’s a release, a culmination of all the quiet moments and tentative steps between you. His lips are warm and soft, and the way he kisses you is unhurried, like he’s savoring every second. You sigh into it, your hands sliding from his face into his hair, tangling in the messy blond strands as he shifts to pull you closer.

When his arms wrap around your waist, you take the opportunity to move, pushing yourself onto your knees and leaning over him. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh against your lips as you settle yourself on top of him, straddling his lap, but it’s quickly swallowed by another kiss.

“Niall,” you murmur between breaths, your forehead resting against his for a moment.

“Yeah, love?” he whispers, his voice low and gravelly, his hands steadying you at your waist.

“You’re…” You pause, trying to find the words, but instead of finishing the sentence, you kiss him again, pouring every ounce of feeling you can’t quite articulate into the way your lips move against his.

The room is alive with tension as you straddle Niall, your legs on either side of his hips, his hands warm and firm on your waist. His touch lingers, teasingly possessive, as though he’s making up for years of restraint all in one moment. Your lips meet again, a fire igniting between you that has you completely consumed.

His kisses are deep, unrelenting, and filled with everything unsaid between you. His tongue brushes against yours in a way that has your breath hitching, your fingers tangling in his hair as if anchoring yourself to this moment. His stubble grazes your skin as his lips move to your jawline, then trail down the column of your neck, leaving a path of warmth that makes you shiver.

“Niall,” you murmur, your voice soft but laden with need.

He groans at the sound of his name, his grip on your waist tightening as his lips return to yours. “I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispers against your mouth, his breath warm and uneven. “Every damn day.”

You smile against his lips, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “So have I,” you admit, the honesty spilling out of you as naturally as your next kiss.

His hands move to your back, his touch slow and deliberate as he presses you closer, your bodies flush against one another. The heat between you is electric, every small movement fanning the flames of desire that have been building for far too long.

You shift slightly, your thighs tightening around him as his hands slide beneath your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin. The intimacy of it, the sheer closeness, makes your heart race.

But you’re so lost in each other—so completely consumed—that neither of you hears the faint creak of the door opening.

“Oi, seriously?”

The familiar voice has you freezing mid-kiss, your eyes flying open as you turn toward the doorway. Standing there, arms crossed with an expression that can only be described as both amused and exasperated, is Louis.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, quickly burying your face in Niall’s shoulder as mortification floods through you.

Niall lets out a low groan, his hands still resting on your hips as he turns his head toward Louis. “Really, mate? Timing’s impeccable.”

Louis raises a brow, his lips twitching as if he’s holding back a grin. “Well, excuse me for trying to check if you two were alive. Didn’t realize I’d walked into... that.”

Your cheeks burn, and you try to move off Niall’s lap, but his hands hold you firmly in place. “Don’t,” he murmurs softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “It’s okay.”

Louis, however, is already pulling his phone out of his pocket, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “I mean, I could just leave...” he starts, but the way his thumb hovers over the screen makes it clear he’s not going anywhere.

“Louis,” Niall warns, his tone a mix of irritation and amusement.

“What?” Louis says, feigning innocence as he snaps a photo. “For posterity.”

“Delete that!” you exclaim, finally finding your voice as you glare at him from over Niall’s shoulder.

Louis smirks. “Too late. Already in the cloud.” He pockets his phone with a shrug before turning toward the door. “Don’t take too long. The lads are placing bets on how red your faces are when you finally come out.”

With that, he disappears, leaving you and Niall in stunned silence.

After a beat, Niall chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath you. “Well, that’s one way to break the tension.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never leaving this room again.”

He gently tugs your hands away, his eyes soft as they meet yours. “Hey,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I don’t care who knows. Let them tease all they want. I’m right where I want to be.”

Your heart swells at his words, and despite your embarrassment, you lean in to kiss him again—soft, slow, and filled with the promise of everything still to come.

Niall’s fingers linger on your waist as you slide off his lap, both of you still breathless and flushed. His lips are swollen from your kisses, and the look in his eyes is a mix of heat and tenderness. He grins, his voice low and teasing as he murmurs, “Guess we’ll call this... to be continued, yeah?”

You laugh softly, brushing a hand over his chest. “Definitely to be continued.”

Niall leans down, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead before pulling you close, his hands warm on your back. “We should head downstairs before Louis sends a search party—and probably a few humiliating tweets.”

You groan, already dreading what awaits. “He already took that photo. What else could he possibly do?”

Niall chuckles, grabbing your hand as he opens the door. “Love, it’s Louis. He’ll have spun an entire story by now.”

The two of you make your way to the hotel dining area, the sound of laughter hitting your ears before you even step inside. As you round the corner, the boys and Lottie are already gathered at a table, plates of food spread out, the atmosphere lively. But the moment you and Niall walk in, the room falls silent.

“Well, well, well,” Louis starts, standing dramatically as if presenting the two of you to an imaginary audience. “Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence!”

“Oh no,” you mutter under your breath, already bracing yourself.

Louis picks up his phone from the table, holding it up like a trophy. “For those of you who missed it—and by that, I mean no one, because this photo’s gone viral—behold!”

He turns the screen toward you and Niall. It’s the blurry photo he took upstairs, the one of you straddling Niall on the bed, his hands firmly on your hips, your faces just inches apart.

“Oh my god, Louis!” You cover your face with your hands, mortified.

Lottie bursts into laughter, nearly choking on her orange juice. “Louis, you are the worst, but also, this is incredible.”

“I mean, if this isn’t a wedding night moment,” Louis says, smirking as he puts his phone back down, “then I don’t know what is.”

“Delete it,” Niall says, though he’s clearly amused, his arm slipping casually around your waist.

“Absolutely not,” Louis fires back, leaning back in his chair. “It’s art. The world deserves to see it.”

Harry, sitting across the table, grins as he sips his coffee. “Honestly, though, we were all wondering how long it’d take you two. Years of pining, and then you go and get married before anything happens?”

Liam shakes his head, a teasing sigh escaping his lips. “Seriously. You two could’ve saved us all the trouble by just admitting it back in the day.”

“It’s about time,” Zayn adds, his tone cool but the glint in his eyes giving him away. “The tension was unbearable.”

“And exhausting,” Lottie chimes in, her smile genuine as she looks between the two of you. “But honestly, I’m just happy you’re finally happy. It’s about damn time.”

Niall squeezes your waist gently, pulling you closer as he presses a quick kiss to your temple. “For the record,” he says, glancing at the group, “we’ve decided to start a real relationship. Officially.”

There’s a beat of silence before Louis dramatically claps his hands together. “Finally! Took you long enough! Honestly, I was about to write the vows myself.”

“You would write the vows,” you say, rolling your eyes but laughing despite yourself.

“Better me than Niall,” Louis quips. “He’d just sing them to you.”

“Not a bad idea,” Harry says, grinning. “Actually, Niall, got anything prepared? A little ‘She’s the One’ serenade for the table?”

“Alright, alright, enough,” Niall says, laughing as he pulls out your chair for you. He sits beside you, his hand staying firmly on your knee under the table. “Let the lady eat in peace.”

“Fine,” Louis says, a sly grin on his face. “But just so you know, this isn’t the last you’ve heard of it.”

Breakfast continues in the same lighthearted tone, with jokes flying across the table and occasional references to the infamous photo. But through it all, Niall stays close, his touches gentle and constant—his hand brushing against yours, his knee bumping yours under the table.

And for the first time in a long time, surrounded by laughter and warmth, you feel truly at ease. It’s as if the walls you built around yourself are finally crumbling, and you realise you don’t mind one bit.

#niall horan x reader #niall horan x y/n #niall horan fanfiction #niall x reader #niall horan x you

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imthepunchlord · 2 days ago

Text

Courtship

Read more here.

Ever since their little late night dinner date, there’s been a slight shift in how Okarun treats Miss Ayase. It was nothing too drastic a change, if anything, it was just a minor shift in their normal dynamic stemming entirely from him. An extra habit he’s now developing.

He’s been offering her food.

Very often.

Typically, he shares his own meal with her. Even when she has her own, he makes the offer. She initially always refuses and it saddens him until she relents and has at least a bite of his food.

It does make him happy, but he finds he always wants to give more. Give her all of it.

When he has the money to spare, he’ll buy her favorite candies and food.

When they have a big meal at the Ayase residence, he’ll grab some extra of what’s her favorite to share with her.

He really would give her all of it if he could, but she’s adamant in making sure he eats too.

And the sweet insistence just adds fuel to this fire.

And Okarun just doesn’t entirely get it.

But he also does on some instinctive level?

He really doesn’t know how to even explain it.

At least, until Turbo Granny grumbled at him in annoyance. “Can you save your fumbling courtship when you’re by yourselves?”

Okarun nearly dropped his plate. “C-courtship?!” Okarun stiffly turned to her, gawking. “I, I'm not courtin— well, we, we are dating so—”

“Don't lump our superior culture with your mundane rubble!” Turbo Granny snapped. “You're pursuing her as a yokai and it's embarrassing watching your blunders!”

Okarun blushed. “I, I didn't even realize…”

“Of course you didn't,” Turbo Granny sneered. “But now you know.”

“...Could you tell me about yokai courtship?” Okarun requested.

Turbo Granny gave him a big side eye. “Why should I?”

“Because I'm fumbling around,” Okarun answered, a little more confident now, though his cheeks were still rather pink. “And how am I to know if I'm courting in front of you? This is all new to me.”

Humming aloud, Turbo Granny agreed, “Listen well then, Four Eyes. Yokai courtship is perilous. It comes about only to those who are ready to give it their all, or to perish in their failure. And I do mean perished in the murdered sense.”

“I'm going to die if I fail?!” Okarun proclaimed.

Well, he could believe it. If Miss Ayase said she never wanted anything to do with him, he would be devastated. The mere thought alone almost had him transform.

Turbo Granny rolled her eyes. “Yes, a few weaklings will die of heartbreak, but most are murdered for wasting time!”

“Oh,” he uttered. Well, he doesn't have to worry about that at least.

“Yokai courtship is also incredibly trying, a true test of resilience, want, and one's ego.”

“Really?” Gosh, that sounds intimidating. What was Okarun in for?

“Yes, for courtship is the hardest thing for yokai to do.”

Okarun gulped as Turbo Granny paused for dramatic effect.

“Yokai courtship comes down to devotion.”

Okarun stared. Then blinked as Turbo Granny's words clicked in his mind.

“Eh?” he uttered, “That's it?”

Turbo Granny smacked his thigh, snapping, “Don't say ‘that's it’ like it's nothing! Where's your pride as a yokai?!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” he soothed.

“The vessel of my power,” Turbo Granny grumbled.

“What do you mean devotion?” Okarun asked. He blushed red. “D-do you mean, like, kis-kissing—”

“It's a broad definition,” Turbo Granny said. “At the core, it comes down to you being devoted to another. Sometimes it comes down to physical and sexual pleasure.”

Okarun's blush went redder.

“Sometimes it comes down to service, provision, protection; it's putting another over yourself. Giving away something that should be yours, be it food, energy, time; anything.”

“Oh.”

Turbo Granny gave him a side eye. “We yokai are proud entities. It takes a lot for us to swallow our pride and lower ourselves to another.”

“So, when I’m giving Miss Ayase food…”

“It's one of your courting methods, yes. You’re also quick to protect and obey her orders. Carrying her around like some horse. You act like she's your entire world.” Turbo Granny rolled her eyes and scoffed.

Well, he supposed she wasn't wrong. Miss Ayase was his world, she was very precious to him, and much of what she wanted he would give and more. The thought had him smile, it just felt right.

And, he knew he was important to her too. That he was treasured and valued. Such attention and affection was so rare in his life, he couldn't help but cling to her, have all she wanted to give, and return it a hundred fold.

“You should take a page from me,” Turbo Granny voiced, “be courted instead. She likes you enough that she'd do it, I bet.”

Okarun had a start. He exclaimed in surprise, “ You're being courted?!”

Turbo Granny gave his leg a smack for his insolence. “Of course I am! Do you realize how much of a catch I am?!”

“Yes, you are,” Okarun appeased, “um, who's courting you then?”

Was some strange yokai visiting the Ayase residence? He didn't like that thought…

“Who do you think?” Turbo Granny scoffed, then pointed at Ayase-san.

“Ayase-san?!” he gasped in surprise. “She's courting you?!”

“She cooks and feeds me,” Turbo Granny revealed. “Pretty unprompted, but sometimes I bring her food.”

“...But, Turbo Granny, I think she's just feeding you.”

“Hah! One does not simply feed a yokai! It's her means of worshipping me. That she desires me! And as a show of pleasing me, I join her on her outings. And sometimes I'll supervise you brats because she likes you.”

“That's nice of you,” he offered. “Um, what about when you get your power back?”

“Clearly, this will be my new territory. Usually the one who does the devotion lives in that yokai's territory, if their devotion is accepted, but I'll make an exception for Seiko given her power and situation.” Turbo Granny gave Okarun a sneer. “You better offer me a lot of respect boy, for what will be hers will be mine, and this territory belongs to Seiko instead of Momo. Even if you move in, this won't be your turf.”

That sparked off something competitive in Okarun, something heated. This was where Momo lived. And instinctively, he felt a sense of protectiveness, a sense to claim this place as his, just as much as it was hers. And as these feelings ran so strongly, Okarun couldn't stop the words that were uttered aloud.

“But Miss Ayase has already accepted my affections, so I have more claim to this territory now. You aren't official with Ayase-san yet.”

Turbo Granny's eyes went huge. “Hah?!” she spat, hissing a little.

Okarun turned to her, eyes gleaming red. “This is my territory, not yours.”

Turbo Granny was on her feet, her own teeth bared. “You wanna go at it, Four Eyes? I'll murder you—”

Turbo Granny toppled over a speeding mochi that was thrown her way.

And a second smacked the shifting Okarun, knocking him over as well.

The two speed yokai laid on the ground, stunned in surprise. They heard Ayase-san call out sternly, “I'll have no territorial disputes over dinner!”

“Yes, ma'am,” they both uttered.

They sat up, eating the mochi and settling to glaring at each other quietly. This was not over.

#dandadan #dandadan fic #okarun #ken takakura #turbo granny #yokai okaurn

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igetnosleep · 1 day ago

Text

Christmas thing

No warnings just fluff I usually celebrate during the 24th also wrote this with DI Leon in mind but you can imagine who you’d like

Leon wasn’t used to the bright colored lights or the sparkling decorations you’d meticulously put up going as far as to rearrange the furniture in your shared home.

The holidays were quite usually after joining the DSO usually assigned works pouring over assignments and paper work that would flood his desk and fall over from the disorganized mess he’d created trying to find leads or giving up and getting frustrated.

Now after a few years and a much needed retirement he barely remembered what life looked like before you.

Before the meticulous decorations and the arguing over one stupid frosty decoration you can never decide where it should go because god forbid he puts it on the coffee table.

“It shouldn’t go there!”

“Well where else am I going to put it?”

Your name slips from his mouth with an attitude you really didn’t like, your face was loud with displeasure that he noticed immediately putting a hand up and clearing his throat lest he wanted to live through the hellish attitude you’d put up later.

He corrects himself your name slips out with a question prodding but no longer jabbing, acceptable.

“Put it in the kitchen.” A sigh of relief as he stepped closer to you slowly a little bit of pleading from him and you caved in standing on your tip toes and kissing him softly his shoulders relaxed and his mind forgetting about the ugly snowman.

That was in November not even the day after Halloween you started decorating to his dismay after taking down the Halloween decorations he’d find himself reluctant and somehow still willing to go up the death trap you called a ladder to put up the lights. He needed to get a new one it nearly broke.

His retirement was kind to him no longer finding himself missing the missions and the paperwork instead going grocery shopping for food your parents coming over now needing to accommodate the fact that your mothers pride was wounded because he didn’t want her in the kitchen.

“Can you let her help with the salad or something?”

“No.” He was serious he didn’t want your mom’s help she always took control when she was supposed to be a guest.

“She’s restless and I can’t keep beating her at card games she’s losing her mind.” He silenced your protests with a peck on the lips. You couldn’t argue with him after that your face buried against his arm as he put a generous amount of garlic powder in the sauce your eyes just staring at him pleading for a taste.

He couldn’t say no to you. Offering the spoon and watching your expression warm up as you covered your mouth so he didn’t see you fight off the heat as best you could only burning your tongue in the process.

It used to be lonely. He’d barely spoken during the holidays you life offering him warmth he didn’t think he was able to receive from anyone a part of him gave up before he met you all those years ago.

“What’s this?” He asked when you were getting ready for bed a box wrapped in decorative paper tied nicely with a bow he looked at you curiously his lip quirked up as you sat next to him arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Wanted it to be a surprise.” You murmured a hand coming up and scratching under his chin kissing his shoulder. His hand came up to take it to kiss your palm his thumb feeling the warm metal of your wedding ring reminding himself that this wasn’t a dream you’re here; you’re real.

He chuffed opening it seeing an old watch his smile disappeared as he took it out the leather strap looked new the hands ticking like normal. He held it up to you “what?..what is this?”

He hadn’t seen it work in so long, maybe because it was the last thing the one thing he had from his foster father the man that raised him after the death of his parents. You kissed his temple murmuring “You never got it fixed.”

“I just…thank you.” He pulled you onto his lap his arms wrapping around you his face buried in your neck. You kissed his temple hand coming up and stroked his cheek.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy

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theonlyqualitytrash · 2 days ago

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No need to thank me, Berry—honestly, you should be thanking yourself! (Really, everyone should thank you for requesting more fics like this!) When I saw your post asking for more Fyodor winter fics, I just knew I had to do something about it. I couldn’t resist! :>

I’ll try not to ramble too much:

Honestly, I haven't seen many Fyodor x Reader stories set in cozy winter settings either, and I wanted to make sure this one felt original. ;-; I was a bit uncertain about the flour battle scene at first, because I know not everyone has read the manga, and they might find it a little out of character for Fyodor. But this is the same guy who threw eggs at a wall while in prison. If he can be a bit silly in those moments, why can’t he be that way here? (I can't even remember the chapter—it’s been so long)

And yes—yes, I am totally stealing that idea for next Christmas. I am already planning a mountain retreat, cozy vacation-type fic with Fyodor and the reader. You’ve made me so excited that I’m already impatient for next year! I’m like, “Wait, I have to wait 365 days for this?!” You need to stop giving me ideas. >:( (please don't stop giving me ideas)

But really, really, don't mind me while I sob over how sweet your message was. It honestly fills my heart to know that it made you feel so warm and happy. Because that's exactly what I wanted—to give you a bit of cozy, heartwarming joy. If a fluff fic doesn’t have you rolling around on your bed, screaming and crying happy tears, then I haven’t done my job properly. :> I’m so hopeful that our friendship will bloom into the next year. Here’s a huge, comforting virtual hug from me to you ^^ hug

---

Gosh, what a deeply hurtful thing for them to say about you. I really hope they realize the impact of their words and properly apologize because that kind of comment isn’t something anyone should have to endure. I’ve been in a similar position before, where people that were close to me said things that just didn’t sit right, and it can really take a toll on your spirit.

I completely understand the fear of letting someone in, especially when you’ve never had experience with dating and love. It’s terrifying to open up and risk being hurt. But I want you to know that people like us—those who crave love in a very specific way, who want something deep and true—are not naive or foolish. If anything, it makes us stronger, more aware of what we deserve. We’re not settling for less, and that’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.

I believe in love coming to us in all sorts of forms and at different times. So, as much as it can feel daunting, don’t ever doubt that love can find you, and it will come in a way that honors your heart. You deserve a love that meets you where you are, that sees you fully and unconditionally.

I’m so glad to hear that you’re not letting their words shake you. Your spirit, your kindness, your willingness to believe in something better—those are beautiful qualities. Keep holding onto that hope and trust that the right people will see and appreciate that in you.

🤍🌻

P.S. Yes, the title does translate to Blessed Winter, and I’m so glad you caught that! ^^ Every Fyodor fic I will ever write will have a Latin title, mostly because they’re just cool, but also because I headcanon him as someone who knows Latin. Plus, it’s a little homage to his timeless nature. He’s been around so long that Latin feels fitting.

Beata hiems - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: Holiday special—On a chilly winter morning, you and Fyodor set out together for a festive task, finding warmth in each other's company as you navigate the day.

No warnings, just fluff

A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! The most important thing during times like these is spending quality moments with the people you love. I realized I’ve written a lot of angst lately (and not ideal situations) that I almost forgot I can write pleasant things too :> Also, I ate way too much zacusca while writing this...

Word count: 3,300

Both you and Fyodor woke early, a habit born of necessity, yet today carried a rare air of anticipation. The quiet of the morning felt different—not the product of lingering work or duty, but a purposeful calm you both had sought together. The shared goal ahead of you—choosing the perfect yolka for the season—lent an unspoken warmth to the air, even as winter’s chill lingered outside.

The sun had barely risen, painting the sky with strokes of pink and orange as you and Fyodor prepared to set out. You wrapped your scarf hastily against the cold, eager to step outside but not prepared for the bite of the crisp winter air. The moment you crossed the threshold, the frost nipped at your cheeks, and you tugged the scarf higher, but it was no match for Fyodor’s keen eye.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the soft crunch of snow underfoot. His gloved hand reached for the scarf you had wrapped hurriedly around yourself. He adjusted it, deftly tucking the fabric snugly against your neck. His touch lingered—more delicate than necessary—and his sharp violet eyes softened in the golden light of the sunrise.

“You’re always so particular,” you said softly, your voice carrying more fondness than teasing.

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, one only you were privileged to see. “It’s merely practical. Keeping you warm spares me the concern.” Though his tone remained calm, the undercurrent of care made your chest tighten pleasantly.

“Practical, yes,” you said with a smile, a playful impulse to tease him flickering in your mind but quickly fading as you gently brushed your fingers against his hand. “But thank you.”

His raised eyebrow and the slight curve of his lips suggested he’d noticed your reaction, but he said nothing, instead gesturing toward the road ahead. “Let’s go. The trees won’t choose themselves.”

---

The tree market was alive with the bustling energy of the season. Vendors called out their wares, offering everything from firs and pines to handmade garlands and wooden ornaments. The scent of mulled wine and roasted nuts mixed with the sharp, earthy tang of pine, creating an atmosphere that was as festive as it was chaotic.

You walked alongside Fyodor, arm in arm, his quiet presence shielding you from the full bite of the winter cold. His long coat and composed demeanor made him seem almost impervious to the freezing air, while you found yourself fiddling with your gloves and scarf for warmth. Yet his close proximity—so steady and reassuring—seemed to cast a blanket of warmth around you.

“Look at this one,” you said, pointing to a tall, lush pine with branches that stretched wide like welcoming arms. You tilted your head, imagining it standing proudly in the corner of your living room, adorned with sparkling lights and delicate ornaments.

Fyodor’s gaze swept over the tree with a critical eye, his gloved hands tucked neatly behind his back as he stepped closer. “It’s sturdy enough,” he remarked, reaching out briefly to test the firmness of the trunk. “But do we truly need something so ostentatious?”

You chuckled, the sound warm despite the chill. “It’s not ostentatious; it’s festive. And it’ll look perfect with the handmade ornaments we’re about to pick out.”

His lips quirked into a subtle smirk, the faintest flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Handmade ornaments? Are you assembling an art gallery in our living room?”

“No,” you replied with a laugh, nudging his arm gently. “Just something unique for our tree. Help me find the perfect one.”

The two of you wandered through the aisles, debating over height, fullness, and symmetry. Fyodor’s meticulous approach—inspecting every detail, pointing out subtle flaws in the trees you favored—somehow complemented your more intuitive choices. Where he saw imperfections, you saw character; where he sought balance, you admired the charm.

Eventually, his resolve softened, and he let out a soft sigh, gesturing toward the very tree you’d first pointed out. “This one, then,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of indulgence. “If only to avoid spending the entire morning debating in the snow.”

You grinned, stepping forward to examine the tree one last time, your fingers brushing against the soft needles. “I knew you’d come around.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and though he said nothing, the faint upward tilt of his lips betrayed a rare contentment. Together, you flagged down a worker to help carry the tree, already envisioning the warmth it would bring to your home.

---

The shelves at the decoration stall were a flood of color: glass baubles, painted wooden ornaments, strings of beads, and garlands in every shade imaginable. The scent of pine mingled with that of beeswax candles, adding a rustic charm to the lively atmosphere. Your fingers lingered on a set of painted ornaments shaped like matryoshka dolls, their intricate floral patterns catching the light as you turned them over.

“These are beautiful,” you said, holding one up for Fyodor to inspect, the delicate ornament resting gently in your palm.

He took it from your hand with care, his long fingers brushing yours as he did so. He examined the ornament thoughtfully, tilting it slightly to catch the light. “I do like them,” he admitted. “But do we plan for the tree to carry only traditional designs?”

“Not at all,” you replied, already picturing a mix of old-world charm and contemporary elegance. “I thought we’d pair them with something simpler, like gold and white baubles, to balance it out. What do you think?”

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his violet eyes reflecting a softness that contrasted with his usual guarded expression. “Elegant, yet practical. A perfect mix, really.”

Pleased, you placed the ornaments into your basket and continued to wander through the stalls together, occasionally pausing to admire other unique finds. Your eyes lit up at a garland of shimmering beads hanging high above, just out of your reach. Before you could even try, Fyodor stepped forward, his movements fluid and precise, and plucked it effortlessly. He draped it lightly over his arm before turning to you, his expression unreadable but somehow fond.

“Teamwork,” he commented dryly, earning a quiet laugh from you.

As you browsed further, a bright red ornament shaped like a cheerful bear caught your attention. Without hesitation, you slipped it into the basket with a mischievous grin. When Fyodor noticed it moments later, he plucked it out and held it up between two fingers, his expression hovering between disapproval and amusement.

“This one will disrupt your balance,” he remarked, the faintest trace of dry humor in his voice.

“But it sparks joy,” you countered with a soft laugh, tilting your head as if daring him to disagree.

He regarded the ornament for a moment longer before sighing, his faint smirk returning. “Unnecessary distractions,” he muttered, though he placed it back in the basket without further comment. “Still, it’s not without charm.”

His quiet concession made your smile widen as you linked your arm with his again. “Thank you, Fyodor.”

He glanced at you briefly, his eyes softening before he turned his attention back to the rows of decorations. “I simply indulge your whims,” he said, though the subtle warmth in his tone betrayed him.

---

Back home, the tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its presence filling the space with the earthy scent of pine. You began unpacking the decorations while Fyodor set up the stand with the quiet precision you had come to expect from him. Even the simple act of adjusting the tree seemed graceful in his hands.

“Before we start decorating, why don’t we drink some eggnog?” you suggested, stepping back to admire the tree’s placement.

Fyodor glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It will keep you warm after being in the cold. I’ll prepare it.”

In the kitchen, the two of you worked in quiet harmony. Fyodor took charge of whisking egg yolks and sugar until they turned pale and creamy, his movements deliberate and exact. Meanwhile, you heated milk and spices on the stove, the warm aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the air. The rhythmic sounds of his whisking and the occasional soft crackle from the stove added to the serene atmosphere.

Unable to resist the tranquility of the moment, you stepped behind him and wrapped your arms lightly around his waist, leaning your head against his back. His steady movements didn’t falter, but his voice softened as he acknowledged your presence.

“Comfortable?” he asked, a hint of amusement lacing his tone.

“Very,” you murmured, letting the warmth of the scene seep into you. You lingered there, feeling the quiet strength in his posture, before he turned slightly, nudging you gently to take the mug he had prepared. Reluctantly, you let go, accepting the drink with a soft smile.

As he handed you the mug with a faint smirk, his violet eyes glinted with quiet satisfaction. You sipped the warm drink, savoring the rich, spiced flavor.

“It’s truly perfect,” you said, meeting his gaze over the rim of your mug. “You have a talent for making even simple things feel special.”

His expression softened, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Perhaps it’s the company that elevates the experience, my dear.”

Your smile widened as you set your mug down and began gathering ingredients for cookies. “Ready for the next round of teamwork?”

Fyodor raised an eyebrow as you tossed an apron in his direction. “You expect me to assist with this?”

“Yes,” you said, tying your own apron and flashing him a playful grin. “You’re a fast learner.”

The two of you began mixing ingredients, your approaches naturally complementing each other, creating a rhythm that felt both efficient and effortless. As you sifted flour into a bowl, another mischievous idea struck. Without warning, you flicked a pinch of flour at him, leaving a pale dusting on his sleeve.

He paused, slowly turning his head to regard you with an expression of calm menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game, lyubov’...”

Laughing, you grabbed another pinch. “Am I?”

With a swift motion, Fyodor dipped his fingers into the flour and smudged a streak across your cheek. You gasped, your eyes wide with mock indignation. As you reached for a small handful in retaliation, his hand closed lightly over yours, stopping you mid-motion. His violet eyes gleamed with a quiet gaiety.

“Dear...” He spoke slowly, as if daring you to continue. “Do you really wish to escalate this?” his voice calm, though the faintest trace of a smirk betrayed him.

Of course, mischief took the better of you, and in the blink of an eye, the kitchen erupted into chaos. Flour flew through the air in soft, white clouds, settling like snow on the countertops, the floor, and both of you. Laughter spilled from your lips, a sweet, carefree sound that danced in the space between you.

The aprons did little to catch the fallout, now more a futile shield than anything useful. It didn’t matter. The room was filled with the rhythm of playful war—dashes of flour as ammunition, mischievous glances exchanged between you both, and the occasional breathless chuckle escaping your lips as one of you narrowly avoided a flour bomb.

When you finally waved the white flag, Fyodor stepped closer, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority. “Do not start a war you cannot win,” he murmured, brushing a bit of flour from your hair. Despite his stern words, the glimmer of mirth in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“Then let's declare a truce,” you said, smiling up at him. His gaze softened as he nodded, and together, you returned to baking with a newfound warmth between you.

---

After dinner and tidying up, the two of you finally began decorating the tree. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the fire in the hearth, casting a soft, golden light over everything. The air smelled faintly of pine and the lingering scent of the meal, creating an intimate, peaceful atmosphere as you carefully unpacked the ornaments and strings of lights.

“The gold garland should go first,” Fyodor suggested, his fingers brushing over the shimmering strands before he draped them with precision along the branches.

“Quite the expert on this decorating business,” you teased with a smile, stepping closer to adjust a section he’d already placed, your fingers brushing his as you did.

“I simply prefer a bit of order over chaos,” he replied with his usual calm, though a hint of amusement flickered at the corner of his lips, betraying his composed demeanor.

As you both worked together, the sounds of soft laughter and the faint rustle of ornaments filled the air. You held up a small ornament shaped like a bell, turning it in your hand with a questioning look. “Where should this go?”

Fyodor stepped closer, his presence quiet but commanding. His hand brushed yours as he gently took the bell from you, his fingers warm against your skin. “Here,” he said, his voice softer than usual, placing it with deliberate care near the center of the tree.

You hummed in satisfaction, stepping back to admire the spot he had chosen, feeling a small, unexpected warmth at how he treated each ornament with such attention. Reaching into the box again, you pulled out a bear ornament—one you’d picked up earlier that day. The little bear was a reminder of your shared experiences, and it felt like a quiet piece of your heart woven into the holiday.

Without a word, Fyodor took it from you with a reverence that spoke volumes. His gaze lingered on the ornament for a moment, his fingers caressing it gently before he placed it with quiet care on the tree, the gesture speaking more than any words could.

You reached into the box again, this time pulling out a sprig of mistletoe. Holding it playfully above your head, you couldn’t resist the chance to tease him once more. “And where does this go?”

Fyodor’s eyes flicked to the mistletoe, and then back to you. The air between you shifted subtly, the playful tension between you both thickening. “A kiss?” he murmured, his voice laced with something deeper, something unspoken.

“It’s bad luck if we don’t,” you replied, your voice teasing yet holding a hint of sincerity, knowing he wouldn’t let something so trivial go unacknowledged.

Fyodor’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. He leaned in slowly, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours as his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was both tender and featherlight. His kiss—how can one explain it? It felt like he had nothing to lose. Like his heartbeat was yours. Like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can only speak in the present tense, with you as the subject. Only now, only you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the world outside of the two of you fading away as he pulled back just enough to murmur softly against your lips, his voice low and warm.

“We wouldn’t want that kind of luck,” he whispered, his smile lingering as his eyes met yours, holding you in a quiet moment of shared connection.

---

The tree stood proudly in the corner of the living room, its soft, twinkling lights casting a warm glow throughout the space. The fire crackled in the hearth, its flames flickering and stretching across the walls, filling the room with a comforting, intimate atmosphere. You and Fyodor were curled up on the couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs, the heat from the fire adding a quiet coziness to the evening.

Mugs of warm eggnog rested in your hands, the rich, spiced aroma filling the air as you took a slow sip, savoring the creamy warmth. Fyodor sat beside you, his hand wrapped around his own mug, a soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. There was a sense of peacefulness between you, the quiet sound of the fire and your soft laughter making everything feel still and right.

You shifted a little, the anticipation bubbling in your chest as you leaned toward him, holding out a small gift. “I got you something,” you said quietly, your voice carrying a hint of excitement despite the calm of the evening.

Fyodor’s violet eyes glinted as he glanced at you, eyebrow raised slightly in that characteristic way of his. “For me?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and glee.

You nodded and passed him the neatly wrapped box. He took it with that ever-so-gentle touch of his, unwrapping the gift with careful precision, his eyes flicking between the paper and your face. When the box was open, he held up the fountain pen you had chosen for him—sleek, elegant, with intricate golden details that caught the firelight just right.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the pen’s smooth surface. “I’ll put it to good use,” he added, his usual stoicism softening further.

“I know you enjoy writing,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “I thought it might be something you’d appreciate.”

Fyodor looked at the pen for a long moment, his eyes dark with thought, before meeting your gaze. “It is perfect,” he said, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he added, “Thank you.”

You grinned, feeling a warm rush of happiness at his words. “I’m glad you like it.”

He cradled your cheek, his fingers tracing the soft skin with a tenderness born of awe. Then, his expression shifting to one of quiet amusement. He reached for a box of his own, setting his mug down beside him. You watched with curiosity as he gave you your gift.

When you opened it, you froze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight. Inside was a small, simple folder containing a series of documents. You blinked in confusion, slowly reaching for them as Fyodor’s eyes held your gaze with a steady, almost amused calm.

“It’s a bit unconventional,” Fyodor said, his voice low and steady, “but you mentioned once that you would like to escape the city.”

You unfolded the papers slowly, eyes widening as you realized what they were—legal documents, papers that transferred ownership of an entire mountain to you. A piece of land. A whole mountain. He had given you a literal escape from the city, just as you had hinted at so long ago.

“A mountain?” you whispered, your voice almost incredulous.

Fyodor’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You said you wanted to get away. I thought this might be a... fitting solution. Perhaps you’ll find it more peaceful.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity and thoughtfulness of the gift almost too much to comprehend. “A whole mountain…” you echoed, still in shock. “Well, I’ll have to plan my next vacation carefully now.”

Fyodor’s smile deepened, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “I suspect you will.”

You leaned into him, shaking your head in disbelief but also deeply touched by the enormity of his gift. “It’s… incredible,” you said, your voice soft and full of wonder. “I never imagined you’d actually go so far.”

“I’ve always been one for unconventional gestures,” Fyodor remarked smoothly, his tone laced with that familiar calm but with a subtle warmth. He leaned in slightly, his lips grazing your temple as he placed a gentle kiss there.

As you sat together, the warmth of the fire and the quiet serenity of the evening enveloping you, you realized that no material gift could compare to this moment. The mountain—while impressive—was just a symbol of the depth of his consideration, of how well he knew you, how carefully he listened to the quietest of your desires.

You pulled the blanket around you both, sipping your eggnog as you let the peaceful atmosphere settle around you. Fyodor rested his arm around you, pulling you a little closer, and for a while, you just sat in contented silence, letting the fire and the quiet of the room fill the space between you.

It was, without question, the kind of day dreams are made out of.

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vacantgodling · 2 years ago

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every day writeblr invents discourse about things that are not that deep

#talking #truly y’all annoy me #like i’m sorry this is fucking ridiculous #if you’re saying that you should be mindful of where things come from in your story but don’t have to put it in per se #then we are back at the original point of the post #which is you can worldbuild however you want #a SMALL PORTION of that conversation was then picked out and overblown #into an argument about nothing #when literally what was mentioned was an EXAMPLE #of things you don’t have to provide explanations for if you don’t want to #like it’s the same thing as saying #you have to make a footnote if you want to have a story thag includes this and that type of minority character like #no you don’t lmao #if it’s important to you to include where the coffee and potatoes come from in your world that’s fine #the point of the post was to say YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT #and idk how we missed the point but for people who claim to read and write often #the fucking lack of reading comprehension is ASTOUNDING #just like shut up and stop being mad about dumb shit for one fucking day #my god

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tenwhiteandalusians · 27 minutes ago

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pertaining to the idea of tenax’s band of strays i do think it’s touching that the kids are the ones who saved him and waited outside the door to make sure he’s okay. for all tenax claims to be harsh and cruel it’s a fine indicator of his character that the kids won’t rest without him and are there every time he’s in danger.

#AND I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE I HAD THEM STEALING THEIR WAY OMTO #THE PLATFORMS WHAT DO YOU MEANNNNNNN oh i love being right #also that all the kids are there watching when he kills the guy whose name i forget because i simply cannot hold names in my brain but the #evil one. who i was like oh thank GOD he died i was so sick of this plot he kept killing everyone & i screeched when he almost got claudia #something something calla saying ‘you’re not a child anymore’ about tenax’s cruelty to the brothers (which in my twisted narratives. sorry.#there’s only one scorpus who KNEW the child tenax was. the child he’s still healing and caring for. all of the children whose eyes he looks #into and sees a hurt that’s just like his? the children tenax saved whether he’ll admit it or not? scorpus saved him. and that’s all)#(also this is a terrible thing to say i knew it about but like. oh i knew it about the master of the house. tenax making sure NO ONE #touches the kids or does anything with them really but Claudia and him—the people he trusts which also now includes calla but he makes sure #it’s someone he knows. also do we have a claudia backstory??? or would i just get to invent a reason why she’s there and what she’s doing #and why she’s so loyal to tenax. did she also see the child he was and that’s why she’s so protective of him but also why she gets along #with calla so well because the two of them see how he’s festered in that. like calla fully has the rights here i think she should rip him a #new one for his lack of decency and good qualities he can be corrupt without being cruel y’know. and he should be called out on his #peter pan ass behavior you’re not a child!! there are such consequences!!! dream a little bigger a little kinder!!! change the dream you #made up with scorpus when you were a young angry teenager and make it fit who you are NOW. the life you want NOW not the life you thought #you should have & deserved. what did you learn from growing up. what changed. what do you need now & what do you want. not the same things #and i too wish that this was 30k and covered their entire backstory #BUT IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION of i also need it to be 100k canon-divergent (presumably. i’m only through episode eight. but i can’t imagine #that they will follow the plot EYE would write because they need to have a second season & you can’t have that without conflict which means #titus overthrown scorpus is gonna die metaphorically or literally etc etc the gold faction in shambles but technically triumphant with #domitian on the throne and tenax in a position of patrician power accepted into their society but still not equal and happy. whereas lmao #domitian you’re getting shipped off to some other city because your plot to overthrow titus failed and yet he is merciful enough he won’t #kill you he just sends you and hermes together (at which point over the months long journey you forgive and re-learn each other bc titus #didn’t know of the betrayal he thought it would be kind to send your (ex-)lover with you. do we see how this works perfectly) & tenax falls #back into the underworld where he now knows he belongs because blood is everything except when it isn’t. when he realizes what he has is #worth more. no matter if the blood he has is tainted or patrician the blood oath he swore with scorpus iron on their tongues means more.#calla’s split lip defending him and their winnings. kwaame’s blood on the hard packed sand of the arena fighting to stay alive and to come #home to them. the fire in aura’s cheeks when she laughs at ivy. SURPRISEEEE EVERY NARRATIVE IS A FOUND FAMILY I GUESS IT SPRUNG ON ME TOO.#and tenax doesn’t mind a little dirt and bribery every now and then. doesn’t aspire to former heights and shining brilliant out of shadows.#the gaudiness of gold &flash of fools’ dreams. YES CAN I FINALLY PLS GET MY BLACK FACTION TO REPLACE THE ILL-FATED GOLD THATLL COLLAPSE W/D

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gojonanami · 6 months ago

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❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 ! ❞

❝ THE FOUR TIMES YOUR NEIGHBOR TRIES TO HOOK UP WITH YOU AND THE ONE TIME HE SUCCEEDS !! ❞

✧ pairing: uncle! sukuna x neighbor! reader

✧ summary: you had grown up next door to the itadoris, but you never had met their uncle. and for good reason, he had spent the majority of his life in and out of jail. but now he was finally out, and he only had one goal in mind -- getting you in his bed.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, modern au, uncle sukuna, degradation (slut, whore, brat), freshly out from jail sukuna, implied age gap (sukuna probably like late 30s / early 40s, reader is like mid twenties), wet dreams (f!), masturbation (f! +m!), dom!sukuna, sub!reader, dirty talk, oral (f + m), spanking (f!receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, orgasm delay (f! receiving), implied multiple rounds, swearing, fanart found on pinterest (let me know if you know the og artist)

✧ w/c: 8,939

You were a pretty little thing.

That’s what he thought when he first saw you. And when he saw you smile, his second thought was — how could he have you?

You were the girl next door. Literally. Grew up next to the Itadori family, you watched the brat on weekends, helped around the house after the mom had left, and even slept over some nights in the guest room.

The very room you were in now, pinned underneath him, legs spread as your cunt gushed as if you had been the one doing time instead of him.

“Fuck, girl, did the boys your age not fuck you properly?” He clicks his tongue, the glint of his piercing in the low light of the moonlight that illuminated the barest hint of the room. It was by that light that you could not only see the way his lips curled into a smirk as his hand came down on your needy pussy, but the noticeable bulge in his pants, “g’nna have to fix that,” as he thumbs meanly at your swollen clit, “I’ll have you screaming my name soon enough.”

“Are the cookies almost done?” Yuji asked, rubbing the back of his head, squinting at the cookies through the oven window, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, “sure you’re not burning them?”

“I know how to bake cookies, Yu,” you roll your eyes, as you clean the counters off of the flour and bits of dough and sugar that smeared the surface, “why are you so impatient anyway?”

“He wants to leave before the wrecking ball blows through, and you should do that same,” Choso adds, emerging from his room with a yawn, and you tilt your head, his gaze slides to Yuji, “she doesn’t know?”

Yuji shakes his head, “I thought Dad was—”

Choso glances at you, gesturing to his face to tell you that you had something on your own, before his eyes slide back to his younger brother, “You know Jin can barely remember to tell us, much less—”

You cross your arms, wiping the flour and sugar from your cheek, but you only manage to make it worse, “Can you guys just tell me instead of having an argument about who should have told me?”

Yuji sighed, leaning against the counter, elbow propped up as he held his head up with his fist flat against his chin, “My dad’s brother is coming to stay for us for the summer,”

“Your uncle?” and you miss the way Yuji grimaces at the question, too busy pulling on oven mitts, “Your dad’s great — I can’t imagine your uncle being any different,” you pull the cookies from the oven, swatting Yuji’s hand as he tries to take one off the still burning rack, “you’ll burn yourself, just wait,”

Your own family was scattered here and there now — and the Itadoris had been like your own family as you grew up — Jin was like a second dad to you, he had always looked after you, even after you had graduated from college. The quiet man didn’t say much but he did a lot, and you couldn’t imagine his brother being much different.

And then the door swung open, a large man caught in the backlight of the summer sun, casting a long shadow across the entryway made your breath stick in your chest as if it was where it belonged — pinned under his mere presence.

“Looks like you’ve done nothing to change the place, did you?” He takes a step or two in and finally his body is cast into view — tattoos bound like ribbons against his skin, muscles are heavy cords that look more monstrous than human — as no human should be as hulking as he was. But that was nothing compared to his face itself — black tattoos lining both sides of his face in an intricate pattern that stole your breath from your lungs, while his eyes were black holes that cut right through you than at you, a flicker of flames burning underneath, “tch, brat, take my things up—“ he tosses the duffle bag slung over his shoulder at Yuji who catches it with a glare, before his gaze slides to Choso, “and he’s still here?”

“Don’t be rude to my son and his brother, Sukuna,” Jin sighed, entering behind him as he shut the door, “Choso is welcome, and don’t forget you’re a guest here,” he takes the bag from his son, and takes it upstairs instead.

And Sukuna’s gaze finally falls on you. It’s heavy, the sharp tip of a sword tracing every inch of your body as it circled its weak points — his eyes lingers on the curves of your body — and perhaps the points he liked too.

“And who’s this?” he jerks his head towards you gruffly, as if you couldn’t answer yourself.

You say your name, “I’m their neighbor,” and he nods, eyes darting to Choso, his body growing tense, as he gritted his teeth, but Sukuna was only all smiles, he took steps forward. You can’t help but avert your gaze, as he approaches, fingers outstretched, a slight flinch but it’s gone soon enough.

You glance up, and find him taking a bite of one of your cookies, tongue darting out to lick the chocolate from his lips, “sweet,” he devours it, “not bad, brat,” and he leans close again to grab another, “but probably not as sweet as you.”

And your eyes widen, as he bears no reaction, except for a small smirk that graces his lips, as he follows his brother upstairs, “You better not be fucking around in my things,”

You don’t hear Jin’s reply, still utterly consumed by what just happened.

“You okay? He’s just like that,” Choso murmurs, “he won’t bother you, I promise,”

“No, no, I’m okay,” your lips curl in an offer of reassurance, but you’re sure it falls flat, as your eyes glance back at the stairs.

And that was your first time meeting Sukuna.

But far from your last.

The next time you saw him was at a summer barbecue the Itadoris always had to kick off summer break. And most of your time was spent chatting with Choso and kicking Yuji’s ass at Mario Kart, until it grew dark, and Choso was stuck carrying a slightly tipsy Yuji inside.

You laid back in the patio chair, scrolling on your phone to the symphony of cicadas filling the silence, the smoke from the barbecue still lingering in the night — and then you hear the creak of the back door open.

“You want another drink, Choso?”

“I’d love a drink, girl,” and your eyes snap over to spot Sukuna, standing with hands tucked into his pockets, a black tank you assumed was several sizes too small.

“Sure,” you say, slipping from your chair, “but we only have the mix for a sex on the beach,” and his eyes find yours, a ghost of a gruff chuckle on his lips.

“Sounds perfect if it’s from you, sweetheart,” and you have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes — he may be nice to look at, but he isn’t smooth, you make the drink in relative silence. Until you sense his presence behind you, your head whipping back to find him looming, your breath caught in your throat.

“Uh—“

“Just wanted to see a master bartender at work, you seem like you really know what you’re doing, with, what’s the drink called again?” And you force yourself to look forward, ignoring the weird mix of his musk and alcohol, with the clink of the ice cubes against the glsd breaking the silence.

“Sex on the beach,” you offer it to him, and fuck, you don’t like it — don’t like him and his smug grin, the way your eyes can’t pull away from his, the way your heart clenched, and the way you wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug smile on off his face.

“Good girl,” he plucks the drink from you, his fingers brushing yours, “want to have one with me?”

And you almost find yourself saying yes, find yourself buckling under the heat of his gaze and the summer humidity that clings to your skin and strangles the sense from your head — and you can’t help but think how nice those fingers of his would feel around your neck—

“No, no, I probably should head home. It’s late—“ and just then the back door opens again, Choso standing in the doorway, “Choso, where’s Yu?”

“I got him to bed. Come on, I’ll walk you home,” and you nod, grabbing your bag with a slight nod to Sukuna before disappearing inside, and you don’t catch the way your best friend glares at Sukuna.

And you don’t see the way Sukuna stares at you as you walk away either.

The third time you meet Sukuna is a few nights later — and it wasn’t for lack of trying to avoid him.

“Can I have some popcorn?” you ask, eyes still glued to the TV, a movie that the two of you had seen a million times before during movie night, “Choso?” you glance over at him, but he’s staring off into space, “hello?” you nudge him, and he finally comes to.

“Sorry, what?” And you sigh, leaning over and grabbing the popcorn bowl, “sorry I was just—“ he shakes his head, “nothing,”

“You’re so convincing,” and you see a flush crawl up his neck, “C‘mon, what’s bothering you?”

You toss a pillow at Choso, the pillow bouncing off his face to land in his lap, the glow of the TV in his dark bedroom giving you enough light to see the glare on his face, “Cho, you’ve been brooding all night — did Yuji call you by your name instead of big brother?”

He scoffs, “I only got upset about that once,” or twice or maybe ten times, “it’s Sukuna. He’s been really grating on my nerves,” and your eyebrows knit together, as you put the volume of the TV down.

“What has he done?” and Choso hesitates, several emotions flicker across his face before a stoic look glazes over his face, as he presses his hand to his lips, “you can tell me—“

There’s a knock at the door, and Yuji sticks his head in, “Hey, Dad has to sleep now for a meeting, so move to the living room,” and you throw popcorn at him, but he only catches one or two in his mouth and leaves.

You sigh, “I should probably just go home anyway, I have to get some sleep,” you glance at Choso, who is fascinated with his floor all of a sudden, “you okay?” He moves to get up, but you shake your head, “just chill, I’ll walk back.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it, “I’m fine, just get home safe okay?”

You snort, “think I’ll be fine walking the ten feet to my door,” you grab your things, “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

And you close the door softly, turning to head up the hallway and out of the house, bag slung over your shoulder, and you’re turning the corner, when you nearly crash into someone.

A hand curls around your wrist to steady you, “You should watch where you’re going, brat,” and your eyes flit up to find a dark gaze looking back down at you, lips curled in a small grin, “don’t know what you’ll find wandering these halls,”

You pull your arm away, “I’m pretty familiar with these halls and what wanders them,”

“Not all of them,” the low tone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, as you brush past him, avoiding his piercing gaze, cutting through you with practiced ease, “what were you doing here so late anyway?” You ignore him as you go to grab your shoes, but find them missing.

“Have you seen my shoes?” and he only tilts his head, arms crossed, muscles inked with tattoos that littered up and down, and you knew he could pin you down with barely an ounce of effort.

“Maybe answer my question and I’ll tell you,” and your lips twist into a scowl, as you begin to look around, checking the coat closet, under the couch, “was he really that bad?” And his question makes you pause, “the cursed brat, in bed? Did he not do the job for you?”

You haul yourself to your feet, “What is your problem?”

And his expression is as milquetoast as ever, as if he had asked you about the weather as opposed to asking if you had fucked your best friend, “You don’t have to be fucking sensitive, it’s just a question,” he runs his painted nails through his dyed cropped hair, low light glinting off the black sheen, “unless it was that bad,”

“Fuck off,” you scoff, trying to walk past him but he blocks you, “what?”

“Maybe I’ll help you find your shoes, if you have a drink with me,” and you cross your arms.

“Did you go to jail for stealing? Because with all those muscles and tattoos, I’m surprised you weren’t caught sooner,” and he’s leaning closer, breath warming your lips and your blood alike, boiling under your skin as if he had set you on fire without lying a single finger on you.

“Didn’t take you to be one to admire me, little one, after all, I’m just your neighbors’ uncle aren’t I? Jailbird, criminal, fucking lowlife, right? And his fingers ghost over your jaw, “but I don’t see you pulling away, do I?”

And you aren’t. But why aren’t you? Every brain cell is telling you to fucking run, but your body wants nothing more than to lean into his touch, to give in, let yourself be engulfed by him—

The creak of the door has you jumping back, “hey, you forgot your shoes—“ Choso starts, and his gaze snaps between you and Sukuna.

“Thanks, Cho,” you slip past Sukuna, grabbing your shoes, “i was wondering what I did with them,” you step into your shoes, cheeks still burning as you can’t quite meet your best friend’s eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

And you’re gone without another word, the silence of your exit hanging overhead as the screen door clicks closed behind you. Sukuna watches you leave, and as he turns he’s met with a glare from Choso.

Sukuna only gives a gruff chuckle, walking past as he lets his shoulder bump against Choso’s, “What are you fucking looking at?”

And now he had visited you in your dreams too.

“S’fucking wet,” Sukuna has you pinned down with one hand, face hovering over your drenched cunt, as he toyed with it, tugging your folds apart to let some of your pre drip onto your bedspread, “fucking slut, you were begging for this, weren’t you?”

And a thick digit sinks into you with little resistance, making your back arch as pleasure rips up your spine, “fuck off,” you manage, between pants.

“I know, brat, that’s what I’m trying to do,” he laughs, as he works a second finger inside you with practiced ease, “like I was made to fuck this cunt open, my fingers are already fucking drenched, and all I’ve done is open you up,” and to punctuate his point, he’s scissoring his fingers to stretch your walls out, dragging against them, as your mouth falls open in a silent moan.

“A-ah, please—“ and he’s grinning now, a purr as he leans down to meet your blown out gaze. His fingers begin to fuck you open, his thumb rubbing against your clit as your body rocked against his hand. And a grunt has you looking at him, only to see him palming his erection, slit dripping with precum, “Sukuna, please—“

“Knew you’d be a good girl f’me, good little slut gonna break my fingers in two,” and his other hand spanks your clit, “now cum,”

And you do, muscles clenching as you do, a cry of his name on your lips that does nothing but stroke his ego, your orgasm soaking his hand. Eyes fluttering open to find him licking your release from his fingers, as his other hand undoes his pants and tugs down his boxers, his cock already dragging against your still twitching cunt.

“Fuck,” you mumble, under your breath, and he only smiles.

“Now you’re getting it, baby.”

And your alarm jolts you awake, you stare at your ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin, while you glance at your side to find nothing but your comforter beside you. Not to mention, as you shifted, feeling the telltale stickiness of your arousal and the dull throbbing of your cunt, the aftermath of your dream — your very wet dream.

“Fuck,” you say, this time out loud and to no one but yourself. This was going to be a problem, if you let this go on. And you couldn’t. Not after the last time — you swing your feet over the edge of the bed and stand, glancing back at the stain of your pre that you flipped your comforter over — and not after that.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

Yes, you have done a good job. Until now.

You gritted your teeth, as you stood in the doorway of the room. But how could you have avoided him in the guest room of the house he lived in?

And as he loomed in the doorway of the kitchen, dwelling in the shadow of his form, you were kicking the ass of past you, the one that had convinced you it was okay to stay over because Sukuna had been out.

“Had” being the operative word.

It had been a few days since you had found yourself at the Itadoris. And more than a few days since you had found yourself dreaming of Sukuna — waking up with his name on your tongue and your panties uncomfortably drenched. You had gone through more underwear this week than you had in a month. And it didn’t help that you felt the need to get off once you did wake, the ache between your thighs was too much to bear before sleep.

And now here was the subject of your dirty dreams darkening your doorway, as if your dreams were some naughty prophecy waiting to unfold (though you were sure he could fold you).

“What are you talking about?”

And you knew exactly what he was talking about. You had made sure Sukuna wasn’t around when you came over (the absence of his motorcycle is a telltale sign), and always left before he returned. But tonight you made the mistake of drinking with Choso, the two of you finishing two bottles of sake before being completely fucked.

Your head was spinning — you could barely have made it to the bathroom, much less your home. Choso had corralled you into taking his bed, before going and collapsing on his couch. It had been only a few hours into the night before you got up in a haze of confusion with your mouth drier than the Sahara. You pulled yourself up, slipped on thin sleep shorts that you had thrown off at some point due to the summer humidity, before finding your way to the door.

You made your way to the kitchen, the squeak of the fridge as you pulled it open to grab a water bottle. And that’s when he spoke.

“And here you are,” and the water bottle nearly slipped from your grasp, “no need to jump, brat, I’m not a monster or a shadow,”

No, but he’s so much worse, he’s real.

“I was just getting something to drink,” you murmur, and he tilts his head, as he takes a step closer.

“Just water?’ That’s not the kind of drink you still owe me,” and why was his presence so intoxicating? Several drinks in and you could still hold your own, still speak in complete sentences, and even make your way home on foot. But Sukuna comes near, and suddenly you can barely form a fucking syllable, your limbs feel far too heavy, and your body is nearly burning, as if he had turned your blood to wine without any miracle needed.

No, it was more of a curse.

“I don’t remember owing you anything,” and he’s tilting his head, amusement flickering across his lips, a step closer and then another, until you’re utterly engulfed in his presence. You can smell the mix of exhaust and sweat off of him from his motorcycle ride, the way his jaw tenses as if he is holding himself back from taking a bite, and the way his gaze pierces into you as if he has you pinned like a butterfly under glass.

“Do I need to give you a reason?” And when his fingers ghosted over your swell of your cheek, a featherlight brush from rough, calloused skin that makes a shiver roll down your body, “didn’t think I had to with the way you were nearly melting into my touch when I saw you last, girl,”

“I wasn’t the one begging for me to be there,” and he clicks his tongue derisively, and you wonder what else he can do with it, before his fingers grip your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to his.

“Tch, so pleased with yourself just for resisting, are you, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, while his other hand slithers down your side until he finds your waist and tugs you close, lips hanging close, a forbidden fruit begging you to take a bite, “imagine how good you’d feel if you gave in,” and you almost do, melting into his touch, as if you were made to fit in his arms, leaning up so you could feel the warm breath of his welcome—

SLAM!

You’re sent stumbling back again, clearing your throat, as the sounds of footsteps grow close, and Yuji wanders into the kitchen, mouth pulled open by his yawn, as he blinks as he spots the two of you.

“Hey, I thought you were asleep upstairs,” he walks past the two of you to grab a water bottle from the refrigerator, and sparing a short glance at Sukuna, “and I thought you had plans,”

“Plans can change, brat,” Sukuna sighs, his eyes still trained on you — a homing missile with a target, and Yuji was an obstacle in the way, “shouldn’t you go back to bed?”

“I could ask you two the same,” he leaned against the kitchen counter for a moment, while you only shook your head.

“I’m going to go to bed,” your only exit opportunity and you’d take it — there had been enough mistakes made, and you didn’t need another to add to the list, and you’re slipping back into your room without another word.

You don’t see the way Sukuna glares at his nephew, cursing the day of his existence with only his eyes, only gaining a confused stare in return, “What? Ow!”

And you’re only left questioning why Yuji is holding a bag of ice to his head the next morning.

But you knew you couldn’t avoid Sukuna forever — and you couldn’t avoid how you felt either.

Especially when he gave you exactly what you wanted — space. You had barely seen him for the next week, the former criminal making himself scarce, apparently telling his brother that he had grown tired of “rooming with a bunch of brats,” and had found himself another place to stay for a while.

Jin had sighed when you had asked over breakfast a day or so after he left, “I don’t know how long he’ll be gone, but we’ll see. The only requirement of his release was to stay in the prefecture—”

“And that’s already far too close,” Yuji muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from his dad, “so we don’t even know if he’ll be back huh?”

Jin shrugs, as he sips his coffee, “I don’t know — your uncle isn’t one to stay in one place — unless there’s something that he wants,”

“I’ll take any amount of time that he’s not here,” Choso shakes his head, offering you a small smile, “and this way you can stay over in the guest room now,”

“Yeah, true,” you offered a weak smile, as you continued to pick at your food. This was good news, things were going back to normal, but even so, as you pushed your food on your plate — why did your chest ache so much?

“Yuck, do people’s heads really explode like that?” Yuji sat with the two of you in the living room, TV playing the movie Yuji had chosen, shoveling popcorn by the fistful.

“How would we know that?” you snort, stealing popcorn from his bowl, “why did you even choose this movie anyway?”

“He heard there was a Megan Thee Stallion cameo in it,” and Yuji’s cheeks flushed, visible even in the dim illumination of the TV, as he got to his feet.

“I’m gonna get a drink, do you two want anything?” And you both shake your heads, as you stifle your chuckle.

“You wanna stay over tonight?” Choso asks, and you tilt your head, toying with a popcorn kernel between your fingers.

You shrug, “we’ll see,” your eyes drift back to the movie, but you feel the creak of the bed as he shifts.

“You don’t have been avoiding staying over, even though it’s just us,” Fuck, your eyes still found themselves on the screen instead of him, anywhere but him, and you can hear the unspoken words — even though Sukuna is not here, “are you sure we’re good?”

And you couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t him that was bothering you. It wasn’t him keeping you up at night, it wasn’t him who had been tempting you the last few weeks, and it wasn’t him that you wanted to see — no matter how much you didn’t want to admit it, even to yourself.

So you don’t.

You smile as best you can, “Everything’s fine, Choso,” and he frowns, still unsure, and you know there’s only one thing that will assure him, if only a little, “I’ll stay over,”

And so you end up in the guest room — far too late. Even though Sukuna no longer lingered here, his scent still did, even with the sheet change and the small amount of his things gone, he was still very much here.

And it did little for your sleep. Or maybe too much.

Again, you dreamt of him, his large palms dragging down your sides, lips pulled in a smirk that he pressed to the hollow of your throat before it’s consumed by a flash of canines that pinch and tease the softness of your flesh.

“S’fucking wet,” he huffs a chuckle out, “such a little slut, been wanting this for far too long haven’t you?” And he’s undoing your robe with ease, a single tug has your body revealed to him, “haven’t even laid a finger on you and look at the mess you’ve made,” he clicks his tongue, and a whine parts your lips, “already whining like a bitch?”

He shoves two fingers inside you, a gasp ripped from your throat, thick digits stretching your walls, clenching around the intrusion, “Sukuna—please,”

“Silly girl,” he murmurs in your ear, “I’m not even the one touching you now,” and fantasy melts into reality as his hand cups your chin, eyes fluttering open, “but I know I can make you cum faster than any dream,”

Wait. What?

And suddenly the touch down your body feels all too real, pain ribboning from the fingers squeezing your hips hard, and a gasp as your body trembles, still caught between sleep and reality. Your body can’t move, but it’s not the weight of your own limbs keeping you still.

Your eyes shoot open completely, sleep shed completely from your mind.

And you found Sukuna, his lips curled in a smile that was far too familiar from other sleepless nights. But was it? Or was it another dream that he had invaded, far too real as you slept in his bed, rather than your own.

Your hand reaches out for him shakily, fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, “Is this real?” you mutter, more to yourself, but he takes it upon himself to answer, his hand darting out to curl around your wrist, squeezing, while the other holds himself up, mattress creaking a divot where his hand pressed in, body heat all too close.

“Want me to pinch you? Can’t say it’ll be the cheek you’re thinking of,” he chuckles, unable to meet his gaze, “don’t go acting like a shy virgin now, woman. You’re the one having wet dreams about me,”

“No, I-I, it wasn’t—“ but your brain is short circuiting and his laugh that rumbles against you tells you he’s enjoying this far too much, “what are you doing here? I thought you left,” the statement comes out far too biting, and he raises an eyebrow.

“I did, but it was just for a week. I had some business to deal with,” and a grin pulls at his lips, “why? Did you miss me, brat? Is that why you’re dreaming of me?”

You’re squirming underneath him trying to look anywhere but him, “I’m not, it wasn’t—“ and he only hums, dragging a hand down your front, until he’s reaching your shorts, a brief pause to see if you’d pull away, but you don’t, and fingers pressing against your soaked shorts.

“That why you’re soaked through your fucking shorts?” And the rough pads of his fingers grind against your eager hole, nearly swallowing you in, only the thin fabric of your shorts keeping his fingers from fucking you then and there, “least your body’s honest — so eager to get fucked,” and he’s teasing your drenched entrance, drawing his fingers back to have your pre like spiderwebs between the two digits.

“Sukuna, please—“ and his lips curl.

“Tell me to stop, and I’ll go,” a small whine left your throat, the throbbing between your thighs growing with the way his gaze undid you — unscrewed you by your hinges and watched you fall apart, only to ask you to put yourself back together.

But you couldn’t. Not without him.

“Sukuna—“

“I didn’t ask you to whine, are you going to answer my question—-“

“Fuck me,” the words fall from your lips as if possessed, and you can’t find it in you to regret them.

And he smiles all the same.

“About fucking time,” and his fingers meanly rub against your clit through the paper thin fabric of your shorts, “didn’t even fucking put on panties and you expect me to think you didn’t want me fuck you open,” and embarrassment burns at your cheeks, “did you get this wet from dreaming about me?” And no words come to your mind, and he gives you a sharp spank to your clothed slit, drawing a sharp gasp to your lips and slick flooding from your folds, “better use your words, woman,”

“Fuck, please, I need—“ and his fingers practically rip your shorts off, letting your cunt gush onto the sheets.

“Need me to fuck you that bad? G’nna beg this criminal to fuck you open?” And he’s toying with your folds, tugging your tight hole apart as his eyes rake over your pussy, exposed for him, “after all of your teasing, what makes you think you even deserve to be fucked? Maybe I should leave you like this, fingers buried in your cunt, wishing they were your neighbor’s uncle’s,” and a sadistic smile graces his features as it only can his, “fuck yourself for me,”

You whimper, as his fingers leave your hole, clenching around nothing as if begging for his touch, “what? But—“

“Fuck yourself until you cum, wanna see what you’ve been doing when you’re fucking me in your sleep,” the absence of his touch leaves you keening and needy, for something, anything to get you off. Want overcomes inhibition, and your shaky fingers find their way to your cunt, fingertips tracing the outer lips, a gasp you barely recognize as your own when you rub against your clit, “c’mon girl, gotta open yourself up for me — think I’ll fit if you just rub yourself like that?” And he’s pressing his clothed erection against your thigh — and he’s fucking big — rock hard cock rubbing against you through damp damp sweatpants.

And his fingers grabs your own, guiding them to your slick hole, letting them slip past your fluttering walls, while his own teased your outsides, “Good girl,” and the praise makes your walls clench, and he’s chuckling, “want to be a fucking good girl, then fuck yourself until I see you cum for me,”

You swallow your whines, beginning to move your fingers in and out, your insides clinging to you, as if begging for something longer, thicker, better — and you knew his fingers would be. A moan falls from your lips, and he clicks his tongue.

“Gotta be rougher than that,” and his fingers curl around the base of your own, using your fingers as a glorified fuck toy. Your head lolled back, as he controlled the pace of your fingers, fucking you hard and fast, reaching places you didn’t think were possible with your fingers, “that’s it, you’re close aren’t you? Like being fucked with your own fingers, don’t you, you slut?” And you’re shuddering, soft cries and moans filling the silence of the night with the loud squelch of your cunt.

“Sukuna, f-fuck, ngh, I can’t—“ and he only begins to rub on your clit with his thumb.

“Yes you can,” he gruffly chuckles, murmuring in your ear as he leans forward, “cum on your fingers like you have every night for me,” and he forces your gaze to meet his as your fingers brush that one spot that has your back arching, “say my name,”

And you do, cumming hard around your fingers, as he uses them to fuck you through your orgasm, the wet noises of your folds growing louder as your thighs shake. Your eyes meet his, glassy with tears from your high, and Sukuna leans down to lick the salty tear from your cheek.

He pulls your fingers from inside you, your sticky cum coating your digits and even dripping onto his own. He smirks as he eyes them, before sliding them into his mouth. A moan pulled from your lips as he sucks your essence clean from them, tongue dragging up the length of your fingers.

“Shit, that was a nice moan,” and his eyes fall back to your drenched cunt, “Still so fucking tight,” he clicks his tongue, Fuck, girl, did the boys your age not fuck you properly? G’nna have to fix that,” as he thumbs meanly at your swollen clit, “I’ll have you screaming my name soon enough.”

he hums, taking in your ruined state — tear stained cheeks, your dripping cunt, and your red ruined lips from biting them, “so fucking pretty like this,” and you hear him shift, the distinct sound of his phone camera, making your eyes snap open.

“No, fuck, no don’t—“ and he’s turning the screen around to show you how absolutely fucked you look, “please—“

“It’s a little too late for that, can’t have anyone buying your little virgin act anymore huh?” he’s grinning as he leans forward, pinning your thighs in place as you try to squirm away, “don’t move,”

His order makes your muscles tense, unable to move your body under the heavy grasp of his hands splayed against your hips. The pads of his fingers dig into your soft flesh, as his lips dare closer to your weeping slit.

“Fuck, are you a virgin though? You’re still so fucking tight even after that little show you put on for me,” and he doesn’t give you a chance to reply, his breath warming your twitching cunt, “either way, you won’t be one soon,” and he’s burying his mouth in your pussy.

You moan, covering your mouth before he sucks on your clit, tongue teasing your hole open, a wave of heat flooding your body. The sounds of his licking and slurping fill your ears — and you wonder how the whole house isn’t awake yet.

You can’t stop your hips from nearly fucking his face, but he spanks your thigh, hard, as he pulls his mouth from your dripping slit, “I told you not to move,” and he spanks your clit for good measure, making you yelp against your fingers, “tell me when you’re about to cum,” and you whimper, “or I can open this door and let the house hear us,”

You nod, but he doesn’t miss the way your slit twitches at the thought, and his mouth curls in a nasty smirk, “such a fucking slut, maybe I will,” and he’s plunging two thick fingers into your greedy cunt, a gasp ripped from your throat at the intrusion, walls fluttering as they attempt to accommodate his digits. But it’s all squeezing and barely any stretch, as his fingers work you open.

And it doesn’t take long to get you worked up, his digits knuckle deep and dripping wet, “gonna fucking break my fingers in two with your virgin hole, girl,” he grunts, your body burning with his touch alone, nails dragging against your walls, curling so they can bully that sweet spot just right, “you’re gonna cum aren’t you?” the telltale squeeze of your cunt tells him so, and you’re nodding, and his fingers slip from inside.

You’re whining, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, “Please, fuck, wanna cum,” the pleasure that had built was throbbing, a dam close to bursting but denied its relief, so it remained, begging and waiting — “please, Sukuna—“

“So you do know how to beg like a good little whore, gonna fuck you again, but you can’t cum until I tell you,” and he’s sinking three fingers into you now, eyes rolling back as your back arches, but he’s fucking you meanly, curling and twisting his fingers, until the pleasure is a tight knot in your belly, barely hanging on from snapping, “wait,” he grunts, and it’s as if your warmth is made for him — or now it was, because he’s made it his, “wait,” and you’re sure he’s reached your cervix somehow, fingertips reaching places you’ve only dreamed of (literally), and then he leans down lips around your clit as he orders you, “now, cum,”

And you do, hard, as he sucks around your clit while fucking you through your orgasm, cum flooding his fingers and face alike, drenching him, even as he slurped and sucked up every bit.

He finally pulls away, a shiver slips down your spine as he slips his fingers from inside you, pink tongue flicking against his lips, still slick with your cum, What a fucking mess you’ve made,” he sneers, but he’s licking his lips clean all the same, “should make you clean up the mess you made, shouldn’t I?” And he’s pressing the pads of his fingers to your lips, you’re too fucked out to fight, lips parting with ease, “suck,” and you do, opening wide to let his fingers inside, lips and tongue curled around the same fingers that had explored your cunt.

He watched as you obediently sucked every drop of your juices off, a trickle of drool slipping down the corner of your lips makes his already hard cock twitch in his pants, and he’s pulling his fingers from your mouth.

“Better than your dreams, huh, sweetheart?” he drags his thumb down your bottom lip, he can’t fucking wait a minute longer, “turn around, gonna fuck this slutty princess cunt from behind,” but you only can watch as he tugs down his sweatpants and boxers alike, his cock slapping against his stomach.

Fuck, he’s even bigger than you had imagined. Mushroom tip red and hard, as pretty veins run up the sides, and he was looking as if he’d not only split you open, but break you all together.

Your thighs quaked at the thought, more slick slipping from your needy cunt — and you wanted him to.

Your knees shake, as you turn slowly, much too slowly his pace, and he grunts, his hands gripping your hips, as he flips you onto your stomach, a yelp leaving your lips as you bounce on the mattress. “have to fuckin’ do everything myself for this whore’s pussy,”

You’re gripping the sheets, nails surely tearing holes in the thin fabric of the sheets, as his calloused palm comes down on your ass, hard, the smack echoing in the silence of the night, a mewl you don’t recognize as your own, “Sukuna, please, I can’t—“

“You can, you’ll take whatever I give you, brat,” and another smack finds your ass again, as he pinches the flesh for good measure, drawing another moan from your lips and another chuckle from his, “and you’ll take this cock too,” and he doesn’t spare you a moment as he presses his swollen, dripping cockhead to your drenched hole, smearing his pre all over your ass — as if to erase any doubt you were his, because there wasn’t — before finally sliding in.

God, fuck.

Your arms were already shaking, barely able to hold yourself up, but your face nearly plants into the mattress as he sinks into you — he was too fucking big. Even all the prep he had given you was nothing, nothing compared to how much his dick was stretching your cunt.

He hummed, as your insides swallowed him eagerly, even with the slight resistance of your tight little pussy, watching as your walls parted for him with almost practiced ease, sucking him deeper and deeper, as if you were made for him. And you would be, after he fucked your cunt to his shape again and again — because this was far from the last time he would take you.

It was only the first.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight — am I the first to fuck this pussy?” he grunts, grasping your hips tightly, your warm, wet pussy wrapped around his dick — he had waited far too long for this, too many nights spent grasping at his cock, thinking how much better it would be buried in your pussy.

“H-hngh, Sukuna, s’big,” you’re nearly babbling as he works himself into you, inch by inch, not even halfway in, and you were gonna cum just from him putting his dick in, “can’t fit—” and he’s scoffing, watching you squirm against his length, but he only continues to fuck his way into your tight hole, another sharp slap to your ass as a warning.

“I’ll make it fit, girl,” he growls — like fuck he was stopping now that’s gotten this far, there was only one way this was ending — and it was with his cock fucking you full of his cum, “c’mon, did the dream not compare to the reality? Did you think I had a tiny dick?” and he thrusts shallowly against you, sending another inch inside your already stuffed folds, drawing a needy whine from your throat, “so fucking loud, you gonna let the whole house know what we’re doing at this rate,”

he murmurs, bending down to your ear, and your walls squeeze around him, a vice grip that has him nearly cumming then and there, but no he won’t, not yet, “fuck, did you think about letting Choso know? Maybe I’d let him watch me fuck you, only way he’ll ever see you like this,” and you whimper as he slams into you, finally bottoming out as his tip bullies your womb, making you cry out against your fingers, “to think the pretty girl next door is on her hands and knees like a slut for me now, getting split open by my dick. What would Choso think?”

You’re whining, “Please, fuck, slow down—” but he only pulls out a little to piston back in, balls slapping against your ass as he does, setting a mean pace, as he chuckles in your ear.

“You’re saying that, but we both know that’s not what you want — slutty fucking pussy trying break my cock in two,” the sounds of your skin slapping against you as his tip brushes against your cervix rings in your ear, even as he murmurs in it, “y’’know he wants to fuck you right? The little brat is always watching you, nearly fisting himself at the sight of you,” he’s forcing you upwards, pressing your back to his chest, “he wants you, but he’ll never have you, because this pussy is mine,” and his hand finds the bulge in your stomach, pressing down, as you keen, head falling back against his shoulder, as tears pooled in your pretty eyes, “but he’d never be able to reach here and fuck you like you want — like a whore,” his other hand pinches and teases your pebbled nipples, before sliding up to your neck, squeezing lightly, “say you’re mine,”

You can’t find the words, all of them fucked out of your body to make room for his cock seemingly — the only words remaining his name and “please,” but you have to do better than that, and he slows his pace to nothing, as he pulls out so only his tip teases your entrance, a whine leaving your pathetic mouth.

“If you’re not mine, guess I don’t need to let you finish, do I?” and you’re shaking your head, frantic and repentant.

“I’m yours, i’m yours, Sukuna, please—” and he’s sliding right back into you, fucking you harder, balls slapping against your ass and sweet cunt swallowing him up to the base, a white ring of your pre cum forming around it — and he just knows you’re close, by the twitch of your sweet pussy — and his hand reaches around to rub at your clit, “I’m—”

And he ruts into you, hard and deep that you’re sure his length brushes against your womb — and you’re cumming, falling apart around him, but he doesn’t relent — but had he ever? He didn’t relent over these past few weeks, and he wouldn’t now, not until he was filling you up and watching his cum drip out of your hole—

You’re slipping back forward, face forward into the pillow and mattress, as he grunts watching your slick drip down your ass and thighs and onto the sheets — his balls tense with his release, “Fuck—” and that’s all the warning you get before he slams back into you to bottom out, as he blows his load.

His release is hot as it fills you up, never ending it seems as he slowly fucks you through his orgasm, his spurts slowing with time, until he’s finally stilling, a soft grunt, as he pulls himself from inside your warm cunt. A soft groan at the sight of his seed spilling from inside you — you’re boneless and spent, until he has you jolting forward from the press of his fingers gathering his cum and stuffing it back in.

“Kuna, fuck, I can’t—” and he scoffs, retracting his fingers for a moment, before he’s deftly flipping you onto your back, “too sensitive,” you whine as his fingers work their way back into you.

“Did you think I was done, woman?” and his softening erection is already standing tall again, and you’re almost wanting his fingers now at this point, even as your body disagrees, pussy squeezing at the thought of him buried inside you again. He leans forward, lips brushing against yours, a kiss full of nothing of tongue and teeth, the faint taste of your own release on his lips, “we’re far from done.”

The sound of your name catches your attention, your eyes snapping up from your breakfast, “what?”

“Are you okay? Choso frowns at you, as he holds his rice bowl, the rolled tamago sliced on his plate, “you look tired,” It was another morning like always, but

You shake your head, “I just didn’t sleep well, I kept waking up from my dreams,” and it wasn’t exactly a lie — yesterday was the culmination of a million dreams you had. Dreams that only ended when the sun began to come up, with his cock still buried in your cunt as you rode him, back pressed to his chest, as he worked you up and down his dick.

And finally when he came again, this time all over your back, he finally pressed kisses up and down his back, easing himself out, as his toned arms engulfed you.

“Should clean up and I should head to Jin’s room,” he murmurs, “I have a feeling I won’t have a place to live if he finds me in here,” and you chuckle, too fucked out and tired, “we’ll have to get used to sneaking around.

“Oh will we?” you had mumbled, and he answered your question with another bruising kiss to your lips.

Yuji tilts his head, scratching it, as you lift your glass to take a sip of water, mouth far too dry now, “Is that what those noises were? It sounded like you were having nightmares,” and you nearly choke on it, but force it down, hoping the embarrassment wasn’t evident on your face, stabbing your egg.

“Yeah, I had a couple last night,” you lied, and even as you suddenly found your breakfast far too interesting, you could feel Choso’s gaze still on you — your cheeks burning as Sukuna’s words about him still rung in your ears — along with the distinct ache between your legs and on your ass he left behind, “I’m fine, I’m just going to need a nap,”

“You’re not the only one, girl,” Sukuna walks into the kitchen from the rooms, as Yuji and Choso balk at his presence.

Choso’s eyes narrow, “What are you doing here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Sukuna’s eyes find yours, the corner of his lip pulled upwards, as his gaze rakes over your form, “what’s for breakfast?” and you knew he only wished that you were the thing placed on the table for him to eat. Jin barely pays any mind, too preoccupied on his phone with his work email, as he passes a plate to Sukuna.

“When did you even get in?” Yuji asks, as he finishes his own breakfast, leaning back on his two palms. And your insides begin to tie themselves in knots at all of these questions — knowing Sukuna would like nothing more than to tell them exactly what he was doing last night.

“And where did you sleep?” Choso glares, adding fuel to the fire, as Sukuna looks down on him, lips a thin line, “you didn’t bother our guest, did you?” and your cheeks burn all the same, a flicker of amusement on Sukuna’s features, lips parting only for Jin to cut in.

“He got in early this morning. He slept in my room,” Jin says with a sigh, “Don’t you two have to get ready? You’re going to your mom’s this morning,”

“She’s not my mom,” Choso grumbles under his breath, “more like a leech,” but he still gets to his feet all the same, as Yuji follows suit, picking up their plates, a comforting hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

“I should get to work,” Jin sighs, sparing a sharp glance at his brother, “behave,” and he turns to you, “feel free to stay as long as you want. Yuji and Choso will be back this afternoon,”

And the three of them find their way out of the house, a rush of bags and feet, as Choso spares a glance at you.

“I’ll be back soon — you can hang out in my room if you want,” Choso says, before scowling at Sukuna, “let me know if you need anything,” and you nod, waving him off, and the door shuts behind them all.

Sukuna slides into place beside you, sitting as the two of you eat breakfast in relative silence. You finish up your meal, and move to get up, but Sukuna’s hand finds its way onto your thigh, holding you in place.

“Are you done?” and you glance at him, plate empty and food untouched, “with eating?”

“I am,” you raise an eyebrow, “And you?”

“My appetite wants something else, sweetheart,” he leans forward, fingers inching higher until his thumb grazes your inner thigh.

“And what’s that?” and he nearly growls his next words, thin patience already tearing in two, just as he would your clothes if you weren’t careful.

“I’m done playing coy, woman,” he’s lifting you with ease, slinging you over his shoulder as you gasp, and he’s gotten you on top of the counter, the very same counter you had baked cookies on the day he had arrived, but now his hulking body was quickly pressing your legs apart, “there’s only one thing I want to eat in this kitchen, and it’s between your fucking thighs.”

“Not sick of it yet?” you chuckle.

“Think I could bury myself in your slutty pussy for days and not get sick of it,” and he looms over you, just as he had that first day, and he leans down to kiss you, stealing the logic from your mind and leaving only the need for his touch behind, “it is the sweetest thing I ever tasted after all.”

“Really?” and he smirks, as his fingers dig into the fabric of your shorts ripping them and your panties down, the cool air against your already wet cunt.

“Want me to prove it?”

And oh, he would. Again and again.

✧ a/n: i have a problem. i really wanted to write something with degradation ok?

✧ taglist: , @k0z3me , @monstrousbuu , @abiiebibie , @strawmariee , @luciiferslover , @sxnkuna , @psychxbby , @addehehe , @cpu1d , @dreamtardisspace , @authorintheshadows666 , @arcielee , @trxnmagic , @smilk01 , @abcdbleh , @elisaj313-blog , @jinslunv , @n3ptunxe , @pinkyvomit , @being-me-is-not-a-sin , @rat-loves , @spider-fan72 ,, @niks1673 , @lafffyyytafffyyy , @miseraa , @astraxa-xx , @fushitoru , @hanxyy , @milky-milkyway , @nakariabnrb , @johannakhalafalla , @tojicvmbucket , @flyingtranscatofeffed , @vampzys , @caelestine-the-caelicatto , @hatsunemitskislobotomy , @k1ttybean , @catsgomurp , @goddess-ofthe-godless , @i-spilt-ink-on-my-phone , @forest-fruits-jam , @mua-for-now , @pricetagofficial

#sab [mlist]#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna fanfiction #ryomen sukuna smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x you #ryomen smut #ryomen sukuna x you

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feyburner · 4 months ago

Text

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

#superbat #my writing #i was genuinely surprised to wake up and discover i hadn’t just dreamed the whole thing

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dreaming-medium · 3 months ago

Text

Language Barrier

Pairing: Lee Minho x Reader

Word Count: 7K

Tags: fluff, first meeting, first kiss, strangers to lovers

Summary: When the power goes out while you’re in an ATM vestibule, you come to realize you’re stuck inside until the police come to open the door. But there’s one problem, you don’t speak a lick of Korean, and the man inside doesn’t seem to speak an ounce of English.

———

A/N: Please note that sentences that are Italicized are meant to be in Korean and sentences that are regular text are in English.

‘How are you?’ - English

‘I’m fine thank you, and you?’ - Korean

—————————————————————————

Luck was not on your side today.

It’s not like you’re an unlucky person as a whole, no, that’s not it. Today was just one of those days that when you say ‘How could this get any worse?’, the universe takes it as a challenge.

Perhaps you should’ve just kept your mouth shut after you spilled coffee on your blouse this morning. But, you’ve always been such a ‘glass-half-full’ sort of person that you tried to take every inconvenience in stride. Everyone has their limit, though.

Before you came here on a business trip, you had heard about the Korean Monsoon season.

Everyone and their mother told you about how much it would pour, how it would feel like the skies suddenly opened up. But, you didn’t take anyone’s warning seriously. You would wave them off with a scoff.

“It’s just rain,” you thought. “How bad could it be?”

You’re eating those words now as you run through the streets in your nice, newly-soaked, professional heels. Your slacks are sticking to your legs, making the fabric ten times heavier. With your bag held over your head, you look around frantically for the bank.

It doesn’t help that it’s close to 10 PM and visibility is already horrible at this time. Yes, you should have gone earlier, but you were distracted!

Where is it? Where is it?

There!

You spot the glass doors and practically sprint up to them, grab the handle, and rip the door open.

A giant sigh of relief comes out of your lips as you step inside the tiny vestibule.

The only other man inside the place jumps a bit at your noise. He glances over his shoulder at you, but immediately turns back to what he’s doing at the ATM. You pay him no mind as you shake the rainwater off of your bag.

It’s after hours at the bank, meaning the only thing open and available is one ATM inside the room between the bank itself and the streets of Seoul.

Soft beeping comes from the ATM as the other man presses a few buttons. There’s an umbrella on the floor at his feet.

After brushing the water off your jacket, you bring your bag in front of you and start fishing out your card. Countless items inside your bag are now completely soaked.

Ugh, there goes all those business cards you collected at the meeting. Most of the ink is bleeding off the cardstock. Maybe, if you try really hard, you can make out the phone numbers on the cards.

Is that a 6 or an 8?

Or maybe the email addresses will be easier to understand. Surely, it just their names and their company’s–

There’s a bright flash of lightning followed immediately by a booming clap of thunder at the same time the lights in the ATM vestibule flicker and go out completely.

You fight the yelp that bubbles in your throat. The man in front of you seems to lose the fight against his reactions and lets out a tiny yip.

His shoulders come up and he seems to bristle like a cat.

“You’re kidding,” you mumble, looking up at the lights. It was almost pitch black inside now, save for the tiny emergency lights that kick on on either side of the glowing Exit sign.

The man lets out a grumble and a sigh.

You look over and see that the ATM has completely shut off. Figures.

The storm must’ve triggered some sort of power outage. Great. Now you’ll have to find some other ATM.

Why, oh why, did the restaurant that your boss wanted to take you to tomorrow morning have to be cash only?

Whatever, there should be a bank a few blocks from here.

Your heels click on the tile as you make your way to the door. When you grab the handle and pull, it doesn’t budge.

There’s a beat.

You try again, really putting your back into it this time.

“Am I stupid or what?” you whisper to yourself, trying the other door and pulling equally as hard.

“They’re not going to open,” the man behind you says. “The fail-safe locks probably kicked in once the power went out. It’s a security measure.”

You turn around and look at him with a blank look on your face. “Oh, ah, um… s-sorry, no… no Korean.”

The man blinks at you. “You don’t speak Korean?”

You blink right back at him. “Um…” All you can do is shake your head with wide eyes and a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry,” you repeat.

Another series of blinks are exchanged.

“No… Korean?” he asks slowly. His English sounds so unsure.

You nod. “No… no Korean.”

A tiny, exasperated sigh comes from his lips and he looks around, as if anything inside this tiny little room would be able to help him communicate with you. Meanwhile, you turn back to the door and give it another sharp tug to no avail.

“No,” he says firmly, drawing your attention back to him. He motions down to the door handles and then shakes his head.

“No?” you repeat, a bit confused.

“No.”

Honestly, the primitive conversation between the two of you would be somewhat laughable if you didn’t feel frustrated beyond belief.

“Why?” you ask, becoming annoyed. Obviously, he knows something that you don’t.

The man blinks at you and shifts around nervously on his feet. His hands motion around as he tries to conjure up a sentence in English. “N… No. Closed?... Closed.” He nods, saying the word rather confidently.

Yes, you know the door is closed. But, why?

After a second, he sees that whatever he said evidently isn’t good enough, so he points back to the ATM, to the light that is now off due to no power, and then to the locks. You follow his pointing and the cogs in your brain start turning slowly.

“Fail-safe locks,” you state and then finally release the door handles.

“Fail… Fail-safe locks,” he repeats slowly. “Fail-safe locks.”

“Fail-safe locks?” you parrot his Korean back to him and he nods.

A small hum comes from your chest and you take a step back from the door finally. “How long do you think–” you cut yourself off when you look over at him. The man is staring at you, not following a word you’re saying.

Your hand comes up and you brush some wet hair off your forehead and then scratch the back of your head as a nervous tick. There’s no point in even asking the question, he won’t be able to understand anything you’re saying.

If you were in his shoes, you’d probably be a bit annoyed too. But at the same time, he’s already been kinder than most would be in this situation.

He’s locked in an ATM vestibule with someone who doesn’t speak the same language as him– in his own country. He’s been more than kind. Most people would just wave you off and forget trying to communicate at all.

But here he was, talking slowly and making sure you can understand what he’s saying. He’s going so far as to point around the room to make sure you understand.

The man notices you give up and he lets out a tiny sigh, turning to then peer out the glass doors at the streets of Seoul. There’s basically no one out there, everyone has taken shelter from the squall.

“We’ll have to wait until the police come to open the door.” He pats at his pockets, searching for his phone.

Even with how terrible your Korean is, you still pick up on a few words. “Police?” A beat. “Police?”

“Yes,” he answers in English, taking his phone out and tapping the screen a few times before holding it up to his ear. The man continues to look through the glass doors, watching all the different cars drive by, none of them police cars.

You decide to turn around, walking around the tiny room.

All of the lights are off except for the emergency lights. They cast a dull glow through the entirety of the vestibule. There's barely enough light to see from one side of the room to the other.

Rain starts hammering against the glass as the man speaks into his phone. “Yes, hi, hello. I am currently trapped with another woman inside the ATM vestibule of Metrobank Seoul… Namdaemunno… Yes, that one.”

Your ears perk up when he mentions the name of the bank and the address. Ah, he must have called the police. His face pulls into a slightly annoyed look, but he doesn’t speak with a hint of it through the phone, at least, not that you’re really able to tell.

The man says a few more words into the phone before he hangs up with a sigh. He runs a hand through his hair and then down his face in an exasperated fashion before turning to look at you. His mouth opens to say something, but he thinks better of it and he grimaces even more.

Your own features pull into a sympathetic expression and you look away, slightly embarrassed. Should you have learned more of the language before coming here? Absolutely. But at the same time, you didn’t have much time to prepare once you were told you had to travel here for business.

He shuffles from foot to foot and looks around, shoving his hands in his pockets and desperately trying to remember every English class he took in school.

“Police…” he says slowly, thinking through every word he wants to try and say. “Police are… busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yes. Busy. Busy with… car…” He brings both of his hands together and claps and then makes an explosion noise with his hands.

“A car accident?”

He snaps his fingers and points to you, as if you’re a team during a game of charades.

“Car accident,” he says in Korean.

“Car accident,” you repeat and he nods.

Despite the reality of the situation, you smile. The humor in all of this does not escape you. You decide to try and meet him halfway, even with your butchered pronunciation.

“Police… time… long?” Your head cocks to the side and you point to your watch. He shakes his head and shrugs in exaggerated movements.

Scoffing, you roll your eyes. The accident was that bad, huh? No wonder the power went out then, the car must have smashed into electrical lines after that loud clap of thunder. This probably means all of the traffic lights and such are out too.

The police are most likely directing traffic and making sure no one gets injured; two idiots stranded in an ATM vestibule are the least of their concerns. Honestly, you can’t be in a safer place. Well, unless this guy is a murderer, but you haven’t gotten a harsh vibe yet.

You sigh and lean against the wall near the corner across from the ATM. Your body slides down to the floor and you stare straight ahead. It seems like you’re going to be in here for a while then.

The man takes one last look outside the doors before walking in your direction. He leans against the adjacent wall and takes a seat on the floor with you. His shoes almost touch the side of yours. It’s at this time that you let yourself take a moment to really look at him.

He has to be around your age; older than a college graduate but younger than someone settled into their career. Something that definitely doesn’t escape your attention is how… pretty he is. His skin is near perfect and so is his hair. Everything, down to the clothes he’s wearing, is absolutely flawless– and he’s only in sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie!

Next to him, especially in your current drowned rat state, you probably look like something worse than a hot mess. You quickly comb your hair off your forehead once more and pull at your soaking wet clothes sticking to your skin.

The man’s lips purse for a moment and he opens his mouth as if to say something, then promptly stops, opting for a grumble of frustration.

After a moment, an idea flickers through your mind and you hold up one finger to him to say ‘one moment’. You reach down into your pocket for your phone and take it out, tapping at a few screens and bringing up the Translate app.

‘What’s your name?’ you type into the phone and it immediately translates it into Korean below it. You turn your phone around and hold it up to him.

The man looks at you, then your phone, and his eyes light up. If you’re not mistaken, you even see a little bit of relief flash over his features. A tiny smirk pulls at one corner of his lips before he looks back at you.

“Minho,” he answers and motions to you.

“Y/N,” you reply. “Nice to meet you, Minho.” You hold your hand out for a handshake.

Minho looks at your hand and his smirk gets wider before he grabs your hand and shakes it gently. The skin on his palm is so soft. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

After shaking his hand, you bring your phone back up to your face and type another sentence into the translate app.

‘I’m very sorry for not knowing Korean, I’m here on business.’

Minho looks at your phone, reading the statement before shaking his head and pulling out his own phone. He types away and then holds it up for you to read.

‘No need to apologize. With my line of work, my English should be better. It’s a very hard language to learn.’

A little laugh huffs from your nose and you nod and type.

‘Try learning Korean.’

Minho laughs with you and his smirk grows into a playful smile. Jesus Christ, this man is gorgeous. He looks down and taps a bit on his phone and then he holds it up to you. With the way his smirk pulls at his lips, it almost reminds you of a devious little cat.

‘I could tell you were a foreigner when you first came into the bank.’

Your eyebrow raises. “Oh, really?”

He’s chuckling when he brings his phone back to type more and then hold it up for you to read.

‘You don’t have an umbrella.’

Laughter leaves your lips when you read that and your head tilts back to rest against the wall. The wetness from your clothes is beginning to seep into your bones. Plus, the feeling of the fabric sticking to your skin is starting to become overstimulating.

But, you try and keep it together. You don’t really have another option at the moment.

You type a message back to Minho.

‘People tried to warn me about the Monsoon Season. As you can see, I didn’t listen.’

He reads your message and sucks his teeth with a smirk. Minho shakes his head and motions to the glass doors, as if to say ‘Look!’.

“I know, I know!” you laugh and look outside at the sheets of rain pouring from the sky. Puddles have turned into small ravines flowing down the sides of the road. Any car that passes by creates a huge splash as they pass through them.

Every once in a while, the sky will light up and thunder will follow it quickly.

Minho laughs with you. “Next time… you listen.” He nudges your leg with his foot.

You look over at him. “I will, trust me.”

A long look is shared between the two of you. There’s this tiny nagging feeling at the back of your mind, it’s that same feeling you get when you see someone in public that you swear you’ve seen before. Maybe he just has one of those faces?

No, you definitely haven’t met him before. You would remember if he was someone you shook hands with in the last few days. A man that gorgeous would never slip under your radar, you’re certain.

Minho stares back at you, eyes flitting about at your soaking wet hair matting to your skin. It looks like his one hand twitches for a moment and then he shifts in his seat.

Back to the app.

The two of you type away on your phones and hold them up at the same time with the exact same question on them.

‘What do you do for work?’

Again, the two of you let out little huffs of laughter and he motions to you as if to tell you to go first.

So you do, you type down on your phone a little answer for him.

‘Right now, I’m only the assistant to a CEO for a huge company. Wherever he goes, I go. I write all his contracts; everything he does goes through me first. I’m more of an administrator than an assistant, though.’

Minho reads your answer carefully and then types out a small response with a tiny crease in between his brows.

‘Why do you say ‘right now’?’

A sad smile spreads on your face as you look down at your phone to type out a response.

‘I studied hard and have a Mathematics degree. But no matter where I apply, they say I don’t have enough experience. Back in America, the job market is absolutely horrible. So, I’m stuck.’

Minho’s eyes scan through your message and a frown pulls at his lips. He looks back up at you, meeting your eyes and then back to your phone before he begins to type his own message.

Your silent communication warms your heart a little bit. The glow from his phone lights up his features and you study him carefully. His teeth poke out from his top lip– it’s absolutely adorable.

He seems to think for a long moment before his thumbs fly over his screen.

Rain is coming down in sheets outside the door, it’s the only other sound inside the room besides the light clicking of the haptics on his phone.

You reach back and once more run your fingers through your hair– it seems to be drying now, but not in a good way. The humidity of the rain is apparent in the way it's starting to frizz up.

Minho turns his phone around after a moment of typing.

‘I’ve heard about how hard it is to get a job in America, I’m very sorry it’s so unfair. For what it’s worth, I think there’s nothing wrong with the job you have now. Hard work is hard work no matter if it's an assistant or a scientist.’

His words strike a chord within your heart, they tug at your chest and at the corner of your lips which twitch into a wistful smile on your face.

“Thank you,” you say to him in Korean, looking directly into his eyes. Minho smiles back at you when he hears it.

“You are welcome,” he answers in English.

His smile seems so warm for a stranger. He looks at you as if you’re an old friend, not like a woman, still soaking wet from the rain, sitting on the floor with him inside an ATM vestibule. He’s so genuine.

After a few seconds of just looking at him, you bring your phone up to type once more.

‘Your turn. What do you do?’

Minho stares at your phone for a long time, seemingly reading the sentence over and over again. His bottom lip pulls between his teeth and he seems to weigh something in his mind.

His brown eyes flick to yours, then back to the phone, then back to you again before he looks down at his phone.

You never realized how much just body language alone can convey.

He types slower, his thumbs not moving as quickly as before. Why does he seem so apprehensive?

Eventually, he turns the phone around.

‘I’m an idol.’

“Oh,” you say softly. Your shoulders shrug a bit and you cock your head to the side. “Like a K-pop idol?”

Minho nods in response. “Stray Kids.”

The name rings a bell, it’s just one you’ve heard floating around for a few months now. You think one of your friends is into them, but you can’t remember. She’s into so many different groups, it’s hard to keep track anymore.

You type in your phone.

‘I’ve heard the name before. Weren’t you guys at the MET Gala?’

With a breathy chuckle, he nods. A smile spreads across your face.

‘Wow, I’m trapped in a room with a celebrity then. You know, people write stories like this.’

Your joke definitely lands because he snorts a huff of laughter as you type on your phone a little bit more after that.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t take pictures and post them all over Twitter or anything. This will just be a funny story for me to tell my friends when I get back home to America.’

“Thank you,” Minho says softly with genuine gratitude in his voice. God, you can’t even imagine what it’s like being an idol. There probably wasn’t a single place he felt safe going to anymore. There are always cameras just waiting to take his picture.

‘When do you go back to America?’

‘In a few days. My boss loves to extend his business trips at the last minute. So, I could be here three more days or seven more days. It’s very hard to pack to come on these trips.’

A bittersweet expression settles on his handsome face.

You think for a long moment before typing away at your phone and showing it to him.

‘Have you ever been to New Jersey? That’s the state I’m from.’

Minho’s lips purse as he thinks for a long few moments. Very slowly, he nods, almost unsure. He types in his phone, then thinks for a moment, then types again.

‘I think we’ve been there twice. Is Newark in New Jersey?’

Excitedly, you nod. “Yes, that’s up in North Jersey!” You’re so excited that you forget to type down on your phone. “Oh!” you say with a laugh, looking back down at your phone.

‘Yes, that’s in the northern part of the state, about an hour or so from my hometown. I grew up in the central region, right on the beach. It only takes ten minutes to get to the beach from my house.’

Minho’s smile widens and he looks at you with a slightly envious look in his eyes. You giggle in response.

‘Two other members love the beach, but they’re from Australia.’

‘Australian beaches are probably not that different from American beaches. But I’ve never been to Australia. Have you?’

Minho nods and you see him close his translation app and switch over to his camera roll. His fingers quickly begin scrolling up through the countless amount of photos he has on his phone.

Not wanting to invade his privacy, you look away from his phone and out the doors in the vestibule once more. Not a single soul is walking– or running– along the sidewalks anymore.

Due to the power outage, there’s not even street lights illuminating in the puddles, it’s almost eerie looking. But, surprisingly, you don’t feel uneasy at all. Especially not with Minho sitting at your side.

Said man hums to get your attention, shuffling closer to you, and you look down at his phone. The picture is absolutely gorgeous.

It’s a photo of the beach, you’re assuming in Australia. The red sun is peeking above the horizon and painting the sky a beautiful wash of reds, pinks, and purples, all of the colors melting into one another. The clouds are wispy and glow in the morning sun.

The ocean seems so beautifully blue, even the foam at the crash of the waves is beautiful.

In front of the ocean is a gaggle of boys, it looks like there’s about seven of them. Each of them have bright, beautiful smiles on their faces reaching their eyes.

You’ve never been able to feel joy radiating from a photo like this, it seems to be contagious since you find a smile pulling at your own lips.

“This photo is beautiful,” you whisper, not taking your eyes off of it.

Minho hums, maybe he understood what you said. His thumb moves and he scrolls to the next picture where two of the boys have taken one of the others by his legs and arms and seem to be pretending to toss him into the surf.

A soft giggle comes from your lips and you find yourself leaning towards him a bit to get a better look at the photo. Truly, you didn’t even notice your shoulders brushing against each other, and by his lack of reaction, it seems Minho didn’t either.

“Friends?” you ask him in your choppy Korean.

Minho looks over at you, his face closer to you than before. His eyes widen a bit at your proximity, but he doesn’t back up at all.

“Family,” he corrects you in his soft English.

An even warmer feeling spreads through your chest and you look back down at the photo. They must be his band members, but they just look so much closer than that. It reminds you of all of your friends back home.

Before you can even think twice, you’re opening your own camera roll, scrolling through an endless sea of memories before finding one specific morning you woke up to go watch the sunrise on the beach.

A tiny, awe-struck noise comes from Minho when he looks down at it.

“Sunrise,” you say and then think for a moment. You’re not sure of the Korean you want to say. “Favorite… time.”

He’s so patient when you speak, it absolutely melts your heart. There’s a different air about his softness with you too. He’s not treating you like a child just learning how to speak, no, he’s just being… nice. He’s being sweet and genuine and it speaks volumes about his character.

“Sunrise,” he says in Korean.

“Sunrise,” you repeat, looking up at him. His eyes were already trained on your face by the time you looked up. A tiny dusting of pink covers your cheeks. How long has he been looking at you?

A happy smile spreads over his lips, the edges curl up playfully. He nods. “Sunrise. Sunrise.”

“Sunrise.” Your voice says softly once more before looking back down at your phone.

Swiping through a few more pictures, you show him the boardwalk that runs down the beaches by your house. Everything from shops, to amusement park rides, to lemonade and ice cream stands litter the entirety of the shore.

He points down at the ferris wheel and shakes his head. “No,” he says simply.

“No?” you ask with a laugh. “Why not?”

“No… no high,” he shakes his head and motions his hands around to emphasize his point.

“Best picture,” you giggle holding your hand up in the air to emphasize the height aspect, then you’re swiping to the next picture taken from the top of the ferris wheel. This time, it was sunset. “Sunset.”

“Sunset.” A pause. “My… My… favorite time.”

A soft hum bubbles up in your throat. He loves sunset whereas you love sunrise. How cute.

“Sunset is beautiful,” you say slowly. Your eyes are still on your phone when you swipe to another photo.

“Beautiful,” Minho whispers softly.

Humming, you nod. “Yes, beautiful.”

A soft puff of air comes out of his nose and fans out over your cheek. When did he get this close? You look up at him and almost bump his nose with yours.

Minho’s head flinches back a bit at your sudden movement, but he makes no move to get further away from you.

He sighs softly, his eyes flitting all over your face, taking in every one of your features. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

Your eyes widen, that pink blush making its way back to your face. You can’t even help the tiny, giddy giggle that bubbles in your throat. You look down shyly, biting your bottom lip.

Tender, gentle fingers lift your chin back up. Truly, you didn’t notice how cold your skin was until his warm touch spread on your skin.

Is this really happening?

A shiver races down your spine and a soft shudder comes out of your lips. Minho’s eyes look down at your lips and then down at your arm where goosebumps begin to raise.

He pulls away gently, making your brows furrow. Did you do something wrong? Maybe you misread his–

He’s shrugging off his hoodie.

Oh, he thinks you're cold.

Before you can even think to tell him you’re okay, he’s pulling your shoulder forward a bit so he can drape it over your back, bundling you up in such a pleasant, soft warmth. With small, fussy movements, he’s closing the hoodie around your body.

Perhaps you didn’t even notice how cold you were until you were suddenly surrounded in a warmth that can be compared to the fuzziest blanket you own. Not to mention the absolutely delightful scent that wafts upwards into your nose from the fabric.

It’s such a clean, cozy, calming scent. It’s like you buried your nose into the Mahogany Teakwood candle at Bath and Body Works.

Your eyes stay trained on his face while he bundles you up tightly. His hands gently grab your arms and rub up and down a few times to create even more warmth.

“Better,” he murmurs, finally looking up to meet your eyes.

How is it that a stranger has wormed himself into your heart like this? His tender gaze makes your soul feel calm, like those pictures of the morning surf under the sunrise.

“Thank you,” you whisper back to him. Your hands come up to grab at the hoodie, curling into the fabric.

Minho smiles back at you, you can see how his smile grows as he watches you relax into his clothing. There’s no space between your shoulders as you rest against adjacent walls, your two bodies have melted into the corner.

There’s a clap of thunder outside, but neither of you move. Your feet shuffle on the floor as you bring your knees closer to your chest. His legs adjust around yours, feeding them under your bent knees and tangling your limbs up further.

It’s so hard to break Minho’s eye contact, but you do it slowly, looking down at your phone and opening up the translate app once more. His soft breathing hits your cheek with every exhale.

‘You’re too nice to a stranger.’

Minho hums, almost in agreement. He picks up his phone and types back.

‘I’m usually not.’

You read the statement and then look at him, your head cocked to the side. Your brows furrow in confusion, but he types more before you can even ask another question.

‘I don’t know why I feel drawn to you.’

The text looks right back at you. Your heart flutters in your chest and you know that your cheeks get redder and redder by the second. Still, you can’t contain the giddy laugh that makes its way past your lips.

You bite the inside of your cheek to try and hide the smile, but it only makes Minho smile wider. His hand slowly comes up towards your cheek. Right before he’s able to make contact, he stops, hovering over your skin and gazing into your eyes.

A silent question is asked through his eyes. It’s a language that you don’t need any sort of app for. An answer is communicated right back.

Soft, tender warmth spreads over your cheek, radiating all throughout your body in the most gentle glow. His thumb caresses over your cheek bone, swiping gentle strokes back and forth.

You feel the same as him, that’s the strange part. There’s something so alluring about him that you just can’t put your finger on it. He’s pulling you in like a magnet and you don’t even want to fight against it.

There’s so many words sitting on the tip of your tongue, but you know that each and every one of them would fall on deaf ears. Nothing that you can say in the moment would make sense to him.

Exhales are shared and mingled together in the minimal space between your faces,

“Beautiful,” he whispers for your ears only. Not like there’s anyone else to hear it except the ATM sitting dormant in the corner of the vestibule. Not even the mice in the walls would have been able to hear his murmur.

Love at first sight was something you always gawked and scoffed at. You always thought that it was such a Hallmark invention, that there was no way you would be able to just look at someone once and immediately fall head over heels for them.

But here you were, sitting on a dirty floor, feeling your heart beating faster and faster in your chest. Letting your face be cradled by a man you didn’t know two hours ago. By the man who patiently worked with you to communicate.

How is this even possible?

You can count on one hand the amount of things you know about one another.

Minho, who is a famous idol in Korea, who loves sunset and hates heights, who has the most expressive brown eyes you’ve ever seen.

Minho, who did whatever he could just to talk to you when he could have just as easily sat in silence on the other side of the vestibule.

His hand slowly drags down your cheek, each finger gliding down your skin towards your jawline to lift under your chin.

Another silent question passes through both of you in the one language you seem to both be fluent in.

Your eyes flick down to his lips and he hears you loud and clear.

Minho leans in slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight touch. But, despite how soft the kiss is, heat spreads through your body in a grand wave, rushing through your fingertips and into your toes.

The first press is long and sweet, the two of you simply melting into the sensation of being locked together.

He pulls away only for a moment, his eyes gazing down at your lips before he swoops in again, this time his movements a bit quicker.

His hand returns to your cheek, guiding your head to tilt to the side to gain better access to your lips.

A soft sigh leaves your nose and your own hand travels up to grab at his shirt gently, just needing to hold onto him in any way possible.

Minho responds to your sigh, his lips moving a bit faster against yours. Both of your lips part and close, moving like mirror images of one another. Every few kisses, your noses brush against one another, but it doesn’t deter you from your actions at all.

Slowly, your hand travels from his shirt up to his neck, running up the side of his flushed skin. He feels feverish to the touch and it only spurs you on to keep moving. At the contact on his own body, Minho lets out a tiny grunt against your lips, his kisses stutter for a moment but he’s back to kissing you after just a moment.

Up, up, up, your hand travels over his moving jaw, to his cheek, then moving back to thread in his soft, brown trusses of hair. God, everything about him is just so perfect. It’s like you’re combing your fingers through the softest of cotton.

His kisses are getting deeper, little sighs come from both of your mouths as the passion continues on. Minho’s body turns towards yours a bit more, his knees canting up and almost forcing your legs onto his lap.

Tentatively, you feel his tongue poke out from between his lips, licking gently at your lower lip. You don’t even hesitate to give him access to your mouth. A gentle moan claws its way up your throat as his tongue licks into your mouth.

The hand on your cheek grips you a bit tighter, holding your face to his– as if you would want to try and move away from Minho and his addicting kisses.

“I just can’t help it,” he whispers in Korean against your spit, soaked lips before capturing them once more. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Y/N.”

All you catch is your name and it sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t even need to know what else he said, his tone says it all. The way it comes out in a breathy exhale is enough to send your mind reeling.

“Please,” you murmur into his mouth before he presses his lips to yours once more with the same amount of passion and need in his actions.

More and more rain hits the glass doors, becoming the only sound that can be heard in the room except for your shared exhales, pants, and breathy moans.

Slowly, the kisses begin to calm down. Minho pulls away for a moment to take a long breath. His thumb moves to brush against your lower lip like a butterfly landing on a flower.

His eyes open just a crack, gazing down at your mouth with a hazy look in his eye. As he slowly catches his breath, he presses his forehead against yours, his fingers brushing along the heated skin on your face.

“Forgive me, I didn’t do things in order,” he whispers. “I should’ve taken you out first.”

Your eyes open and you look at him in confusion. “Hm?”

His jaw clenches before he swallows and he takes another long moment to look over your face, his features soft and welcoming.

There’s some movement as his other hand blindly pats around his lap for his phone. He can’t physically tear himself away from you long enough to even look down.

Another tiny laugh comes from your lips.

Your fingers move out of his hair to come around and gently run over his features, brushing against his jawline, to then trace up to his lips and up the length of his nose, memorizing each and every detail.

Minho melts into your touch, his face moving closer to your touch, seeking you out.

His hand finally finds his phone and he grabs it blindly, flipping it around in his lap and tearing his gaze away from your face to glance down at it.

Thumbs are flying across the screen to type at his translate app. He’s typing so quickly on his phone that you can't help but laugh a bit.

Before he’s able to turn the phone around, there are a few sharp knocks against the glass of the vestibule. The two of you practically jump out of your skin and your heads whip over to the doors.

Red and blue lights are flashing outside and it looks like two police officers are standing outside, peering in at you both. They wave when they see they’ve caught your attention.

Minho looks at the police officers, then to you, then back to the officers, and then back to you once more. His mouth opens and closes a few times and he tries to form a few words but you’re untangling your limbs from one another.

In a moment, you’re both on your feet as the officers work on unlocking the doors from the outside.

Minho gently grabs at your arm and you look down where he’s touching and your heart sinks a little. His eyes look a little questioning and desperate.

“Oh,” you say sadly. You shrug off his jacket, and hand it back to him. Minho’s eyebrows pull together and his lips part. He looks down at the jacket and then up at you.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Are you two alright?” The police officer calls inside in Korean.

“We’re okay,” Minho responds without breaking eye contact with you. He puts a hand on his jacket still dangling over your arm and pushes it back towards you.

“Minho?” you ask, looking at him and then at the officer approaching you both.

“We apologize for the delay, but we knew you two were safe, so we had to prioritize,” the officer says.

You blink at him blankly for a moment before then looking back at Minho.

“She’s a foreigner,” he says to the officer, finally looking away from you. “She doesn’t know Korean.”

“Ah,” the officer responds. “My apologies. You can tell her that she’s free to go.” He nods at the two of you and motions towards the door. You take his hint and slowly begin follow him.

Once again, Minho tugs on your arm and you pause, turning around to look at him. He’s holding his phone up to your face with a pleading look in his eye.

‘Can I please buy you a drink?’

A wide smile spreads across your cheeks and you can’t deny the relief that you feel inside your chest. The moment your lips twitch upwards, Minho immediately mirrors it.

“Yes,” you respond. “I love to go.”

He chuckles at your choppy Korean once more before taking his jacket out of your hands and wrapping you inside it once more. This time, he grabs the hood and pulls it up over your head.

With a satisfied hum, he nods and laces your fingers together.

“Come,” he says confidently.

“Lead way.”

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