#just the briefest of moments pls pls pls

[good-vs-evo]

another day another WHY WASNT FENGLIAN CANON EVER FOR EVEN A MOMENT

[taegularities]

colour me in: the starry night | jjk (m)

Summary: You anticipated the trip to Jungkook's hometown with a thrilled yet nervous heart – and upon your arrival, your emotions prove justified: because as the days pass, you realise that gentle joy awaits just as much as ancient pain.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluuuuuff, smut ➳ warnings: fluff fluff fluffluffulfufluf, flirting, daddy issues, arguments with his father, his dad is pretty much an ass and almost as bad as oc's mom, but his mom and brother are <3, ria <3, oc being a light in the dark, oc learns many new things, cursing, fighting, a lot of crying/tears, neglect, mental breakdown, panic and anxiety, anger, insecurities, too many mentions of nostalgia lmao, jealousy, mention of therapy, nara, christian yu lmAO, WEDDING TIME!!!, oc is so pretty (that jk loses it), alcohol/drunk stuff, more confrontations, making up, he loves loves loves her, childhood coping mechanisms; explicit sexual content: kissing, making out, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, eating out against the wall, bit of wall sex, drunk sex, manhandling omg, impatient koo, big dick!jk, dom!jk but this timeeee also sub!jk lowkey!!, tears of pleasure, masturbation, fingering, handjob for a bit, squirting, creampie, literally their orgasms are a MESS phew it's kinda hot lmao, moany/whiny/super turned on jk; no 'the ending' warning this time… just the whole chapter 🥺 ➳ word count: 45.9k lmfao pls do still read it tho ➳ a/n: this was supposed to be 30k i can just never shut up lol sorry <3 but this chapter honestly got me good. i cried sm writing it and i love them and i never want this story to end :') i hope you love it, too. thank you for supporting me at all times <3 i can't wait to hear what you think 🤍 ➳ listen to: dance me to the end of love by the civil wars (alt. version) | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

It’s going to be okay — Jungkook’s hand gently clasping your thigh wants to convince you of this, you know.

But you can’t deny that the presence of the family you so long awaited is affecting you — your pulse is quickening to a heavily uncomfortable pace. You know his mom; you don’t fear his brother; but his father… his eyes are inscrutable.

They scare you to no end. There he is; the power continuously shattering your boyfriend’s heart. And Jungkook must be well conscious of your distress; because a mere moment later, he of all people, the one who's supposed to seek comfort, says—

“Angel? Breathe.”

Your eyes swerve to the side and remember to blink; you only now feel that you're jabbing crescent moons into your palm, just when you realise the sharp impact. You uncurl your fingers and nod, letting him cover the faintly scarred skin with his hand.

Sighing, you ask, “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he says, nodding, as if he’s practised and polished this answer over the years, “nervous, but… it’ll be okay.”

“Yes… I know.”

“Let’s go?”

You pull the handles on your respective sides at the same time, setting foot onto the stranger soil for the very first second in your life. You can’t quite discern your gut feeling right now, but you hope it’s not the last.

Waiting next to the car, you watch Jungkook round the vehicle, squinting your eyes; the noon sun is burning right above you. He heaves the suitcases with a faint groan and you join him right away to fetch the rucksack you brought.

Holding it between your knees, you flash his family a smile and a slight wave, awkward and unsure about what to do until his mother steps down the porch and towards you. She’s elated, and you see the same sprinkle in her eyes as in her son’s when she closes in enough for an embrace.

Her arms are comforting around you; somehow, you’re startled by it. Takes you a second to reciprocate the hug, hopefully not long enough for her to question your receptiveness. But then you put your chin on her shoulder, shutting your eyes for the briefest of seconds until you open them to a side hug between Jungkook and his brother.

In the slowly cooling weather, she feels warm, a motherly love that blasts heat to your cheeks until she lets go. “Finally a woman, huh?” she breathes, her voice so sweet and kind. “A great alternative to all the testosterone.”

“I can imagine,” you respond; the thought isn’t too much of a stranger to you. “I spent most of the week amongst men. They’re barbarians.”

She laughs, just in the moment that Junghyun, Jungkook’s brother advances towards you. He offers you his hand and a radiant smile that resembles your boyfriend’s. In fact, he does look quite a bit like his younger sibling. Lopsided smirk, fluffy dark hair, handsome features.

Not a lot older. Kind as he greets you with a, “Miss Novaura herself, yes?”

The name makes you beam, inundates you with pride. You appreciate that he doesn’t revert to Charmante as most people have done throughout your life, but sees you as what you are and what you do now. The manager of Novaura, damn it.

Yes.

Has he been keeping up with stuff?

“And Miss Novaura meets the second Jeon himself!” you respond, but as he grimaces, you bite your tongue immediately. What did you say?

“When,” he starts, overly dramatic, a little like Jungkook, yet somewhat more extroverted, “was I demoted to the second Jeon?”

“Oh, I’m…”

Jungkook clicks his tongue from the side, shoving his brother aside in the most sibling-like manner you can possibly imagine. Then, he threatens, “Don’t do this, or I’ll take her away from you guys again.”

“What’s that mean?” you ask.

“It means,” Junghyun interjects, “that everyone’s been dying to meet you. Mom and I even told Jungkook not to spill too much about you, so we can see ourselves.”

Oh, the pressure. The nervousness from the past couple of weeks skyrockets. Yet, your charming self conjures, “Then I hope I don’t disappoint.”

Jeon Junghyun speaks on, babbling something reassuring that you’re certain could warm your chest if you had the capacity to listen. But you drift off quickly as the side of your eyes follows a movement in the back: Jungkook timidly, almost fearfully nearing his father.

You’re alarmed and you can’t tell why — perhaps because you don’t truly know their situation yet. You haven’t seen them interact. But at this very moment, you’re surprised when Jungkook and his dad share a light side hug, too.

The occurrence is frigid, but somehow, you expected even more frozen behaviour. Rare glances, absolute ignorance. Your mind envisioned a world that harboured true enmity, but you don’t think that’s quite what these two have been maintaining over the years.

In some sense, it’s worse.

Because rather than pure silence, there’s a deep distance that is still disguised as a surface level of closeness in a family. Faking it might just be more difficult after all.

There’s no conversation between them. Nothing much as Jungkook comes back to his mother to give her a warm, genuine hug, a rainbow to a drizzle in comparison. As if to receive what his father didn’t provide.

You follow.

You’re not entirely keen on a too affectionate interaction between his dad and you, but you still smile when he lifts his hand, shaking it kindly. From here, as the corners of his lips raise, wrinkles around his eyes that he passed onto his next generation, he looks like a terribly nice man.

He gestures into the house and you follow, listening as he asks, “Was the journey okay?”

You nod joyfully, mustering up all kindness for somebody you know hurt someone you love for so long. After all, Jungkook has done the same for you, no matter how many times your mother shattered you.

And in the end, it’s still his dad.

“Oh, yes, pretty pleasant,” you answer, clearing your throat when you hear the formal tone in your voice. “We took turns driving. And since I fell asleep, I guess I can still seize the rest of the day… if you want to?”

You turn to Jungkook as the sentence fades out and he nods with raised, stirred eyebrows. “Yeah! It’s what we’re here for.”

His father smiles, a flat hand signalling towards the living room to invite you to rest for now. Matters seem normal so far; for a moment, you allow yourself to believe he isn’t so neglectful after all. Even with all your trust in Jungkook, you try to imagine a scenario in which he perceived his father’s distaste as something wrong.

You’re incorrect.

It doesn’t require more than a couple minutes and a bit more mingling until you recognise amidst the smalltalk that he doesn’t behave the same with his younger son as he does with Junghyun. There’s lightness in the way he converses with the latter.

Jungkook only moves around you and his mother; no particular intention to really connect with his dad. Understandably so. Their gazes barely meet.

Not even when his father’s tone drops as he approaches Jungkook, uttering a seemingly obligatory, “You alright? Is the job good?”

“Mhm,” Jungkook merely responds.

The interaction is awkward and quiet, yet too noisy for the lovely room. You focus on the homely furniture and small-town-vibed interior as you wait for the brief dialogue to conclude. You’re not at a place to intervene yet.

There are pictures of the family, yet fresher if you could judge. The ones showcasing memories are probably somewhere you can’t see yet; you’re buzzing to finally skim through his childhood pictures.

You listen in. Quiet again, conversation already at an end.

Jungkook’s fingertips graze yours, giving a short head tilt, wondering what you’re thinking about. His beam is different when he looks at you now, a much more blissful alternative to the timid words he voiced just a couple seconds ago.

But you can’t really answer when his mother emerges in the room to wave you towards the kitchen, eager to converse, yet suggesting, “If you want, you can freshen up before dinner.”

But you reject the idea kindly, flashing your best smile as you respond, “I’m excited to be here, so we can just talk a little for now. I’ll go wash my face after dinner!”

She nods slowly, politely, a the-guest-is-king-sort of gesture before you add, “How have you been?”

The family joins at the dinner table one by one; nobody interferes or barges into another’s turn. Only listens. You’re used to chaos from events and parties you used to attend, everybody dying to have the last word, to outsmart another.

This family is as patient at a conversation as you’ve witnessed in your boyfriend. They’re lively, interested; maybe there’ll be more of an ecstatic family tumult when you get used to them or when more people join. At the wedding, probably.

You’ve seen something like that with your friends, too. Especially on this vacation. You did fall into disorder quite often.

Yet, it differs from your usual experience. No discomfort. No fear of odd questions.

The Jeons aren’t out to reveal your little secrets, but to understand you as a person; so you appreciate the natural flow of the dialogue when Jungkook’s mother answers, “Just tired. The wedding preparations are tedious, and it’ll probably only get worse.”

“Yeah? You’ve been helping out a lot, yes?”

“Yes, somewhat. The bride… Gayoung, she’s close with us and relies on us a lot. And on top of that,” she shakes her head at this point; rolls her eyes as she turns on the stove, stirring and heating up some meal, “she’s getting cold feet.”

“Oh man,” Jungkook adds, chuckling a little, unsurprised, “wedding is definitely on, though. She always gets nervous. Almost missed her first day at work years ago,” he turns to you, “she’s a vet, and she was terrified of hurting the pets, but… everybody trusts her with their pets’ lives now.”

“Awh,” you voice, “I can imagine how stressful that must be. I’m pretty good at managing stuff, though, so if you need any help—”

“No way, you’re not here to work. You can do something else?” His mother looks over her shoulder, pondering. “Paint?”

“Oh, I do paint sometimes, but I’m not very good at it.”

“She is,” Jungkook argues, hand lifting to rub your back, “but she’s an even better writer.”

His father chimes in, arms folded, “Oh, I think you can get a ton of inspiration here, then. There’s a flower field nearby if you’re interes— what?”

Stopping when Jungkook interrupts with an exhale, he tilts his head at his son, and you follow his gaze, watching thick eyebrows kiss. “I already took care of that, but… way to spoil a surprise.”

Ah. You see the hostility increase with each second. You wish you could diffuse the moment; tell Jungkook to ignore everything that might irk him.

Instead, you only sneak your palm to his knee, imitating his rub to calm his nerves. He must be tense. He always must be.

“I wasn’t spoiling,” his father argues, “was just an idea.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” you intervene, patting Jungkook’s thigh. He looks at you just briefly, but it suffices for some of his muscles to relax. “I don’t know much anyway. Spoiler-free zone!”

It’s the best you can do. So you keep trying; diverge the topic to other aspects of your life when Junghyun asks about your job and the efforts connected to it. About the joys and hardships of it. About how your parents are doing — burdensome topic, yet a must to master. 

Then they speak about the passage of time in the city, and how it compares to this place; how the family perceived the differences and how their current life differs from their past here.

You learn that they still feel more connected to their hometown; obvious when considering the fact that they spent most of their years here. Initially uncertain about moving, they still decided to be closer to their children and the world’s opportunities.

The city called and it kept them.

You know it kept Jungkook the most; or maybe it was you who shackled him there, too.

“Apart from the obvious differences,” you start, “I can’t comment much on it yet, but… I’ve been really interested in being here. Super nervous.”

His mother coos, scrunching her nose the way he does, assures that there’s no need to be nervous; that this wedding might end up being the kindest you have ever been to. Adds, “Speaking of. Brought a pretty dress?”

“Oh, of course,” you say; your toes curl in excitement. “I’d show you right now, but I promised to keep it more or less a secret from Jungkook.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. “He’s seen it, but not me wearing it.”

“Ah. Is it that pretty?”

“It’s pretty amazing.”

She steps closer as the dish simmers, playing with a couple strands hanging in Jungkook’s eyes. His lips twitch upwards, and his cheeks colour in a blush when she says, “Well, knowing this guy, you’re out to give my boy half a nervous breakdown, I see.”

“I’m trying to, really.”

Your answer is light-hearted, but a mere moment late. You can’t help but wonder what she means by knowing this guy. Then again, you presume a mother usually witnesses her children’s lives; watches them fall in and out of love.

You don’t like how the realisation makes you feel, but you smile it away either way.

And it doesn’t help when Junghyun seems to catch onto her statement, too, saying, “By the way… I’ve heard that at the wedding, we—”

But the interruption is sharp. Unnatural, abrupt, his mother’s voice strange when she interjects, “Ah. Listen. Let’s serve dinner, and we can talk more when we eat. A hand?”

You don’t know what it’s about, but you attempt your best to not be nosy. You can’t even guess it, so it’s probably easiest to let it go. To only stand up to help a little, Jungkook and you handing things around until you’re seated again.

She still scolds Junghyun silently, eyes wide when she sits next to him; perhaps it’s a surprise for Jungkook or for you.

You won’t spoil it. Focus on the food.

And despite the early tension, you survive dinner, albeit occasionally cut by things Jungkook’s father remarks and by Jungkook’s responses of retaliation. Like—

“Honestly, you not liking these is a perk,” Junghyun comments when Jungkooks puts the green beans aside, snatching them immediately.

His father is quick to deduce, “Didn’t you love them?”

Jungkook’s smirk is immediate, accompanied by a shrug and a click of his tongue, and a somewhat passive aggressive, “Yes. Fifteen years ago, though.”

It’s odd, the mixture of anger and fear. He reveals his agitation in his short answers, but he never extends them to something that might provoke a bigger fight.

His father then says, “I’ve never seen you put them aside.”

To which Jungkook mutters, “Should’ve looked more then, right.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Okay.”

Tense. Quiet. Gulping.

But you get it over with, breathe and touch through it all until the plates are cleared, stuffed in the dishwasher, the clock ticking. Jungkook leads you to the porch that his family greeted you at earlier. You intertwine your fingers deeper, hoping for some solace between the irate words exchanged.

His shoulders stand slightly higher than usual, eyes a little unfocused. You squeeze his palm, and he laughs when you bump your shoulder against his. Tapping his foot against the porch, he says, “This is where we were having a barbeque this summer. Remember when I called you?”

As if you could forget. Those calls got you through messy, forsaken summer days. He lets go of your hand to tug you into his side, tight in his embrace, and your voice grows a pitch when you answer, “Yeah. You were drunk.”

“I was.”

“And you still called me. Burned your finger, right?”

He scoffs. “I barely remember that. I just remember seeing you on the video call and… missing you really bad.”

You glance into his face, opting him to do the same. Eyes half on his lips, half on his pupils, staring to and fro, you ask, “You don’t miss me now, though, right?”

“Hm… I don’t hope I’ll ever need to again.” As he presses into your arm, you cuddle in. He nods towards the small front yard, “They were playing Linkin Park here. And way back, when I was like seventeen, I’d smoke here sometimes.”

Your eyes blow wide; you can’t imagine his gentle fingers holding a cigarette between them, but then again, you kind of can. He laughs at your surprise before he continues, “I know. Rebellious phase. It was stupid, because Mom would smell it right away and then ground me.”

“Damn, Kook.”

He nods, lifting a shoulder as if to say my bad, and then kisses your temple. Asks, “You feeling good?”

“Yeah. I really like it here so far.”

“Good.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

“Good,” you echo, just for him to do it, too.

“Good. I think we cou—”

Pause. 

Because the feast of interruptions continues still. A sudden, shrill call of his name reverberates across the streets, and you flinch, following the sound on the right before detecting somebody walking up to you.

You haven’t seen her yet, but she’s glowing; hair open behind her, just the top half held at the back with a butterfly claw clip. The breeze swirls her bangs, and just from the exhilaration in her voice, you can tell who it is.

Jungkook lights up equally when he squints his eyes and recognises her, loosening his grip around you as he exclaims, “Hey!”

“Helloooo!”

And then he lets you go. You watch the endearments unfold. He says, “Didn’t expect you here today.”

“Me neither,” she says, and he laughs; you join in, already curious. “I was going to binge some show, but Junghyun texted saying you’d arrived.”

She catches up with a somewhat heavy breath, widening her arms when Jungkook steps down from the porch and engulfs her in a firm, heart-warming hug. Loving, decades old.

They oscillate on the spot, and she rubs his back until they let go. She doesn’t waste a minute until her eyes drift to you; they’re so expressive, dark yet glimmering. They prove your assumption when you see her joy towards you immediately.

The moment begins a little awkwardly as the stranger approaches you with uncertainty about what to say, but then she asks, “Is it okay if I hug you, too?”

You giggle. Goodness.

“Gosh, sure!”

And you’re delighted to the bone. Her touch is warm, inviting. They all are. You’re not used to it; why does it make you sentimental? You don’t know her. You’ve never spoken to her. Why the clump in your throat?

Weird.

“Ria,” she introduces, “I’ve heard so much about you. Really, it’s a common thing to say, but I’ve been really excited like… man, why did you come so late when he was sooo whipped in the summer already and—”

Your face heats up impossibly; this thought of a passed summer that called upon a million unknown emotions and words and encounters and yearning… you might never get over it.

Jungkook gives her a playful whack on her clothed arm, eliciting a prolonged Owhhh. You lift a protective arm over her to jest back, and she gasps, infinitely pleased. It helps her open up more, because it seems that she doesn’t need more than this to suggest, “Can I take her?”

Wrinkles form on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows in confusion, and she, nearly jumping at her spot, explains, “Show her around a bit. We’re having dinner soon and then I won’t be able to move, so…”

Jungkook blinks, unsure, looking between her and you until you urge, “It’s okay. You drove most of the time, too, so try and rest a bit.”

Your reassurance helps; either way, you don’t think you would’ve gotten to much more today anyway, no matter how much you hoped to seize the evening. You’re beat from the last day and the terrible night and the tiring journey and the filling meal.

Taking a walk is all you can imagine to do right now.

Maybe he’s on the same wavelength as you, because the nods come slowly but surely. “Sure. Go. I’ll come later to bring her back.”

Ria places a sweet hand on your back, urging you forward and speaking back, “Gotta make sure I don’t kidnap her, what?”

Her house is nearby. The first of the conversation goes by similarly as it did in Jungkook’s house, but the moment she announces the arrival at her own home, your calm demeanour changes to a rather terrified one.

She’s not going to…

No.

Because she promises, “I’m not taking you inside, no worries. I wouldn’t overwhelm you like this.”

Your chest relaxes. You guess meeting one family officially, as if you’re being evaluated for marriage, might suffice. While sure her family’s as lovely as the other, you don’t want the overstimulation.

So instead of urging you inside, she takes you to the small cottage next to her house. Their property is a little bigger, the area spacier. You soon find out that the little house she’s taking you to isn’t some guest thing, but houses dozens of farm animals.

You didn’t think there was something to the cliché you heard about small towns; yet, the reality is much more endearing. How oddly cheerful the animals seem, even though you know the fantasy is just a fabrication of your mind.

You don’t know what they’re thinking or feeling.

One of the hens clucks as Ria picks it up, looking at you with big eyes as she says, “I thought you guys would come early in the night and then just sleep. I didn’t know you’d arrive so much earlier.”

“Oh yeah!” you say, hands in the back pockets of your jeans, “We left the hotel at noon.”

“That’s crazy.”

She bends, letting the hen go, and the little thing instantly rushes away. You flinch, stepping back. You’ve never done this before; you try to keep your cool, but you’re so inexperienced, mesmerised by your surroundings.

This place is so different, so much quieter, more serene. You understand the nostalgic vibe of romance movies set in towns like this. You’re suddenly thrown into The Notebook and into Footloose. Into everything that evokes warmth.

“What is?” you ask.

“Just. It’s so nice to meet you. We have so many guys here, so it’s cool to be with a girl for once.” She takes a deep breath. “And I love Kookie and I trust his judgement. So when he told me about you, I told him to get you here right away. It took you so long.”

Her tone is frisky, but you feel bad. Not quite because you let her wait, but because of why you waited yourself. Because of the breaks and pauses and the split hearts that you needed time for to sew again.

The weeks of insecurity and then the trials of life.

Something in the pit of your stomach stirs at the memories; you can’t believe you’re standing where he fell for you first, despite the distance. Where he reached for you through the rain and the clouds and the stars, and called to listen to your tears and your pleas to return.

You can’t believe it. In fact, yes, you believe it as little as her.

“I get it…” you say, “we have quite a few guys in our group, too.” You wait, watching her nod as she inspects the last of chickens running into the cottage. Then you ask, “What did he tell you about me?”

“What he told me? Mmmh. I mean, it’s difficult to say. He spoke of you highly, but I think his main focus was on not hurting either of you. Very, very worried about how things might play out.”

Yeah… yeah, it sounds like him.

You don’t answer; shift your eyes to the grassy ground. You hear her voice lift a pitch as she says, “Man, too many guys is simply too much, though, seriously. And then having to deal with Kook all the time must be so exhausting, too.”

Laughter erupts out of you, and you shake your head, “I mean, he’s a brat sometimes. But he’s the best man I know.”

“He is a good guy, yeah? I’m so glad.” She nods again, affirmative and positively confirming. “He’s always been. It sucks sometimes that he lives so far away.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, but she shrugs her shoulders, waves off your concerns. “I take it you’re not interested in living in the city?”

Her eyes narrow when she looks into the distance, met with the lowering sun as if it entails the entirety of her beloved town. It’s probably part of it, though; the one sun she’s known all her life, despite the same star rising and setting everywhere in your vast world.

“Not really,” she says, “I like it here… Even though so many left.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Some people I knew…”

You can imagine. Two faces flash into your mind, at least. Not that you like half of the thought; but it’s automatic, and so is your statement, “I feel like I know at least two.”

She seems surprised. Tilts her head, blinking, hands on her hips. “Really?”

“Yeah, well…” You avert your eyes, fearing an abundance of transparency. “Jungkook and Nara.”

“Oh.” Ria’s blinking fastens. She didn’t expect this; neither did you. But in some sense, it was inevitable, dropping Nara’s name here. “You met Nara, huh?”

“You say it so… weirdly.”

Her hands lift and she immediately works on objecting to your assumptions, “No, I mean. She’s nice! I liked her growing up. I just wouldn’t have mentioned her unprompted. There’s no need…” She studies your face. “He doesn’t either, you know? Talks about you mostly.”

You don’t know what to say. You gathered this much; but a very strange feeling in your chest presses against your heart, and you can’t quite decipher why. You shove it aside as best as you can, and then breathe it out, thankfully admitting, “That’s relieving.”

“There’s no need to worry. I think he and you will have a good time here and bond more than ever.”

You nod. You don’t feel like responding; not because you don’t like her or don’t want to. Your throat is tied, and you can’t really think of or form a productive thought. So you just keep nodding, smiling until a hen pops out again.

Ria, pushing away a stray strand of her dark hair, points to the little, excited animal, wondering, “Hey, have you ever held a chicken?”

“No!” Ah. Good tactic to distract you, considering how many times you mentioned this minor wish in the past weeks. “But I want to! Told Jungkook like a hundred times.”

“Okay,” she waves you closer and you dare to approach, hoping to neither hurt the hen nor yourself. You have absolutely no clue about these things. “Come here then. It’s not hard.”

It’s not. In fact, the process sounds logical, facile; but your hands are shaking, and often enough, animals seem to understand negative emotions when targeted. But Ria proves a good teacher.

Shows you to near the hen calmly, moving slowly to not startle her. She instructs you to soften your voice as much as possible, kindly noting that you’re soft-spoken enough to not worry about it. And then, once close enough, she demonstrates placing a hand around the tiny body, securing the wings to prevent flapping.

You imitate. Or try to, at least. It doesn’t work right away, your nervousness intruding; but at some point, you manage. You use your other hand to support the body, lift the hen gently. Hold it close to your body to give her a sense of security, much as Ria lectured.

Ria is patient, amazing, despite having done this probably a thousand and million times. Adjusting to your lack of knowledge, praising you, acknowledging your effort.

Her giggle is mellifluously sweet as she watches and hears you gasp; she applauds, but stops right away when she detects the third presence amongst you.

She calls, “Ah! You’re finally here.”

Your eyes follow hers, heart lighting up as you hold up the chicken carefully and nearly shout in uninhibited excitement, “Kook, look!”

His hands are in his jeans’ pockets; his walk idle. One of his eyes is squinting shut until he steps into the shadow, a tender smile playing around his lips before you realise that it looks… sad. Doesn’t reach as far. No crinkles around his eyes.

“Aren’t you the cutest, munchkin?” he responds before dropping into a crouch next to you. He seems brighter upon seeing your face, but you still keep wondering… What just happened in the house?

You don’t know. You don’t want to ask yet either.

So you only set the hen down, lowering her until she’s balanced and waddling — waddling? — away. You wrap your arms around him, providing a flicker of warmth. You don’t know what made his face fall like this, but you want to at least attempt to lift his chin again.

God. What a start to the first day. Is it odd to feel scared?

“Wanna go?” he asks, a thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

You hum, “I’m getting tired, yeah…”

“Then we can go and rest? And sleep if you want to.”

It’s early… but laying down and staring at the ceiling doesn’t sound too bad right now. Maybe he needs it, too. So you agree, pressing Ria to your heart once more and promising to return to her.

She’ll be at the wedding, too. You guess you’ll see everyone multiple times anyway; but as rude as it may sound, the thought of warming into this man’s body doesn’t allow you to bother with the world right now.

His steps are slow as you walk to the house. Eyes drooping. He might not notice; he’s been here so many times. But his presence, combined with the things you see, make your heart swell.

Maybe because you want to be there for him; maybe because you still can’t believe you’re here. But you perceive everything as if for the first time.

The cosy garden and the flower beds. A small-town house sitting on a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s more on the simple side, painted in warm hues, a light beige. Charming. You remember everything being charming.

The snug living room, the tender, partly wooden and partly modern kitchen, the clearly old and handmade dishes. A fireplace. Wooden floors. 

You haven’t seen the rooms yet, but as he leads you upstairs, you imagine him doing the same this summer as he approached his bed. He walked these same steps, a narrow and short hallway, opening the door to an inviting childhood bedroom with you present in his device.

Yearning.

But the man from the summer isn’t all you see. In fact, the place reminds of time travel; you soon recognise just how signature Jungkook everything is.

Because the moment you enter, you see him in everything. Like, in the soft quilts on his bed; he wouldn’t use them today, but you imagine a shy Jungkook and you imagine big eyes, small hands pulling the sheets over his body to cuddle into a warm night.

The window overlooks the backyard; the sunlight filters through the sheer curtains. It’s still just the middle of the evening. But you find it hard to want to leave this simple comfort. Lived-in, sweet.

Reminiscent of a youth.

Like a soft tune of a ballad. You don’t know what it is that makes you feel this way.

The cosiness? The pictures on shelves? The slightly tilted roof of the room? Or the posters reminding of a world a decade ago. It hasn’t been this long, if you think about it, but to you, all of this still tells a story.

“What’s this?” you ask, opening a random drawer and grazing rolled up paper, large, stowed away.

“Posters, I think? I haven’t seen or opened them in ages. Maybe we can—”

He pulls and rolls them out, glancing for a bare moment before he undos the action with a sudden bright red on his cheeks. You try to catch a glimpse, “What?”

He doesn’t answer, so you take the poster from him, only needing to open it halfway through to see a pretty face, followed by a swimsuit and a snatched body. Ah. Is this…

“Victoria’s Secret?”

“Shut up,” he instructs, and you hold yourself back, watching him, blinking until—

You puff out some air, nearly spitting as you laugh, teasing, “You were that type of guy, yeah?”

“Shut up,” he repeats, prying it out of your hands before he throws it into a corner. “I had this up for like two weeks. Forget it.”

“Never threw it away, though.”

“Never thought of it.”

He scratches the back of his head, a tilted smirk on his face, and you can’t help but want to keep annoying him. But he needs far more than this right now, and you’re not here to get on his nerves. So you walk up to him until determined arms wrap around his waist, kissing his chin.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Well…” He’s quieter than he’s been in the last few days and it disheartens you. Somehow fatigued, eyes halfway closed. “You know.”

You do know. Or perhaps, you don’t, but you can well imagine.

You’re not sure how he took all of this day in, day out for so many years, but you understand the weight of the situation a lot better now. Of course your mind would be rewired if you hurt this much all the time.

Whatever you’re seeing now is a fraction of what he experienced.

“It’s going to be okay,” you remind him again.

“Yeah.” He sniffles. “Hey. I have a little surprise for you tomorrow. It was spoiled a bit, but you’re right.” A peck to your nose. “You don’t know anything yet. But you’ll like it, I think.”

You don’t doubt it; you guess it helps, not being aware of much at all. Waiting for the surprise.

But then again…

When you look at him again, excitement flickering in those tired eyes of his and a hand pushing against the small of your back lightly, you think that you know a couple things at least.

“Okay. Hold on. You’re definitely going too fast!”

“This is too fast? You should’ve seen Junghyun and me racing years ago.”

You lower your head in an attempt to hide it from the wind, seeking his sweater; it’s impossible from this angle. You’re at the front, surviving between his arms as he navigates the bicycle recklessly. 

The wind slaps your face, cooler this noon than yesterday. The bike writhes on the road, and you yell out, “Man, I’ll die!”

“Baby!” he exclaims back.

His laugh is louder than the gust as you hold onto his moving thighs and then realise it’s of no help. You shift your hands to the front of the cycle, wondering when it’ll hit an unforeseen rock and tip over.

“Hey,” he tries again when you only scream back, “have you never been on a bike before?”

“Of course I have!” You resist the urge to add a curse. He’ll kill the two of you. The streets are steep, probably a hill, going downwards. “Just never two people at once.”

“I did it a lot! With friends, and mostly with Gureum.”

Gureum… his dog. You have yet to meet him.

“Gureum?” you repeat.

“Yeah! He’d sit in the basket and… and enjoy the wind. Eyes closed.” He pants between cycling. “I told you, no?”

But your thoughts are elsewhere, chin dropping to your clavicles as if not looking could save you. “Fucking hell—”

“Okay. Okay…”

The bike stops abruptly, and you yelp, shutting your eyes tight and preparing yourself to die. But death doesn’t come; a tap to your hip does. His fingers hold you, calming you, words the opposite as he orders, “Alright. Get off my bike. You can walk the rest of the distance.”

Between the sniffling and the reclaiming of control of your trembling legs, you register the surprising command, and mumble, “What?”

“You heard me, sweetheart. I’ll wait at the flower field.”

You dare a look over your shoulder. His expression is serious, an eyebrow cocking. You want to retort something snarky, tell him you’ll stay on if he just slows down, for the love of God; but instead, you look ahead, and decode the view immediately.

The grass is high and the place wide. You’re right where the field begins, the road more narrow here, only really enough for cyclists and walkers. You roll your eyes, getting off as you tell him, “You’re terrible. We’re already here.”

He laughs, dropping the bike to the side carelessly before he reaches for your messed up hair. Fixes at least the front of it, flattening it in the back. You’re glad there’s no mirror around.

Then, he proceeds to grab your hand, a finger pointing to the place and says, “Look around.”

You do. It’s widely open and empty. A decent amount of flowers; you imagine a plethora of them in the summer and the spring. Now that fall is in full effect and it’s a little colder here than on your coastal vacation, you reckon that this isn’t usually all how the field looks.

But it’s beautiful. In the far, far back, you see the forest expand. Slightest traces of autumn foliage. The leaves will fall and entirely bare the trees soon.

“This is so pretty,” you say.

“Right?”

“Was this the surprise?”

“I mean,” he cards his fingers through his hair, but as he grabs the willow wicker from the larger cycle basket, the mane is blown back into his sight just a moment later, “yeah. But the actual surprise is a bit further down the field. Come.”

He guides the way, and you put your all into deciphering what he might be hinting at, only for him to say, “Don’t look so hard. You will see it in a moment anyway.”

The laugh he elicits is sweet, a thumb touching the back of your hand. Your shoulders drop in relaxation, and you shift your attention to the grass and the flowers, trying not to stomp on any of those that are still left for this fall.

A couple feet forward, you tell him, “You know I still need to meet Gureum.”

��I know. He was with Ria since we can’t really take care of him when we’re away.”

“You could take him to the city.”

“I’d do anything to be able to. But Gureum is… a free dog. He wouldn’t enjoy life in a smaller apartment after running around for so long.”

Ah… You feel the opposite still; jumped from a large cage into a homey, sheltered cube happily. But you get it; the freedom here doesn’t compare to a crowded city, does it?

“But,” Jungkook continues, “Ria said she’d bring him over this noon, so he should be there when we get home.”

“Damn. Why am I more excited about this than necessary?”

“Oh, you should be. I am, too… he’s my old boy.”

The oxymoron grants you a smile; to a parent, a baby stays a baby. Most of the time, at least. Jungkook feels something for Gureum, and even a stranger, lost and unknowing, could piece this bit together within a heartbeat.

“He’s old?” you wonder.

“He’s twenty years old. A bit slower now but… the same amount of love in his heart.”

One shall learn how to love and be kind from Jeon Jungkook. Then again, he’d be an excellent example, but a bad teacher. Wouldn’t know what to say. Wouldn’t be able to really pick out what makes him so pure-hearted.

He just is… He just is.

“I can’t fucking wait,” you say, inspirited.

The sight changes along with his expressions as you walk down the field. From happiness to a smile to excitement and then contentment. The flowers mostly disappear, giving way to something you don’t really recognise.

Orderly rows, bright green leaves and… more plants? As you inbreathe the air, however, you swear you recognise the sweet and fresh scent. Even from here, it’s distinct and special.

And when you trudge closer, finally glancing down, you understand.

Jungkook…

He took you strawberry picking.

You see them low on the ground, clustered, ripe and red. Pretty. Enough to warrant a dozen adjectives; yet, you only whisper, “Wow.”

He waits… then waits more. Lets your eyes scan the area and the fruits, permits you to take in what he probably reckons you’ve never seen before in this form. And he’s right — you haven’t.

“You like it?” he questions. “I was unsure, like… maybe you’re underwhelmed?”

Your head turns towards him at light speed. “What? I’m not. I’ve never seen anything like this before,” you confirm, repeating your thoughts, “I am definitely not underwhelmed. This is… this is something my younger self craved.”

“Oh— Really? How so?”

You hum. Think back to late nights in the back of your bed, a room larger than what you needed, yet smaller than your imagination. Smaller than your heart.

“I read stories,” you tell him, “fairy tales. Watching tales of love in the countryside. We don’t have these places in the city, do we?”

Jungkook’s hand, on your back a second ago, travels up to the back of your neck, touching it gently. “I guess you’d have to find a farm.” He stares ahead where you do, still standing there, unmoving. Then, “Angel?”

“Yeah.”

“You said you went on a field trip to a farm, right?”

“I… can only really remember once in school. Kids were shitty.” You spoke about this once; last month, he promised you’d see Ria’s farm, too. Funny that she actually did show you. “And my parents weren’t really interested in that stuff. Which I do kinda get because many city people aren’t.”

“Mhm, I can understand.” He shuffles his feet, presumably a little sad for you, regarding the long row of strawberries stretching to his right. You’re about to crouch and try without a clue what to do when he, instead of commenting on things much more, asks, “Okay, so. Wanna pick strawberries?”

“Yes!” You rub your hands, taking a step forward, but pausing again; you could start anywhere. “Will you show me how?”

“Of course.” He hums, looking for an easy spot with an accumulation of easy-to-pick fruits; then, he lifts his jeans by a couple inches and lowers his body. “Look. You can crouch or kneel.”

You give your clothes a lookover. Just some everyday jeans; they should be able to take some dirt. In actuality, though, you might’ve joined him on the ground anyway. So you do, kneeling with your hands on your thighs, obediently listening.

“You look so cute.” He chuckles, the back of his fingers barely grazing your cheek for a moment. As he sniffles, his chin nods towards the plants, hands reaching for them. “So. You gently pull the leaves aside and just pick the strawberries. Avoid those that aren’t red, though, okay?”

His pinky touches parts of an unripe strawberry still in the ground, and he explains, “You’ll know that one’s ripe when it comes off easily. Like this,” he tugs at it, “isn’t ripe. Won’t come off so well. Mmmh. Let’s try this one.”

You follow his movements until he settles for a particularly pretty and seemingly juice berry; with ease, he plucks it off by grasping the stem and twisting a little, and says, “See? You could eat this one right now. But… basket?” You shove it towards him and he throws the berry inside. “We’ll wash it before that.”

It’s quiet and sweet here as he works on explaining the process to you. An atmosphere you haven’t ever witnessed anywhere before. It’s probably different in the spring, but you’re alone here; even if someone’s around somewhere, you can’t see them from where you sit.

And it helps you focus: on how concentrated he looks, lower lip pouting, crouching easily with his sweater sleeves rolled up. It’s unusual how his tattooed hand works on the plants. Your first imagination of such a task always involves straw hats and dungarees.

“Try it, too,” he then instructs.

He puts a gentle palm on your back as you get up from kneeling, now crouching as he is, and cast about for a couple good pieces. Whenever you think you’ve found one, you seek confirmation in his eyes, repeating, “Is this okay?”

And he always promises, “You’re doing well. Look,” he inspects one of your choices, “picking the best even.”

“You’ll have to eat mine, then.”

“Sure will. I knew you’d be so good at this.”

You’re surprised; you never saw yourself doing this, even though you yearned for a life so different than the one you lived. Until you stepped off his bicycle twenty minutes ago, you had never come up with such an idea. All the more reason to be thankful to him.

But you do wonder why he’d perceive something like this far before you did, so you ask, “Really? Why?” 

He uttered the words so casually, pupils fixated on the basket; he might not have noticed how immediately you reacted. Because he hums now, looking at you with immense eyes, matter-of-factly spelling out, “Because you’re gentle. This called for you.”

Because you’re gentle. Because you’re gentle.

The reasoning, so clear to him, repeats in your mind. It’s not as obvious to you; it’s been a while since you thought of your qualities, and in the last months, being gentle often meant the same to you as quietly enduring.

So you’re touched, silenced by the lump in your throat; such an easy sentence, but so filled with  knowledge about a person that only truly occurs with the purest of affections.

As you stare at him, you feel the fondness spreading over your countenance as much as the leaves tickling your ankle; you hold the current strawberry delicately as you conclude, “That’s why you brought me here, yeah?”

“That too.”

Oh.

“What else?”

“You can’t do this every day,” he argues, “I want to show you new places and things.”

You graze the vulnerable skin of the strawberries collecting in the basket, watching it fill enough to feed a couple people. Grabbing it, you lift your body with a smile. For a minute, your knee aches from the crouching, and your brain gathers the sensations into one to create another core memory.

Lost for words, you merely tell him, “Thank you, Kook, I…” You heave the basket to your chest, touching his hand as he rises, too. “How do you even come up with all this?”

“How I come up with it? Hmm… I guess you make it easy to do.” He laughs, and you follow, reading your mind as he voices the same thought flashing through your brain. “I know I’ll be so nostalgic about this someday. In ten years, maybe.”

Cheeks hot despite the autumn wind, you register the butterflies immediately. Right under the basket, underneath your skin, like a swarm awaking from metamorphosis. The fact that he thinks ahead like this, paints a distant future with you… wanting you for this long drives you insane.

Jungkook’s voice always lacks uncertainty when it comes to you.

Mellow when he speaks to you, gentle even when he asks, “More?”

“Mmmh… yes. Can do a few more. And it’s fun.” So you do; picking and plucking until you can barely carry the basket anymore, already wondering what to do with the bunch until you pop the idea, “Can we eat some of these?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course. Gotta wash them, though.”

Which isn’t as easy as it sounds. It takes you a good moment to find a water tap on the wide field; one only crosses your way when you travel back to where the bike stands, proving as dysfunctioning and broken.

And only once you’ve reached nearly the end of the field and already detect the narrow path that you cycled along from afar, your luck strikes. You wash a handful of your harvest and place them neatly at the top of the rest, right above a handkerchief Jungkook whipped out from his pocket.

The grass isn’t high everywhere; you find an ideal spot for a brief, spontaneous picnic, pleasant and comfortable; a fluffy blanket of nature. You watch ladybugs and ants crawl over blades of grass; not too much more, considering the season.

Jungkook works through the content of the basket, soon holding a piece to your mouth, “Take this,” he says, pushing it through your parted lips; waits until you’ve chewn most of it. “And?”

The initial taste is good, but the aftertaste dramatically makes your world quiver. Whatever you’ve known about food and fruits so far must have been a hoax, because you can’t fake the way your eyes widen and your voice raises in pitch, delighted as you say, “This is… so damn good.”

“Right?”

“They don’t taste like this in the city!”

“Yeah,” Jungkook chooses a smaller one from the collection, throwing it into his mouth as a whole, “these are fresh. No bullshit berries.”

“No bullshit berries indeed. So good.”

“You picked good ones!”

“But this is a curse, too!” you exclaim, urging a laugh out of him that he transforms into a kiss to your temple, observing as you munch the strawberries as though encountering them for the first time. And you pout as you say, “ Keep me from eating them all. I want to take the rest home.”

“Sure, don’t worry. We can put them somewhere and take them back on the last day.”

“Hm? Oh. No, I meant today. Home, your house…” You realise your mistake. “Sorry.”

Only, he doesn’t deem it a mistake for a moment. He didn’t think you’d feel this cosy this fast — but it was what he’d hoped and opted for, so it’s a win either way. His family as your home, him as your home.

He thinks, you finally do feel at home. It took you years of endurance, didn’t it?

“Home, yeah?” he mutters. “An apology is the last thing I’d want, angel. You’re home, alright.”

You wish you had an equally meaningful answer; whatever you might babble now, you don’t think you could do justice to the soft tone he settled on. You can’t even outdo his gaze, so round, eyes so big on his otherwise clear-cut face.

What you can do is smile. Draw closer until your shoulders touch. About to taste the strawberry-flavoured, red tinted lips before a sudden motion drowns your plans.

The bunny flits over your feet; you’re sure it jumps onto yours for a moment and then uses them to push itself off into the grass, journeying on. The yelp it elicits out of you merges with the startled sound Jungkook emits.

His elbow lightly hits the side of your breast, and you pull your legs into your chest as self-defence. But it’s gone as fast as it appeared, and barely a second later, you’re watching it hop away, little ears disappearing in the distance.

“Well,” Jungkook breathes, “at least that’s normal. I’ll tell you about my snake encounters later some day.”

A hand on your chest, you exclaim, “Oh my God. You know what?” You calm down your lowkey panting, hand falling back into your lap, “Maybe you were right. We’re home for sure.”

“Oh… yeah?”

“Yeah! Totally looked like you… thought we were back home.”

Jungkook laughs out, head throwing back, and then, amidst his giggle, he throws a “Shut up” at you. The tackle nearly pushes you to the ground before his lips attack your face all over; making out on a countryside field wasn’t on your bucket list, but you sure as hell will add it only to tick it off.

His tongue really does taste like strawberries. His lips are sweet; the hand on your waist careful yet explorative. If the grass wasn’t this cruel, tickling all over your body, you’d probably remain here for the next hour.

Let him strip you bare. Kiss you into the earth. Nobody’s here; you don’t think you’ve ever fantasised of such a moment before, but suddenly, you don’t mind loving him right here.

But maybe he’s fostering the same thoughts as you, pulling back with a little groan when the blades prick his cheeks and closed eyes. Endurance isn’t easy right now; and you have a lot planned for the rest of the day anyway.

So you pull yourself together, and nod when he finally asks, “Wanna go?”

Somehow, it takes you a little longer to get home than it did to reach the field. Perhaps because he’s cycling uphill now, or maybe because the sun is at its zenith, warming the colder day. The comfort makes you want to stay in this moment, have his voice laughing next to your ear.

On a bike swaying when he loses focus, rolling dangerously to tease you on purpose.

And when you get back to his house, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. It’s fluffy and sweet and white like a cloud, living up to its name. A tongue sticks out, tail wiggling, right at the door when Jungkook opens it.

Gureum is small, smiling as far as you’re aware of a dog’s joy. You once heard that upon seeing their owner, the same hormone floods their tiny bodies as a human’s when they fall in love. Gureum must feel much like you do when Jungkook comes home.

You understand.

Understand when Gureum jumps up to Jungkook’s legs, licking his human’s face when your boyfriend picks him up. Jungkook’s voice changes so much that you barely recognise it; you’ve never heard him talk like this. Higher, lovelier, slurred to imitate the language babies speak.

The affection is unfiltered and crystal clear.

Jungkook’s smile brightens until it reaches its maximum, bunny teeth flashing, the laugh erupting so deeply from his chest. Authentic. Eyes nearly closed as he calls Gureum’s name, plays with his face, as if communicating with a child.

Twenty years, and he still thinks of him as his baby. Sometimes, all golden stays.

“Baby,” he says after a while once Gureum has stopped licking his face, introducing, “this is my Gureum.”

You set the basket down next to the door, reaching a careful hand to Gureum’s head; but he’s cooperative. Lets you easily. “Hi Gureum,” you whisper, “nice to finally meet you. You’re so cute!”

“He’s a little sick these days, but,” Jungkook gazes down again, kissing Gureum’s ears. “He gets through it so well, doesn’t he? Yes, he does.”

The laugh is real. The affection is real. Tender and deep-rooted. He smooches him again, and then puts a cheek to his warm fur. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve never fallen deeper.

“I missed you so much, too, buddy,” he says, “so, so much.”

You swear you see Gureum cuddling into Jungkook’s chest. Doesn’t move even when you’ve settled in the living room, resting from the journey. You’d drafted plans for the rest of today, but it doesn’t seem they’ll separate, and you don’t want them to.

You can wait. Things can wait.

You sit by Jungkook’s side as he pets him, his head soon on your shoulder, one hand in the white fur, the other holding yours. It’s how you remain for a bit.

In hindsight, albeit never having plucked strawberries before, today wasn’t some grand adventure across the world. You didn’t strike a deal at work or fight off some paparazzi hiding in an unexpecting corner. And you didn’t climb a mountain.

But you guess that’s what you craved all your life. Somehow, this is better than any crazy escapade.

The serenity that comes with a mundane moment. A love that consumes you and a love that helps you commit the most casual of acts to memory.

Maybe this is enough. An old couch lightly creaking as you move; a cloud blinking as you caress its head. Surprises to help you experience saccharine afternoons.

You remain for a bit, and then remain a little longer.

Ria came through the door not too long after you’d returned, ready for the evening plans. She’d promised to accompany the two of you to the centre of the town, giving you a tour of the most important and ancient of places.

You learned about the town’s only drapery seamstress and the best flower shop. Much as it so occurs in 70s and 80s movies, you met the son of a mechanic. He told you he’d be inheriting the company one day, and that it was okay because he never intended to leave anyway.

Ria’s eyes suspiciously widened as she spoke to him, and she lingered for a moment longer than you did after your farewell. The guy had forgotten that there was work to do by the time she finally bid him goodbye.

Jungkook’s eyes squinted at the sight, but not even he could hide his endeared smile. Pressed into Ria’s shoulder with a teasing hum.

You rewarded yourself for the day’s many steps with some soft serve in front of the city hall, talking and delivering anecdotes until the sun started setting.

As the evening concludes, you’re the last to appear at dinner. His family is already sitting here, politely waiting and sweetly welcoming once you’ve washed up and hopped into the dining room with a vibrant smile.

You’re in a good mood. Evidently so; the scent of strawberries and the taste of his mouth still linger, and you’re still coming down from the high when you chime, “I’m sorry for being late.”

“Don’t worry about it at all,” his mother assures, “we just sat down.”

“I really wanted to help, though.”

It’s true. His mother has been nothing but the ultimate host. You wanted to prove productive and useful, but then Eun had called to check in on you and delayed your plans.

“Hmm, you know what?” his mother utters, pouring you some Jjamppong. “The wedding isn’t until one, so we could get up earlier and make strawberry jam in the morning? If you’d like.”

The wedding has been in the back of your mind constantly, slowly sneaking to the forefront with an intense nervousness. You’re timid because of how it’ll turn out, how people will perceive you, if they’ll talk to you. How Jungkook will look at you.

How much love might spread; how much certain people might tone down their resentment.

Learning yet another skill such as making jam might just be the best distraction. So you nod wildly, only interrupted when Jungkook asks, “Can I join, too?”

But you change the movements of your head to a shake, jesting about quality time and whatnot until he surrenders, “Alright. Way to shut out the boyfriend and son, I see you.”

“Speaking of food,” you say, pausing, slurping a big bite of noodles; they’re spicier than you’re used to from city restaurants. Better, too. You point your chopsticks to your dinner. “May I have the recipe?”

As his father and brother indulge in their food, acting as quiet listeners, his mother answers, “I’m sure Jungkook has it. I’m offended he never cooked it for you, since they had it a lot growing up.”

“Offended indeed. You learned this?”

“Oh, this?” Jungkook’s eyebrows, hitherto sporting a crease between them — a telltale sign of a well-eating Jeon — relax. “Yeah! I was learning when I was like, what, fifteen?” He seeks approval from his mother, who soon nods. “I fully butchered it when I tried it for the first time.”

Junghyun chuckles. “Even I remember.”

“Yeah, you refused to help!” Jungkook complains, whining when Junghyun hits his brother’s elbow with his own. “And I burned my wrist and had the wound for ages. Couldn’t do much in P.E.”

Much as yesterday, it seems his father hasn’t learned; because as you feared, it’s only now when he melts and intervenes. You almost surmise he’s provoking on purpose when he queries, “When you were fifteen when? I can’t remember any wounds.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Are you telling me I’m making it up again?”

“No, I’m just saying I don’t remember.”

“That’s because you were at work and didn’t pick up my many calls. Mom was sick that week… It's why I wanted to cook and learn at all.” He nods towards his brother. “Junghyun remembers because he went to a friend and then rushed home to bring me to the hospital. None of it sounds familiar to you, does it?”

Jungkook lists and narrates the happening with a flat voice, as if recalling items still left to purchase for tomorrow’s meal. He’s stirring his soup and his father is stirring everyone else’s, uncaring as he responds, “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine. You probably didn’t care.”

“Nonsense.”

Another, “As much as the last years,” added to the mix, you opt for his hand under the table again, but he pulls away. You’re left dumbfounded, looking at him in surprise. This has never happened before; he’s never been upset in such a way.

As if to signal, “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Let me deal with this.”

But he can’t deal with it; you see the beginning signs of a rising chest and a decreasing appetite. Nobody just plays with the content of such a rich soup for this long; least of all a foodie like him. He’s busy looking at it, propping his elbow on the table.

You stare for a little longer, and then turn back to your food.

It sounds like it’s over. And it’s quiet; maybe you could interrupt with something else, change the course of the conversation. But his father isn’t done yet.

No. You notice everybody else’s irritation when he opens his mouth to speak again. They sigh, forming a line with their lips when he emits a question that leaves even you in disbelief, “Why are you saying this?”

“Come on,” his mother tries, wanting to ease the tension, but Jungkook is faster.

“What? I mean, I don’t know?” he starts, once again an equal amount of fear and annoyance in his voice. “I barely ever hear from you, Dad.” With each word, he grows more daring, at the end of his capacities when he eventually curses, “We live in the same city, for fuck’s sake—”

“Jungkook—” Junghyun interrupts.

“What? It’s true. Even the last hundred times, Mom visited alone. Could’ve at least come over and said Hi to my girlfriend.”

“I’m here now and saying Hi, though,” you try, weakly smiling.

“And he’s here, too. How grand of him.”

Fuck.

“Stop the attitude,” his father warns, “you could’ve come over plenty of times, too.”

“Are you hearing yourself? News flash, I did. I tried to talk to you, too. If I was still fourteen, I’d still be apologising. Oh, or is that what you want? Is it what you want?”

“What are you talking ab—”

“I’m talking about how I really wanted to tell you about a shit ton of things. Like when Nara and I broke up,” amidst the already tense moment, your heart pains for a second, “or when I graduated. Or when I was having a really fucking hard time this summer and needed somebody and then when I fell in love and needed to tell somebody, and… where are you all the time anyway? Who fucking knows — I don’t!”

It worsens and worsens. Crashes and burns; every word splits the air in the room. You don’t know how to save the moment anymore; maybe you’re not supposed to. You can only lend him courage. Perhaps he’s supposed to finally say all this.

But it’s hard to listen.

Because as the waterfall of grief cascades, you hear Jungkook’s voice quiver. He’s about to break. Right here, in front of everybody, you’re about to witness the woe this man inflicted on him all his life.

And you see it; see parts of this very torture when his father reveals who he’s become over the decade. The one Jungkook described to you; empty of empathy and understanding.

Because again, he renders you in shock when he speaks again. Fucking nasty, nitpicking and focusing on only one aspect, attacking somebody’s pride.

“Get a grip over yourself! You graduated in arts — you didn’t conquer the world. And you hold a grudge when—”

“I hold a grudge? I do? You’re the fucking one who shunned a kid because of a mistake and—”

“I do not want to hear about this. Not again.”

As their voices grow, so does your heartbeat. The anxiety is unbearable; you can barely imagine the one spreading through Jungkook’s chest. His face is red, neck hot, veins about to pop. If you could, you’d slap your hands over your ears.

But you can’t listen away; can’t ignore the panic, either.

“Please, stop,” you say, moving, but Jungkook frees himself of your grip again, stands. You attempt again, “Stop it, baby.”

But he won’t listen, mind somewhere else entirely.

“You won’t blame me for shit you did years ago, you can’t—” his father insists, but…

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Watch your mo—”

“Or wha—”

His father’s face, similarly scarlet as his son’s, grows a shade darker at the shameless counter, and his large hand lifts in slow motion for you. Comes down with a thump, intending to slap the wooden table, but hitting the edge of his small kimchi bowl again.

It flies up inches into the air before suddenly rolling off the table, aligning with you and soon falling onto your lower arm with a painful impact. It topples down onto your knee before it meets the ground and shatters into a handful of pieces.

You gasp and shriek, more out of surprise than pain; but Jungkook’s reaction is immediate. He bolts towards you, protecting you from whatever danger might be left. Pulls you off your seat and away from the shards as dead silence befalls the room.

It’s filled with your shaky breaths and the way his mother and brother shove their chairs back, hands reaching for you. Jungkook keeps you out of their reach. Looks at his father for a couple seconds; then to the kimchi on the ground; then back to him.

You can’t see him properly until you move to glance at him, wanting to keep his anger low, but… you don’t think you can do much anymore.

The fire in his eyes is blue.

And his voice is strained but furious when he finalises through gritted teeth, “You are fucking insane.”

This time, the man doesn’t answer. You hear his wife utter something as if scolding him before she speaks up and offers to clean up the mess. But Jungkook shakes his head, “No need. He can do it.”

Then, turning to his father, he repeats, “You’re fucking insane. You’re a terrible parent and we all know and only you can’t admit it to yourself. I just didn’t think you’d develop into a terrible person, too.”

Still long fingers around your wrist, he moves you towards the stairs, rounding off the fight with one more, “Don’t fucking get near me or her, do you understand? Fuck.”

So many words exchanged, but it was the stupid kimchi covering your pyjamas to make him topple over the edge. You feel guilty, but you don’t. It’s the man downstairs that has so fucking much to reflect on.

God. You wanted this vacation to relax Jungkook, to soothe you, to turn the first painful half of the year into something glorious.

But…

Then again, didn’t you expect this? Weren’t you scared of this?

Didn’t you fear the exact manner in which he now leads you to his room, in which the slamming of the door rings in your ears, his hands in his hair?

He’s let you go and stranded in his room. It’s odd, the way you stand here, clothes dirty and the grief dirtier. 

You walk towards him cautiously, watching him shiver, and reach for his wrists in turn this time. It’s a featherlight touch, but you feel the tremble underneath your fingers. And you instantly notice when he starts coming undone. When his lips shake, too.

Even with his head lowered, you recognise the wet waterline, and how it takes a handful more heavy breaths until you hear the first sob. You hug him. You hug him right away. Hold him close and closer.

You make a weak attempt at pulling him to the bed, but he’s already in the process of breaking down, his body getting heavier, falling. The carpet offers solace as his knees suddenly hit the ground. His arms hold onto your hips and his face buries in your chest.

When his breathing turns irregular, so does yours; you feel like the world is splitting and the sky crashing down. 

His leg comes in touch with your messed up clothes, and when he looks up into your eyes, he’s already crying. A trail of tears courses down his cheeks as his pupils suddenly shake, looking for something, asking you, “Did he hurt you, baby?”

“Kook…”

“Let me see, you must be hurt, you— you were just wearing these thin ass slippers without socks, right? The fucking bowl shattered and…”

“I’m okay, Kookie. I’m not hurt, I promise.”

“No, but… it fell on you, it must— did it bruise your knee?” he continues hectically, inspecting you, never seeing anything. He cradles your face, still crying and sniffling, shoving his pain aside to make sure, “Please tell me if anything hurts, ‘kay? I will get something, I’ll— dunno, fucking smash his fucking face, I’ll—”

His mind is going haywire. A proper downward spiral, and you don’t know how to stop it. What the fuck— what the fuck…

“Jungkook— Jungkook, please,” you try, lowering his hand, but he won’t stop searching for signs of injury. “Baby, please.”

“Why is he like this? I just… man, I am trying, angel.” His voice falls at the last word; your heart fractures at the same time as it tries to keep his intact. “I am trying so hard in life for him to like me, and you… you’re here, so I thought he’d behave and instead—”

“I know. It’s okay.”

It’s not, but you can’t say it. Can’t say how much the meaning behind your stained clothes hurts. How much it connects to what the weeping man in your arms feels; how he looked forward to this, planning ahead, a surprise for everyday without anticipating such ruin.

And he’s as clueless as you. More broken than you ever anticipated. Resembling the burst dish one floor beneath you, holding you like an anchor, crying into your chest.

He keeps repeating the same things as you repeat yours, soon mumbling his words of trying and trying and constantly trying. Of wanting to be loved. Attempting to understand if it’s too much to ask for. Is it?

Why can’t he love me?

And you whisper back, He loves you. He does.

It’s easy, falling into such misery. There were moments not too far in the past where you were on the receiving end of such pain, and he was your life vest. You don’t know if you’re keeping him above the surface as well as he did, because you keep susurrating the hopeful mantra to him.

But he keeps believing—

“No… no, he never fucking did. Wh—who treats someone like this?”

“Some people forget, you know… how to show affection. Sometimes, they deem their pride more important. It says nothing about you.” You lift his chin, heartbroken upon detecting his reddened eyes. “Everyone else in this stupid world loves you.”

“Your mother doesn’t either…”

“My mother? The woman who hates literally everyone?” You smile, trying to make him imitate it, but he doesn’t. You brush his cheeks and then his hair. “I do. I love you. I knew who you were even when I was unbiased.”

“Didn’t you… hate me, too?”

Once again, you try a faint smile. Not for him to join in, but because you’re reminded of a foolish friendship; it had already long bloomed into more when you’d finally named it one.

“Not for a second,” you say.

Break in discussion. He’s still shedding tears, snivelling. Stays frozen like this, all of him unable to move except for his lips. They mutter, “I don’t ever want you to get hurt. He can do whatever the fuck he wants with me, but…”

“Yeah. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“I love you,” he maffles weakly, “I love you. I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

You feel as though offering solace to a child. As if he’s shrunk into what he used to be, in the very room he used to sulk. The trauma still belongs to a kid, and when hurt, he’ll turn him into one, too.

You hate it. Hate that his sorrow still belongs to such a young heart. That he never processed it.

Before you came here, you spoke about it. And once you’re back in the city, you’ll have to figure things out further; the time constraints just before you drove away didn’t allow you to take much into consideration.

You can only cry now, can’t you? Detest the dampness in your own eyes. Stay right here until some sign occurs, lifting you up from the ground.

And it does fifteen minutes later.

The knock is gentle, just two of them, and you tell Jungkook to wait, that you’d be back in a minute. As you stand, his back is bent, his head lowered. As if he’s sleepwalking or slowly fainting.

You shut your eyes for a second; then open them again.

Behind the door, his mother awaits. In her soft hands, she’s balancing a tray holding some food. She lifts it towards you, tells you, “The two of you barely ate.”

Upon a closer look, you realise that her eyes are swollen, too. The view nearly forces you to tear up again, your face seethingly hot. You want to hug her. Want to tell her you’re sorry. Instead, you only touch her shoulder, and mutter a grateful thank you.

“It’s okay.”

She sounds so pained. You wonder if she said something to her husband. Reprimanded him, cried for his son, grieved a childhood and life that could’ve been.

But she doesn’t say any of it, and neither do you mention it. You only agree, “It will be. Are we still making jam tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tell Jungkook he can come if he wants to.”

“Yeah… I was thinking that, too.” You stare down to your food, never noticing how she peeks past your shoulder. Sees her son unmoving on the floor; she knows she can’t do more than you are right now. So she only nods when you repeat, “Thank you so much.”

You wish her a good night, bringing the food to where your boyfriend sits. Put it down in front of him.

“Sit upright, baby?” you ask him, crushed by the sight of swollen cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. His lips are parted, his breathing still stagnant; he only stares at his food until you push the tray closer to him and say, an attempt at a smile, “Let’s eat a bit. Mother-in-law brought it for us.”

No smile back, but a sniffle. The crying subsides just a bit as a shaking hand grabs the spoon, slurping the soup before he can even think of the noodles. He eats a little, slowly, surely. You help when he needs it, feed him a bite, encourage him to one more.

Every other minute, he cries again. You wipe the tears away, try to make him eat more.

His father fucked him up. You knew about the issues and demons Jungkook combatted. Of course his mentality suffered; of course there are parts of him that might never heal… But you never quite understood the full effect. 

His father fucked him up good; got him so bad. Parts of both of them are so ultimately ruptured, aren’t they?

Whenever he winds down, you eat in silence, right there on the ground on top of the old carpet. When he can’t swallow anymore, still some left in his bowl — Jungkook barely ever doesn’t finish his food — you move up to the bed with him.

You kiss his hair repeatedly, as if it could heal him just a little, to even the tiniest percentage. You don’t know how much of an effective bandage you are to him, but you know you’re doing at least something.

Because he whispers another I love you before the gut-wrenching sounds of his sobs have finally faded out, still echoing in the room. His tiny, shrunk voice says, “I’m looking forward to tomorrow with you.”

And somehow, it pains you even more. The hopeful tone; the wish for a day to not hurt.

“Me too, baby,” you say, “it’s nobody but us, okay?”

“Yeah… yeah.”

And that’s it. It’s all you can do for now; understanding the heavy heart the night cursed you with.

But as you drift away, you keep pleading. Pleading and pleading and pleading for a better tomorrow without getting a promise back.

To your chagrin but least of your surprise, Jungkook doesn’t join your jam-making session the next morning.

When you stirred awake for a little bit, eyes still sleep-drunk and body falling, your phone flashed seven thirty in the morning. Not ready to start the day yet and doubting anybody else had gotten out of bed, you cuddled into his body, and he, while deep in his slumber, must still have noticed.

Pulled you in more, smacking his lips and sighing a little, a warm hand at the back of your head. Secured in his embrace, you fell asleep again.

Only to awake two hours later without him by your side. You’re already washed up and somewhat sobered up from sleep, and you’ve looked on the first and ground floor. You can’t find him.

His mother informed you that she and her husband would be leaving to join the wedding earlier, to help out with the preparations and make sure the plans all sit. You offered your help, but she claimed they’d be okay, and that you can still use the morning after the jam lesson to rest.

Perhaps Jungkook has embarked on a journey then, using this time to do something in the early morning. 

Once you’ve walked into the kitchen, greeting his mother with a smile and a good morning, you ask, “Nervous for the wedding?”

“Mmmh, kind of,” she answers, locking the phone she held, putting it aside to sip her tea, “but it should be good since we took care of most of the stuff pretty well. It’ll be wonderful. Except the damn Wedding March — we couldn’t settle on any song but this.”

“I can’t wait. I bet it’ll be beautiful.” You take a seat in front of her, hearing the sounds of the TV and quiet conversations. Among the voices, you recognise two, but his is neither of them. You’re not interested in joining. So you look at her, scratching your temple as you inquire instead, “Where’s Kook gone?”

Her forefinger points downwards, another blow to the tea and another swig. “Basement. I brought him some coffee, but he seemed busy and quiet, so I left him there. But,” her voice grows louder, enthusiastic, “you can go! Maybe he’ll be okay with that?”

Hmm…

“What did he go down for?” you ask.

“I think he was looking for something.” Now, she lowers her tone again, lower arms on the table. “He also just… did that sometimes when he was younger, or after a fight.”

After a fight.

Like the breakdown last night. You understand.

You should probably walk down and check — but then again, this has seemingly been a coping mechanism ever since he was younger. So perhaps, you need to let him be for a little; give him a chance to entangle his thoughts and regain some peace.

You repeat your decision to her and she nods in understanding, throwing a glance to a huge jar on the kitchen counter. You’re ready to deliver an answer before she even asks, “Want to help out then?”

“Sure!”

The process is a patient one. Reminds you of when Jungkook told you how to pick the strawberries yesterday; gently, sweetly, with a tender touch and an even more delicate voice.

Jungkook’s mother takes the fruits out of the jar with care, explains to you to mash them and cook the jam with absolute soothing composure. The minutes pass so serenely that you imagine preparing meals with her on a cold winter evening, pleasing your soul to ensure not only a good night’s sleep but lasting quiet of the soul, too.

You add the sugar and lemon juice to your mix, stirring and boiling the delicatesse before you put it in sterilised jars. She shows you how to sterilise them at all; you didn’t think or know that such a step was necessary at all.

The making of it doesn’t take too long; forty-five minutes tops. As you scanned the internet just before entering the kitchen almost an hour ago, it said it takes barely half an hour. But she demonstrated it all to you slowly, unrushed.

You’re thankful.

“Have you ever made jam before?” she asks as you admire your creation.

You shake your head. “No… I don’t think I’ve tried such a thing at all. It’s fun making things on your own. I mean, I do like to cook sometimes, but I’m nowhere on Jungkook’s level, I don’t think.”

She chuckles, nodding as if to confirm. Then clarifies, “Yes, he’s enjoyed being involved in the kitchen ever since he was a teen. Especially before he left town and realised he’d have to cook on his own.”

You giggle with her, like with a friend or a trusted figure. It’s so consoling, talking to her. Fun, smiles intact, still present when she asks, “How are the two of you doing? I mean, you did move in together quite fast, so I’m just wondering.”

Yes; she doesn’t need to spell it out. You get it — you’ve heard about this.

So-called relationship experts claim that taking decisions in the honeymoon phase isn’t too healthy, warping your sense of reality and perception of the other person. You don’t disagree, but you guess in this case…

“Honestly, it’s been good,” you respond. “We have a couple heated evenings where we argue about stuff, but… it’s been healing. And he offered to move in when I really needed it.”

“Yes, Jungkook told me.” Oh. “You weren’t at a very good place before. Please don’t mind.” You shake your head in reassurance, urging her to go on. It’s his mother; it’s fine to tell her if any of you is struggling. “I’m glad you’re there for each other because he wasn’t at a good place either.”

You nearly don’t dare to ask; in a way, she might know her son better than you know your boyfriend. Maybe; maybe not. You fear a disheartening answer when you ask, “Do you think he is now?”

But she, careful as ever, tells you honestly, “It’ll probably take time to get over things, but— it’ll be okay. Things seem a little better, though, if you want my neutral POV.”

“Ah… okay. That helps.” You play with the white-dotted red band around the jar. Your mind circles around a million questions that only she might be able to answer; yet, cautiously, all you query is, “Do you ever… have you ever spoken to him? Or his dad? About all the things…”

You reckon that if he’s talked about the two of you before, he probably mentioned spilling his secrets to you, too. At least from your perspective, it’s obvious that he entrusts her with his heart.

And once again, she affirms, “I have. Often. Even before the two of you came. It’s why I told you to take your time getting here.”

Ah… Makes sense now. So that’s why you had to roam the hotel until noon a couple days before. You sigh.

She continues, “It just doesn’t end well most of the time, so… And I’m not a good talker. I don’t know what to say anymore after so many years. Both want me on their side, though Jungkook never persists on it.”

She’s so wrong. Both she and him.

Jungkook has told you for months that he’s bad with words; yet, he comes in with every word ever written by any bard, singing poetry to you and bandaging your heart when needed.

You remember…

I’m not good with words, baby. And I don’t know how to ever properly verbalise something like this.

You sigh again. Tell her, “I understand. I also wouldn’t expect you to go against either of them.”

“Sure. But… It's difficult sometimes. Seeing how broken some of our bonds are.”

You’ve used and formed this word so many times before. Broken. For him, for you, for the world. Hearing somebody else share these sentiments and confirm your fears hurts.

And you’re out of words, wishing for a higher power to grant you a curing skill. If you could lift somebody’s burden with a single touch, just the way you’re reaching out for her hand now, you’d be busy circling the globe at all times.

“I’m so sorry,” is all, however, you can offer.

You hate how helpless she is. You urge to say something more, to hug her and promise that the world always regains its colours at some point. But you remain like this, watching the jam in the jars; hearing her say—

“You know. Jungkook has my number. I don’t know how much you and your mother still talk, but… you can talk to me, too, if you ever need to. I mean, I’m a mother.” She laughs at this part, raising a shoulder to her chin in pride, “And you’re part of him, so you can be part of us, too.”

Your eyes, locked onto the jar until now, flit up to her, and you blink to keep them dry, admitting without another thought, “I might actually cry.”

“Oh. Awh,” she voices, lifting her hand from underneath yours to cover it again. “Don’t. I didn’t mean to be all kitsch. I meant it.”

Gathering your prior thoughts into words, you puff out a breath, sporting a reprimanding look as you say, “You’re so wrong. You and your son, you always know what to say.”

Teeth flash again as she grins; she looks so innocent and pure. “Well, where do you think he got it from?”

Shit…

“Thank you…” you mutter, body already twitching, yearning to bolt forwards until you finally dare to ask, “Okay. May I… Can I hug you?”

“My goodness, love. You don’t need to ask! C’mere.”

You instantly tear up when she pulls you in. Last time you met, she left a fleeting touch. You barely knew her then; in some way, you don’t know her much now, either. But this… this is impactful.

The way she presses you into her; her chin on your shoulder. The slight pat and then the following rub up and down your shoulder blade. So warm; so salving.

One or two more pats, with a little more impact this time, she gently moves you back by your arms again, sucking in a breath as she suggests, “Alright. Wedding time, yes? We should start getting ready.”

“Yes. But…” You hesitate, wonder how much you can interfere. But then you diminish your mental concerns, and simply utter, “If you don’t mind. May I suggest something?”

You walk down the steps to the basement.

The light is on; other than what mainstream movies might suggest, they’ve set up the interior of the basement prettily. The few furniture — a table and a couch chair, as well as a couple common chairs — is a light beige, the wallpapers light, flowery.

He’s in the middle of the room, on the ground despite the many options to sit, sifting through pictures and objects lying around him. When he detects you, he flinches a bit, eyes big, moving suspiciously as if to hide something.

But you guess he’s just startled; and once he catches himself, he calls your name, wishing a sweet, “Morning, baby. Sorry for leaving the bed.”

“Oh, hey. It’s your house, you can do whatever you like. Besides, your mom and I had the time of our lives.”

He smiles brightly. You love, love, the wrinkles around his eyes. “Made some groundbreaking jam, yes?”

“You’ll see when you taste it.” You walk closer, recognising photo albums and frames. Yet, you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Uhmmm, just looking through old stuff.”

The pictures are flipped, upside down from where you stand, so you round his body, legs folded on the floor. You come to a kneel, and just when you’re close enough, you see the pure sugar spilled in front of him.

It’s in the form of fat baby cheeks. An open, surprised mouth. Then, in form of a photograph of a toddler crying. The same tremendous eyes and the same curve of his upper lip. A tilted smirk on one of them, just the one you know.

They’re adorable. You dissolve at the sight; at seeing him in a red vest, holding a half chewn corndog, tiny fingers forming a peace sign, and an unsure expression as if he’s seeing the world for the first time.

He does this often. Zone off like this.

Not rarely do you tease that he’s trudging through his first life, but he often refutes your theory with an immediate expression of shock. Chuckles back that it never feels like he’s loving you for the first time.

“Why are you looking at these, Kook?” you ask, hands on his shoulder before you settle your chin on one of them, cheek to cheek.

“Just so. I knew there was a picture of my cousin somewhere, too. Look.” He shoves aside some of the photographs on top, fishing out a very old one. “This is her. Gayoung.”

A lovely girl next to him, clearly older. They’re both holding car toys; he’s busy indulging in it, laughing, not noticing the flashing of the camera. But she’s staring right into it, caught off guard, eyebrows high and mouth open.

“I can’t believe she’s getting married today,” Jungkook says. “She’s like a daughter to my parents, but… I didn’t get to talk that much with her anymore when she grew into an adult. Was more with Ria. And then I moved, too. But… it’s still crazy. I still remember her as a young but older sister.”

“Of course. Time’s pace of passing is pretty strange. Very fast.”

“Yeah…”

He throws it back into the pile, shutting two of the handful of photo albums. Humming, he flips a couple pages of a third album; your eyes follow as he combs through them. You almost don’t notice when he pauses, and when you do, you understand why.

It’s another old picture, Jungkook tiny, mouth wide open to say something as he points towards the camera slash photographer. And he’s in the arms of somebody who’s undeniably his father. The man looks more like Junghyun than Jungkook.

But they seem happy here. His big hands are firm on Jungkook’s body, holding him lovingly and smiling at him with even further tenderness.

Jungkook remains on it for only a split second, but you get it.

You replay his mother’s words in your mind, and suddenly, you remember; a revelation clears up like a sunny day after a fog, and God… you remember.

And still, you act like you don’t. Like you haven’t understood that he’s here to reminisce about a life when things were still okay; when he still felt loved. Reliving moments when shit hurt less. Of course he’s here; it makes sense, so directly after a fight.

He seeks comfort in moments he barely remembers to escape the pain he recently suffered.

You’re out of damn words. This shouldn’t be happening to anybody.

You hug him from behind, arms around his chest. Attempting to ease his possibly disturbed soul, you ask, “Hey. Do you know that you’re the sweetest being alive? These pictures cause cavities. Good that you kept them from me.”

“Oh, yeah?” He turns his head slightly, lips grazing your nose, warm breath falling on it. “Coming from my munchkin herself.”

“I mean it! You’re so cute. And look at these cheeks,” your finger gestures towards a chubby baby, “they’re still so soft, by the way.”

You press your face against his, squishing his scarred cheek, and he states under a laugh, “You’re too much.”

“Too much of a fool for you, yes.”

He clicks his tongue, though playfully. You hear in his voice and see in his beam that he’s delighted, flattered, loving and loved. You ask, “Are you feeling okay now?”

To your relief, he nods. “I’m feeling better, I guess. Looking forward to the wedding. And your dress!”

“Oh, I am, too. I was going to show it to your mom just before, but… I want you to be the first to see it.”

“And then you say I’m not the luckiest man alive.”

“I just said Ashton Kutcher is. Mila Kunis is pretty cool.”

“Shut up.”

You pause, watch him tidy up; after a minute, you tell him, “You should’ve joined when we made the jam. Could’ve been fun, too.”

“Yeah… I mean I thought about it, but. Then I was like, maybe it’d be good for her to get to know you, like, unfiltered. She’s always careful not to be weird around me.”

“Ah. That’s kinda sweet, though.”

“Isn’t it?”

You nod against his cheek; then, drum lightly against his chest, a peck to his ear, getting to your feet a second later as you ask, “So… are you coming up? It’s a little after eleven. We should probably get ready soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll be up in some. You should go first, though. I’ll need a bit less time.”

You’re already taking steps towards the staircase leading up, but you can’t refrain from throwing one last tease, “You sure? Not sure with your skincare routine. Have you even eaten?”

“Yes, I did. Don’t be a brat.”

You lift your lips to a last provoking, tight-lipped smile before you ascend to his room. The dress is still almost flawless between your clothes. You heavily worried about damage in the few days you travelled, but aside from a few spots that need to be ironed out, it’s as gorgeous as ever.

Flattening out the creases with a borrowed iron, you soon rummage in your suitcase for the curling iron and the rest of your make up. You look at the mess scattered on Jungkook’s table, wondering where to start.

Make up, probably.

Okay. you have one, two chances max to try what you want to achieve. The goal is to remain casual, natural and humble; considering your dress, you cannot overdo it. You don’t want to look excessively over the top. Want to keep your essence under the make up.

So you keep it lowkey, pretty much content with the results before you slip into the dress.

And when you look into the mirror, you nearly squeal. You don’t struggle with your appearance. But while you’ve largely been satisfied with how you look, you did occasionally find things to possibly improve.

Normal. Doesn’t everyone deem certain spots flaws, regardless of whether they actually are?

But today… today you’re sparkling. You’re happy; in love with what you accomplished.

If you could, you’d immediately rush down to him again, show you the results. But it seems you don’t need to — because half a minute later, you make out his voice outside. He’s talking to his brother, laughing about something; seems the rest of the family is leaving. The door shuts just before you hear him moving up the stairs with quick steps.

And… when he finally opens the ajar door to his own room, his body locks at the spot, as if somebody screwed his feet into the wooden floor.

The reaction is easily imagined; most often seen on TV. You didn’t know how real it was, but then again, clichés always have an origin in real life, don’t they?

You’re surprised, a little shy by how he looks at you. And how he looks in general — black trousers hugging his snatched waist and well-formed hips. The white dress shirt is still in progress, collars up, suit jacket not yet on.

And he’s olding something in his hand that you can’t recognise.

He looks breathtaking and mesmerising, despite missing half of the preparation still. Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.

Does he feel the same about you? Probably.

Because he curses, “What the fuck.”

Like a statement, not a question. You touch the silky soft material of your dress, widening your eyes as your quiet voice asks, “What?”

“What are you even?”

You burst out into a brief, fleeting laugh at the question, repeating, “What I am?”

“Like, a fairy or something. Shit, it’s as if I’m getting married.”

Another near-squeak falls out of you. But you can’t blame him this time; you chose this attire carefully.

The sheer chiffon fabric, light and airy, sparkling; it called your name the moment you saw it. Floor length, lavender, spilling to the floor like a waterfall; a spicy slit on the side that Jungkook’s eyes remained on for just a tiny heartbeat longer, you know.

And off-the-shoulder sleeves; most of the back bare.

Sheepishly, you ask, “So you like it?”

“Like, I—” he starts, yet stops. He blows a raspberry. “You’re so pretty. You’re the prettiest. Oh my God,” he exclaims, dramatically touching his forehead, “I need to keep other’s eyes off you. Look at you!”

You laugh out loud, a hand on his wrist to keep your balance, no other productive response in your bright pink entangled mind than, “Babe—”

“No, seriously. Okay, I concur. It was right for me to wait to see you in the dress. Getting a heart attack as we speak.”

Your cheeks still glow brightly when you wiggle a finger at him, disappointed that there is no reality show camera pointing at you to hear you say, “If your boyfriend doesn’t react like this, girl, you don’t want him.”

You instinctively move to the buttons of his sleeve, helping out, resisting the urge to give in and fix his collar, too. You want to see the end result so badly, but he’s still missing the tie and the jacket. 

So you settle on merely touching the buttons over his chest, nodding as if approving before you say, “You already look so good, too. You know, maybe it’s you who should hide behind me today. What if some middle school girl crushing on you jumps you?”

He chuckles. “They can try.”

“They? Well, shit.”

“I’m kidding.” He lowers his chin, bringing your knuckles to his rosy lips, kissing one or two of them. “Hide me, then.”

“Mhm… Do you need help getting ready? With the tie or something?”

“Oh, it’s okay. You can lean back for a bit, tell me a story or something? I shouldn’t take too long.”

It’s a ritual of sorts. Sometimes, when you wait for the other on a date or dinner night, the faster one acts as the night’s entertainer. Sings songs or tells stories or plays DJ or serves the latest, hottest work tea.

You tell him, “Okay. But before I do,” your hand wanders down to his; it’s stubbornly closed around an object, dangling on his side. You uncurl his fingers. “What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, I…” He comes to life, as if he forgot that he was holding it at all. He lifts it between your faces, straightening his palm, and presents you something incredibly sparkly and nostalgic. “It’s part of the reason I went down at all. With my mom’s permission since she wore it at her prom…”

Damn it. Both of them deceived you.

“You were looking for it?” He nods; your heartbeat accelerates as you urge, “And…”

“And I got it for you.”

Words, you notice, are only your specialty when you’re jotting them down and narrating a story from within your mind. When it comes to answering to the grand gestures he always makes you fall in love with, you’re such a zero.

Odd, considering how he, in contrast, has claimed over and over again that he’s not as eloquent as he’d like to be. But you’ve long figured out that if he was to preach the truths he holds in his heart to an audience, the stage would drown in a flood of tears within minutes.

You reach for the shiny, pearly, flowery accessory. It’s rose-gold, a little vintage, clearly older, and so strikingly beautiful. It looks like…

“A comb… for me,” you say. Not the one to untangle your hair. The decorative type; fancy and gorgeous. He nods again, lets you take it between your fingers. “Why?”

“Just,” a shrug of his shoulder, “I wanted to give you a little something to remind you of this place and the love you got here. Besides, it’d look so pretty on you.”

A reminder that you’re loved. You wonder — who thinks of these things? Does anyone else in this universe heat up their girl’s chest like your boyfriend does?

They can tell you what they want; you’re the luckiest being alive. And in return, you want to love him as much as nobody has ever loved before.

You whisper, “Thank you, Kook… Your mom is okay with this?” Another enthusiastic nod of confirmation. “Thank you so much. I— I wish you could see yourself the same way.” You squeeze it in your hand to feel it properly, then open it again. “This is so pretty.”

“It’ll suit you.”

“Yes?” Softly, you hand it back to him, turning to the mirror, with him right behind you. “Do you want to put it in?”

“Ah… I can try.”

“Right there?” You point to the back of your head; to the braid in your loose half updo. “Near the hair pins I used. The comb might hide them well, too.”

And he does his best. Regards your hairdo focused, eyebrows knitting in concentration, so gentle with it. No getting stuck, no intentional tugging.

“Wait,” he then says, tapping his trouser’s pocket, and then fishes out his phone for a picture. He shows it to you; the accessory sits there perfectly, not crooked or ruining a single wisp of hair. “How’s that?”

“You did it so well. Thank you, Koo.” You face him again, smile bright and endless. “Your turn?”

“Yes.” He rubs his hands, looking around. “Let’s get this over with. Give me feedback, okay? And tell me a story?”

You take a seat at the edge of his bed prettily, coming up with a short tale about personified instruments and what they’d symbolise. The guitar for the heart and the love in it, the drums for thunder and the excited pulse of the soul.

“The flute for the breeze and dreams?” Jungkook adds.

And you urge in a thrilled tone, “And the violin for the rain and longing. They’d learn from each other, right?” You sigh. “I’ll think about the piano, too. Can’t figure it out yet… it could be a lot.”

Jungkook nods, distracted and interrupting the story when he asks for brief comments on his progress. Barely any feedback, though; praises largely.

You watch as he slips into the rest of his clothing and gels his hair back — it’s grown quite a bit since the press conference in September. You get to your feet, amped up when he finally claps and rubs his hands in anticipation a bit later, announcing that he’s ready to leave.

And you’re still euphoric when you jump into your car, letting him drive through the streets he knows much better. His fingers wander to the passenger seat every now and then; minutes after the last scolding, you keep reminding him to keep his hands on the wheel.

I want to kiss you so bad, but your damn make up won’t let me today, huh?

A tease here, a flirt there.

You feel like you could do anything. The sky's the limit. And it soon proves that the statement has never rang truer, even if in a vastly different context now.

Because once you reach the wedding — your metaphorical sky —, Ria is already standing at the parking lot, waving the moment she spots the two of you stepping out of the car. From afar, you already see the wedding’s venue; a lake in the back, a huge tent and a field at the front.

The parking lot right next to it, but still a couple minutes of a trek away.

Ria’s parents indulge Jungkook in a conversation about something you barely register right away, and she gestures towards herself, hugging and greeting you with an odd half-smile.

“You look so pretty,” she says, and you beam benignly, returning the compliment.

She’s rocking a dark blue dress, sleeveless, her hair in a loose bun. Wavy strands frame her face. But somehow, she looks demotivated. Worried to the slightest, though still mostly cheerful. So you ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah! I just wanted to tell you something. But don’t freak out, okay?”

Well, shit. Doesn’t start as you imagined, does it? You glimpse over to Jungkook. He’s laughing from the heart, button nose crunched; why is she not telling him, too?

Your chest feels tighter; the usual human response to a menacing statement such as hers. You upright yourself, take a deep breath, ground yourself as you encourage, “Yes? I won’t. What’s up?”

“Well… we’re in this town and like, people know each other. And since we’re all in a very close circle here, I just wanted to say that,” her face changes; she kind of grimaces, as if apologetic for something, “Nara came, too.”

Ah.

Ah…

The sky's the limit, and you reached it, and now you’re kind of crashing.

Well. You never thought about this; but it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Of course she’d be here. She was part of this town and Jungkook’s life for so many years, so naturally, she’d be familiar with his relatives, too.

Besides, even if she hadn’t been with him… Didn’t Jungkook and Ria already establish with you just yesterday, when you were inhaling your ice cream, that this small town strives on familiarity?

Meetings at the town hall, the shop owners’ affection for most of their year-long customers. The Stars Hollow vibe you already recognised.

Ahhh…

So that’s what Junghyun might have been trying to tell you on the first day, too. You remember his mother interrupting.

How annoying. You did not want to feel annoyed. Maybe it would’ve been better if Ria hadn’t told you; if you’d bumped into Nara randomly and suffered the temporary heart attack. Or perhaps, you wouldn’t have seen her at all…

Come on. Unrealistic.

Fuck, you feel childish. There shouldn’t be any burning in your chest or an uncomfortable warmth in your cheek. You shouldn’t be feeling the urge to run over to Jungkook, to actually hide him behind you.

To rush to his ear, whisper your worries, make him promise that he only loves you and won’t ride into the sunset with her.

Delusional, paranoid concerns that you wouldn’t entertain on any normal, sane day; then again, the news Ria delivered wasn’t going to leave you unbothered anyway. This whole thing around exes really sucks.

“I… I shouldn’t spiral, though, right?” you answer, your voice a little weaker. Ria immediately nods, though still not relaxing the wrinkle between her eyebrows. “I mean, of course she’d be here. This is her place, she was born here and…”

Ria takes your hands in hers, assures, “I promise you it’s nothing too bad, okay? Nara and Jungkook have been here at the same time before and literally nothing happened.”

What? When?

“When?” you echo.

“Uh, like last summer? He only came down for a couple days, though. College exams and stuff.”

Ah… you wouldn’t even know. Back then, you’d only encountered him once, at the blurry frat party that you spent in locked rooms and on tiled roofs. When you sang together and spilled your hearts to each other.

For the very first time.

Whatever he did before or after that… how would you know?

Only, you feel even sicker at the thought that after that party, and after he allegedly met Nara here again without anything literally happening, he still linked with her back in the city. Still shared his nights and sheets with her.

Does this count as nothing happening? What if the time here evoked something? What if it happens again?

Fuck, what if it happens again?

“I’m going to panic,” you tell Ria.

“What? No,” she exclaims, though instantly lowering her voice, rubbing your arm soothingly, “it’s okay, I promise. He didn’t even think of it. Either that or he doesn’t care ‘cause he didn’t mention her once.”

“But now I might keep thinking about it.”

“Seriously. Fuck, I feel bad for saying it—”

“No… no, it’s okay. You should’ve.”

“Okay, look. It’s honestly fine. She’s nice, she won’t do anything shady; not if she knows about y’all.” Another caressing touch to your shoulder. “I just wanted to warn you. Please don’t feel startled. I’m here, okay? I’ll smash his nose if anything happens.”

She looks to the side. The other conversation has seemingly ended, too, and you swallow as Ria’s parents wave her over. She says, “Okay. Gotta go, but I’ll meet you guys inside and reserve seats, okay? There’s just limited assigned seating.”

She pats your coat-clad arm, and then walks away. 

Well. Okay.

You guess you’ll have to get over this one way or another. You focus on your clothing. Focus on how you look, how Jungkook looks. The weather, the tent many many feet away. Your boyfriend’s gaze on you as he walks back to you, offering his hand.

He pauses when he sees you, asking, “Is everything okay?”

“Hm?” you hum. “Yes. Just nervous, I think.”

“Me too.” He flashes the sweetest grin known to mankind, genuinely excited, childlike joy. Tilts his head at you. “You seriously look so fucking pretty. Like really, really.”

You smile.

Okay…

It should be alright. Jeon Jungkook is so in love with you; damn it, he even peels your oranges for you when you don’t feel like doing it. You need to trust the process; need to hold onto your excitement.

Okay.

You glance at the event warming up in the far. Halfway through, people have gathered, standing on the grass or the man-made path. There’s still a bit of time; so naturally, they’re still busying themselves with conversations.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You’ve met her before. This isn’t different.

You look down to where his and your fingers intertwine; put particular attention to the way he holds you. Firmly, as if protecting and loving and keeping you close at the same time.

His smile lifts your spirits a little, the wind enclosing your mind and easing it. You nod only slightly, telling yourself it’ll all be good — and then, let him tug you towards the wedding.

The wedding is as bustling as you expected. It’s bright, colourful, flowers draped over the place in abundance. Even before you enter it, the huge tent leaves you breathless, gasping.

They put so much effort into this; it’s clear as day. Jungkook’s mother isn’t around, but the moment you lay your eyes on her again, you’ll praise her for what she helped mount. Somehow, the beauty nearly makes you forget that you’re among pure strangers.

But that at least one familiar face is roaming here somewhere.

You take a deep breath.

All these people know each other. They probably grew up together, know the ins and outs of the town, have gathered at weddings and funerals and school events. You don’t know how well you’ll be able to integrate, but you do hope for their support.

It’s not too much to ask, you reckon.

At least not when Jungkook pulls at your hand and the two of you into certain directions, coming to a stand multiple times when he sees a person or two calling him to them. Some are old school friends; some adults he knew when he was a child.

Candy store owners. Somebody who sold him his first scooter. Or a pal he used to share his banana milk with.

The sentiments are clearly there and they bask in them, but none of them ever forgets about you. Jungkook introduces you, tugs you into his side, enskies you with praise. And they respond with kindness and interest; tell you he’s mentioned you before.

You remember. Jungkook told you how his friends spoke about you or saw you on TV, eager to meet you — they react according to the excitement he foretold, and you reciprocate it with ease. Very sweet.

Yet, it seems that even in a small town, or especially in a small town, enmity runs just as deep as affection. Some people remember friendships, others still resent rotten memories.

You soon meet the first one of the latter kind.

He’s standing near the entrance of the spacious tent; you glance inside, unsuspecting, not a single familiar face in sight. You don’t notice him until Jungkook does, coming to a stand, walk interrupted as the guy exclaims, “Jeon Jungkook! My goodness, Jungkook—”

You meet thick eyebrows, long-ish dark hair, full lips. He’s handsome, his smile bright. 

And his voice is mellow and sweet, and at certain tones, it reminds you of Jimin’s; then again, some syllables come out much deeper. You don’t know who he is; of the pictures Jungkook has shown you, he wasn’t in any of them.

“Hey,” Jungkook greets, somewhat distant. You don’t think standing here is his first choice, but your boyfriend is as polite as can be. Even waves towards the guy, and tells you, “This is Christian. Barom, but he lives in Australia now, so.”

“Hi,” you reach out a hand, “nice to meet you.”

The accent is heavy and somehow cursive when he responds, “Likewise.”

Jungkook is definitely not delighted about him. Follows the touch of your hands, then your gaze up to Christian’s face. You notice it before Jungkook can probably even think of it: the odd look the stranger throws at you.

Up and down. Smile telling. Uncomfortable.

And when Jungkook suddenly does catch it, he intervenes, “You came all the way from Sydney?”

“Yep. And you came over from the city?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook answers. You barely register it, but you’re certain he’s been pushing you behind him inch by inch; but you remain at your spot. You can deal with this. “We were on vacation before, but I was gonna come anyway.”

“Nice. And wait, sorry, you were…?”

You recall never introducing yourself; but you’re positive he’s figured out your relationship to Jungkook just by the steadfast grip around your palm. But Jungkook still officially voices your name and informs him, “My girlfriend.”

Christian must be seeing or hearing something you aren’t — strange since it was him who asked — but he laughs, teasing, “You’re being defensive.”

“I’m not. I literally just told you she’s my girlfriend.”

“Lucky. You look pretty together.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

You have not a single clue what’s going on. Jungkook is never really rude, so there must be something about this Barom or Christian — he’s never mentioned him before.

Then again, you guess growing up in a tight space comes with all sorts of relationships. Christian is probably the sort that never earns a mention until actually met with the person themselves.

It’s funny though — in some way, the rejection seems one-sided. As if Jungkook is still holding something against him and Christian remains uncaring; while it might not be a universal truth, you’ve experienced that those utterly calm are often the ones at fault.

And Jungkook isn’t an angry human being. He’s kind. Patient. Needs a reason to be mad.

Christian doesn’t take the hint when he smiles, a heavily tattooed hand patting Jungkook on his shoulder as he suggests, “See you later then? Let’s take a picture or get a drink afterwards.”

Jungkook only stalls for the tiniest seconds, but you know him — he’s probably already made up his mind. You look between the men, baffled by the nearly visible bolts shooting from one pair of eyes to the other.

“Sure,” Jungkook eventually says, your hand still in his, and works on moving to the coat check and then to the chairs without adding anything else.

You don’t inquire yet what this was about as you walk, catching glimpses of the priest, of the stranger guests and of the people lingering at the front of the tent. You’re busy gauging Jungkook’s eyebrows, observing as they relax more the further he gets away from the guy.

And neither do you need to pop the question when you’ve settled somewhere in the middle-ish, you on his right side, Ria on the other. Next to her, her parents that you briefly met when you brought her home yesterday.

Previously turned on her seat, she now uprights her body, hooking her arm with Jungkook’s as she whispers to him, yet clearly enough for you to hear, “Was that Yu Barom?”

Jungkook nods. “Christian Yu now. Yup.”

“Right.”

They nod, understanding each other wordlessly, but you’re still floating in between a couple theories and the actual sentiments. So you lean in; you’ve become one of the gossipers at a wedding, you guess.

“Okay,” you start; the two of them stare at you with the same big puppy eyes. “You don’t seem to like him.”

“Oh, we don’t,” Jungkook bluntly admits.

“Why?”

Jungkook smacks his lips. Eyes drift to the roof of the tent, the polyester fabric swaying in the gust. Then, they shift to his cousin, presumably seeking approval, because she shrugs her shoulders, gesturing with her hand and says, “Oh, go ahead.”

So he explains, “His little cousin was a constant problem for Ria. Same age… harassed her and all. Constant flirting and phone calls and didn’t take the hint, just an uncomfortable dude in general.” He pauses, shaking his head. “I had to threaten him for him to get lost. And Christian didn’t like that.”

Okay, now you definitely feel like somebody indulging in tittle-tattle. Some more and you’ll be one of the aunties. Your mouth gradually opens as he speaks, and you emphasise, “No way.”

“It’s true— the guy was on a break from college for just a month and decided to argue with a fifteen-year-old.”

“What? Did you get into a fight with him?”

“Nah.” He pauses when a group of random three girls in green dresses walks along the aisle, even though they’re barely facing you, sending a perfumed breeze towards you. Then, “Not a physical one. But it was a bit messy. Didn’t like that night.”

“Me neither,” Ria confirms.

Of course he didn’t like it.

He’s largely non-confrontational. You’ve learned this much in the time you’ve known him, and have given the fact utmost sense ever since he revealed his innermost fears. Jungkook keeps quiet; he dreads repetitions of a direful past.

Yet, initiating and risking a conflict for his baby cousin increases the respect you harbour for him.

People are cruel; but Jeon Jungkook is good-hearted to his core, no matter how flawed.

You touch the back of his hand, caressing it when he says, “Stay with me tonight, okay? And if you can’t, then do come to me when he nears you.”

“Okay.”

His eyes meet yours, concerned but also suspiciously fiery when he states, “Because like, I really didn’t like how he was looking at you.”

Ah…

“Hm?”

“You didn’t notice?” he asks, his voice higher, thick eyebrows closing into each other again. You lift a thumb, clearing the crease and his stress. “I almost plucked his eyes out.”

Of course you noticed. You just didn’t think it irritated Jungkook to this point.

“Oh— Kook—”

“No seriously,” he stresses, turning his hand to get ahold of two of your fingers, “guy was sweet half his life and then tried stuff with so many girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if he approached you again, so please stay away from him, okay?”

“Yes, baby. But I wouldn’t let him do shit anyway. Don’t worry.” You nudge his shoulder. “And don’t be jealous. Have you seen yourself?”

He rolls his eyes at the accusation, but there’s a sliver of a smile on his face and relief in his gaze. You guess hearing you say it does wonders to him; sometimes, you truly praise the connection between you, based on a clear foundation of trust and communication.

Well… at least now.

“I’m not jealous,” he insists, “it was just gross how he looked at you. Fuck this. Not with my girl.”

You can’t help but break into a chuckle, way too loud for your row. You slap a hand over your mouth, careful not to ruin the lipstick, and nearly give into the urge to release his pout. But it’s too sweet — it can linger for a second.

Removing your hand, you near him until your mouth grazes his, assuring, “I love you,” before you peck his lips curtly. He still looks a little grumpy, though. Your man. “It’s okay, baby.”

The grip around your hand intensifies. It doesn’t seem it will vanish for the rest of the night. You sure hope it doesn’t.

And you’re immensely grateful for the luck you’re enjoying. Not only because of this place’s beauty and the palm holding onto yours — but you haven’t seen Nara either. In fact, you become hyper aware of how much you’ve been thinking of her.

Like; what is she wearing? How is she doing? Is she thinking about Jungkook; expecting him here; feeling a sort of way? Is she imagining his smile and how she saw it in this very town so many times, dedicated to her?

And did Christian ever flirt with her, too? Did it irritate Jungkook?

You’ve been thinking it all dead.

Unnecessarily so if Jungkook hasn’t even mentioned her, never sought her out. Instead, he’s busy protecting his girl from past bullies.

In all honesty, you’ll probably cross ways with her still. The guest list isn’t endless; the place vast but not infinite.

But for now, you forget about her, trashing all thoughts and possibilities. Shake your head. Breathe it out. Relieve your chest.

You diverge into conversations about anything and everything, reminiscing about yesterday and the places you saw. Listen into stories Ria and Jungkook tell: about injuries, about pleasant nights and about the fights they had.

Ria was like the sister Jungkook never had; Junghyun was a good older brother, but when seeking another opinion, she was on speed dial. Sometimes, growing up in a certain environment makes all the difference — hearing a girl’s thoughts at all times might have made Jungkook the way he is.

Thoughtful, respectful. You have encountered sexism a million times — not to mention just minutes ago, checked out so shamelessly — but you don’t think Jungkook has such a notion even in any crevice of his heart.

You’re fond and happy when they laugh together; her crinkles match his. Their laugh contagious.

It still echoes and fades, slowly and lovingly when the tent quietens. All heads turn, but you don’t see much from here. Maybe a couple moving bodies at the entrance. Someone coughs, interrupting the silence and lowering their head, and the moment allows you a peek at the sensation.

The bride is waiting, holding a bouquet. Her father is touching her veil to fix it despite having nothing to fix; but she doesn’t notice.

Gayoung is glancing ahead, breathing in. Everyone’s eyes remain on her, but your head turns to follow her eyes. The groom is already standing there in a standard groomesque position, hands folded, upright like a post.

He looks insanely nervous. His shiny boot taps the ground, lips parting and unparting. And he’s blinking; then forming a circle with his mouth, releasing the pent-up tension.

She hasn’t moved yet. The ceremony is yet to begin.

But even before all that, as people indulge in the sight and wait for their eternity to start, Jungkook has already mimicked your turn, fingers still intertwined. When he speaks, you flinch; you didn’t notice his voice this close.

He’s looking at the groom, too, before he settles his gaze on you. Stares with affection in his gems that bursts your heart, splinters your ribs and implodes your chest. You know he’ll say something to fade out the entire crowd before he actually says it.

“Can I tell you something mainstream?”

You hum, “Hm?”

He regards your digits, plays with them. “If you ever choose to marry me…” Your heart stops. “I’ll look just as tense as him.”

“Would you… want to marry me one day?”

“It’s just a thing people do, right?” he questions. “Whether it’s like this or in any other way— I’ll spend my life with you anyhow.”

I’ll spend my life with you.

Not a question. Not a need.

But a confession. A goal. A plan. 

You don’t get to answer when the first tunes of a guitar play. It’s a song you recognise; paints a smile onto your face. The melody is soft, slow, so gentle. They didn’t choose an orchestral track or the usual Wedding March after all.

It’s a song.

Jungkook’s eyes blow wide, and he immediately seeks yours. Mutters into your ear, “Do I know this?”

“You probably do.”

“Wait—” He listens in. Pupils roll up as he ponders. Then, “Didn’t someone sing this in the lobby this week?”

Almost. It’s why it delights you so. You already had half an idea back then, and you managed to somehow incorporate it into this wedding without really being part of these people.

“Yoongi played it on the guitar,” you clarify, “I suggested it to your mom this morning. I guess she liked it enough to forward the request so spontaneously.”

“You did? Then she must’ve…”

You can’t decipher what he’s thinking. His stare is fixated on the passing bride, her slow steps, the beam she wears as she nears whom she’s decided to be the rest of her life.

You can’t peep into his brain, but you notice when he tilts his head. See the tiny gap between his lips and the way he catches the groom blink away tears the moment you do, because Jungkook smiles at just the same moment as you do.

Gayoung lowers her head when she comes to a stand in front of his still-fiancé, and then delivers the most magnificent, most mesmerising grin. She’s happy, you know. You don’t think you’ve seen this intensity of joy a lot of times in your life.

You recognised it when Jungkook woke up still in your bed after the blue night. When he opened up to you, vowed to stay, brought you to his home. When you announced to the world that you’d be his to remain, that you’d do what you enjoy.

When you got home that evening, and he kissed you right against the door, deemed you crazy, deemed you his.

You haven’t seen this very happiness much in your life, but you’ve seen it in him. And you’ve felt it in your chest. Growing, blossoming, never wilting.

The couple at the front speaks its vows like a song. The words are melodic, poetic, and you’re almost entirely sure that they’re not rehearsed. It’s all real. The love in them and the memories in them, accompanied by the liquid bliss swimming in his and her waterline.

No, you haven’t experienced this too many times before. You’ve felt it. He’s felt it.

And you don’t need to know much more than this; don’t need to know what he’s thinking to understand what he means when he says—

“This… this is it.”

THE CHAPTER ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

1k block limit as always!! you can read the second half of the chapter in this reblog!! the reblog begins with a new scene <3

[ja3yun]

better for you | s.jy

childhood best friend!jake x fem!reader (ft. bf!hoon)

warnings: smut (mdni), fingering, cheating (pls don't do that), tasting, possessive and jealous jake, competition and tension, petnames (baby), kinda dom!jake, anything else lmk!

w.c: 2.5k

REQ: Thinking about childhood friend jaeyun who has always had a crush on you but you had no idea and you show up to a family dinner with your new boyfriend and they keep competing silently yk? To prove who’s better and suddenly Jakes like well who can fuck her better 😋

a/n: i'm sorry to the anon who requested this! i have been so busy with other projects but i'm focusing on these drabbles today and well, your req became a semi-one shot so, i hope this is what you were after (sorry if it isn't)

"Hi everyone, meet Sunghoon," you introduce your boyfriend for the first time, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Your family have heard all the gushy stories and know how handsome he is, but seeing him in person is another matter entirely. As you look around the room, you can sense their anticipation and curiosity. Each member of your family has formed their own mental image of Sunghoon, based on your endless anecdotes and glowing descriptions.

The introduction feels like a moment of truth, but there’s a more pressing concern weighing on your mind. Among your family, it's your childhood best friend Jake who you're most worried about. He's always been incredibly protective of you, and he's never shy about expressing his opinions on your past relationships. 

Jake has a knack for spotting red flags, or at least fabricating them, and hasn't really liked any of your previous boyfriends. His sceptical nature and protective instinct have always made you slightly apprehensive about introducing new partners to him. 

It’s the main reason you have taken this long to allow Sunghoon to meet anyone. Jake’s opinion is so valuable to you but you really like your new boyfriend and hearing Jake’s disapproval will only deter your blossoming relationship. It’s been 4 months of sneaking around and telling your best friend lies just to be able to go on dates, and when he eventually found out you were bringing someone to the family dinner which was for your sibling’s graduation, safe to say he was shocked and unimpressed. 

Sunghoon stands by your side, exuding confidence and warmth. You can see your family's eyes widen as they take in his appearance, and his charm is evident even in the briefest of introductions. Your parents smile politely, and your siblings exchange curious glances because they secretly wonder where you found an adonis like him, but it's Jake's reaction that you’re most anxious about. He's standing off to the side, arms crossed, his expression inscrutable.

You can feel your pulse quicken as Jake steps forward. Sunghoon, ever the gentleman, extends a hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. Y/N has told me a lot about you."

"Funny, she didn't mention you until two days ago," Jake snides back, making your shoulders tense.

There’s a brief, tense silence, and then Jake takes your boyfriend’s hand in his. Relief washes over you as you realise that this first hurdle has been crossed, and you can only hope that Sunghoon's genuine nature will win Jake over in time.

That hope is short-lived, however, when it comes to actually having the dinner. The tension is palpable, a simmering undercurrent that you can’t ignore. The first sign of trouble appears almost immediately. As you sit down, Jake reaches to pour you a glass of water, but Sunghoon beats him to it. They exchange tight smiles, the gesture seemingly innocent but loaded with unspoken rivalry.

Throughout the meal, their petty squabbles continue. When you ask for the salt, both Jake and Sunghoon reach for it at the same time. Their hands collide, and they both laugh, but it's a strained, competitive sound. Jake ends up passing you the salt, his eyes lingering on Sunghoon, a silent challenge in his gaze. You can sense Sunghoon picking up on the vibe that Jake doesn't like him, his smile becoming more forced with each passing minute.

Every small task becomes a battleground. Jake offers to pass the bread, but Sunghoon intercepts it. When you compliment Sunghoon’s story about his recent trip, Jake interrupts with a sarcastic comment, turning the conversation back to a shared childhood memory between you and him. It's as if they're vying for your attention and approval, each small victory feeling like a step towards winning a larger, unspoken war.

With both of them at your side, you can feel the apprehension drifting between them, a taut string ready to snap. Your family tries to carry on as usual, but their glances betray their awareness of the undercurrent. You laugh a little too loudly at your sister’s joke, trying to break the awkwardness, but it only makes the silence that follows more pronounced.

As the dinner progresses, the tension between Jake and Sunghoon shows no signs of abating. Sunghoon tries to engage with your family, but Jake's constant interruptions and snide remarks are making it difficult for everyone to relax. You feel the pressure mounting and try to keep the conversation light, but it's clear that the two most important men in your life are locked in a silent battle.

Then it happens. Jake places his hand on your thigh under the table. The touch is innocent but it only amplifies your exasperation. You've had enough. Standing abruptly, you drag Jake up with you, ignoring the curious stares from your family. "Excuse us for a moment," you mutter, leading him towards your childhood bedroom.

Once inside, you close the door behind you, whirling to face him. "What the hell, Jake?" you hiss, your voice low but heated. "Can't you, for once, just let me have a boyfriend without making it a competition?"

“I don’t like him,” he shrugs, acting nonchalant as if he hasn’t just ruined not only your night but your sibling’s graduation dinner. He’s acting selfish and he knows it, yet, he can’t stop himself. 

"What do you mean you don't like him?" you retort, frustration bubbling over. "He's done nothing but try to be polite and engage with everyone, including you!"

Jake remains silent for a moment, his jaw clenched. What you don’t know, despite the obviousness to everyone around you, is that Jake has been in love with you since your first year of high school. Every passing moment, he wishes you would see him as more than just your best friend and confess your feelings to him. He doesn’t want to be the one to do it in case he ruins everything you have; he would rather have you as a friend than nothing at all.

"He's not good enough for you," Jake finally says, his voice strained. "I don't trust him."

"You don't even know him!" you snap, exasperated. "You just don't want me to be happy with anyone else."

Jake crosses his arms, protecting his heart from his next question. "Why him?" he challenges, his tone equally fiery. "What makes him so special?"

"Because he's good to me, Jake!" you explode, pacing the room in frustration. "He's smart, he's kind, listens to me, and he fucks me good! What's not to want?"

Jake's eyes darken, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the air between you is thick with unspoken words. Then he steps closer, his voice a low growl. “And I’m not all those things? You think I couldn’t fuck you good?”

The bluntness of his words takes you aback. You stare at him, shock and confusion swirling in your mind. This was the last thing you expected to hear. Jake's confession hangs heavy in the air, the implications of it crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Jake moves closer, his presence overwhelming. “You think he’s the only one who can make you feel good? You have no idea what I could do to you.” His voice is low, filled with a mixture of frustration and desire. “All these years, I’ve watched you with these guys who don’t even know how to touch you. Do you have any idea how much it kills me to see you with them?”

Your heart races, the air between you charged with a tension that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. “Jake, this isn’t...”

He cuts you off, his voice rough. “You think he’s smart and kind? I’ve been there for you through everything. I know you better than anyone. And as for fucking you good?” He steps even closer, his breath hot against your skin. “I’d have you begging for more. I’d fuck you so good you’d forget anyone else ever touched you.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your knees weak. “Jake, you can’t just say these things...”

“Oh, I can and I will,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips and pulling you against him. “I’ve been holding back for so long, but I can’t anymore. You need to know what you’ve been missing. I’d kiss every inch of you, make you scream my name until you can’t take it anymore.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your core. You can feel his desire, his need for you, and it ignites something deep within you. “Jake...”

“You think he can make you happy? He doesn’t even know you like I do. He doesn’t know how to touch you, how to make you feel alive.” His hands roam over your body, teasing and possessive. “I’d take my time with you, show you what it means to really be wanted, to be loved. I’d make you feel things you’ve never felt before.”

His words are a heady mix of promise and challenge, and you can’t help the desire that rises in response. “Jake, this is...”

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

You tremble, torn between the intense connection you share with Jake and the forming adoration you have for Sunghoon. But in this moment, with Jake’s words wrapping around you, it’s impossible to deny the truth. “Jake, I...”

“Just admit it,” he whispers, his hands sliding to your back, caressing your skin. “Admit that you’ve thought about it. That you’ve thought about us.”

Your breath hitches as his hands move with confidence and familiarity, igniting a fire within you. “Jake, please...”

You can’t say no because you have, of course, you have. He is right about everything. He is smart and kind, and he does treat you well, better than any man ever could. But there is a line to be crossed between friendship, especially one as precious as yours.

Maybe that line is a little blurred at this moment.

“I’ll make you mine…and you’ll never want anyone else again,” he growls, his lips finally claiming yours in a searing kiss. 

Jake’s lips bruise against yours, the kiss intense and demanding. His hands roam over your body with a possessiveness that leaves you breathless. Without breaking the kiss, he manoeuvres you towards the bed, his grip firm yet gentle.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low growl. He pushes you back onto the bed, his eyes dark with desire. Your heart races as he hovers over you, his gaze burning into yours.

“Jake,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear. “We shouldn’t…”

“We should,” he interrupts, his hands already hiking up your skirt. “I need to show you what you’ve been missing.”

His fingers glide up your thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He spreads your legs, his eyes locked onto yours as he settles between them. “You have no idea how many nights I’ve dreamed about this,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “How many times I’ve imagined touching you, tasting you, making you drip just at my voice."

His fingers find your panties, pulling them aside. You gasp as his fingers brush against your wetness, teasing you. “You’re already so wet,” he murmurs, his tone laced with satisfaction. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you?”

He slips a finger inside you, and you arch your back, a moan escaping your lips. “Jake, oh my god…”

“That’s it,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Let me hear you. I want to hear every sound you make., just for me.”

He adds another finger, thrusting them in and out with a rhythm that drives you wild. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Your hands clutch the sheets, your body trembling with pleasure. “Jake, please…”

“Please what?” he asks, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper. “I need you.”

Jake's eyes darken with desire as he watches your every reaction, his fingers moving with expert precision inside you. He curls his fingers, hitting that sensitive spot that makes you see stars. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "Let me hear you."

Your hips buck against his hand, seeking more of his touch. His thumb continues its relentless circles on your clit, pressing down just enough to send jolts of pleasure through your body. "You're so tight," he groans, increasing the pace of his thrusts. "So perfect."

The heat between your legs intensifies, your wetness coating his fingers. "Jake, oh god," you moan, your head falling back against the pillows. "Don't stop."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I won't stop until you cum all over my fingers," he promises, his voice a seductive growl. He adds a third finger, stretching you, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, your body teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

His movements become more urgent, his fingers plunging in and out of you with increasing speed. "Do you like that?" he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "Do you like how I make you feel?"

"Yes," you gasp, your body arching off the bed. "I love it, Jake. Please, don't stop."

He shifts slightly, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles. "You're so close," he murmurs, his voice dripping with desire. "I can feel you squeezing my fingers. Cum for me. Cum on my hand like a good girl."

Your entire body tenses, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. "Jake," you cry out, your voice breaking. "I'm gonna..."

"Cum for me, baby," he demands, his fingers thrusting deep inside you, hitting that perfect spot over and over. "Let go. Show me how good I make you feel."

His words send you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you with a force that leaves you breathless. Your walls tighten around his fingers, your body convulsing with pleasure. "Fuck!” Your hands gripping the sheets as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you.

He doesn't slow down, his fingers working you through your climax, drawing out every last bit of pleasure. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Just like that."

As the intensity of your orgasm begins to subside, he finally slows his movements, his fingers gently slipping out of you. You lay there, panting, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. Jake brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "You taste even better than I imagined," he says, his voice low and husky.

You reach for him, pulling him down into a deep, languid kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. "This is just the beginning," he whispers against your mouth, his hands caressing your sides. "I'm going to show you what it's like to be truly wanted. To be truly loved."

“Enjoying yourselves?” 

A voice from the doorway causes your heart to stop and blood to run cold. Sitting up, you see Sunghoon standing there with a smirk on his face, his eyes flicking between you and Jake. “I thought I’d find you here.” His gaze settles on Jake’s possessive grip and then on your flushed, dishevelled form.

“Sunghoon-”

“You like competitions, right, Jake?” your boyfriend interrupts you, not giving you the chance to explain. “Why don’t we see who can really fuck her good?” 

You physically gulp at the suggestion, knowing you're in for a long night, even with the entirety of your family downstairs...

______

perm taglist (idk if you guys want in on the drabbles but...): @immortalvee @sunpov @heeseungspookie @strawberrysavi @monstanctiny21 @diorsyun @heexzbae @yzzyhee @baekhyunstruly @zeeloveshee @haechonly @berryblog @no-mannerism @jaehoonii @notevenheretbh1 @shawnyle @addictedtohobi @jiminie-08 @emberuby @nctislifue @lilyuwon @skzenhalove @heeshlove @idkdykilr @chocminteu @y4wnjunz @rikibun @ivesti @parksunghoonsgf @branchrkive @brownsugarbaybee @xxbluestrifexx @bambangan @dollyyun @iluvikeu @deobitifull

[redeemingvillains]

obliviate - mattheo riddle

summary: when voldemort finds out about you and mattheo, he devises the perfect way to keep you apart.

word count: 5k

a/n: okeeey i know this is longer, but i actually adore it so much! kinda put my heart + soul into this one! extremely special shoutout to @pizzaapeteer's research on mattheo's favorite quidditch team, which provided a name i needed at the very end (hint hint!) ♡

warnings: angst (but also fluff, pls, it's me), use of the cruciatus curse, voldemort being voldemort.

soundtrack: dancing to the sound of a broken heart - galantis

OBLIVIATE (v.) -- To forget, to wipe from existence.

You noticed before he did.

It was early; the morning sun was just barely sneaking past the curtains in the window that fluttered gently in the autumn breeze, setting his bedroom in a deep golden hue. Your limbs were heavy with sleep and you were settled warmly in Mattheo’s arms, you could feel the rise and fall of his chest at your back, his warm breath on your neck. Normally this was your very favorite way to wake up, but something was off, something had made your eyelids flutter open, a feeling, a foreboding.

You didn’t want to wake him, gods knew he needed his sleep, so you squinted slowly around the room until your eyes rested on the very arms that were wrapped around you.

It was his dark mark, writhing against his skin.

No— you thought, but in an instant, Mattheo jolted awake, breathing heavily like he was coming out of a nightmare, or coming into one, and within a moment he was pulling his arms out from around you and you immediately felt cold for their absence.

“Matty” you whispered, turning to face him and reaching out for him, but he was already up and out bed, pulling his clothes on haphazardly.

He turned at the sound of your voice, looking longingly at you for the briefest moment, tangled in his sheets, perfect in the morning glow, your eyes begging him not to leave.

“Stay?” you asked quietly, and his stomach lurched. Fuck if you didn’t have the ability to bring him to his knees with just one word; but his arm burned and ached with impatience… He wouldn’t be kept waiting much longer and Mattheo could only come up with so many excuses as to why he was always late without exposing the truth, desperate to protect you.

“I have to…” he started, but he didn’t finish the statement, didn’t want to say what exactly he’d have to do and thank the gods you never asked.

“I know” you sighed.

“I love you” he said, leaning forward to kiss you sincerely, his fingers brushing your jawline, taking one last piece of humanity and goodness with him.

“I love you more” you whispered as his form disappeared in front of you, leaving you alone.

Mattheo knew the moment he arrived that something was deeply deeply wrong.

He recognized his surroundings at once: the Riddle family manor. The halls echoed with a silence so familiar to him and his childhood it felt like his heart stopped beating so as not to make a sound. Besides silence, though, he also felt the other hallmark of his childhood: loneliness. He was alone; not one in a mistakable mix of followers that he could slip into undetected, he was home, and he was alone, and he felt an uneasiness, a sickness settle over him as the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise and he turned to see his father stepping out of the shadows.

“Twelve minutes” he said by way of greeting, avoiding Mattheo’s eyes as he approached him like a predator would its prey.

“Twelve minutes. From the time I summoned you, until now. What, pray tell, was so pressing, so urgent as to cause your delay?”

Mattheo’s mind swept quickly over the image of you in his bed, your hair splayed on his pillow, the smile on your lips and your soft whisper as he’d apparated, but he quickly dismissed the thought.

“S’early” he said, kicking himself for how his voice waivered in its reply.

Voldemort nodded in mock understanding, like he was considering this, drawing out the silence between them, painfully so.

“So not only are you late, but you are also lying” he said, emphasizing the last word, spitting it like a hiss, his black eyes snapping to Mattheo’s in way that caused him to jolt in reply, an automatic defense mechanism against the only living being capable of scaring him as Voldemort stormed towards him, entering his personal space as his voice rose.

“Do you remember what happened to Alexei Donovan when he lied to me?” he asked.

Mattheo’s eyes shifted between his fathers, swallowing, vividly remembering watching Nagini devour Donovan limb from limb.

“ANSWER ME!” his voice boomed.

“Y-y-yeah” he stuttered.

“Yes, my Lord” Voldemort corrected him.

“Yes, my Lord” Mattheo repeated.

And then Voldemort’s tone changed completely, as he took a step back and a smile spread across his inhuman face, which was somehow more disturbing than the alternative.

“But I am a merciful Lord, aren’t I?” he asked, his head cocked, daring Mattheo to disagree.

“Yes, my Lord” he said.

Voldemort nodded in approval.

“Yes, I am. And what a relief that must be to Ms. YLN at this very moment, hmm?” he asked, his eyes clocking Mattheo’s reaction as the blood drained from his face, his eyes blew wide and his shaking hand reached for his wand.

You watched the empty space where Mattheo had apparated like he might change his mind and come back, perhaps willing him to, before you laid back down, settling for his lingering warmth and his smell against the sheets when you heard footsteps outside the door.

You sat up, excited...naive you would think later, so fucking naive with the hope that he had returned, only to feel the blast of the door getting blown off of its hinges as you moved to cover your face from the flying debris.

Mattheo was breathing erratically, his chest visibly rising and falling with pure, unadulterated rage mixed with a fear so palpable it was like he could taste it on his tongue. He was desperately trying to rein in his emotions and failing miserably as his mind catapulted over every worst case scenario.

He spoke, finally, conjuring the only thing he could think to say as his brain continued in overdrive.

"Don't" he said firmly, threateningly, his voice level for the first time that morning.

His father smiled broadly without an ounce of kindness behind his eyes as they narrowed.

"You never learn… What did I tell you? What have I always told you? This—" he said, gesturing to Mattheo's body shaking in fight or flight mode "—is weakness. Look at you!" he said with disgust, with disdain, "You're worthless. You can't decide what to you, your mind is divided when it should be focused; you're thinking of her when you should be thinking only of yourself!"

Mattheo heard every word he was saying, but all he could think about was you, about how to get back to you, how to stop whatever had already begun; but it was like chasing a train on foot that had long since left the station, no matter how badly he wanted to jump in front of it, it was far too late.

"So, one question remains" Voldemort said, circling him again. "You...Or her?" he asked, sneering.

Mattheo's eyes flicked darkly to his father. "Me or her what?" he said through gritted teeth.

"Surely you understand that I can't allow this relationship to continue with the way it's destroying you, and while the Carrows provided me with a lengthy list of ways we could enforce that" he said, smiling, letting the threat of his most devoted followers linger. "I have something much simpler in mind." He stopped pacing, snapping to face Mattheo fully, his robes flourishing around him.

"I will have your memories" he said proudly. "And one of you will forget their feelings for the other... forever" he whispered as Mattheo felt weak in his knees, like they'd buckle beneath the weight of what had been said.

"So, whose will it be?" Voldemort asked.

You felt excruciating pain in every limb, every tendon, every bone, and when you opened your mouth to scream, the Carrows took your words.

All you could do was watch them through the tears that poured out of your eyes in your silent struggle, willing, praying for Mattheo to come back, pleading with him in your mind; please, please, please you thought even as you felt your resolve and strength waning.

Mattheo's mouth had run dry and there was bile in the back of his throat at the impossible decision before him: Either forget the brightest light in his life, perhaps the only thing keeping him steady in an ever-spiraling world, forget the way your skin felt under his fingertips, the smell of your shampoo, how tightly you squeezed him when he hugged you, or the sound of your laugh, the way you listened sincerely to him with your full attention or rubbed his back when he couldn't sleep; forget the only and most sincere feeling of love he’d ever experienced.

Or worse, meet your eyes and not see a light behind them, the way they'd twinkle with adoration for him, watch you forget him completely and live life instead as your friend, a bystander, maybe even watch you fall in love with someone else... His stomach lurched.

...But in a way, isn't that what you deserved? To live a life free of all of this, free of him and the pain he caused you, constantly, every time he had to leave, every time he had to live this second life. You were meant for more than this, you deserved to be loved by someone who could give you everything in return.

"Hers" he spluttered. "Take her memories" he said quickly before he could change his mind.

Voldemort nodded obligingly before waving a hand, dismissing him.

Your eyes fluttered open as you lay in your four-poster bed, a soft smile on your lips as you saw the morning sun just barely sneaking past the curtains in the window that fluttered gently in the autumn breeze, setting your bedroom in a deep golden hue.

Your limbs were heavy with sleep and you were settled warmly in your sheets. You felt refreshed, though you had the smallest echo of a headache that you attempted to rub away as you got ready for the day.

You made your way down to breakfast, settling in amongst your friends.

"Good morning!" you said cheerfully as you took your usual seat between Pansy and Blaise.

"Good morning, babes!" Pansy chirped as the boys nodded, waved, and greeted you in various acknowledgements. You grabbed a pastry and pressed closer to Blaise to help him with the crossword puzzle in the Daily Prophet. You were deeply focused on the black and white print when Mattheo wandered in, sliding onto the bench across from you. His movement caught your eye and you glanced at him and offered a small wave before returning your attention to the paper.

And that was all he got.

A glance, a smile that he tried to hold on to, to see if there was even a glimmer of recollection behind it. But there was nothing.

The spell was strong. It had tied up every lose end. Your things were gone from his room, your pictures together wiped clear by the time he returned, even your hair tie had disappeared from his wrist. And when he crawled into his bed, and realized your scent was gone from his sheets, he pulled his pillow over his head to mask his muffled sob.

Now not even his friends remembered your relationship, he realized, as he looked around at them, all totally unphased by the fact that you weren't glued to each other's side. At once he craved the way Theo complained incessantly about your PDA, and Blaise teased him for being whipped. He would give anything anything for something other than the complete ignorance in front of him.

He'd never felt so alone.

A few days later, you noticed Mattheo was...off. Even moreso than usual. You were used to him being standoffish, reserved, a total closed book, but you sensed something different about him. You had never been close, but something about his demeanor kept catching your attention.

"Are you okay?" you asked him that weekend at the Slytherin house party.

You'd had to raise your voice to be heard over the crowd and the loud music and his eyes snapped to yours, almost in shock, before they began intently searching your face.

You looked back at him, confused, waiting for a reply.

"M'fine" he said finally, taking a long drink from his cup in an effort to occupy hands that desperately wanted to pull you into him and lips that desperately wanted to tell you a truth that didn't exist anymore.

"Lighten up, Matty!" you said, gently shoving him on his chest as you walked away, and he nearly choked on his firewhiskey, because there was only one person in his life that had ever called him that, and it was you, beginning the night you'd first time told him you loved him.

He watched you walk away and fade back into the crowded party, wondering, daring to hope that there was a way to get you back.

After that night, Mattheo’s attention on you increased tenfold. The following morning he'd squeezed his way next to you at breakfast, nearly knocking Blaise off the bench as he slid you your favorite coffee.

"Oh!...Thank you?" you'd said, surprised as you peered over his shoulder at Blaise and then looked down at the latte. "How did you—?"

"—Can I walk you to class?" he asked eagerly, a smile on his face.

"Suuureeee" you said hesitantly.

Then, he wanted to walk you to every class, and he'd even offered to carry your books. It was kind, endearing even, but it felt misplaced, so out-of-the-blue that it caught you off guard and confused you.

"Mattheo, I really want to thank you for everything you've been doing for me" you said finally as you walked out of your potions class to find him waiting for your eagerly, like a puppy, a smile on his face. Your eyes shifted to the classmates that walked by, eyeing the two of you together. "I just want you to know, I'm not really looking for anything serious. We're friends, that would be a little...weird, you know?" you said gently.

A moment.

And then he felt a chasmic split in his heart that he didn’t think he’d live through once, let alone twice. It had never occurred to him that there was a world in which you wouldn’t fall madly in love with him again as your words brought a memory rushing forward...

"Is this going to be weird?—" you asked, breathless, until his lips cut you off again, crashing to yours as his hands pulled you further against him in the broom closet. "—Darling, I could not care less" he murmured against you, and you laughed as your fingers tangled into the curls at the base of his neck and he felt your tongue against his own. “Mmm our friends are going to lose their mind” you whispered, grinning wickedly at him.

"Matty?" you asked, concerned at the look on his face, pulling him out of the memory, even as he tried and failed to hold on to it.

His eyes refocused on yours as his face darkened.

"Why are you calling me that?" he asked abruptly, his eyes narrowing.

"What?" you asked, taken aback at his tone.

"Matty. Why are you calling me that?"

"I—" you started before looking up at him, confused, feeling the dull ache of one of your more frequently occurring headaches coming on. "I-I don't know" you said quickly, a blush rising to your cheeks as you pushed past him.

He turned and punched the wall forcefully, feeling his knuckles crack in response.

Weeks went by. Every second in your existence was a painful reminder of what he would never have again, and yet he refused to distance himself, desperate for your laugh even if was for someone else, your smile, even if he wasn't the one to put it there.

Sometimes he swore he saw the slightest recollection in your eyes; he'd catch you looking at him, and you'd smile when he caught your eye, but it was always friendly, never like the look you used to give him, with the glimmer of something sinfully mischievous beneath it that had the two of you tumbling into his bed between classes.

The whole situation was setting him on edge, making him more anxious and fidgety than he'd ever been. But, of course, no one seemed to notice, his friends either chalking it up to his normal idiosyncrasies or bewitched to ignore his unusual behavior.

Now he was staring at the book in his lap, reading the same line over and over and over again, his mind running ragged as you sat beside him. At this distance he could smell your perfume, could feel your warmth radiating next to him and his heart ached at your proximity.

He hadn't realized he was doing it at first, but his leg was jiggling incessantly between the two of you, his jitters working at the pace of his mind, his body's panicked response to being so tantalizingly close to you, so desperate for you and not being able to have you. Suddenly he felt a warm hand on his leg, resting there gently as fingers began to trace a familiar pattern on his thigh, causing his jittering to slow along with his heart, which had now dropped into his stomach.

He glanced sidelong at you, afraid to move an inch, terrified that you would stop. He noticed you hadn’t broken your concentration on your book, perhaps hadn’t even realized you were touching him, it was like your body was moving on autopilot to comfort him in the very way you used to, tracing hearts on his thigh before nuzzling into him or pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.

He held his breath with the hope that this might mean something deeper, that there was a piece of you that remembered him as he closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the pattern of your fingers, the simple touch nearly bringing him to tears as he tried to let himself live in the memory of you.

You were right at the very best part of your book, the plot finally taking off, when you felt the familiar ache in your head that very quickly turned to a throbbing that brought you back to the present moment, and made you realize your hand had been resting on Mattheo’s thigh.

“Oh, gods!” you said suddenly, pulling your hand back quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—” you started until you saw the pained expression on his face, his eyes closed, his head hung as his hand carded through his hair. Your headache was pounding in full now, enough to make you wince and touch your temple. His eyes fluttered open, looking at you with concern.

“YN—?”

“—S-Sorry!” you said quickly, gathering your things and beelining for your room.

“Have you noticed anything… different with Mattheo recently?” you asked Pansy that weekend.

You were laying on your stomach on your bed, flipping casually through a magazine as she sat next to you, admiring her nails as she painted them a deep emerald.

You’d tried to ask as nonchalantly as you could, but she looked up at you with an eyebrow raised in question.

“I don’t know he’s been so… strange with me. He’s wanted to walk me to class, and carry my books, he wants to hang out all the time and he somehow knew how I liked my latte…?” you trailed off, leaving out the way your hand had ghosted over him, the expression on his face, and your recurring headaches that didn't feel like a coincidence anymore, flaring up every time you were around him.

A moment passed but Pansy didn’t reply and when you looked at her you saw that her expression hadn’t changed; she was staring blankly at you, not saying a word, which was extraordinarily odd to put it mildly.

This was the type of gossip that would usually have her on her feet, screaming, spiraling, devising a messy plan to get two of her best friends together, but you were getting nothing in return, less than nothing.

“Pans?” you goaded, prompting a response.

Her head tilted slightly, abnormally in a way that was starting to creep you out as her blank stare continued and you slowly pulled yourself upright and away from her.

“Let it go” she said flatly. “You’re imagining things.”

You were taken aback and started to respond before she interrupted you.

“—I mean, you can’t think that he’s into you or something, do you? He would never go for you… what would he see in you? What could you possibly have to offer the Dark Lord’s son YN? He’s got girls lined up out the door for him.”

You felt tears sting your eyes as you sat up fully now. Never once in your almost ten years of friendship had she ever said anything like that to you before. You were hurt, but you also couldn’t help but feel like something was very very wrong as fear fluttered in your heart at her dark words and unnatural expression.

Suddenly, your mind snapped black for a moment to another time you felt foreboding, felt fear in your bones, screaming silently with no one to hear you and you stumbled to your feet, wiping the tears from your eyes as your head throbbed so hard you were afraid you were going to be sick.

Pansy looked up at you, and smiled, unphased by the way you were shaking or swiping at your running mascara as she smiled. “Want to go to dinner babes?” she asked cheerful again, like she had forgotten everything she’d just said to you.

“I-I’ve got to go” you said quickly, as you made your way for the door, desperate to find the person you sensed was responsible for this all.

You made your way to the common room in slow motion, like one of those dreams where you’re running but not actually going anywhere. You felt flushed and feverish as your body began to tremble and the room felt like it was distorting itself. You looked around frantically and found Mattheo walking in your group of friends on their way to dinner.

“YN!” Blaise cheered, noticing you approach as Draco and Theo turned in concert, smiling widely at you with uncannily happy expressions.

But the minute Mattheo’s eyes landed on you, his smile dropped to concern and he quickly approached you, closing the distance between you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, reaching for you before pulling his hands back awkwardly.

“Can I talk to you?” you winced as your headache intensified “Please?”

“Yeah, of course” he said eagerly, motioning to his friends, “I’ll catch up with you” he said, nearly ignoring them completely as he led you back towards their now empty room.

He shut the door behind you both and you swayed on your feet before moving between the four poster beds and sitting on the edge of his.

There were five identical beds in the room and he tried not to read too much into the fact that you’d known which was his, even though in this reality you’d never been here. And then he tried to calm the erratic beating of his heart of you being here, alone with him, in his room, shaking the thought from his mind quickly as he took in the pained look on your face, your eyes pinched closed as you rubbed your temple

He came quickly to you, kneeling in front of you, moving to place his hands on your legs and pulling back, never knowing what the fuck to do with them anymore around you.

“What’s going on—” he started.

“—What did you do to me?” you whispered harshly, your eyes fluttering open, your face scrunched angrily in accusation.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Mattheo, something is very very wrong, and you can’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He stopped breathing. It couldn’t be.

“Our friends aren’t normal, people around us aren’t normal, and I feel like my insides are on fucking fire” you said, grimacing. “And it only happens when I’m around you. I’m not an idiot, Mattheo, is this because I turned you down?”

For his part he looked like he was about to cry, he didn’t look threatening or guilty, just enormously sad as he looked up at you with his amber eyes and your headache split to a nearly debilitating degree and tears flowed from your eyes in pain.

“My head” you said in a muffled sob.

You felt his warm hands rest on your legs, the first time he’d let himself touch you in months and you felt another flash in your mind, him smiling down at you with a lopsided grin in a way you’d never seen him look at you before, with adoration, with longing, with love, but it didn’t feel weird this time, it felt normal, so familiar…

“YN?” he whispered and your eyes fluttered open to see his transfixed on you, scanning your every feature, his expression full of concern. “Please hear me when I say I would never ever hurt you.” A lie he realized too late as he looked at you now.

“I-I know that?” you said shakily. “Somehow I know that but I don’t know how else to explain this or how I’m feeling” you said, sniffling.

“Fuck!” he muttered in frustration as he stood up and started pacing, running his fingers through his hair. He was certain that something was happening and yet he had no idea how to help you, the image of you crying in pain on his bed making him physically ill.

You sniffed again and said the next sentence so softly he swore he'd dreamt it.

“You have a scar on your shoulder, here” you said, gesturing over your own shoulder blade, tracing the same pattern of the raised skin on his back.

“You take your tea with milk and two sugars” your voice wobbled but was gaining strength as you kept speaking and he turned to look at you.

“You write left-handed but play quidditch right handed.”

Your eyes squeezed shut, words tumbling from your mouth now, like a broken dam.

“You always wanted a dog growing up and if you’d had one you would have named him—"

“—Zoryn” you said simultaneously. He moved to approach you, crouching in front of you again as he stared at you in awe, unable to believe what was going on.

Your eyes opened at his voice.

“After my favorite quidditch player” he said. “YN you’re the only person who knows that.”

“Why do I know these things?” you asked, pained.

He opened us mouth but nothing came out.

“Matty” you were practically beginning him to help you understand but he was too scared to be wrong, too scared to tell you the truth.

“...I’m the only one that calls you that” you whispered, and he nodded encouragingly.

“Yeah, you are” he said quietly, gently.

You reached out tentatively, your hand trembling and touched his cheek and he let his head fall against the palm of your hand, nuzzling into you as his eyes fluttered closed. You sniffed again.

“It’s okay, love, I’m here” he said tenderly.

“B-But you weren’t there” you said, breathing heavily all of a sudden, panicked. “I-I was scared and I wanted you there and you weren’t there…” and just like that your eyes blinked to his and memories came like an avalanche as you stood and he rose his feet beside you.

The first time he kissed you, the feeling of his warm palm in yours, tangling your fingers in his curls, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest in bed, the way he’d pull you onto his lap at breakfast and everyone would moan about it, him nuzzling into your neck, his arms around your waist and his hand at the small of your back in the corridor between classes. His lopsided grin as his amber eyes twinkled down at you and he whispered “Gods, I’m crazy about you, darling”

“I remember! I remember!” you said finally looking up at the real Mattheo standing in front of you, his face somewhere between sheer panic and shock and suddenly the inches between you were too much as you flew into his arms, wrapping yourself around him as he lifted you off the ground.

“Fuck baby” he said as you felt him shaking beneath you. “I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry. He made me. M-made me choose, your memories or mine and—“ he choked up as hand came to rest on the back of your head, holding you closer to him “—I didn’t want you to live a moment in any reality thinking I didn’t love you.”

“It’s okay, Matty, it’s okay” you murmured against him, clinging to him, to the moment.

“None of this is okay” he said back.

“It’s ok now” you reassured him.

He made to pull back but you squeezed him tighter, afraid.

“I don’t want to forget” you mumbled into his neck.

“You’re not going to” he said through a laugh, the first time the sound had left his lips in months.

“Let me guess” you sniffed against him, fighting the knowing smile on your lips, “because you’re unforgettable” you grumbled at his cocky humor.

“Well, yeah” he said, laughing genuinely now, even as you pinched him.

“But more importantly—” he said as he took a step forward to lay you down on his bed so he could look at you, could finally see the sparkle of recognition in your eyes that he had been craving. You were looking back at him like you were committing his every feature to memory, your stomach flipping at how beautiful he was, at how you could ever forget it, tracing the scar at his eyebrow, his flushed cheeks, his lips and noting the twinkle in his eyes.

“—You’re not going to forget because the most powerful wizard alive already tried to make you, and it didn’t fucking work.”

You smiled at him, resolutely. “I could never forget you.”

“That’s right, baby” he said as he leaned down to brush his lips against yours, lingering for just a moment, savoring it like it was the first time all over again.

taglist: @dustie-faerie, @urfavfrenchgrl, @darlingshecried, @thegoddessofnothingness, @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @sectumsempraaa

[buckymorelikefuckme]

what a wicked thing to do

vampire wanda maximoff x fem reader

words: 4.2k

warnings & tags: **18+ ONLY** lesbian vampires yes GAWD, fantasy au, inaccurate historical au, smut, fingering, implied soulmates (?? kinda i guess), biting 👀, mention of blood, does this count as hurt/comfort? we shall see!! and uhhh it's kinda spooky ooky vibes but it's not really dark? i think. pls let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: listen..... i've already got spooky season in the brain and i really wanted to reshare this fic. i've edited it a little but i've also left the link to where i orphaned it on ao3 in the title if you prefer reading there~ any and all mistakes are my own! feedback is greatly appreciated and heavily encouraged pls and thank ♡ xoxo

wanda maximoff masterlist || main masterlist

It’s that time of year in between autumn and winter where it’s only getting colder and colder, no reprieve even during the sun’s highest point of the day. Part of you worries it’s a mistake to wander through the woods like this, especially so close to sunset.

But then you remember the briefest moment when you saw her, when your eyes met hers; it happened so quickly, but also felt as if time stopped. Something flashed in her gaze before she looked away and disappeared in the busy crowds of the village.

That moment, as brief as it was, leads you here. You hug your arms tighter to your torso, cursing the bitter wind whipping around you. Your dress had been a bright idea when you’d first thought of it. Now, you’re wondering why you thought such a plunging neckline would be smart, considering the seasonable chill in the air.

Although, you think with a flutter in your stomach, that’s not exactly true. You know exactly why you chose this dress.

There’s hardly any light left in the sky by now. You’re kicking yourself for getting lost in the woods, wondering if anyone would notice, or care, whether or not you return to the village. You have no family, no money, nothing tying you to anyone or anything. You work odd jobs to be able to make ends meet. The people knew of you, but you are sure they hardly concerned themselves with your well-being.

But then, when your gaze had met her own, you’d felt seen for the first time in ages. It was like she could see everything inside your mind, every ounce of longing and every bit of loneliness, even in the split second she held your stare. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since then. Nearly two weeks have passed, and you’d finally decided to find out if the stories that follow her hold any truth. They are quite colorful, full of fantasy and myth, surely decorated to sound more elaborate as the years go on. Fantasy and myth, perhaps, but one particular piece of information continues to remain the same.

She hasn’t seemed to age in the fifteen years she’s spent living near your village. Not one line or wrinkle to be seen on her pale skin. Not one gray hair on her head. Some of the elders even swear they'd seen her when they were children.

Her home is a mystery, one that stays that way out of fear. There is something about her eyes, some say, something off, not quite right. Because of this, no one has felt compelled enough to try finding her home.

At least, not until you.

You’re beginning to think you are truly lost, feeling hopeless, when you finally spot something in the distance. But just as relief washes through you, the rain starts. Each drop feels like sharp, stabbing pieces of ice landing on your exposed flesh, soaking into the thin fabric of your dress. It takes mere minutes for you to become drenched. Your dress is now clinging to your body uncomfortably, the cold even more biting than it already had been.

It comes into view, what you’d spotted several meters back, easier to make out. A looming castle breaks through the trees, windows lit with candles.

Your arms and feet are going numb, but you push through, stumbling your way to a cobblestone path that leads to tall, wooden doors. With a trembling hand, you raise the door knocker and bang it against the door as loud as you can manage, praying whoever is inside will hear.

Your wait is short lived, thankfully. The door creaks open loudly to reveal the very woman you’d been searching for. If she’s shocked to see you, she hides it well. She looks as regal as ever. A black dress hugs her lithe body, her hair perfectly brushed and styled. This close to her, you can see what the people mean. She looks ageless.

“E-excuse me, madam,” you begin, trying your best to keep your teeth from chattering. “I-I’m terribly lost and I d-don’t think I can find my w-way back to the village.”

The woman lets her eyes roam your shivering frame, lingering on your glistening chest for a second, then meets your pleading gaze.

“Of course. Please, do come in. I’m sure you’re cold.”

“Th-thank you,” you reply earnestly.

She steps aside, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze by.

“Think nothing of it,” she assures you. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, at least until the storm passes.”

As the door closes behind her, you take in as much of the space as possible. With it being nighttime, the candles can only do so much. For a castle, it is rather large, but it’s not quite as foreboding as you would have imagined. Though, you surmise, you hadn’t really known what to expect at all.

“Would you like something dry to change into?”

You whirl around, almost tripping over your feet as her voice registers, so close to your ear.

She smiles, amusement tickling the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps a cup of tea?”

Swallowing roughly, you nod, offering a smile of thanks in return.

“Very good. You should go sit by the fire to warm up while I get everything sorted.”

She points toward a room where you can see flickering light dancing off the walls. You nod again, letting your tired feet follow the promise of warmth. The closer you get to the large fireplace, the harder you shiver, goosebumps rising along your skin. You stand as close as you deem safe, hands held out to thaw them. For the second time, she sneaks up behind you.

“This is all I could manage to find.”

You gasp as you turn to face her. She’s still smiling as she holds up the proffered item of dry clothing.

“You frightened me,” you state dumbly, huffing a quiet laugh.

“I did not mean to,” she replies.

“It’s okay.” You glance at the clothes in her hand, a frown forming on your face. “A… dressing gown?”

She makes a sympathetic face. “It was all I could find,” she repeats.

Her eyes dip down to your chest again. They flash, just like in the village, but you’re sure it could have just been the fire reflecting in them. You look down to see what she’s staring at and heat rushes up your neck. Your nipples are clearly outlined against the wet fabric of your dress.

“Oh,” you murmur as you lift your arms to cover yourself.

She clears her throat delicately. “Take this. You’ll get sick if you keep your wet clothes on.” She pointedly holds the dressing gown out to you again until you gingerly take it. “I’ll go get the kettle started while you change.”

“Thank you,” you return quietly.

When you’re sure she’s gone, you undress as quickly as you can, more shivers wracking your frame as you stand naked in her drawing room for a few seconds before pulling on the silk dressing gown, tying it securely around your waist.

While you wait you decide to get a better look of the room. A few paintings hang on the dark walls, but mostly they’re covered with floor to ceiling shelves and stuffed to the brim with books. You take notice of a few spots where the dust hasn’t seemed to settle in front of them, figuring those must be her favorites. A plush chaise sits in the center of the room with two chairs on either side, atop an ornate rug that rests on most of the floor. There are a couple small tables between the chaise and chairs with candelabras on them, and a wide, lower table in front of them. You spot a desk by the only window in the room.

There’s nothing particularly personal about the space. It almost feels as if she’s newly moved in. But you know that can’t be true, especially since so many people in the village have seen her visit town for years now.

A piece of parchment on the desk catches your eye. You debate over whether or not you should let your curiosity get the better of you, your feet slowly carrying you over to where the paper lay. There’s writing on the top piece, and you get as far as the addressed “Brother,” but then hear her round the corner and quickly back away.

“I wasn’t sure if you took cream and sugar, so I brought them just in case,” she tells you, setting a silver tray on the low-lying table that held the teapot and teacups.

You walk over as she pours the tea into both cups. You pick one up and carefully drop two lumps of sugar into yours, stirring it with your teaspoon until you’re satisfied it’s melted. A careful sip as you sit down and you hum happily.

“Better?” she asks, smiling and taking a sip of her own tea, sitting beside you.

It occurs to you suddenly that you hadn’t asked for introductions. You scold yourself internally, knowing you had better etiquette than that.

“I must apologize, I seem to have forgotten my manners. I never introduced myself,” you say, then offer your name. “And what is yours, madam?”

“You may call me Wanda,” she replies.

“Well, I owe you a great deal for helping me, Wanda. I cannot thank you enough.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Please, there is no need. I’m glad I was here and that you aren’t in danger of freezing to death.”

“As am I,” you respond, laughing lightly.

Silence settles between you. Your mind whirls with hundreds of questions, but you don’t know where to begin. Your plan to find her only consisted of just that— finding her. Now that you’re here, you aren’t quite sure what to do. Or say, for that matter.

You can feel her eyes observing you like a caress. You struggle not to squirm or shiver, though you are no longer cold. No, there is no chill clinging to your bones anymore. Her stare alone provides enough heat. You chance a glimpse of her from the corner of your eye, but she catches it. She purses her lips to keep from smiling in amusement.

“So,” you blurt, cheeks pinking, “have you lived here long?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as soon as the words leave your mouth. Stupid, stupid girl.

Thankfully, Wanda laughs.

“Quite,” she says teasingly, like she’s letting you in on a joke.

You nod. “I see. Is it a family home?”

She tilts her head consideringly. “Of a sort.”

What is that supposed to mean? Miraculously, you don’t ask that question aloud.

“Do you… Do you live alone?”

You’re not sure why you ask. Perhaps it’s that you haven’t heard any other movement throughout the castle that indicated a waiting staff of some sort. Afterall, she was the one to fetch the tea.

“I do,” she says.

You don’t want to examine it too closely, but you’re positive you note a hint of longing in her tone.

“S’a lot of space for one person,” you muse in acknowledgment.

She nods. “Indeed. However, I’m sure I’ll find the right companion soon.”

You take another sip of your tea to avoid replying, but are not able to avoid meeting her gaze. The look in her eyes is something you’ve never seen directed at you. You’re hesitant to think it could be want, open desire. Not from a woman like her.

—

Wanda still cannot believe that you’d shown up at her door.

She’s spent months watching you from a distance, never allowing herself to be seen by you—not until she felt it was time. From the very first moment she caught sight of you, she knew. You are hers. Her mouth watered when the wind brought your scent to her. There was not a doubt in her mind about whether she would have you; she simply would.

She had waited, ever so patiently, watching you as you roamed the streets of the village. You didn’t seem to have very many acquaintances, if any at all, and you were always alone. Wanda quickly figured out that you were without a family as well.

Selfishly, she’d been happy about these facts.

Finally, Wanda allowed herself to meet your gaze. It was quick, but she knew her eyes flashed, knew that she piqued your curiosity. It would only be a matter of time.

After nearly two weeks had gone by, however, she had started to think it hadn’t worked. She’d planned on returning to town to purposefully cross your path again, but as luck would have it, you came to her. As soon as she heard the knock on her door, she smiled.

Now, as she sits next to you on the chaise, your skin glowing in the firelight, she finds it harder to maintain her control. This close, your scent is even more intoxicating. Wanda can tell that you’re curious about her. The questions you want to ask are swirling behind your eyes. And now that you’re here, she decides she’ll answer whatever you ask, give you anything you want.

You’ve gone quiet, though, so she does some prodding of her own.

“What were you doing out in the woods?” Dressed like that, blessedly, goes unsaid.

You shyly glance down at your lap. “I, uh, I like to take walks,” you mutter into your teacup as you go to take another sip.

Wanda hums. A plausible excuse, indeed. You carefully lean forward to set your cup and saucer on the table and when you sit back you move your hair over to one shoulder. Wanda’s eyes zero in on the pulsepoint of your neck. If she focuses hard enough, she can see your heartbeat throbbing beneath your skin. It makes her teeth itch, makes her control waver even more.

When she drags her gaze away from your neck, she finds you already observing her. Her desire is clearly reflected in your eyes and the feeling is heady.

—

“Are you warm now?” she wonders.

“Yes,” you whisper, your breathing picking up, making your breasts heave alluringly.

You’d go as far as saying you are overheating. The dressing gown, where you’d been unsure and embarrassed of being nude underneath it before, is now a blessing. Your body feels alight with an unseen, growing fire. Shifting on the chaise, you don’t notice the sleeve slip down your shoulder, only registering the air skimming across your collarbones. You let out a surprised gasp when you feel something cold on your bare arm.

Peering down reveals it to be Wanda’s hand carefully sliding the sleeve back up into place. Your brows pull together in a frown.

“Your hand…” you mumble, trailing off.

She lets it linger on your shoulder for a moment, then slowly traces down your arm, her thumb grazing the side of your breast. Your nipples tighten, thighs clenching together as you watch her fingers stop at your wrist. Though her touch is cold, it feels like a relief against the searing heat of your flesh. You peek at her through your lashes and find her expression to be one of complete hunger.

Feeling emboldened, you hold her stare as you shift to pull the sleeve down again.

Her lips lift on one side, her teeth glinting dangerously. “Are you sure of what you’re doing?” she asks.

You blink, faux innocence shifting behind your eyes. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Wanda takes a deep, steadying breath, though it only helps in inhaling your scent more. She says your name. “Why do you think you are here?” The question catches you off guard. Wanda shifts even closer to you, watching your throat bob as you swallow. “We both know it isn’t because you accidentally got lost in the woods. You were out there with a purpose. What was it?”

You lick your lips, noticing her gaze immediately drop to them. It makes your heart pound in your chest.

“I don’t know,” you reply, unsure.

She leans in, her nose nearly touching yours. “You do,” she whispers, without doubt. “Why are you here?”

Your eyes flutter closed, head tilting back without you being aware of it, exposing your neck. You feel her presence mere centimeters away from you, her breath puffing out along the column of your throat.

“I… I felt drawn here. It feels like I was meant to be here,” you say, quiet, almost hoping she doesn’t hear you.

It feels ridiculous to say it out loud. It’s one thing to have that thought sit in the back of your mind where you could pretend it didn’t exist, but to admit it aloud is entirely different.

“With me?”

You shiver at her words, her lips having softly dragged across your skin. Helplessly, you nod.

“Are you afraid?”

That makes you frown, but you adamantly reply, “No.”

“Open your eyes,” she pleads.

You follow her instruction, wary, but gasp at what you see. Sharp fangs peek out from Wanda’s lips, her eyes so pale they’re almost white now. Though your heart continues to race, it’s not out of fear. It should scare you, it should send you running, but you find your hand slowly rising to carefully trace a finger down one of her fangs, amazed that she even lets you.

“You’re…” You start, meeting her patient gaze once more. “Beautiful,” you finish in a whisper, because she is. You go to reach for her face to stroke her cheek, but she lurches backward. In a blink, Wanda’s on the other side of the chaise. Disbelief paints her features.

“You think I’m… beautiful?”

“Of course,” you state plainly, brows furrowing. Wanda continues staring at you in wonder. “You said I was here for a reason.” Ironically, she’s now wary of you as you shuffle closer to her. “I know what that reason is now.”

“Which is?” she asks apprehensively.

“You,” you murmur, cupping her cheek. “I’m here for you.”

Wanda looks as if she’s scared to accept this, to hope for it to be real. You steal away those worries by leaning in to place a soft kiss to her lips. She inhales sharply, eyes squeezing shut, her cold hands gripping your wrist almost painfully. You give her a moment, kissing her forehead as she gathers her emotions, keeping her gaze down.

“Are you sure?”

Her voice cracks softly, but her grip on your wrist loosens as you move it. You lift her chin so she’s looking at you.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She stares at your lips for a few seconds, and then, as your words sink in, they seem to send her into action. She surges forward and captures your lips, more sure, more eager than before. You respond in kind, pulling her as close as possible, sighing into her mouth.

You quickly find yourself on your back on the chaise, Wanda above you, bodies slotting perfectly into each other like lost puzzle pieces. You feel her hand slide down from where it was in your hair to graze along your sternum. Then her hand cups your breast, thumb swiping across your nipple, and you gasp. It’s the perfect opportunity to deepen the kiss and Wanda takes it.

Her tongue slides against yours and you whine, clutching at her like she’s the only thing tethering you to this earth. It becomes so easy to let her settle between your thighs, to arch into her touch and slide your tongue in her mouth, delicately tracing over her fangs. Wanda shudders, grunting inelegantly before wrenching herself away, panting heavily into the space between you. You blindly chase after her, opening your eyes in confusion.

Wanda’s gaze is intent on your neck, full of desire. The weight of the moment hits you, then. What exactly it would mean if you give in to her. So, with full faith in your decision, you tilt your head ever so slightly and she goes perfectly still.

“Go ahead,” you encourage.

She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

You huff. “I do. I want you to do this.” You know she won’t look at you just yet, so you lace both your and her fingers together and squeeze hers as you continue. “I need you to do this.”

“If I do,” she starts, swallowing thickly, “I won’t be able to stop. You’ll end up like me.”

You duck your head to catch her stare. “And what’s wrong with that?”

She closes her eyes and falls silent for a moment. The weight of your words fall over the two of you like a winter blanket.

“I’ve waited so long,” she confesses, voice quiet, shaking and timid.

“For me?” you ask. She nods. “I’ve been looking for something, or someone, to make me feel whole all my life.” You use your free hand to stroke her cheek. Even with her eyes closed, she leans into you. “I’ve waited for you, too.”

When she finally looks at you, you know there’s no going back for either of you.

“It’s going to hurt,” she warns.

“That’s okay. It will only be temporary.”

She smiles then, slow and teasing. “I can ease the pain, you know.”

Her free hand tugs lightly on the ties holding your dressing gown closed, raising her eyebrows in silent question. You bite your lip and nod, shivering in anticipation. She undoes the careful bow you’d tied, easing it open and exposing your body to her hungry gaze.

If you felt heated before, you’re an inferno now. Her hands reverently map out every curve of your body. She leans down and plants a kiss above your belly button. It makes your stomach clench in want, but you make yourself lie there and take whatever she plans on giving you. Her kisses lead up your torso, until she’s eye level with your breasts, and before you can comprehend her movement, she’s taking one of your nipples into her mouth.

“God,” you whimper, head thrown back as you push your chest into her face.

“No,” Wanda giggles, “just me.”

You try to laugh, but it turns into a gasping moan when she pinches your other nipple between cold fingers. Your thighs attempt to close around her, yet it’s futile. Her free hand begins its descent down to the warm heat between your legs. Your hips buck into her touch, crying out when her fingers make contact with your clit.

“I’m going to do everything I can to make this feel good, okay? Let me take care of you.”

You nod quickly, your mouth going dry. When a single finger enters you, you forget how to breathe for a second, but then she’s sliding it out and back in, setting a steady rhythm, and you’re back to panting and whining. Only a few minutes later, though, you’re wriggling around, begging for more. She adds another finger and picks up the pace.

“Oh,” you gasp, your legs falling open wider.

Wanda buries her face in your neck, inhaling loudly, groaning. She licks across the skin there, nipping at you.

“Wanda,” you whimper.

“I know, my love,” she rasps. “You’re so close.”

Your hands have drifted above you, clutching at the pillows on the chaise, your hips moving in tandem with her fingers. Her thumb meets your clit, adding to the building warmth in your belly. It swells and swells, until finally, it has nowhere else to go and explodes within you.

You feel her teeth sink into your neck at the very same moment, and you can only yell brokenly into the air. Pain and pleasure war inside you, both white hot and searing, marrying themselves into a delicious and lethal combination. You can feel blood trickle down your throat, the same way you can still feel her fingers thrusting into you. It seems to never end and you grow limp beneath her, unable to handle the sensations flowing through you.

She finally slows, removing her teeth and licking over the wound. As her fingers slide free, she brushes your sweaty hair off your forehead with her clean hand.

“Sleep now,” she instructs, kissing you softly.

You can’t even attempt to argue, your body listening to her and promptly sending you into a deep slumber.

—

When you wake, before you even open your eyes, you’re aware of a few things.

To start, you’re no longer on the chaise. You’re on a luxurious bed, which is presumably Wanda’s. Your hearing is significantly better, as is your sense of smell. There’s a low thrum of energy coursing through your veins, like you’re on edge but don’t know why. But the more important thing you’re aware of is the feeling of eyes on you.

“I know you’re awake now.”

You crack open one eye and see Wanda smirking at you from the other end of the bed. You smile and sigh happily.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

You carefully sit up and stretch. You notice her ogling your still naked body and give her a smirk of your own. Shifting onto your knees, you crawl over the bed until you reach her and straddle her lap.

“Hungry,” you answer before grasping her face in your hands and attaching your mouth to hers.

With a force she hadn’t used before, she tosses you backward and is on top of you in a flash, a devilish smile on her tragically beautiful face.

“Good.”

[xo2dee]

ᴊᴜᴊᴜᴛꜱᴜ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Nanami Kento x (Fem)Reader

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: MDNI/18+ only. post shibuya au, post shibuya!nanami, manga spoilers, mentions of body harm, established relationship, body worship, hand jobs, thigh riding, slight angst

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 9833

𓆩♡𓆪 ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: In time, in sync, tonight the stage is yours.

𓆩♡𓆪 ᴀ/ɴ: i wrote this like two years ago for nanami's bday and was supposed to post it again on his bday but im late for everything :/ but pls enjoy!

𓆩♡𓆪 twitter - ao3

Violet clouds tumbling about in various shapes and sizes and an orange sky waning to something cooler took the time to bathe Tokyo in its glory for the evening. And as gorgeous as it looked, you could not find the means to take in the beautiful sight outside your balcony window since you were too busy keeping all your attention on your surly lover and his disgruntled attitude from the moment he had woke up that morning.

“No peeking,” you reminded him, your hands still covering his eyes regardless before you placed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Kento sighed, his shoulders drooping and leaning his back from where he sat in the dining room to brush the crown of his head against your chest, “I’m not, and I told you this wasn’t necessary. You didn’t have to go out of your way to do anything for me.” His voice remained in that low grumble (tired, quiet, and nearly monotone), but you could vaguely hear the briefest bit of anticipation in way his vocal cords slightly shook. From the element of surprise or your clingy behavior? You weren’t sure.

You pulled your hands away after resting your chin on his shoulder, glancing over to make sure he still wasn’t peeking before you hummed and rubbed your hands along his upper arms, “So you say, but you of all people should know me.”

“I do, and I had a feeling from the moment you left this morning that you were up to something.”

You looked away from his long eyelashes brushing across his skin, noting the faintest shade of red coloring his cheek in the process, and looked in front of you both onto the dinner table where sat his ‘birthday cake’ and the polka-dotted candles lit up with the number 32 spread out. You moved your hands onto his shoulders and massaged them, your own sigh falling out of your mouth and kissed his temple at his ragged tone. “It’s nothing bad… And it’s not like I pulled a Gojo and nearly planned a whole surprise party; just a little of something to show my appreciation and love for you.”

“You already did this morning and gave me my gift. And you’ve told me, ‘Happy Birthday’ at least three times already today too.”

You squeezed his shoulders and rolled your eyes, remembering his sleepy grumbling when you had woken him up at three in the morning to tell him, when you had kissed his scarred cheek from behind as he stood in front of the mirror brushing his teeth and told him, and when you had texted him around lunch time with an excessive amount of emojis and letters full of caps lock and received a thumbs up emoji in response and just a, ‘Thank you, I love you’.

(Kento sucked at texting and it only seemed to be getting worse as he grew older, but you weren’t about to tell him that.)

But he could blush and sigh in exasperation all he wanted, you knew he liked attention from you. “So what? It’s like a national holiday to me today… Anyway, you can open your eyes now,” you combed your fingers through his hair, the undercut long since grown out as he had gotten older before throwing your arms around his shoulders once more as you pressed your cheek into his and smiled from the warmth it emitted, “I hope you like it.”

You could feel him sigh before you heard him, peeking in your peripheral vision as you watched his one eye open to give sight to the lone umber iris you treasured as it settled on the table in front of him. You bit the inside of your cheek as he took it in, the usual taut furrow in his brow lessening, his lips slightly parting as you watched the amber candlelight flicker across his sharp, angular features, and a glimmer of surprise taking over his expression altogether as he took in what was in front of him while remaining speechless. It made you giddy, a giggle bubbling out of your lungs from his apparent awe as you angled your mouth onto his jawline and kissed him there as well, leaving behind yet another lipstick stain in your wake.

“Happy Birthday, handsome. You said you weren’t up for a cake this year, so I had to compromise and I think I did pretty good.”

You folded your hands atop his chest (his steady heartbeat ricocheting off your palms setting itself as a reminder of what you nearly lost, and how it remained beating despite the rough exterior of his skin on the outside and the failed lung the doctors did their best to help causing him to have breathing problems still after four years) and embraced him from your stance behind him, basking yourself in his warmth as you heard his breathing pick up and his hand coming up to curl around your wrist.

“This is… I haven’t had this in –”

“Nearly ten years? I know,” you cheekily replied, tucking your face in his neck and curling yourself into his scent, “Would’ve been a hassle trying to find the place if it wasn’t for you telling me about it all the time.”

Kento made a noise in the back of his throat, releasing his hold on your wrist and turning his head as you removed your face from his neck so that your noses brushed across one and another, “You… Is that what you were scribbling on that piece of paper this morning…?” He hadn’t removed his eyepatch for the day, nor had he ever seemed to stop dressing down since the accident, but you knew it was more of a small insecurity he held within himself to remain looking as normal as he could. Not that he was particularly vain, but you knew he hated looking in the mirror sometimes thinking he was disfigured beyond being recognized and often it showed when it came to you regardless.

Nevertheless you felt your cheeks warm, realizing he had seen you doing that and casted a small glance to your purse that laid on the couch from when you came home and he took it from you. Kento’s own near indistinguishable glint in his eye brightened, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you into his lap and securing you there when you threw your legs across his own as you got ready for all the teasing you knew was to come. However, he seemingly spared you for the night, taking your hand to press a warm kiss to the inside of your wrist and murmuring against your skin so quietly and softly you nearly didn’t hear him.

“Tell me about your day.”

He wanted to know your thought process on why you did it and truly what you had done the entire day away from him.

The dreaded piece of paper with your destination scrabbled on it like chicken scratch had been crumbled and folded up in your purse as you had left your shared apartment in a haste, nearly your shoes on the wrong feet and almost forgetting your wallet in the process to race against the clock to get to work and to perhaps keep your husband under wraps for the surprise. However, going to the store and getting all the other supplies you needed was a walk in the park, but trying to find the exact location of… Hell, you weren’t even able read the damn name anymore by the time 4 P.M. rolled around, as the ink had blotted and the shitty pen you kept in your purse barely worked anyway, so you were left with squinting at it standing on the sidewalk trying to remember where in the fuck you were supposed to go in smack dab the middle of the Summer.

And, fuck, was it hot.

Unbearably and unbelievably hot.

July was seemingly always scalding in the Summer of Tokyo, and it didn’t really matter that the sun was only beginning to set for the temperature to remain the same as it was from noon until at least nine at night. Perspiration clung to your body with every step you took, your thighs beginning to chafe from how they had been rubbing together while you walked and you were then wondering if the sun had fried your brain from where it had been beating down on your scalp all day. You had lost count of the many times you had accidentally licked your upper lip free of any sweat, hoping to anyone above that your eyelash glue wasn’t melting off your fucking eyelid and your eyeliner wasn’t running and smudged underneath your eye with the amount times you had fiddled with your face, but more importantly you hoped that whatever you were doing worked out in the end and you didn’t look like an idiot.

It was July 3rd, and you had trotted out around on one of the world’s hottest, and most special days in desperation for a gift you had somehow thought of on your own to get.

It was July 3rd, and it was your husband’s  – Nanami Kento – birthday, and you were trying your damnedest to find that little, nook-and-cranny, locally owned (because Kento really preferred local businesses more than anything) bakery that he used to frequent constantly, and maybe beg for the recipe for his favorite sandwich so that you could make it for him for his birthday and any other day he wanted for the rest of his life.

Perhaps it was an oddball gift, as you had already asked Kento what he wanted –

(“What do you want for your birthday?”

“You don’t have to get me anything. Spending time with you that day is enough for me.”

“Corny. And you say that every year, and you still get me things for my birthday.”

“And I mean it every year. The greatest gift you have given me was when you agreed to marry me, so you’ve already given me everything I could have ever wanted.”

Okay, you’d admit, you giggled, squealed, and kicked your feet like a girl with a crush at that, the corny, dork of a man always one-upping you and making you feel like a Goddess, but God for once you wanted to make him feel the same way.)

– and he had said nothing despite the fact that whenever you gifted him that book he had been eyeballing in the book store he had literally sighed like he was fantasizing about getting home to watch his favorite cooking show, and it was then the lightbulb in your head went off when you remembered Kento only really sighed over very few things.

One: the crisp smell of a new book and the tightly wounded spine nearly making him bust in his pants whenever he got his hands on it.

Two: you.

And three: food. Not just any old food either; sandwiches that made him gush and launch into a detailed explanation about whenever the bread was baked just right, and the vegetables looked like edible art, and the meat to it was laid and folded just perfectly with the right amount of sauce and any seasoning, was really what could get Kento going and make him literal putty.

So, you thought, why not find that bakery he used to go to (and for some reason won’t go back, you weren’t about to ask why either) and get the little recipe of the sandwich he sometimes would whisper in your ear about like he was dirty talking to you again, and just make it for him? It was a perfect idea to you, and for once Kento wouldn’t practically kick you out of the kitchen whenever you offered to make something for him whenever you had the Holy Grail in your hands and could hover it over his head.

Yeah, it was a good gift, and you only had nonchalantly asked him the name of the place so you were all set the moment he spoke them without a thought in the world. Kento would be ecstatic, and it’d make you feel at ease if you got see that genuine smile spread across his face because he had looked miserable when you went to work that morning and lingered by the front door longer than usual and kissed you goodbye a little harder than normal before you left. Then he’d be less miserable having his favorite sandwich made out for him and sleep like a baby that night with one hand holding your boob like always.

Yeah, everything would work out perfectly.

And considering his reaction and how he was staring at you perched atop his lap embarrassed as you rambled on about everything, you assumed you hit the nail on the head.

Kento had propped an elbow up onto the table, his cheek resting against his knuckles and his thumb rubbing into your hipbone as you finished talking as he had listened so intently with a twinkle in his half-lidded eye and small, smile on his face. “Even when I think I know you, you still continue to surprise me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, thoroughly smug that you had managed to surprise him in the end and batted your eyelashes at him, “It’s my charm. And it’s not a fun marriage unless we still continue to surprise each other like this.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily know, this is my first marriage.”

“And it better be your only.”

He rolled his eye back, tapping his index finger against his temple and flexing his thighs beneath your body as he stretched them out, as he knew you were only teasing him ever since you laughed in his ear at the old grannies down at Farmer’s Market with hearts in their eyes every time he went and grocery shopped. “I took my vows to heart that day –”

“I know, it was like two pages long –”

“ – Regardless,” he shot you a look, but his reddening cheeks spoke for the most of him, “I’m a monogamous man… for the rest of my life.”

“Like a penguin.”

Kento’s lips twisted into a curl, like he was trying to hold himself back from laughing, “You say my animal documentaries are boring, yet you remember things like that?”

You shrugged and brought yourself closer to him, locking your fingers behind his neck and bringing his cheek in for another kiss, “I think it’s sweet… Anyway, I take it you like your gifts?” you asked with a tilt of uncertainty in your voice, something he caught up on with his intuitive sixth sense when it came to all things regarding you.

Kento moved meticulously, removing his hand from his cheek and to yours as his other slid up to rest on your back with his fingers spread, and it took you a long moment to realize he was touching you with his left hand. All remnants of nearly flawless skin that was once there, and you nearly couldn’t even feel the callousness of it spread out to his fingertips as you had grown so used to it. Kento’s left hand was the hand that held the wedding band, and it was the hand you always took to hold, to kiss, to rub your cheek across in a semblance of your love whenever you couldn’t find the words to tell him and he was going through a bout and your actions spoke louder than your words ever could.

He still looked at you the same way he had whenever you were the first face he saw whenever he woke up from the hospital and the day he saw you at your wedding. And you still had trouble not shying away from his intense gaze like the days you could barely look him in eyes in the beginning of your relationship, but it was all worth it in the end whenever he spoke his affirmations to you.

Kento was not a man of many words per say, more showing his emotions through his actions, but when he did take the time to formulate words of comfort on his tongue to mouth into your skin, you knew he meant every word.

“Of course, anything and everything you given me I cherish, beloved. Getting my favorite sandwich, however…” he trailed off, and you could distinctly hear his stomach grumble in a sign that he had not yet ate. He took that time to drop his hand to rub at your arm, a sigh leaving him that sounded nearly forlorn and you just knew he was already calculating all the parts of the sandwich and critiquing them to his liking. And from what you could see (nearly the damn reflection of the sandwich shining in his eye with sparkles around it), he liked what he saw.

(Honestly, if he had never went into being a salaryman those short years or made his way back into Jujutsu Sorcery, Kento could’ve easily have became a chef if he so wanted. You could vouch for that for the many nights Kento cooked for you and sent you off to work with a packed lunch.)

Though looking at Kento reminded of you of part two for what you wanted to tell him, the corner of the receipt paper it was written on digging into your breast (and probably a little sweaty) as you straightened back up and pulled your face away from his.

“Ah – that reminds me –” you dropped your arms from around his neck before you began unbuttoning your shirt, discreetly eyeing Kento as you did and creasing your lips so that you didn’t laugh whenever you saw his eye widen and face turn that lovely shade of rose when you figured he was thinking you were turning to a more carnal side. Silly, cute, little man, he had seen you naked countless times, but still got slightly embarrassed and would start sweating whenever you started to show him your boobs, and it always fun to tease at him. You didn’t keep him on the edge, afraid he’d combust if you started undressing, and only unbuttoned two to reach into your bra and pull out the folded piece of paper, “Got another little surprise.”

Kento regarded you amused (possibly wondering what else you kept in your bra) before picking the paper up between two fingers and inspecting it with dubious concern. “…It’s wet.”

“I was sweating, okay? It’s hot, now just open it.” You could’ve done without his commentary.

He obliged you, unfolding the receipt carefully before he let his eye roll over the numerous words written down in a row with instructions written next to each one of them, with precise quantities and times because you knew it had to be just perfect. He blinked as he read over them fast, an eyebrow quirking up before looking at you curious to what it all meant, “Ingredients and instructions?”

You leant into him, pressing your forehead against the side of his head and toying with the top two buttons of his shirt, “To your favorite sandwich. Now you or I can make it anytime you want, and be forever grateful to the girl working for giving it to me without an argument.”

His looked somewhat excited as he inspected the paper in his hand, yet the drone of his voice nearly made it sound like he couldn’t bring himself to care. You knew better though, he was just too embarrassed to show his obvious happiness to what you had got him, but the little sigh he let out before speaking was the same one he made whenever you gave him that book. “And how did you manage this?”

“I’m the master of ass-kissing.” (Read: you begged and promised you’d come back with him if she had given it to you.)

“True.”

You slapped his chest lightly and nearly squealed at his little smile, situating yourself in his lap as you turned to look at his favorite sandwich topped off with the gaudy candles that was slowly beginning to wither away before snatching the birthday hat you bought and slapping it atop his head. He looked cute whenever he was disgruntled, especially when the elastic to the hat slapped his chin, but it was even funnier watching his expression wither when you sat the kazoo on your tongue and blew into it right in his face and ear while expressing your excitement, yet again.

“Happy Birthday, Kento! Now blow out your candles and make a wish, birthday boy.”

A few moments passed, and you watched the gears in his head turn as he sat the paper down onto the table, and you nearly wanted to groan when you realized where he was going with his idea.

“Stop. Before you say anything else corny. You have to keep your wish to yourself and maybe it’ll come true.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but did as you asked and blew them out without a second thought. The amber glow of the day fading away as the sky outside turned to dusky purple and left you and Kento alone to enjoy it together, yet you watched curiously as he tore off a part on one half of the sandwich, his arm curling around you to keep you sat snugly in his lap before he brought up the piece and held it against your lips. His voice but yet another warm, soft murmur, mouthed into your cheek and his tongue nearly swiping along your skin.

“Wanna help me eat it?”

The moment you got done eating with him and moved to cleaning (to which you had to ban Kento from the kitchen whenever he tried to even think about helping) and while you had been cleaning, the faintest scent of cigarette smoke and Kento’s preferred cologne reached your nostrils, a thin trail of the smog wiggling into the living from the open balcony door letting you know that Kento had been outside on the balcony where he usually smoked. If there was one thing about him, it was that he was pristine about not letting any smoke come into contact with anything inside, wanting to smoke outside as he did it very rarely before, but after the accident Kento had taken up smoking more than usual. You had told him it wasn’t too good for his lungs, but you couldn’t do much when you remembered he mainly did it as a form of an anxiety reliever and whenever he was stressed… Besides, where he wasn’t too worried about his own health, he constantly fretted over your own and refused to smoke anywhere near where you could secondhand do it.

He never smoked long and when you walked out of the kitchen it wasn’t an odd sight to see him on the couch by then, one hand swirling a glass of whiskey from the bottle that sat on your centerfold table with the blue bow around the neck (courtesy of Mr. Satoru, even adding a little note that said, “Happy Birthday! With Love, Gojo <3” combined with his own chibi drawing of himself throwing up peace signs) with the ice cubes clinking against the rim and his nose already buried in the book you had bought him. He was a sight to behold as well, his bright hair pushed back onto his head with the very small telling sign of a five o’clock shadow growing along his jawline that would be gone as soon as the morning came, his shirt having been deftly unbuttoned to grow accustomed to the heat coming from outside and his skin beginning to finally wane away from that sunburn he had gotten from the trip you two had gone on to Milan two weeks before.

He truly was beautiful, inside and outside, but it was heartbreaking to see him sometimes avoid mirrors or from going out into public on the days he was feeling particularly bad.

You didn’t take long to join him, the soft music he had put on soothing your ears as you eyed the sharpness of his jawline sculpted and shadowed from the sky outside and sat down on your side of couch. You stretched your legs out and toed at his thigh, appreciating his loose slacks on his figure while grabbing his attention, “You like the book?”

“Mm, very much. Thank you again.”

“I’m glad, you had been eyeing it for a while so I knew I just had to buy whenever you wouldn’t…” you reclined back into the many throw pillows on the couch (something was your doing as Kento had been the one to pick out the style and layout of the apartment, but you were giving the reigns to decorations as you seemed fit – especially if the fuzzy throw rug beneath you two spoke for anything) watching his eye move over every word and wondering if he was truly content to stay inside with you for the night. You bit the bullet in the end, knowing you’d only worry yourself to death over him if you didn’t ask. “You sure you don’t wanna go out anywhere else? Gojo and Shoko did invite us to that restaurant you like.”

He peered at you for a long moment before sighing, closing his book and set both it and his drink onto the end table next to him and grabbing your ankles to pull your feet into his lap to rub at them, “I’m more than glad to stay here and spend the night with you. Knowing Gojo he’ll tell the waiters it’s my birthday and I’ll have to sit there and endure that God awful singing… Besides,” he threw his back onto the edge of the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the hard swallow he took as he massaged a particular knotted spot in your foot, “I’m not really one for attention like that.”

Kento never was one for going out into public for celebrations, sure he would occasionally go out to eat and take you out on a date for your anniversary, and he also always made sure to have plans for your birthday, but never was one really for his celebrating his own. You had learned even as a child his mother normally baked him a cake on the day as he and his family celebrated it at their home; a quiet and mundane tradition he seemed to want to carry on into his adult life, and you had no problem obliging that. Kento never minded if only a few people gave him birthday wishes, but a part of you wondered if his newfound insistence to remain home on certain days was still the effect to what had happened to him in Shibuya. He had not seen Gojo in over a year, and the rest that remained even less, but you knew retirement meant usually staying away from all things that were work.

Sure you could hear Gojo’s voice over the phone at times, and you could hear Ijichi asking how he was at times in the night, and it was even better whenever you watched his phone light up with the name Itadori Yuji with text messages, but you knew only talking to them over the phone could only last so long and Kento had to at least go and see them when they all worried over him and constantly asked you about him. Not that you were annoyed over it, but more-so worried Kento was starting to shut himself out again from everyone and keeping his distance from everyone. You supposed he thought his birthday would come and go once more, just another day on the calendar to him and he could continue living out as the years passed and he was at peace with himself.

You weren’t going to dally on it, instead taking in his form that looked more taut with tension than it had been in a while as you preyed upon the slight sheen resting atop his collarbones. It had been awhile since you and Kento had been intimate, something that took some time to open him up to again and something that was still a hit-or-miss situation when it came down to him wanting to indulge in carnal desire, but you never pressed him for it to just instead opting to wait it out whenever he was ready. Though sex had been somewhat different from Kento at times taking you from behind as much as he could, to him not even thinking of himself as he buried his face into you and ate your pussy until you were crying from overstimulation and couldn’t take it anymore, you never really got the chance to worship him much like he did you.

Kento needed to relax, take all worry off his shoulders if just for the time being and enjoy life as he could in the moment. You weren’t about to let that opportunity pass up either whenever you had the chance on a day you were dead-set on showing him all the appreciation and love.

“Then –” you broke the silence, watching him reopen his eye to peek at you first before you wiggled your feet out of his grasp and spread your legs apart as an invitation, “something else for the night?” you asked coyly, refraining from biting your lip when you watched his chest rise and fall from the heavy exhale he took once the skin of your inner thighs came into his view.  

You had thought he’d perhaps politely decline again, telling you he’s not feeling up to it for the night, but you were mildly surprised when he moved for you, his body rolling off from his position as he found himself lowered down in-between your legs. You blinked at how fluidly he moved, having little to no time to even react yourself when he was already there, one on your legs hoisted up over his shoulder as he pressed the other one down into the sofa cushion. He was still gentle as ever; his hand skimming along your inner thighs, his cheeks brushing along your skin as you felt the roughness from the light facial hair and burnt remains on the left side of his face, and of course his lips finding their way to kiss every single inch of you he could until he got to where he wanted to be most.

You were nearly ready to just let him have it that way, your clit already throbbing in anticipation when you remembered just how good Kento was at eating you out and how good it felt when he knew just how to bob his nose along your clit, but you remembered that it wasn’t about you that night and you were set on a mission to make him feel the most good instead of his usual lenience to cater to you most of all. Kento kissed and sucked at a spot on your inner thigh for a brief moment, his fingers creeping up to find the edge of your panties before your hands shot down and one curled around his wrist and the other tangled into the locks of his hair in a gentle squeeze. You had done it in the heat of the moment to keep yourself from drowning into him; a knee-jerk reaction that made Kento balk and nearly push himself away from you if you hadn’t spoke for your intentions.

“Wait – not like this.”

Sneaking a peak down to him you almost wanted to reassure him from the slightly cautious look in his eye, his chin dipping back into his chest nearly like he was afraid to get to close to you again without knowing exactly what you wanted from him as he spoke slowly and so quietly you wanted to sigh at his brief relapse of insecurity.

“You don’t want me to eat you out?”

This man… It wasn’t that at all. You frowned, cheeks warm despite your annoyance to completely ignore himself and swatted at him from between your legs, “Are you forgetting today isn’t about me?”

Kento had the gall to look confused, brow knitted and cheeks turning pink as his lips fell into a thin line, “I always eat your pussy when we have sex.” Why did he have to say it like he was droning on about workplace harassment to Gojo again? Not only that, he nearly looked like he was ready to pout he couldn’t face dive into your pussy and drown himself in there like he was drinking from the scared rivers of Eden.

You leant back on your elbows and rolled your eyes, your skirt sliding up as you did and leaving you reeling in the slight satisfaction you got watching his eyes dart down for brief second to catch a glimpse of the panties you put on for him, and slid your leg off of his shoulder, “Yes, I know, and I do brag about it to my friends a lot –” He nearly looked mortified before rolling his eye. “ – but that’s not the point. Today I just wanna give you the appreciation you deserve…”

Kento only blinked at your words, his eye glazing over for a moment before he looked damn near ashamed and shy from his spot in-between your legs and released his hold on your thighs to sit back upright on the couch. He kept his body open however, legs spread and arms open to invite you into him, but you could still see the slight stiffness present in his shoulders as he sat there awaiting you into his arms. He swallowed once, looking unsure for but a brief moment, before he gave you his verbal consent that he wanted to continue, knowing you weren’t going to move unless you knew he wanted you to.

“Come here.”

You offered him a small smile in return before crawling over to him, not finding yourself in his lap just then as you gave him yet another kiss to cheek and trailed on over to his ear lobe, whispering into his ear in a churning murmur to let him know your true thoughts. “Something else for the night?” Only a rumbling hum was your answer, the heat behind your naval already burning with unbridled want as he leaned back fully and let you straddle his lap, your knees digging into the cushions of the couch and you breasts pushed up against the broadness of his own as you snuck your fingers up to his face once more. You were tracing over his brow bone when he answered you, a mumble as soft as the sheets felt whenever he took you on your wedding night and you fully became husband and wife with the kiss that you had dreamt of for years.

“Okay… Something else this time.”

Kento’s breath stuttered the moment you moved over to his eyepatch, meeting that one umber iris for a second before you got the approval and were able to remove it with his permission. You discarded it next to the both of you as you leaned in to place a soft kiss to where his left eye used to sit, his chest heaving with a hiccupping sigh as you moved a hand to comb through his hair and trailing down to trace his jawline with only but your fingertips. You didn’t waste any time to move your lips down to his own, planting a slow kiss there with as much passion as you always did because the scars never really did bother you, nor did the mismatched feeling of his mouth on your own or sucking along your skin turn you off to him in anyway whatsoever. It was a slow song you teetered to, opening up your arms to him as you swayed in front of him gently opening him up to the idea until he got comfortable to get up and join you.

When his hand landed on your lower back to knead in your skin and muscle with his knuckles, you knew he was complying to let you take control for the night and cater to him much like he did you all those times. Though he was still somewhat unsure as his sigh shakily and ran a finger up your spine while speaking into your kiss, “Can… can we just go slow… Just be easy tonight; no rush. And nothing too intense.”

You leant up to kiss his forehead, a sheen of light sweat making itself known on his skin there, and pushed his hair behind his ear as you answered, “Of course. Anything you want.”

You could smell the smoke and whiskey as he blew a breath of relief into your face, his mouth finding yours again for another kiss, “Thank you.”

You pulled away from his lips and cupped his cheeks, smiling against his lips as you whispered against them just what you thought about him, “You’re pretty.”

Within your palms you could feel his cheeks warm and watched his eyebrow tick upwards at the compliment, the evidence of his embarrassment there despite how steady his voice remained when he answered you, “I don’t think that word suits someone like me.”

“Don’t deflect,” you sighed, kissing the corner of his mouth as you knew good and well that he knew why you were saying it, “You’re handsome; beautiful; other-worldly… How about those?”

Kento’s face was visibly turning redder as you named off every word that you could to describe him, his fingers knotting in the back of your shirt as he balled it up and you felt his jaw shake to formulate a response. When he seemed unresponsive you settled for a kiss you placed onto his jawline to ease him, your fingers sliding down along his neck and collarbones until you found the buttons of his shirt and began plucking them free as his hands returned to smoothing out along your back. Sometimes it was better to play into Kento’s body language with your own, as he was a man of very few words at times and it was an easier route to show him your comfort through actions pertaining towards your delicate nature towards him instead of words that would only fluster and overstimulate him.

He let you map out his body as you pulled his shirt apart, fingertips gentle as they ran over the more predominate area of his skin covered in scars and lost skin. You could feel the uncertainty in his taut muscles, the desire to perhaps cover himself back up from the way you were following the moments of your fingers along his skin with your eyes, and you had to stop yourself for a moment as when you skimmed his abdomen it flexed harshly as you brushed across a long wounded scar from a fight years before the accident. You looked back up to him from underneath you eyelashes, his head having tipped back a fraction as you eased him back to look at you and to only admire his features in the violet dusk from outside for a moment before you remembered you had to keep up the reassurance.

“Is this okay?” you asked, running a thumb underneath the eye and enjoying the feeling of his eyelashes kissing your skin whenever he blinked.

You gauged his reaction as he held your gaze, something glimmering in the lonely iris as his pupil dilated when he stared for seconds longer and sighed shakily before finally answering, “It’s okay.”

It was the reassurance and encouragement you needed, keeping your touch light as you wiggled back onto his lap but a few inches and your hand on his hip trailed down to his pants, enough to reach and see what you had been easing him into already showing through his loose slacks. You spread your fingers across his pectoral, his heartbeat steady against your palm as you cupped him through his pants, running a finger along what you knew what the tip and switching to full on rubbing him through the cloth when you heard the sigh leave him as you touched him.

“Still okay?” you repeated once more, experimentally wrapping your fingers around what you could of his cock and squeezing him. Your skin prickled whenever he groaned softly, a pant on the edge of his tongue as your stomach twisted with phantom butterflies when you remembered all the breathy noises he would make in your ear and neck when he was losing himself to your touch or inside of you.

“Still okay,” he answered, his head falling back onto the back of the couch again and causing your hand to drift up towards the waistband of his pants when you took it as a sign to continue further and take the next step. You hummed as you leaned into him, pressing a kiss in the middle of his pectorals as you slid your hand into his pants and briefs fully to touch him.

His low sighs encouraged you, peppering kisses along his torso much like he did your own before in your own form of body worship. Once you got closer to his nipple and you allowed your lips to close around it for you to suck on, a higher-pitched noise sounding like a whine leaving him as he gave a full body jerk. You latched off his hardened nipple and blinked coyly up at him, watching as he kept his eyes on the ceiling and his parted, pink lips continuing to match the coloring on his cheeks while your hand finally pulled his cock free from his pants into the open air and for your eyes to see.

It was already deepening into a red, his veins engorged as it throbbed in your hand and you traced a finger along the vein protruding from the underside of him. You only watched with an inward sigh as precum began to leak from his head, feather-light touches you kept along the sensitive region as he jerked his hips underneath you while you lubed your hand up with his fluids, and whines disguised as hisses escaped through his clenched his teeth when you swirled your thumb along his tip the way you knew he liked it.

His tone was slightly shaky when he spoke again, chest heaving and his fingers digging into your shirt, “Don’t tease. Please – just touch me.” He was perhaps a bit too whiney for his own liking as his breathing began to speed up when you dipped back down to kiss along his chest and fully wrap your hand around his cock to jerk him off, but you realized he was in no place to necessarily to care when you were easing into comforted euphoria once more.

You hummed against his hot skin, amping up your ministrations a bit as you closed your teeth around the nipple you had in your mouth in a playful bite and only letting up when you heard the soft groan he gave while hips lifted marginally off the couch. You pressed a kiss to it afterwards before beginning to slide your lips down to kiss sweetly along the rest of his scars, and letting your hand fondle at his nipple instead, squeezing, tugging and all around fondling it as you kissed and sucked around rest of his body while your hand kept up a steady rhythm up and down his cock.

With Kento’s soft groans, slight whining, pants egging you on, you kissed some of the old, fading scars tenderly only knowing they existed in the times you spent tracing a finger around his skin those nights you spent cuddling. You kissed them with an overwhelming amount of affection, a reminder that he was still gorgeous with them and a reminder that he was strong enduring even the harshest of battles and coming out from them alive. He blew air through his mouth then again, a sigh so soft and full of longing it made you realize he had never been given attention towards his body like that without it being blatant ogling at his chest straining against his shirts.

Each kiss you placed onto his warm skin made you sigh afterwards, discreetly inhaling his scent each time you did so for how good he smelled and how his natural scent brought you comfort more than you could imagine. As you felt along his body, you began to feel the jittery nerves he had before slowly begin crawl back into the depths of his mind to be forgotten for the time and to be replaced with the carnal lust and the burning affection you both held for each other.  

A grunt fell out of him and his hand flew up to grip your nape when you felt him twitch from the all the overwhelming attention, pulling your body closer to him than you thought was possible as he maneuvered your head back up to him so that his breath sifted across and into your ear. You squirmed from the sensation as it made you rock your hips onto his lap when you remembered all the dampness present in your underwear and it was something he caught onto as it was beginning to seep through your panties and onto his pants.

Kento’s thumb rubbed at your nape, his lips pressing a kiss to ear lobe before he spoke, “You can’t sit here and only think about me,” his fingers left your back and you felt them dance along your inner thigh, creeping up your skirt and towards your panties as you kissed at his jaw once more, “Do you want me to touch you?”

You latched off of his skin and moved to slightly bite his earlobe, hotly whispering into his ear while your hand slowly picked up a pace, “It’s not about me.”

He was ever persistent though – a blessing to have a man like him more worried about your pleasure than his own in some cases, but also terribly inconvenient in situations like you were in then when you wanted to be the one in charge and making him feel good before yourself. His hand moved to grip your hip, his breaths falling from parted lips by then and his hips rocking upwards the follow the way you pumped his cock, “But –” he started off, a whine barely there hidden underneath his wavering voice of reason.

“It’s okay. Just relax,” you cut him off, reassuring him as you lifted up on your knees a fraction to maneuver your body to have his one thigh trapped between your legs. Kento only watched you as you slowly plopped down onto his thigh, your panties all but soaked by then and your clit tingling for attention as you leisurely rocked once and sighed whenever you felt your nerves calm down a fraction from the heated pleasure. It didn’t take long for you to build up a lethargic pace, and Kento only groaned in approval when he watched you start to ride his thigh, his arm wrapping around you to cage you closer into him and tensing and flexing his thigh whenever rolled down and back up atop him.

One of your hands slid up to his shoulder, gripping him there as you nuzzled into his neck and followed the moments of your hand pumping his cock to the way your hips were rolling against his thigh. Your body moved in alternate pivots, long deep strokes around that taut, muscular appendage, or just circling your hips around so that your clothed clit was given the friction it so desired. He was burning in your hand, the veins throbbing and his lips pushing out every noise he could muster as you knew he wouldn’t last long; it had been far too long since you got Kento in that position and it had been far too long since had allowed himself to be laid upon a bed of pleasure. It made you sigh, legs closing around his thigh tighter as you rubbed your knee oh-so gently in a circle along his balls and had to bite your lip from moaning whenever that fucking whimper left him and made your pussy clench around nothing.

Your words drew another one of those damnable whimpers out of him, his chest all but heaving and his hips rocking desperately faster up into your hand as a silent plea for you to go faster. You only hummed in delight at his keening, peppering kisses across every inch of his face that you could and massaging your hand into the tautness along his shoulder when he seemed to melt into your touch. You could feel another thick trickle of precum ooze free from his cock, and you moved your face back into his to bring your foreheads together, a flutter erupting free inside of your pussy whenever Kento kept his eye locked onto yours, following each mouthwatering movement you gave to him and onto him and the look inside of his pupil was enough to set your entire soul ablaze from all the hues of passion bursting free like a kaleidoscope the longer he kept your gaze.

Your eyelashes fluttered when you took in his expression; kiss-swelled parted lips, his eye bright, clouded, and dilated, flustered cheeks, brow scrunched in an attractive crease, and the heavy sighs leaving his mouth as he bored his gaze over every inch of your face. It shouldn’t have turned you on as much as did knowing that he was glad to have you pleasing him like you were, but seeing his face really careened you down the path of your impending release that was growing oh-so close.

You could feel the patch of wetness you were leaving on his thigh, and you knew then that you weren’t going to last long – especially having Kento in your palm and riding off the thrill of you being in charge that time around in the throes of desire.

Kento sighed your name onto your lips, another whimper drawing free of him as his cock throbbed into his hand and his hand fell off of your nape to grip your hip and following in on your lascivious movements atop his thigh. “Please – Don’t stop.”

You kissed him before nibbling onto his bottom lip, nails beginning to dig through his shirt when each roll of your clit sent an electrifying pulse towards that knot steadily growing to its head just behind your naval. He groaned again whenever you pumped your hand faster, your knee gently caressing his balls still as you rocked yourself on his thigh before you sighed and breathily asked what you knew would tip him over the edge, “Are you gonna cum for me, Kento?”

A garbled variation of your name left him, fingers digging harder into your hip as his hips jerked up quicker in your hand and he tried his damnedest to get you to move faster – harder against his thigh, but you were giving no game for that. His Adam’s apple bobbed with the audible hard swallow he took, his eye fluttering with the heavy blinks from everything happening as his eye glazed over with the full emotion that was close to his release. “Oh, fuck – please. Please keep going.

“I know you can cum like this,” you moaned into his face, kissing him as you swallowed that whimper once more and rolled your hips harder along his tensed thigh, moving your mouth to suck at his jaw whenever his noises grew louder, “God, I know you want to, Kento. Let me see you cum like this.”

Your voice had tapered off at the end, a high-pitched moan leaving you when you pussy throbbed and clenched around nothing as you felt that ball begin to reach in end of spinning and slowly begin to unravel for a piece of nirvana you could find with him. His grunts you swallowed with your tongue, a kiss full of unbridled passion you two engaged in that he greedily accepted as you two no longer had any words to say. You both knew what was to come, and neither of you were going to be deterred to stop it.

Your neediness you were sure had him reeling, his cock throbbing excessively in your hand as you squeezed him and pumped him faster to help him reach his edge. You could feel him whimper again, a suspicious noise that vaguely sounded like him telling you he loved you before he broke away from the kiss, head falling back against the couch once more and a pleased and strained groan breaking free from his lungs to let you know he had came first. You took to kissing and tonguing at his neck, moaning and sighing your praise for him as he finally released all the pent up tension into your hand.

It was a second and then you felt his cock pulsate in your hand before it was spurting out against your shirt and hand, leaving behind warm cum in its wake. You quickly removed your hand knowing he was probably sensitive, but kept yourself securely atop his thigh rocking as he caught his breath. Kento’s chest was heaving and in the low light of your living room you were able to make a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead with his hair tussled from all your ministrations. It was enough to send you over as well, a particular slow roll of your hips up his thigh that he flexed once more and you were shuddering and twitching around him with a whine of his name as you came all over his thigh whilst throwing your arms around his neck and burying your face into his shoulder.

A hard tremor of extreme satisfaction stung from your cranium down to the tips of your toes, leaving you squirming as your shaking thighs tried to close around his own while he continued only encouraging you until you were at your very end and sagging into his awaiting arms. You were well aware you had probably soaked through pants, but you were none too caring since he didn’t seem to mind at all and at times it was a regular occurrence between you two. The soft music from before was still playing as the room became humid from your conjoined bodies, the city skyline having waned away to dark as the touch of the full moon came into play and brightened Tokyo for yet another time.

You could feel your heart pound against your ribcage while you both seemed to finally come to rest after cumming, and he was dragging your body off his own to look over you and blinking down at you like he wasn’t seeing you clearly. It was one blink, two, three, then the cloud in his eye lifted and his gaze was skating down from your face and all over the expanse of your figure, awareness coming to them when he spied the mess on your shirt and remembered that he came all over your hand, then he was bristling.   

Kento was shifting to sit up, taking precaution to not jostle you and his words coming out a low murmur, “Sorry… I’ll –”

You hushed him, placing a kiss to his lips and untangling yourself from his limbs and you stood somewhat wobbly and he reached forward to catch you by your hips to make sure you didn’t fall. You brushed out of his hands and pushed him back to sit into the couch, a soft smile on your lips before you straightened back up, “You’re okay, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Kento was generally the one who took to cleaning you both up afterwards, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to let him be the one to do so that time around when you were trying to make him feel the same way he usually did with you. He had complied you with staying put as you came back from the bathroom with a few sheets of tissues, eyeing you carefully as you wiped your hand off first before tending to him. You were meticulous in the way you catered to him, dabbing at some cum stains that had gotten onto his stomach, even some spots that had spattered against his chest before tending to the lipstick stains all over him as you watched his cheeks flush from all the attention you were giving him.

You nearly wanted to giggle at his embarrassment, but held it in to not ruin the gentle moment between you two as you finished up cleaning the both of you, discarded the tissues into the trash, and crawled your way back into his lap that he was awaiting for you once more with open arms. You curled into him as his hand stroked along your back, your own hands finding way to his scars again as you absentmindedly would do at night whenever he was tremoring from a long-lost memory. Kento shuddered when you passed by that one on his side again, curling his fingers around your wrist to bring it up his lips for kiss as you pulled yourself up into his face.

“Happy Birthday,” you reminded him again, kissing his hot cheek and relishing in the soft sigh he gave, “What’d you wish for?”

You were glad to see the humor return back to his expression, his lips quirking up at the edges and his eye sliding into yours as he reached for your cheek to pinch it, “Aren’t you the one who told me not to tell you my wish? That it’ll come true if I don’t say it aloud?”

A pout fell on your lips, “That’s never stopped you before… C’mon, please? For me?”

His eye rolled back at your whining, but he was never one not to cave into your begging as his hand smoothed out against your cheek while you toyed with a strand of his hair that had curled up from sweat. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone and he made a show to slowly move his mouth back to yours, lidding his eye almost suggestively as he kissed you so delicately and murmured against your mouth so silently you had to strain to hear him.

“I wished that I could spend the rest of my birthdays with you.”

You giggled into the kiss, corny as you expected, but also giddy with the intention behind his wish as you took your hand to place it back onto his chest, fingers spread and his heart beating in sync with your own. It was enough to let him know you wished for the same, but you confirmed it verbally with a playful bite to his lip and a sigh when you embraced him and tucked him into your neck, his lips pulled into a smile something you could feel burning along your throat.

“I think we can make that work.”

[f1gments]

DEVOTION - Gojo Satoru

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Flushed skin, soft kisses, moments of infatuation, whispers of adoration, crossing oceans, pure unadulterated love and seeking solace in one another with Satoru.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x female reader

word count: 7.4k words

R18, slight manga spoilers (?) making out, smut, nipple licking,oral sex, blowjob, vaginal fingering, missionary, doggystyle, vaginal sex, creampie,teasing & dirty talk, soft gojo, late night sex

a/n: pls don’t expect much from this fic lol. just wanted to update with a gojo fic i had in my neglected wips. enjoy!

If you’re a minor pls don’t interact I beg.

You’ve been having those dreams again. 

The same ones where you try to stop Satoru from going to the station in Shibuya. You try to tell him that the person who’s stuck in the body of his best friend isn’t Geto Suguru, but an imposter who knew that he could manipulate Satoru by showing up that night. But it’s too late. The part that constantly appears in your visions is the one where you try to scream out tell him it’s a trap and to stop the person possessing Suguru’s body. 

You stir awake and slowly open your eyes just a little to see the moonlight brightening the bedroom. A sense of relief fills you when you realize you’ve just been dreaming again, that you’re in your shared apartment with Satoru again. You let your eyes close once more as you reach out an arm across the bed, searching for warmth. Instead, you’re met with cool sheets beneath your hand, touching the empty spot where he usually sleeps, guessing that he probably hasn’t gone to sleep yet. 

You sigh and slip out of bed to look for him. Your soft voice echoes in the hallway of the apartment when you call out his name and when you reach the living room, you see him standing at the balcony, in nothing but dark gray sweatpants. 

You’re not sure if he heard you since he doesn’t make any attempt to turn around. You come up behind him, gently touching his back with your fingertips. He starts to turn around but stops as you press yourself into him, hands and forehead resting on his back. Your eyes close shut when you feel his warmth despite how cold it is outside.

Sleep is a foreign concept to a man who barely lets sleep reach him, forever wide-eyed and watching the bright illuminating lights of the city and the few cars that drive on the streets below. It comes with being someone of his position. 

“I thought you were sleeping.” he quietly claims, his voice a deep smooth velvet.

“And I thought I was sharing a bed with someone.” you sigh, inhaling his natural scent and the sillage from the cologne that lingers on his skin. Satoru turns to face you and grabs your hand to hold it against his cheek. 

He then brings it to his lips, a small smile on his handsome features. He reminds you of the midnight sun that is beyond the horizon. His fingers are much longer than your own, the knuckles curling around your palm, almost swallowing it up whole and you find yourself thinking how uncanny it is that they fit so beautifully together, jigsaw pieces that match perfectly.

“What’s on your mind?” you ask softly. 

“You.” he replies simply before he leans down to kiss you deeply, pulling your body closely to his. He leans down, into you and quickly dusts his lips against your own, pretty and light and shooting electricity up your spine. The briefest of touches already makes you both feel utterly dizzy, drunk with exhilaration. 

Satoru kisses you like it’s the first and last combined – again and again. His cold fingertips turn warm as they cup your chin and your breath gets taken away in return for soft lips against yours, the gentle scraping of his teeth against your lower lip then the uproar in your gut takes a toll when his forehead meets yours, the same time his arm comes around your waist to pull you closer, as if he’s afraid you’d disappear. If you asked him to describe it, he’d probably say he’s incapable of doing so. 

But inside, kissing you feels like he’s a desperately dehydrated man, who discovers water for the first time in weeks and dives into the cool liquid, inhaling it until he feels full. Satisfying a yearning with an immensity that is only completely understood in all of its sensational intensity when he presses his lips to the soft seam of your own.

When the pair of you finally separate, catching your breath, you notice that his eyes are shimmering like an ocean reflecting moonlight, his white hair softly blowing with the gentle breeze. He appears completely dazed with his gently swollen mouth, intoxicated by the way you drew love from his lips with your own, evoked with the flick of your tongue.

You remember your blurry, teared vision struggling to recognize that it was indeed him the day he came home. That it was Satoru. They couldn’t grasp that it was his snowy white hair, now a slicked dark silver from accumulated sweat and drizzle, a few stray strands swooping over his sharp eyes.

A strong, sure hand brushes up your nightgown — nimble fingers bunching it into curls of soft silk and lace while your lips place themselves onto the pulsepoint on his neck. His hands go up to cup your chest where your nipples have slightly gotten hard underneath the blue fabric from his previous actions, making him grin. 

The man standing in front of you is Gojo Satoru to the absolute core, for anyone who knows him by his facade. This is the real him. But you have always been one of the special few that knew his labyrinth of a heart. The endless wrong turns and hurdles and traps. His burdens are your burdens but he never seems to think so. You also knew that Satoru had tucked his heart right beside your own and deemed the spaces between your ribs a place for it to call home. 

Your body gets pushed onto the cold metal railing of the balcony, but you don’t care in the least. As you drink in everything that Satoru gives you, your tongue slides into his mouth, eliciting a low groan that leaves you shuddering. The hands that grabbed your dress before are now pushing the soft fabric up your thighs. Higher, higher, not high enough. 

“Satoru,” you gasp as he impatiently thrusts his weight between your legs. 

“Not here.” You shake your head. “Why not?” he murmurs, kissing your neck. You put a hand on his chest to stop him and give him a look. “The neighbors could see us.” A playful smile pulls the corners of his lips up. “And? You say that as we haven’t done it in public before.” You slap a hand over his mouth. “Enough.”

You scoff and push yourself past him to enter the house. “Should’ve stayed in that damn box.” you mumble under your breath, making him chuckle as he follows behind you. You walk to the kitchen to get yourself a drink from the fridge. 

Your mind drifts to when Satoru opened up about who he was. Who he really was on the inside. The way he talked about being the strongest was like a heavy burden that sunk ships into the depths of dark oceans, that swallowed light and only provided eons of black oblivion. It seemed to hook into his bones and dragged him down, down, and at the time you wondered, for somebody who must have had the world at his feet with such abilities and power, how he could experience such a feeling, a distaste for the life that he has.  

You pour your drink into a cup and turn to look up to see Satoru staring at you with an unreadable expression as he leans against the kitchen counter in the opposite direction. 

“What?” 

Satoru, eyes still weighted with the pull of desire, gazes at your thighs, the way your dress has hiked itself up to reveal the smooth flesh further when you bend over slightly to place the cup into the sink. His fingertips itching to touch you, especially with the sensual flicker that skirts your gaze when you turn back to face him, though instead, he settles for words.

“Nothing, just admiring how beautiful you are.” he replies, giving you no time to feel embarrassed when he walks over to close the space between you both. You are instantly reminded of how kissing Satoru could never, ever possibly become old and boring. 

He brushes a gentle finger down your cheek then cups your jaw with a hand while gripping your hip with another. “I can’t decide on what I want to do with you.” 

Impending scenarios race behind your eyes, and all you can do is groan when you open them to look up at him as he towers over your smaller frame. “I know what I want,” you hum with a growing smile and brazen eyes.

“And what is that?” he hums in response, sending you careening into another plane when he brings up one of your hands to his lips and leans down to playfully nip on your index finger. 

Your vision focuses for a second to observe his tousled hair, his angular nose, and into bright mischievous eyes, blue of every dancing sky, infinite hues illuminated by newborn light. 

“Why waste time talking about it when we can show each other exactly what we think?” you tell him. In seconds, you’re lifted up onto the kitchen counter making you gasp in surprise as when the cold marble touches the back of your thighs.

A warm breath rolls down your face as he chuckles—a low, honeyed sound that took you by surprise the first time you ever heard it—before he murmurs, “I figured you of all people would take any opportunity to speak what’s on your mind.”  

You tut before rolling your eyes. “Well, now I do have something on my mind, but you’re certainly not going to—”

Satoru shuts your annoyance up with his lips again. He takes your arched back as an opportunity to slide an arm underneath your waist, kissing you deeper and rendering you thoroughly speechless. His mouth leaves yours only to descend down your jaw, trail down your neck, latch onto your pulse. Enthralled, your legs squeeze his hips. A mewl leaves your lips while your hands frantically skate across his broad shoulders, and when your nails leave tiny red half moons on his bare skin, you feel his cock harden and push further into your center. 

Seconds later, you’re being lifted up off the counter and Satoru wastes no time to carry you to your shared bedroom. 

Your back hits the mattress as a hand shoves the hem of your nightgown above your waist. Before Satoru moves any further, his lips nick your ear and cause you to elicit a soft moan towards the ceiling. “That’s it,” he whispers, pushing his mouth into your neck hard and making you bite your lip, “You sound so pretty, baby.” 

The groan you suppressed comes out in earnest, and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the same time. “I wanna hear you, too,” you admit, earning a low rumble in your ear. 

“Thought you didn’t like me being loud.” he teases. You click your tongue in annoyance. “That’s only when you talk too much, now hurry up.” 

“So impatient.” Satoru chuckles in amusement. “Open your legs for me.” 

The command makes you whine, but when you slowly spread your thighs only for Satoru to shove them wider, a full whimper leaps from your throat. A few light taps on your thigh are what you get before your lover cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not getting shy now are you?” he says with confidence and a bit of suspicion. 

“Shut up.” 

“I thought you said you wanted me to hurry up.” He says jokingly, until he notices the anxious expression on your face. 

Warm, large hands stop to rest on both your thighs. It’s not like you haven’t had sex during the past few weeks, since he returned. But somehow tonight things feel a bit different. You can’t figure out why. During his absence, you never really had the thought to see anyone else. You were too busy with missions and you mostly spent time with just Shoko or got too busy with work. Your days were filled with nothing but constant worry and anxiousness over Satoru being gone. 

No one could really replace the feelings you had for Satoru. The both of you had gone through a lot. There were too many precious memories together for you to simply be able to move on to someone else. So you really wanted to take things slow with him, just for tonight. To be able to feel all of him. To make up for all those days and nights you weren’t with him. 

“Are you alright?”

“It’s just. I want us to take our time for tonight.” You tell him simply. He immediately understands what you’re telling him and he stands to bend his body over your smaller form between the silken sheets. “I’ll be gentle then,” he murmurs before molding his warm lips onto yours once more. 

Each kiss he had given before had been full of passion, but this one is different. He’s being much more gentle compared to before. There is nothing but comfort in his touch, and you can feel any stress drip from your body and tenseness dissolve from your bones. If this is earth, then what is heaven?

Heaven is the gliding of slender fingers under your dress, looping around your lace panties. It is a groan tucked into the dip of your collarbone, a palm fasting itself against wet warmth that elicits ecstasy through your veins, the final shreds of your underwear abandoned to the floor, no longer required, never needed in the first place. It is the touch of his mouth marking fields of lavender and dusty rose across the sensitive skin of your throat.  You don’t register the way he has shifted far enough to close your legs together, slipping your panties off with ease, before widening them again. 

“Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Satoru kisses down your neck again, but he descends lower, his teeth grazing the slope of your breast before his mouth picks one to kiss over your lacy gown. A warm palm closes over the other, squeezing before pulling the material down, and when your breasts spill over they are enveloped with his tongue and large hands once more.  “Satoru,” you gasp, arching your back and digging your elbows into the mattress. One of your hands shoots into his soft platinum locks, and your tug causes his grips on your hip and leg to tighten immediately. 

Latching onto a nipple, Satoru gives it a hard suck while twisting the other enough to make you cry out, and you can feel your legs shaking. “Don’t stop.” you cry, gripping his hair tighter. 

“God.” Satoru abandons your breasts to the chill of the room as he goes back down between your legs. Your dress is fully bunched around your waist and Satoru spreads your thighs apart, revealing your center like a rosebud in bloom. However, the pause that greets you makes you frown and close them. 

“Stop staring like that.” You push his hands away.

He ignores you and pulls your legs apart again. “Quit it,” he hummed, sounding too satisfied for his own good. “Be nice or I’ll change my mind and make you scream instead.”

Teeth nick your thigh, and the dark laugh you hear has you growing wetter than you already are. Satoru brings his face closer to your cunt, inhaling your natural musk. 

“You smell so good.” 

You don’t know how to respond. But the fingers that slide across your folds tell you that you don’t need to, and you throw your head back in pleasure. The wetness you feel has pooled onto the bedsheets and is now being coated on Satoru’s long fingers, one after the other rubbing your clit in slow, tiny circles and sliding deliciously up and down your slippery folds.

His fingers twitch against your covered slit. They drift across it wide, up and then down, and his mouth is parted in a complete loss for words. 

You start to shake in need, but a firm hand shoves your stomach back onto the bed. “Relax, baby,” Satoru orders. “Let me take care of you.” 

When you settle back onto the bed, you squeak as your hips are yanked forward to the edge. Your legs are hoisted onto Satoru’s shoulders. Words are lost on your tongue as his hot muscle dives into your center. You can feel the way your walls immediately flex, you can hear the loud wet laps and sucking noises when he works on your clit.

He feasts on you like a man starved. 

Everything feels familiar yet new again at the same time, like you hadn’t already experienced this with him before and the sheer intimacy has your eyes squeezing shut. Moans spill constantly from your lips. 

You meet his eyes again, and he shoots you a sideways grin as you feel a sudden swipe come across your heat, making you let out a breathy moan. You feel him moan into you, sending vibrations up your body making you grip tightly on his hair. 

“Satoru,” you gasp. Frazzled, your arms flail to find anything for purchase, only to settle on the sheets beneath you, where your fingers grip tight, knuckles going white. He looks up with a hooded gaze, groaning into your center when he sees your newfound position. Your lidded eyes drink in his wet lips, and your foggy mind barely realizes that it’s your juices that coats his face until he dives back down again. When Satoru’s tongue fully presses into your core before his soft lips suckle your clit, you cry out in need for more. Instantly, that is what you’re given: long, deft fingers enter your folds to the knuckle, curling up to hit a spot that has your entire being soaring into the ceiling. Exquisite. You’re floating. There’s something inside of you winding and winding. 

“Come for me,” is the last thing you hear before your body obeys. A white light blinds you and curls your toes, snaps your limbs rigid and has your knuckles aching as you grip the sheets even harder. The loud whine you hear is your own, you recognize, and you bite your lip to smother its volume. His warm mouth closes over yours, and you can taste yourself. 

“As much as I want your pretty lips around my cock right now,” Satoru rasps into your mouth, “I can’t wait any longer this time. I need you.” 

Your fingers are pried off of the sheets—you hadn’t known you needed help with it until Satoru assists you with slick digits of his own.  

Satoru moves back to pull both his sweatpants and boxers off. Broad, rippling shoulders come down to a defined chest and stomach, and powerful thighs encase a cock so large and pretty that you can’t take your eyes off of its curve. He looks at you smugly, to which you return with a smirk. 

You take him by surprise when you pull him by the arm and push him onto the bed. 

He raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” 

“I wanna make you feel good.” 

“I thought I – oh fuck,” he hisses, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he steadies himself on his palms when you don’t waste any more time to lick a single stripe from the base of his cock to the tip before you wrap your hand around it, giving it a good tug with a twist of your wrist. Satoru grunts in response, his eyes fluttering shut as you repeat the gesture with your mouth a few times to create some lubrication for the movement of your hand up and down his growing shaft.

Satoru throws his head back with a long groan and his eyes leave yours to close shut as his mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape while your hand works. You switch between easing the tip of his dick into your mouth, circling your tongue around the head, and the tugs of your wrist until he is releasing breathy, choked sighs into the quiet air of your bedroom. 

You kiss sloppily around his pelvic area, toying with the sensitive skin as you graze your teeth across the upper skin of his thigh; He jumps a little at the movement, making you grin. You’re avoiding the thing he wants most, which is to be taken into your mouth fully. But you like the way he reacts to being toyed with too much to give in just yet— his head kicked back into the pillows, legs rigid and toes flexing, hands stilled on the covers beside him because they are just itching to grab your head and direct it to where he needs you most. 

The movement of your hand up and down Satoru’s shaft slows as you lower your face to his balls, sucking one into your mouth. You toy with it for a minute before moving to the other, all while keeping the slow movement of your wrist going. You begin to wonder how long Satoru will let you keep him in this spot, but just as you do so, he speaks up in his usual hoarse, quiet voice.

“Fuck,” Satoru grunts. “Can you stop teasing already?”

There is a part of you that wants to continue denying him, but you don’t. You let go of his balls from your mouth with a lewd pop and sink your mouth down onto his shaft as far as it will go. Satoru reacts with an outward groan and his body sinks into the mattress with relief at the warmth and wetness coating his cock.

You pull back to the tip but don’t let it leave your mouth completely, circling your tongue around and tasting the saltiness of his arousal before sinking down again. You hollow out your cheeks. The grunts, groans and breaths from Satoru only increase your desire to please him, so you fondle his balls with one hand while you work. 

Your own arousal coats the space between your legs. “Shit, baby, slow down,” Satoru croaks, hands finally making purchase in your hair. 

He combs the strands back from your face as you bob up and down a few more times; he looks torn between letting himself go in your mouth right then and there and tearing you from his lap so he can fuck the daylights out of you, but he finally makes a decision when his hands lightly push you away.

“You’re the one who rushed me.” You say after pulling back a string of saliva connecting from your mouth to the tip of his dick, and you swear you see Satoru swallow hard at the sight. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” you ask, playing coy. It takes everything in you not to smile a little at his reaction.

“Is it wrong to think you look pretty like this?” he murmurs, reaching a hand out to swipe the bottom of your plump lips with his thumb.  

“It would disappoint me if you didn’t.” you hum before going back down on him, the vibrations drilling electricity through his cock. 

No, no more, he needs you right now. 

Satoru slips his hand from the side of your face down to your chin, his thumb lightly putting pressure onto the dip beneath your lower lip in a silent demand to stop. Understanding, you come up and lock your gaze on his mouth, letting him draw you into a fervent kiss.

“I need you,” He breathes into the grooves of your lips, shivering when the tip of your tongue draws lightly against his own. “I need to be inside of you, baby. Let me show you how much I love you.”

He wastes no time to get up and grab the hem of your garment mumbling hands up before he gently pushes you onto the mattress. Satoru caresses you, holds you, like you’d never once fucked, like he never had his cock inside of you and enacted the greatest moment of his life. Your skin is an uncharted map, marked with fingers of the past that were too intoxicated to think twice, to enjoy and devour the expanses of smooth flesh. But now, he has all the time in the world to do that. Every single day, every waking second. 

Yet he still cannot get enough of you. Not even when his lips reach your throat and you are gasping into the shell of his ear, blooming meadows of lilac and blue on the delicate skin while his palms smooth down your sides. 

Your back arches off the bed with when his tongue circles around the perked bud of your left nipple, and Satoru situates his thigh between yours so that each time you move, your heated center grinds against his leg. He switches between the two — sucking, grazing and tweaking your nipples with his hands and placing pressure on your most sensitive parts until a strangled moan escapes your throat.

“God, that’s hot.” He grins up at you, moving from your chest to slant his lips against yours.

Taking the length in his palm, Satoru hovers above your still form, eyes never leaving your body. Obeying, you push yourself up into the plush sheets, gasping in surprise when a strong body immediately covers yours right after. “You really are impatient.” 

“I am.” He smirks. Your arms are thrust above you, and you let out a quick mewl as your wrists are pinned together with one of his hands. “And you are going to learn why in a second.” 

Months of tension, loneliness, regret. All of them melted away at the sound of you calling out his name. With the strong arms caging in your vision, veins prominent under their skin, Satoru steadies himself as he slots his cock in between your legs. Your moan at the feel of his nakedness escapes in a soft puff, and your nipples pebble in anticipation. Your boyfriend gazes unabashedly at your sex. When his lidded eyes come up to meet your curious ones, he swoops down to claim your mouth again, tongue rolling across your lips and jutting inside to tether his passion to your heart. You respond in kind, trying and failing to release your arms from his grip above your head. When your attempts prove futile, your whimper echoes into his mouth, and his deep chuckle stirs something primal within your core. 

Satoru’s ravaging continues as he leans his sharp cheekbones into the side of your face, his tongue licking fire along your neck. Unbeknownst to you, one of his hands wanders down to your folds, and you jolt in shock when familiar fingers slide along their path.

“Please,” you gasp in his ear, tightening your arms again and bucking your hips to move anything, anything at all in response to the pleasure. “Satoru, please.” 

“What do you want, hmm?” 

Your first attempt at a response is cut off by his teeth nicking the pulse on your neck, and your entire butt leaves the bed and thrusts into his beautiful fingers, causing them to slide deeper into your cunt. Satoru’s proceeding groan is enough to have you keening back for more, but you still have it in you to answer with, “You.” 

“You already have me.” he says as a matter of factly. 

“No, I mean”—you gasp as he moves his fingers around, thumbing your clit and causing slick to gush from your center—“I mean, I need you.” 

“That’s the same thing, sweet,” Satoru tuts, knowing full well he is being an ass. “I need you to be specific for me.” 

As you feel the incredibly hard cock against your thigh twitch in want, you wonder why the hell your lover is stalling. You try to jerk against his strong restraint on your wrists again, and he laughs at your feeble attempt. “You’re impossible,” you huff. 

“And you’re going to tell me what you want, or else you won’t be getting it.” 

“Baby,” you pleaded, almost certain you weren’t capable of holding it in anymore.

Satoru shoves his hips down into yours, and the feel of his length presses into your core. You cry out in want, thrashing in earnest and groaning in a mix of frustration and pleasure. Smirking, he leans next to your ear and whispers, “Sorry. I just like seeing you like this.” 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” you huff. 

“When it comes to you? Always.” There is a brief, light slap to your cunt, and your body jolts up until your fingers knock the dark wooden headboard above you. “What do you want, sweetheart?” 

“For my boyfriend to stop being an—” 

Another slap to your aching folds causes your back to arch again, your nipples grazing Satoru’s firm chest. “Try again.” 

You suck in a breath and exhale shakily, your legs straining with the constant pressure against your core and your arms growing beautifully sore above your head. 

“I want it.” You stare right into your boyfriend’s eyes. “I want your cock.” This makes Satoru snicker before his focus goes down to your pussy. 

“Fuck.” Satoru slides his fingers in one long swipe up your cunt again before bringing them to his mouth. As he licks them clean, you let out a shuddering breath, wondering how there is still room for you to swoon. “I knew my girl wasn’t shy.” 

Instead of a biting retort, you watch as Satoru leans down slowly to kiss you once more. He positions himself, sliding his hardened length against your slick folds and letting you feel just how thick and warm he is. 

His lips leave yours too soon, but it’s to tell you, “I’m putting it in, okay?” 

When you nod, Satoru slowly enters, and he’s just as big as before only since it’s been a while, it’s a bit of a stretch. You hiss at the feeling, and Satoru is merciful in the way he releases your wrists to sling an arm behind your head. His eyes never leave yours as he pushes in, inch by inch and both of your mouths fall open at the slick contact. Instead, breath rushes out, mingling warm in the air between your parted lips as you pant in anticipation. His hold on the back of your neck is gentle, and he whispers, “Oh god, thaaat’s it. I missed you so much. I missed this.”

You hum in delight. “Are you sure you missed me and not just the sex?”

“Believe me, it was the only thing that made me look forward to getting out of that place.” he says in a teasing tone. 

“You’re asking to be put back in that box so bad right now.” 

Satoru chuckles again before he leans down to kiss you. “I’m just kidding, baby. Don’t be so serious.” 

“Satoru, you’re killing the mood. Hurry up and fuck me already.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He replies before wasting no time to position his cock at your entrance. Satoru loves how your hair is splayed onto the pillow, teeth sinking into your lower lip as he slowly slides himself into you and it makes his mouth part at the image of it. Your freed hands immediately look for solace on his shoulders, gripping them while you follow his direction and take deep breaths. The intrusion starts to feel welcoming as your cunt adjusts to the sensation, your walls fluttering around his length and starting to suck him in further. 

“You’re so tight…” When Satoru is fully in, he stays as still as he can to let you get used to the feeling. “So, so good for me,” he tells you. “Open your mouth for me.” 

You immediately obey, sucking onto the two fingers he taps against your lips. You hollow your cheeks, and when Satoru groans, you swirl your tongue around his digits.

He swoops in to steal a kiss from you again, and he digs an elbow into the bed for balance as he starts to move. You love the way his brows scrunch in concentration, the way he looks down to watch himself make love to you while in the act, the way he makes you feel nothing and everything at once. When Satoru’s small thrusts end up not being enough, you tell him to go faster. He only laughs before obliging. 

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. The fingers that had summoned you curl around your chin now, forcing you to look only at him; his grip too strong to break free from.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you grin, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. 

Instead of responding, your boyfriend picks up the pace, his muscles rippling under his sweaty skin and his stray strands of platinum hair bobbing with each motion. Your moans and mewls mix with his deep groans, and you have decided that those are your favorite sound in the world. Maybe even better than the soft pitter patter of the rain that begins to fall outside. Feeling full and complete is unrivaled. 

Flushed and with your eyes squeezed tightly shut, your brow furrowed, you murmur his name senselessly, over and over like a prayer, a plea, a please, please, please that slips in breathless turns from your lips uninhibitedly. 

The feeling gets overwhelming. The more you look at him, the more you feel like you’re about to cry whenever your mind reminds you of what happened. Days where his usual corny jokes and occasionally immature behavior were replaced with days of you being cooped up wishing he’d come back to you, hoping that wherever he was that he’d be okay. You feel the incessant sting at the back of your throat as you fight back the tears that threaten to fall onto your cheeks.

For this beautiful instance in time, nothing matters, absolutely nothing but this. 

Your body is acting on instinct, moving with him and even wrapping legs around his built frame. The grunt and low fuck you get in return is a prize you sigh at, and when Satoru pins your wrists above your head again, you revel in the restraint.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he tells you, to which you respond with a grin. 

Your legs slide against his buttocks and the rest of his skin, but your muscles endure. His cock rubs against your walls in the best way possible—each stroke deeper than the last—and you know you’re close to euphoria. 

But Satoru has different plans. He lunges in with two particularly hard thrusts before he pulls out completely, eyeing your messy state as he pulls you up, shifting you so that you find yourself on your knees somehow, underarms pressed into the mattress when he pushes your torso down with your ass in the air for him. He wastes no time to push his cock into you, pulling out a cry from you. He slides in easily from how wet you’ve gotten when he fucked you on your back. “Fuck you’re so wet for me.” You hear him say from behind you. 

You gasp as you drop down to your elbows from the feeling of him stretching you out in the most perfect way. He gives you a few seconds to adjust before he starts to move, and shameless noises start to leave your mouth instantly. You feel him grab your hips, and he starts to slam you back at the same time he’s thrusting forward, creating a deepness that has you seeing white. He bends over to kiss your back, making you arch yourself more into him. 

“Oh fuck.” you drawl out. 

Satoru’s lips ghost over your ear and you can feel him smirk against your skin when he asks, “You like that baby? You’re gonna show me what I missed, yeah?” he pants.

At this point, you don’t care how loud you’re being. Satoru on the other hand is enjoying this as much as you are. Each thrust has him feeling like he wants to have it his way and cum deep inside you. He moves back to look down where you’re both connecting, taking in the sight of his cock sliding in and out easily of your cunt. His teeth are caught between his lower lip when he sees the white ring around his cock, making him even crazier. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes throughout the room, arousing the both of you even more. Your moans are muffled by the sheets as you bury your face in the mattress. Satoru’s palms imprint their mark on your hips as he pulls them as close as he can while he thrusts repeatedly into you. 

“Ah, Toru, go harder.” you cry out.

“Oh, you feel so good.” he moans as he begins to thrust harder into you. You’re too lost in the pleasure that you can’t find the words to speak. You can only afford to respond with high pitched moans every time the tip of his cock touches that one spot inside of you. You feel yourself nearly reaching your high when suddenly Satoru pulls out again, pushing you onto your back while he steadies himself on his knees. 

“Wanna see that pretty face when I make you cum,” he smiles, before he pulls both of your legs apart to slide his cock up and down between your slick folds teasingly. A groan sounds from his throat, sending a rush through your body when warm lips come down to latch onto your breasts, and you throw your head into the soft pillow beneath you. 

“Satoru...” you whine. “Hmm?” he grins. 

“Stop teasing already.” you sigh in frustration. He chuckles at your neediness. “I know baby, it’s just fun seeing you like this.” You glare at him before you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to you. Satoru takes this as a cue to take full command, settling on his knees and bringing both his hands to grip your hips as he continues to pound himself vigorously into you. No words are exchanged between the two of you, but the feelings are conveyed perfectly. Passion, longing, love. Everything unsaid the day he returned on your doorstep. 

“Oh,” you breathe, “Toru, you feel so good. Please don’t stop.” 

Everything from your hands gripping his arms to the way his cock fills you to the brim is too much, and your legs finally give and slam back down onto the sheets. 

Your body goes limp as Satoru thrusts into you, hard fingers digging wonderfully into your skin and brows knitted in pleasure. He continues to bite down on his bottom lip as he watches his cock disappear in and out of your pussy again and again, and your gaze is hazy as you watch his chest ripple with each thrust, enamored. You find sanity in the taste of his tongue and stability in your fingers grappling for mercy against his shoulder blades, close, so, so close.

You feel it before you recognize the winding. The edge you toppled from before is in reach again, and after a breathy moan you gasp, “I’m close, go faster, please.” 

God. He loves it when you get so needy, so desperate under him like this. He loves the way you call him by his nickname. It shows how much you’re tightly wrapped around his finger. He finds it adorable how one minute you’re giving him an attitude but the next you’re begging for him to fuck you. Just like right now. Which is why he doesn’t mind when you call him an asshole or roll your eyes at him when he says something stupid. Because at the end of the day, Satoru knows how to please you, he knows how to treat you right. That’s why you’re taking him like such a good girl, right? 

“Yeah? Then let go for me, cum for me baby.” he grunts, low and leaving no room for objection. One of his hands reaches down between you, a thumb rubbing your clit lovingly. The feeling is immense, and your vision blanks. Every limb in your body locks with pleasure. You can only describe the feeling as a constant wave crashing against your shore, slamming its powerful crests into you again and again. 

“You’re so beautiful.” You hear the words somewhere above you, but they’re blurry in your ears. 

Finally—slowly—your limbs settle back onto the bed. Satoru smiles down at you before asking, 

“Did I lose you before this?” 

“You’ll never lose me,” you confess truthfully. 

Satoru huffs in amusement before whispering something under his breath. You don’t have time to ask what he said before he starts back up again to chase his own high, and your body is heavy with content as you watch.

A hand threads beneath your hair to curl around the back of your neck and pull you up to press his mouth against yours. His lips are soft, and he sinks into the kiss with teeth and tongue and fire that makes your mind go blank. You let him nip at your lips until they’re swollen and sore, letting him twist his tongue against yours until you’re both gasping and his grip has turned to iron. You pour your entire body and soul into the connection, and your boyfriend's thrusts start becoming frantic and jilted. His free palm grabs your hip to steady your quivering form; your hands swing behind his shoulders. 

Fingers rake marks across his back, and Satoru outright moans into your mouth before his thrusts are so rough that your body is shoved up the bed. 

“I’m not gonna last much l-longer.” He stammers as you begin to tighten around him, letting him know exactly how close you are. His thrusts become quicker and erratic while he leans down closer towards your face. 

You almost feel yourself reaching the third orgasm of the night, but it’s him you want to come before anything else. 

And he does seconds later, his voice gravelly as he groans above your face — your list of favorite sounds forever multiplying. You feel the warm sensation of his cum shoot into your cunt. Your eyes wander up to Satoru’s face, which contorts in pleasure at the new found tightness of your heat. You use your last bit of strength to move your hips along to meet his movements, and then after about a minute he stills himself inside of you. As his forehead presses into yours, you hug him close, almost brought to tears again from the emotions spilling from your chest. For a moment, nothing else exists. Only the feeling of his bare skin sliding against yours, the connection between your legs, and the souls dwelling within appear on this plane. It’s a strange thing to think about. But it is yours to store away in your memory forever.

You both lay there in silence, catching your breath. Basking in the afterglow. Your boyfriend then turns to you, resting on an elbow. The early morning shadow that casts into the room catches onto your skin, painting it with a pale glow, making you appear ethereal. Your lips are softly pouted, dried out roses that puff patient exhalations of air in time with the gentle rise and fall of your chest.

You turn your head to him. “Satoru?”

“What is it?”  

“I love you.” 

“I don’t blame you.” he grins. You glare at him and slap him on the chest making him laugh. “I’m kidding, baby.” He smiles down at you genuinely. “I love you too. More than anything else in the world.” 

Your lips connect, they connect in warm, rosy flesh, as if nothing could ever go wrong. That no matter what obstacles you both face, what hardships you must conquer, you will always get through it together. 

The same three words slip down your face once more and into your mouth, only to be thrown out again as you reciprocate. As you both pant in exhaustion, you already feel sleep start to claim you again as the early morning light peeks through the sheer curtains.

You make love two, four, twenty or a hundred times, enough for you to lose count on your fingers and for the sun to ascend from the horizon. It is moments like this, watching you out of the corner of his eye, absolutely adoring the soft exhalations you let out and beating heart against his bare chest, that he knows what he feels so strongly within his heart is the unconditional truth.

He is helplessly in love with you.

[itadores]

note: first time writing something for ume, pls be nice <3

pairing: umemiya hajime x gender neutral reader

tags: gender neutral reader, pre-relationship, reader is a bit of tsundere and a bit dense

the call of your surname draws your attention away from the food laid out before you, half-eaten at this point. your gaze flickers to the man that's your companion for the mid-day meal. you finish chewing, swallowing before you open your mouth to speak.

“yeah, ume?”

umemiya has an elbow on top of the wooden table, his chin resting in the curve of his open palm. there's a gentle smile on umemiya's lips that seems ever-present whenever you see him. it makes you want to curse him in a way.

"you have something," he motions to his cheek, "here."

"oh."

a mix of embarrassment and gratefulness wells in you. embarrassment because you didn't realize you were being so messy while eating. gratefulness because umemiya didn't let you sit there with food on your face, looking like an idiot. embarrassment once more because you were eating messily in front of umemiya.

hurriedly, you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

"did i get it?"

umemiya shakes his head. "no, it's still there."

you try again. "how about now?"

"no. still there," umemiya repeats, amusement slipping into his tone. "here," he says. he lifts his chin from his open palm and reaches an arm across the table.

you make a startled sound in the back of your throat when you realize umemiya is reaching for you. his palm, roughened with raised callouses, skirts across the underside of your chin. his fingertips delicately come to rest across your cheek and the column of your neck. his touch is careful. gentle. so feather-light, it's nearly ticklish. you still when his thumb brushes against the corner of your lip, the weight of it lingering for the briefest of moments. he withdraws his hand before you can think about it too much.

"there, i got it."

"what the hell was that?" you sputter, feeling warm all over. you narrow your eyes at umemiya accusingly. "why'd you do that?"

"you had something on your face," umemiya offers up the explanation as if it's completely reasonable. it's most definitely not. but you don't know how to say that his justification is so utterly unsatisfactory to you without revealing too much.

"don't let your food go cold," umemiya interrupts your thoughts, pointing towards your plate with the end of his chopsticks.

your mouth opens and closes a few times, unsure of what words to form. you don't know what to say. umemiya seems to be so unaffected by what he's done that he's already resumed eating once more. you don't know what else to do besides grumpily follow suit.

you mentally curse umemiya with each bite, roughly shoveling food into your mouth. you make sure to use a napkin between bites, taking care to wipe your face clean. you do not want a repeat of what just happened.

just thinking about it is enough to make you heat up, warmth simmering below the surface of your skin. despite yourself, your mind continues to stray to the feeling of umemiya's hand on your face, to the weight of his thumb against the corner of your lip. it pisses you off.

stupid umemiya for making you feel this way.

(too absorbed in your own thoughts, you don't notice the way umemiya's watching you. full of fondness. the same ever-present smile on his lips. he wonders when you'll catch on to it.)

[jinxedbychaos]

Left Behind

While prowling through the dark alleys of Zaun, Jinx stumbles upon an abandoned child, alone and afraid. Her initial instinct is to walk away, but the child’s desperate plea stirs memories of her own past.

Jinx x child!reader

Warning: mean jinx?, abandonment of a child, hallucinations, gun, angst with happy ending. (I think that all if I should add something else tell me pls.)

so I wrote this around 1.00am and finish it around 3.15am so it might not be perfect.

I'm taking requests.

Jinx prowled through the dark alleys of Zaun, her chaotic energy simmering beneath the surface. The familiar sounds of the undercity, clanging of metal, distant shouts and the hum of factories. faded into the background as something else caugh her attention.

A faint whimper.

Her sharp eyes narrowing as she looks into the shadows where the sound was coming from. There, huddled against a wall, was a small figure. A child, no more than six or seven, clutching her knees to her chest. Her tiny form shivering to the cold and shaking with quiet sobs. Her clothes were torn and filthy, her face stained with dirt and tears, Jinx could feel the fear coming out of every pore of her little body.

For a moment,Jinx stood frozen, starring at the child as if she was looking at a ghost, memories from the past clawing their way back to the surface. Another time, another little girl left alone inthe world. Powder. Her fingers tightened around her gun, the other hand tightens into a fist, nails digging into hel palm. A familiar pang of pain twisted in her chest.

"Hey" she called out, her voice a little softer than usual, though still tinged with that playful edge. The child flinched, shrinking further into the wall, eyes wide with fear, Jinx took a step forward, releasing the grip on her gun as she crouched in front of the girl.

"What're you doing all alone, huh? Dont you know this place eats up little girls like you?"

The child didn't answer. She just stared up at Jinx with wide tear filled eyes. But Jinx recognized it. It wasn't fear of her. it was the fear of being left behind, of being abandoned. The kind of fear she knew a little too well.

Jinx tilted her head, her wild blue hair falling into her face as she grinned, though there was no real amusement behind it. "You think someone's gonna come save you?" Her voice echoed through the alley, her thoughts spiralling back to her own past. The voices in her head were quiet now, but their presence lingered, tugging at her. "Ha! They never come. trust me, I know"

The child sniffled, her voice barely a whisper "I don't have anywhere to go…"

Jinx’s grin faltered, her chaotic mind quieting for the briefest of moments. She stared at the girl, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside her anger, pity, something dangerously close to empathy.

Her wild grin snapped back into place, though the fire behind it had dimmed. "Well, kid looks like you’re stuck in a real bad spot" she said, twirling her gun with casual indifference. But her fingers were shaking just slightly. The child’s tear filled eyes stayed locked on her, trembling from both cold and fear as she pressed herself against the wall.

"I mean, I could just leave you here" she said, her tone light, as if she didn’t care. She glanced down at the girl, her playful facade wavering. "What happens to you isn’t really my problem, right?"

Without waiting for a response, Jinx turned on her heel and started to walk away. But then, a small, trembling voice cut through the night.

"Please… don’t leave me… please."

Jinx froze.

Those words hit her like a punch to the gut, sending her mind spiraling. In an instant, she wasn’t in the alley anymore. She was a child again Powder trying to reach for Vi, tears streaming down her face, her heart shattering as she begged her sister not to leave. The memories crashed down on her, suffocating, and then the voices started.

"Because you’re a Jinx!" Vi’s voice echoed in her head, sharp and cruel. Jinx’s hands trembled, her breathing ragged.

"I told you to stay away!" The voice grew louder, relentless. "Jinx!" It pulled her back to that moment, the weight of Vi’s rejection crushing her.

Jinx gritted her teeth, her mind a storm of chaos and pain. The voices were everywhere. "You ruin everything. You always do."

She clenched her fists, her breath shallow, the child’s plea echoing over and over. It was too familiar. Too painful. She could hear her younger self in those words desperate, abandoned, left behind by the person she trusted the most.

"Please…"

The child’s voice broke through the storm in her head. Jinx blinked, the memories retreating like shadows. The girl was still there, staring up at her with wide, frightened eyes, looking just as lost as she had been all those years ago.

Jinx let out a shaky breath, the anger inside her slowly fading into something else—something more vulnerable. She walked back toward the child, kneeling down in front of her, her chaotic energy momentarily subdued.

"You really don’t have anyone, do you?" she murmured, her voice softer now, almost tender. Jinx sighed, running a hand through her wild blue hair.

"Fine" she muttered, more to herself than to the girl. "Guess I can’t leave you here after all." She extended a hand, her grin softer this time, but still there. "Come on, kid."

The child’s eyes lit up with relief, and after a hesitant pause, she reached for Jinx’s hand. Jinx helped her to her feet, her touch surprisingly gentle.

"Stick close, alright?" Jinx added, pulling the girl to her feet. "I’m not babysitting, so if you can’t keep up, that’s on you."

As they began to walk through the shadowy alleys, the girl stayed close behind, almost clinging to Jinx. For a moment, Jinx glanced back at her, something stirring deep inside. She couldn’t put a name to it something too close to protectiveness but she didn’t shake it off.

Zaun’s dark streets swallowed them as they walked, but Jinx found herself glancing back once more, her chaotic thoughts swirling. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

I'll go to sleep now bye thanks for reading don't forget to like, repost and leave a comment :)

[silentmacabre]

IMAGINE ☁️

art donaldson x fem reader (y/n) // slow burn // foundation/universe building // gym romance // college!art // quick read (~900 words)

(a/n: I am such a sucker for reciprocated crushes and mutually nervous meet-cutes so I had to write one with stanford!art. pls let me know what you think and drop any imagine prompts you have in the comments!)

🪽

-

walking into the gym was always somewhat of an embarrassing routine. digging your id card out from the bottom of your bag as keys and coins jingle, receipts shuffling to the side. scanning the card, you offer a ginger smile to the girl behind the desk who doesn't bother to look up from her phone.

on the way to the locker room you pass the weight racks. a group of about six tall, fit boys hollering and talking amongst themselves captures your briefest attention. recognizing a few from around campus, however, only furthers your social anxiety. the first few people file past you into the yoga studio, unrolling lush mats that match their water bottles and headphones.

rushing to the locker room now you turn the corner sharply and hit something solid with a thud.

“shit! im sorry i-” he instinctively grasps your upper arms, prepared to hold you steady.

you look up, frozen from the interaction. the blonde haired boy’s expression is soft and you can’t help but notice his eyes. his pupils are wide despite the blinding fluorescents that line the gym, each iris speckled with different spots of turquoise and mahogany.

“it’s okay!” you rush to offer.

his hands relax their grip, his thumbs in delay as they trail over and then off your shoulders.

you attempt another pained smile like the one offered to the receptionist except this time it’s met with a sweet, slanted grin. his jaw hangs slack slightly, lips parted in anticipation of conversation when another boy, slightly bigger and with a mess of brown curls, turns the corner from the men’s locker room.

“art, man…” he says gruffly, slapping the boy in front of you firmly on the back with both hands. he makes no effort to move.

the taller boy enters your field of vision and his steps halt, eyebrows raised then corrected.

“oh- my bad.”

both boys stand in front of you now, obstructing your path to the girl’s room. adjusting your grip on your yoga mat you clear your throat, the weight of their gaze finally too much to bear.

“well excuse me,”

“oh! sure yeah,” the blonde boy shuffles aside, his friend slowly following suit. “…wouldn’t want to, uh- miss that,” he stutters lazily pointing at the mat under your arm. he lets out an anguished, embarrassed sigh as his friend stifles a laugh.

your eyes lock a final time, the bridge of your nose rosy and hot. as you disappear into the stillness of the girls’ room you hear the two boys speaking in hushed voices.

“who was THAT?” a voice you can only attribute to the brown haired boy asks.

“I- I don’t know. I think she’s in my math?” his voice like gravel, words spoken carefully.

“she’s bangin’, dude.”

“c’mon man…”

“what!”

this observation of you in your self described “frumpiest” state makes your ears burn, the back of your neck prickle with sweat and nerves of having been truly seen.

shoving your belongings into a locker, you collect your water and yoga mat. on your way out of the room you pause at a mirror, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

‘I guess im not too bad,’ you allow.

-

as class winds down, you lie flat on your back allowing the melodic whine of the music to rock you gently as you catch your breath. consciously loosening every muscle in your body one after the other, you open your eyes to sneak a look at the others in the class, all lost in their own moments of reflection alongside you. a series of laughs moving through the hallway causes a few of them to open their eyes but their interest quickly wanes. instead, your eyes trail out the door just as the boys from earlier make their way past. their biceps glisten with sweat and otherwise floppy hair sticks to their temples.

a particularly ragged mane of gold glues your eyes to him. his dimples are deep, his flushed lips framed by smile lines as he grins, deep in conversation. your chest rises and falls faster now, seeing him, remembering his hands fixing you in place.

before he’s out of view again, he turns to peek into the class room, eyes dancing from student to student and finally landing on you. the undeniability of your eye contact forces his head down, the beginnings of a blush dusting his cheeks just as he is out of sight.

you release a breath you hadn’t realized you held at the sight of him. he made you nervous, that much was apparent, but why?

-

leaving, the gym feels emptier without the chime of boys’ abrasive cackles. stepping out into cool autumn air, you’re about to start back to your apartment when you see it.

leaning against a fence post lost in something on his phone it’s as if he can sense you’re there. looking up, his blue eyes seem darker under the cloudy afternoon sky but the smile that pulls at his lips is profound.

“hi,”

he had waited just to see you again.

“can I walk with you?”

-

🪽

[hiskillingjar]

CBT (Lawrence/OC)

the truth comes out. i, ray hiskillingjar, love to abuse genitals. send tweet.

day 7: CBT second person. law x oc. cw for fauxcest and very brief misgendering kink (maybe) but quickly gets addressed.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?"

Your voice was a low murmur in the heavy silence of the apartment, your dark brows knitted together with a slight frown, your lip sucked between your crooked teeth as you stared down at Lawrence, kneeling at your feet.

"It's gonna hurt...like, really bad.”

Lawrence looked up at you, their light grey eyes wide (and a little more alive than you’re used to) with a mixture of fear and excitement, and something else entirely you couldn't put words to. 

"Yeah, I know…” They said with a hesitant nod, eyes flitting down to their bare chest, their naked body, as if stripped down and ready to sacrifice. “But it'll help too, right?"

"Help with what?" You asked, a disbelieving chuckle in your voice. "You think torturing yourself is gonna feel any better than just hating yourself?"

"No, it’s not about that,” They shook their head, still looking up at you, almost pleading for you to understand something they couldn't find the words to articulate. “It's...not about hating myself, not really. It's...it's more than that. More meaningful. Grounding, reminding myself of…what belongs to me.” 

Their bare thighs spread apart slightly wider, their cock hardening between them as they continued to plead for your understanding.

“You know what I mean?”

Understanding that you would always readily give them.

"Yeah...yeah, I know," You said, the tight chastity cage under your skirt feeling a little tighter, giving them a sympathetic smile. "I know, Law. I'm sorry, I'm just...needing to psyche myself up a little."

Lawrence nodded, also understanding (because they always did, too). 

Deep down, maybe a small part of them was enjoying this, enjoying your slight discomfort at their brutal request, as if testing your loyalty to them. 

You got that sense when their eyes flitted downwards, their gaze lingering on the place between your legs for just the briefest of moments (trying their best not to let the smug, knowing smile, that always came with this sort of experience, play on their lips too much) before settling back on your face.

"You can do it. I know you can."

They pulled a deep breath inwards and then took hold of your hands, clinging onto them tightly, encouraging, waiting.

“I trust you.”

You smiled and shook your head in disbelief (not believing what you were about to do), letting out a soft sigh through your nose as you dragged your thumbs over their bony knuckles, holding them tight.

"Thanks, baby." You nodded. "Thank you for trusting me...it means a lot."

Lawrence couldn't help but let out a soft whine at the obvious term of endearment, which they swallowed back quickly, keeping it at the back of their throat where it wouldn't be so obvious (where they wouldn’t be so vulnerable).

They held your hands tighter, and your smile morphed into a smirk.

"Beg for it." You ordered gently, your tone soft and sweet and sickeningly maternal. 

“Pl-please…” They mumbled with a pleased shudder, idly biting their lower lip as they closed their eyes, waiting. "Do it. I can...I can take it, I promise."

You took in a final sigh through your grit teeth, stroking over their white knuckles one last time...before you brought your foot down firmly between their legs, grinding the heel of your Mary Jane shoe down against the slightly soft, slightly hard length of their cock.

Their breath hitched instantly and a ruined gasp tore its way from their throat as their body lurched forward, their hands clinging to yours even harder. 

Despite their eyes still being closed, tears began to well up beneath their pale eyelashes. 

A few tears of joy, you thought (you hoped), but probably mainly tears of pain,

"You like that?" You murmured, your voice pitched up through a slight sneer (playing the cis girl domme you always saw in porn), letting go of one of their hands to reach up and curl a fist into their hair, pulling their head down against your thigh, against the hem of your skirt. "That feel good?"

“Nnghh…yes. Yes, it feels good." They let out a low groan (deep, so lovely, you loved their natural voice so much), gripping your free hand even tighter. "F-Feels really good, hurts so good...”

A small spot of precum was beading out their slit against the apartment’s floorboards (against the sole of your shoe) and you found yourself smirking even more.

"Oh yeah? You like it when I step on your dumb, fucking cock?" You pulled their hair a little harder, your fist at the base of their skull. "It's so big, Law, so big and useless and stupid," A mean grin came to your face as you pressed more weight against it, listening to them moan in pain. "You can't even get hard most of the time~"

“Nnfhgh…” 

Their legs trembled, their face blushing a deep shade of red as tears finally began to fall from beneath their closed eyes. They tried to speak, tried to find the words to answer you, but struggled to find anything to say.

"What..." You let out a little sigh, trembling a little when you saw the first tear fall from their jaw and down their chest. You were used to tears, but- "What kind of girl has this, hm? What kind of girl has a big, useless cock like you do?"

They squeezed their eyes tighter, now starting to sniffle as they tried to fight through the mixture of shame, pain, and pleasure surely swirling through them.

It was certainly swirling through you, anyway.

"N-no girls do..." They stammered quietly, still clinging to you. "Just me, just me…"

"You don't think so?" You raised a sceptical brow and tightened your grip on their hair. "What about me? Is my cock small enough to be a real girl?"

"N-no, no. Yes. I-I mean...nhh..." They bit their lip and their voice trembled as you tightened your grip on their hair, surely pulling out strands of the coarse blonde now, it was so tight. 

The probable pain (from your hand and under your shoe) was now starting to pull the first stream of tears from their clenched lids, clinging to their lashes and swelling into fat teardrops before falling down their face, their chest, their thighs.  

"You're perfect...you're definitely a real girl, a real woman..." They breathed out, their head sinking down against your thigh and their body squirming to be free. "I'm just...I'm just a sick freak. Not...real..."

Your heart lept at that, your brain on high alert that this was going too far, this was too much, this was too close to home to be fun anymore, but you swallowed down the urge to safeword out of the "scene" (not like the two of you abided by language like that, you weren’t total dorks).

They were enjoying this. 

You knew that much from the way their cock was drooling under the sole of your shoe, and the way they were keening against you, despite their trembles.

But you weren't. At least, you weren't enjoying the degrading way they were speaking about themself.

But you could change that. You were leading things, after all.

"Oh, Law..." You clicked your tongue with soft, sychophantic sympathy, taking off a little (but not all) of the weight from their cock. "Oh baby..." Your firm grip loosened too and you rubbed their sore scalp with your fingers. "You're a real girl. Of course, you are."

Their breath stopped for a moment, as if caught in their lungs. 

They raised their gaze towards you and opened one tear-filled eye ever so slightly, needing to ask you something even through the thick haze of their suffering.

"You...you really think so?" They murmured quietly.

"I know so," You whispered with a gentle smile, grinding your heel down a little more, a reward for them continuing down the route you wanted. "You're whatever you want to be…and I’m here to make sure of that, aren’t I?"

They let out another whine, higher pitched and sweet sounding, a noise that edged close to a moan but caught itself just in time. 

More tears slipped from their eyelashes, leaving small wet tracks down their flushed face. 

It was a lovely visual.

"Thank you...thank you so much..." They let out a low breath, a sigh mixed with a whimper and another moan. "I'm, hhh...a bad girl..."

"Noooo, no no no, you don't get to beat yourself up anymore, baby," You cooed softly, a soft chiding tone as you stroked through their hair again, smiling even more as they leaned into your touch, as if seeking the contradictory comfort as opposed to the crushing pressure. "You're a good girl...doing this, like you should..."

"Y-yeah...I’m a good girl," They quickly corrected themself. "T-Trying to be...I really am..."

"You are such a good girl, Law," You continued to praise, stroking down their tear-streaked face, gently urging their chin upwards and their eyes towards you. "And you're going to be even better...because you're going to let me cage you up, just like Mommy, aren't you?"

They swallowed hard before sniffling, barely able to speak, and nodding as new tears began to fall down their angelic face. 

They were evidently too overcome to speak, overwhelmed by the prospect of the two of you having matching cages (god, all those losers on Twitter would have loved that, you instantly thought), so they focused their attention on you, instead of trying to immediately make words.

You liked that plenty though.

It made you feel powerful, despite what the metaphorical value of your cock-cage key hanging around their neck should have meant. 

You felt worshipped at the way they were kneeling before you, letting themself be kicked around and stood on and pet like a dog in your lap.

Like an animal, something to keep and possess.

“Yeah…I’ll do it." They nodded after a long moment, giving you a trembling smile. "I'd love to do it. I’ll be a good girl for you. I promise.”

Your maternal smile turned into something more genuine (more loving) as you ground your foot down a little harder against their cock, pulling their hair hard, keeping their body pinned against yours.

Sadism to reward their masochism. It felt good, doing it.

“Good girl.”

Their breath caught tightly in their chest and their eyes widened, letting loose another stream of tears with a broken cry.

One hand quickly came up to grasp at your knee through your tights, their pretty face twisting in pain as the heel of your shoe ground down even harder, their hips bucking uselessly against the pressure, trying to wrench themselves free of the pain.

"You take the pain so good, baby," You encouraged, gradually stroking their hair again and taking the weight off their cock. "...Do you need me to stop?"

After a moment, Lawrence gradually gave their head a slow shake, their skinny chest rising and falling as they took slow, deep breaths.

"N-no," They said, sniffling again. "No, I want to keep going. I...I want to be good for you, like you said. I want to be a good girl for you."

You beamed even brighter, before pulling your foot back and slamming it down again.

Another cry came out as a choked, strangled sort of noise, a small hiccup, followed by a few shaky breaths and near-silent sobs. You could see the tears rolling down their face readily now, their gentle features still twisted in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“S-so…so good for you.” They grunted lowly, squeezing your knee a little tighter.

"Yes, so good..." You whispered encouragingly, curling your fingers into their hair again and gently urging their eyes upwards, forcing them to meet your gaze and see just how proud you were of them. "You're making mommy so proud, baby..."

Their expression softened, their features relaxing a little bit and their chest heaving with deep, shaky breaths as a hesitant smile graced their lips.

“Y-yeah?” They said, their voice still tremulous, as their other hand snaked around your thighs and clung to you close, needing, wanting. “I’m really doing good? I’m being your good girl?”

You smile again and lowered your head down, pressing more weight against their cock, before you gently swept strings of blonde hair out of their pretty face and kissed their forehead.

"The best ❤"

[be-my-ally]

The Lisa-Marie

Big Bunny + The Return Flight (in case you want to catch up!)

Warnings: 18+, exhibitionism (public rehearsal, but no-one else is watching/or sees), elvis is a panty thief for no reason other than it’s now totally canon in my head that he continually stole knickers, fingering, mentions of drug use + abuse, oral (v receiving, p mentioned), jealousy, p in v sex, the briefest mention of a gun threat, references to elvis’ ill health. this is somehow the least-bunny fun + plottiest, while also the smuttiest so uhhh enjoy the angst at the end?

Director Elvis is linked where the scene goes in the middle of this, however there have been some minor adjustments to the opening + closing paragraphs to make it fit *just right* and so they’ve been inserted here. 

wc: 12k

Pls forgive me for the longest author note ever:

I went waaaay too far into attempting to make the timeline totally accurate; to the extent that I was noting down what city each night when i wasn’t even referencing them but honestly it was stressing me out so much that I gave up and removed a lot of the references - so this is *mostly* accurate in the general tour dates and vibes but not entirely because … this isn’t a biography, it’s smut with a lil teeny weeny bit of plot. 

Confession time! I was and am super unhappy with The Return Flight, there was so much in it that I was excited to share but I think my writing is off and I’m not super sure why, which affected my motivation for this A LOT so apologies for the fact this took a literal months. But hopefully you’ll all think it was worth it! And hopefully a lesser wait for the fourth and final part. 

Anyway, I might return Elvis onto the Big Bunny plane for a little spin-off fun but for now, enjoy bunny still being referred to as Bunny even though, by half-way through this, she is no longer a bunny. 

October 1974. 

You’re awake before him, gently shaking his shoulder as he groaned into the fur comforter that he didn’t want to wake up yet. He eventually shoves you hard enough that you decide it’s probably safer just to leave him as he is, pulling yourself together and redressing instead - he’s still got his eyes closed when you slip out. Ten minutes later you get a note passed to you with details about where to meet them for the pre-show rehearsal but you don’t actually get the chance to see him again, too distracted with dealing with all the matters of the disembarkation and cleaning. After you’re done you change as quickly as you possibly can, ignoring the questions from the other girls about where you’re going - practically sprinting to catch a cab.

He’s already on the stage when you walk in, pacing about - blocking the show as best they can in preparation to allow for the lights crew to have some idea of where he might be at any moment. He looks marvellous - absolutely gorgeous, his hair back but essentially left to do what it likes, all fluffy and soft looking. Eyes bright underneath his tinted glasses. He’s dressed in a white shirt, cuffs like a pirate, damp see-through sweat patches evident when he raises his arms, filigree studded belt, huge against his stomach, blue stones glinting in the lights. You feel your mouth water and tummy start to flip just at the sight of him. He smiles when he sees you, with your tiny little halter dress on, chilly in the cold air of the auditorium at the venue. The breeze causes you to wrap an arm around yourself a little self-consciously as he waves you closer to the stage. You're practically leaning on the edge when he kneels down in front of you and you get a sudden flash of what it must feel like to be a girl at his concert. Someone who hadn't had the luxury of falling asleep beside him, or the feel of his palms against theirs. The feeling of being forced to look up at him, his head backlit by the lights, a halo like he's the goddamn messiah. That feeling of desperately pining for a single moment of his attention. 

“Ah-ha! lil Bun-Bun! C’mon up here,” He puts an arm down before retracting it, looking you over more carefully, a note of stern shock in his tone,

 “Good lord! That might be more r’vealing than your lil bunny get-up. Uh - here!” He gropes around the floor for his jacket before he thrusts it at you, and you look at it with amusement, it’s a rainbow. Rainbow fringe. It’s truly one of the most preposterous things you’ve ever seen in your life. He grumbles as he holds it out, 

“Don’t need every man in here to be starin’ at you. Got work to do - don’t need ‘em bein’ distracted.” You don’t think you’re particularly scantily clad, you’re certainly showing a fair amount of leg but you’re far more covered up than Playboy enterprises would like you to be had you been on shift. But still, it was chilly, so you shrug it on gratefully. The soft leather caresses your arms, encasing you in his thick scent, it’s heavy on your shoulders and big enough that the fringe tassel tickles your thigh. 

“Uh Hi, Where-“ You wonder if you should even ask, “Where’d this come from?” You shake your arms out, making the fringe dance. 

“Oh - it was a gift,” He grins at you, lips all crooked in his sheer delight, “You like it?” He clearly loves it. So you lean into the absurdity and realise that what you’re about to say wasn’t even really a lie. 

“Uh. You know what, yeah I do,” You giggle as you shimmy a little making the strands swing. “I love it.” He looks at you fondly before he leans over the edge of the stage, tugging you up with a grunt. 

“Glad you could make it doll, been waiting for you.” You smile back at him, pleased as anything that he’s laying on the charm but that underneath you can still sense the sincerity in his voice. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” He pulls you close to him and you brace yourself with a hand on his belt, feeling the weight of the buckle against your fingertips. He reaches down to grasp your hand, pulling it up to press a kiss against it. It’s intimate and gentlemanly and you feel like you’re in a period drama, feeling your chest heave as your breath catches in your throat at the movement, and you’re helpless to do anything but gaze into his eyes. You glance down, eyes catching on the wide white band on his wrist, just above his diamond encrusted ‘Elvis’ bracelet. 

You stroke his wrist gently before looking up at him with a questioning brow raised. He kicks his foot out to show you that beneath his gently flaring trousers there’s a matching white band on each of his ankles. 

“It, uh, it mimics the weight of the ‘suit, gets me used to it for the performing.” He flicks a wrist, “And, uh, gotta try and get some of this weight off.” He pats his stomach, gripping the side harshly, “No-one wants to see a big doughy ol’ Elvis.” He shakes his wrists at you, and you’re mortified at the fact that it makes you squeeze your thighs, drool pooling in your mouth forcing you to swallow hard. Something about the way the rings on his fingers glint under the stage lights, the way the buckle makes the tiniest little metallic clang, feels akin to being shown a hidden sliver of skin. Makes you think all sorts of things. Of the weight of them around his wrists, of the possibility of them around yours, weighing you down, wrapped around your ankles too, making you heavy and pliable. Or his belt around your middle, the huge buckle pinning you in whatever position he chose. You don’t realise how low your eyelids have slid at this line of thinking until he laughs, 

“God - you got them dirty thoughts written all over your face Bunny, this is a respectable r’hearsal, don’t you go getting any ideas now.” He wags a finger at you, you feel like you’re being hypnotised watching it.

“Go on now - hop over there for me, sit yourself down, just watch the show baby.” He slaps your ass, causing you to yelp as he catches your bare thigh, while he grips your upper arm and ‘helps’ to lower you down gently, almost missing his huff of laughter in response. You have to take a second after you're on the ground forcing a deep breath feeling your heartbeat between your thighs. 

You take a seat where he’d pointed, content to try and settle down and watch him practice. It’s gorgeous to watch, he struts about the stage, breaking into gospel every now and again, making you smile at the clear little flashes of joy on his face. You’d considered if it was going to be boring, contemplated even bringing a magazine with you but now you were here you can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything but him.  Every now and again he cracks a joke, changing the lyrics to something dirty and tossing you a wink, laughing back at the boys who all join in like a pack of wild hyenas. It’s different to how he is in private, yet shockingly the same - there’s flashes of the insecurity you caught on the last flight, a quietness to him while he waits for a song to be set up or a wire to be fixed. But also an exaggerated boyishness to him, playing the jester for men who don’t seem to be aware he’s putting it on.

He calls a break after you’ve been there about an hour, and he slides himself off the stage to walk over to you. You were going to try and play it cool but you can’t stop yourself from gushing at him; 

“You sound wonderful. I can’t wait to see the show tonight.” He smiles, a little bashfully, 

“Yeah? I can see you wigglin’ your yittle hips from all the way over there,” He narrows his eyes at you, crinkles forming as his high cheekbones move, “ ‘just wonderful’, ‘s that all I am?”  

“Well you’re not - ” You squirm a little under his line of questioning and consistent stare, suddenly feeling a bit too hot in his jacket, “- not bad to look at. You’re so different out here than on the plane.” 

“In a good way?” You hum back a non-committal noise and though his brow wrinkles a little he lets it go. Instead leaning back on the chair in front of you, feet crossing between your legs. He folds his arms across his chest, your eyes track the bands on his wrists again and when you look up he’s smirking at you watching him. You can’t take it any longer and his smile grows wider watching you shrug his jacket back off, letting it hang over the back of the chair, fringe tickling your arms as it falls, 

“Let’s make this more interesting for you huh, must be boring having to wait for all this - ‘n I can see you’re all fired up for me doll.” You look around, but he’s blocking your view forcing you to focus on him even more, as if he wasn’t already the only thing you could see. 

“Oh no, it’s plenty fascinating enough El honestly,” He shakes his head, magnanimously as if he’s doing you a favour, 

“No, no, must be boring for an exciting lil girl like you.” He taps his chin almost pantomime-esque in its overdramatic nature. 

“Hmm… what shall we do to keep it entertaining.” You squirm silently begging him to stop drawing your attention to his wrists. He bends down, unstrapping the weights from his ankles, 

“They’re gonna be a bit big on you. But still,” He kneels down, like he’s the prince and you’re Cinderella, tapping your foot to make you lift it up for him. He slips it onto your ankle, letting it fall down over the top of your foot as the weight drags it down. You wiggle your foot - it’s not particularly heavy, you could definitely still walk and run in them - as was probably their intended use. But they made you feel very … aware, made you notice whenever you wanted to move your leg. He grabs your right leg now, doing the same, placing it back down when he was finished, your legs wide. You glance down at him, realising that your dress was certainly too short for this. You try to close your legs but he stops you with a hand to your knee. 

“No, no, darlin’, leave ‘em where they are. That’s gonna be your job ok baby? You’re gonna keep these yittle legs spread, and when you try to wiggle around again these-“ He taps one of the weights “ ‘ll remind you to keep still.” You hiss back at him, 

“Elvis - someone’s gonna, you gotta get up - they’re all gonna think we’re up to no good, don’t want - I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” He grins up from between your legs, spreading them further. You cringe a little, feeling the air now brush against your uncovered underwear, feel your wetness start to drool onto the fabric despite the embarrassment. 

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble ‘round here little one. ‘Member I’m in charge.” He takes a second to leer at you, and your thighs twitch at him staring straight up your skirt. Finally, he stands up, using your thighs for balance, clutching at them on his way up, you gasp at the firm grip. He leans down over you, one arm bracketed on the back of your chair, and the sudden scent of him, stronger than what was lingering on his jacket almost overpowers you - his cologne almost too much, like walking past a men’s locker room. He leans down to murmur in your ear, his other hand going down to brush against your hip, feeling through your dress for the waistband of your panties.  

“C’mon Bunny slip ‘em off, let me have ‘em as a good luck charm. I haven’t got any of yours yet.” Your legs slip a little closer together and while he looks down and smirks he allows it, 

“You got a collection?” You ask shocked, tilting your chin up at him, he grins back at you, boyishly and amused ignoring the question. 

“C’mon! Hurry up, gotta get back to work in a second baby, want you all bare - so its nice and easy for you to slip a lil hand up there, want you to rub yerself every time you like what ‘m doin, ‘till you’re all silly with it. Okay doll?” He says it like its a totally sane request, and you have to wonder if he’s of completely sound mind. You glance around, double checking that the building is practically empty, and where there are people that they’re all preoccupied with the stage rather than glancing back at you sat in the middle of the row a few lines behind the mafia. You roll your eyes, heart going almost a little too fast, but still obediently lift your hips up to tug your panties down and off, they catch on the weight on the way down, 

“No need to be shy doll, I’ve seen it all before.” He winks, as he bends down to pick them up, glancing straight up your skirt as he does. You flinch a little at the sight of them in his hand, if you’d known Elvis was gonna be taking them home you’d have put on something a little sexier, but you can’t imagine that any change could have made his face more gleeful, as he stares down at the wet spot on them before slipping them straight into his pocket.

 “You ‘member what you’re meant to be doin’ now.” He whispers in your ear, pressing what would look like an otherwise fairly chaste kiss to your cheek, before sauntering back up to the stage.

 You nervously fumble the hem of your dress, delicately sliding a hand up, trying not to noticeably flinch as your fingers brush over yourself. You wonder if it wouldn’t have made more sense to slip your arm down the side of the wide arm-hole of the dress, more subtle perhaps? But all you can hope is that the the way the chairs are placed in front of you obscures your actions should anyone look back. From anyone that wasn’t up high on the stage. You can practically feel his laser focus up your skirt, you’re far enough away that you’re sure he can’t see anything in detail, perhaps not even the way your slickness glistens against your skin, but just the gentle motion of your fingers teasing yourself. There’s a clang as the metal inside the cuff on your ankle knocks against the chair leg and you freeze, anxiously glancing around to check no one had heard. Elvis’ head had whirled around at the noise from where he’s been talking to someone at the side of the stage and you can see the way his face contorts into a knowing smirk. 

You didn’t think you’d be into this level of wanton exhibitionism, but the sudden fear that had jumped through you had translated straight into excitement, and you could feel the pulse of arousal swirling with the butterflies in your stomach. You brush your fingers more confidently, rolling your hips with the motion, not even really aware of how much your body was moving, but simply going with it. Your eyes briefly slip closed as you rub a singular finger down your self, trying to build the anticipation, but you can’t resist moving your hand to play with your clit when your vision clears and you witness him moving about the stage - dancing, thrusting. He pauses while they reset something - the mic perhaps, or the lights, and you can feel the thrum of your climax growing; the fear of being spotted, the sheer desire for him, the feel of your feet firmly planted on the floor, weights holding them down, enough to bring you closer and closer. 

He starts singing again but if someone had had a gun to your head though you wouldn’t have been able to tell them what, and as you start to move your fingers again you make eye contact with him, swallowing a moan as you watch him attempt to surreptitiously adjust himself. You should feel embarrassed, you think, but instead a sudden boldness creeps over you at the evidence of his undivided attention, and you instead spread your legs wider, your skirt riding into the little roll of your stomach, completely exposing yourself. You run your fingers against yourself, feeling them slip as you gather wetness and drag it up, reducing the friction on your clit when you finally let your finger brush over it again. 

Elvis is stood still now, ostensibly staying put so they could manually hold the lights for him to sing a ballad, but in reality in the perfect position to watch you. You watch his face flush as he misses a note, watching you finally dip your finger into your practically dripping entrance. You’re made away of the weight on your feet when your legs try to jerk and your body compensates by crunching in on yourself a little. Making it startlingly obvious to anyone watching, hopefully just Elvis, what you’ve just done. 

You let his voice wash over you, and your eyes close as you go to add a second finger, thumb moving to tease your clit with little circling touches. Your climax comes over you suddenly and unexpectedly, a slightly unplanned harder touch directly over your clitoris and the combination of your fingers curling inside yourself sending shockwaves down your spine and belly. You continue to touch yourself through it - dragging it out for a moment. Until you just know that if you push yourself any further you’re going to scream and you have to slow the pace, gently stroking yourself as you slowly come down from the high. Your head had fallen back and with a little effort you manage to bring it back around, shifting yourself upright as you do. 

When you make eye contact he winks, mimics licking his fingers, and you look down at your own sticky pair, before following his mimed instruction. You meet his eyes again and watch him trail off mid-sentence as his chest heaves taking you in, squinting under his glasses to try and focus on your fingers leaving your mouth. You make sure for a second that you let your tongue peek out, watching him gulp in response.  Before hastily rubbing your hand against your dress, thankful for the colourful pattern that hides all sin. He sets the microphone back onto its stand, slowly, deliberately. Then, he motions you to the stage, and when you make no attempt to move, fear shooting through you that you’re going to be leaving a wet patch behind, he makes the request vocal. 

“C’mere Bunny, can’t see you all the way over there.” You rapidly close your legs, weights knocking against each other, and sit stock straight as several of the boy’s heads spin to look at you. Elvis breaks into song, “C’mon and be my little good luck charm.”  While pointing to a spot in the front row. You swallow hard, trying to make your limbs cooperate again, but it just looks like pure defiance, and he’s frowning at you when you try to plead with your eyes. 

His tone changes, “Ain’t gonna ask again honey,” You flinch as several other heads in front of you turn around to stare. You trip a little as you stand, forgetting about the extra weight on your ankles and when you look up Elvis’ smirking straight at you. 

“Can take them off now baby, leave ‘em on the chair, someone’ll clean it up later.” He winks and you suck in a gasp as you do as he directed, the implication of someone having to clean up both the weights and the seat of the chair. You can feel the heat in your cheeks at the complete lack of secrecy, with your mind all muddled you don’t have the capacity to consider that the other people in the room wouldn’t understand the double entendre. 

 “There we are, right there Bunny,” He points at the same spot again and you gratefully stumble down there, collapsing into it. You can feel your cheeks blazing and you clasp your thighs together, trying to tell yourself to just watch Elvis and not pay any attention to how wet you still are, or the embarrassment of being ordered around in front of everyone. 

You sit there primly, for the rest of the rehearsal, ignoring your newfound nakedness under your skirt - unable to draw your eyes off of his wrists, his waist, now you know how those innocuous little white bands feel. Waiting to be dismissed, sent home - although you hope that you might get another invitation. He finishes, stripping off the weights as he’s laughing and thanking the sound guys - although shouting back at them as he stalks across the stage to where you’re sat to the side of the front row.

“That interference needs to be cut by tonight, it’s messin’ with my ears, I don’t care if you have to go out and buy a whole new fucking system - just get it done.” Despite his harsh words by the time he’s kneeling in front of you he’s smiling slightly bashfully. His eyes crinkling at the edges as he mutters to you - 

“Don’t know why I keep ‘em around.” He offers you his hand, pulling with his suddenly weightless feeling arms to yank you up with him, clearly overcompensating without the weight, causing you to stumble with the force of it. His arm comes around to steady your waist. He stands there, legs spread and solid, holding you to him, brushing your hair off your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Wanna come back with me, honey? C’mon baby,” He’s pleading with you, entreating you to follow him, babying tone convincing you as if you even needed encouragement. “How - How’d you feel about, I got some things we could watch, we could, could - I sure would love to tape ya, baby.” You lean back, brow furrowing as your mind runs through what he’s suggesting. 

(Director Elvis + Model Bunny)

But still, after some consideration you agree, and before long you’re relaxing on the bed with him, taking in the moments of quiet before he’s got to head out into the screaming crowds, performing for the pleasure of the girls and women. He’s magnificent in the flesh, masterful in his ability to command the ultimate attention of the audience. But still, as wonderful as it is to watch him, rhinestones glinting in the stage lights, you have to admit to yourself that you much preferred him in the somewhat faux intimacy of the rehearsal. 

By the time you’re all filing up the steps to the plane once more it’s night again, looking forward to a short day-break for you all after the busy past couple of days. Elvis is exhausted, and though he’s gentle with you still you can tell he’s had enough. He wearily waves to the other girls, calling you over to ask for some food before disappearing.  You push the cart into where he’s ensconced himself in the bedroom to discover him in the bathroom - door open, and you can’t help but take a peek. Your eyes catch on the little pill bottles lined up on the side, the man himself shaking seemingly every bottle possible into his palm until there was a little cocktail of medication contained in his hand. He takes them with a swig of water and jumps when he makes eye contact with you in the mirror. 

“Jeez honey, make a noise next time.” His tone isn’t harsh, it’s not annoyed - but it is solid, serious. You frown, the floor was carpeted but the rickety wheels of the cart still made some noise. 

“Oh, uh, sorry - didn’t mean to scare you.” You laugh a little bit in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. He doesn’t respond. “Uh, I’ve got, there’s hamburgers, and sandwiches and uh-“ He’s wiping his hands on a hand towel when he comes out of the bathroom, throwing it back onto the floor behind him when they’re dry. 

“S’ok Bunny, that’s good. Just-just leave it over here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pointing to a spot within arm’s reach. He’s in the tracksuit again, out of the jumpsuit from the show, out of the the sharp outfits you were now used to seeing him in. But he still looks appealing, if not moreso now. Soft, approachable and above all else - cuddly. He’s evidently exhausted, face pale after removing the stage makeup, and he shuffles back on the bed. He’s starting to slur his words a little as he reaches for a sandwich, 

“Come. Come sit here baby… come sit here with me.” He pats the side of the bed next to him as he shuffles further up. You do so and he tucks a hand into the crease of your stomach and thigh, thumb brushing in circles, a gently squeezing grip. 

“Here.” He holds out a sandwich for you and you take it gratefully, “Gotta…feed you up while I got the chance.” His head is starting to slip forward as his eyes fall closed. You pat his arm, leaning over to take the parchment out of his hand. He grips your wrist, forcing you to put your sandwich down too as he slides down the bed to lie down, tugging you into him. 

“S’ok El, just, just close your eyes. You did so good today.” He hums, a little pleased noise like he’s somehow not used to being praised still. He pulls you closer, arm wrapping under and around you, pulling you tight to him. 

“That’s it Bunny, that’s it, just - just gonna rest my eyes for a moment, doll. Be…be ready for action in a mo’ - just, ju-“ You shush him, his eyes were fluttering closed, arm clenching around you and you felt it relax a second later as he drops off into sleep. 

There’s a few more flights scheduled, but they’re busy ones - short flights with barely enough time to get the men fed and watered, let alone enjoy any other kind of extracurricular activities - there’s a hasty blowjob and an attempt for the world’s quickest round of intercourse and that’s it.

There’s a break for a little while before he cancels the next flight on Big Bunny so you only see him once more, and that time he barely acknowledges you; exhausted from a show he locks himself in the bedroom and doesn’t appear until the plane is touching down. You wave goodbye to him, a little melancholy and hating yourself for wishing that he make some grand gesture to prove it had all meant something, instead he winks at you as he leaves down the steps, whispering a

“Thanks for takin’ such good care of me, Bunny.” As he went. 

That’s the last you hear from him. For little over six months you hear nothing else. You’re almost immediately thrust back into the reality of the normal world and you’re kept busy enough that he doesn’t pass through your mind too often. 

Occasionally, when you see a tour announcement pop up in the tabloids, or from a fan-club membership that you totally didn’t take out in a pitiful attempt to keep up-to-date with his life, you wonder about him. About whether you were a bit of fun to flirt with, to tease, to sleep with for a couple of days - a distraction from the real life, like all the bunnies were intended to be, or if he’d meant any of what he’d said. The thing is, even if you were curious, you could never know - despite being so intimate, so close to him; had he lied? Did he help every girl through a panic attack with meditation? There no longer felt like six degrees of separation between you, no longer like you were travelling in similar circles, there now felt more like a hundred degrees; what were you supposed to do; ring the operator in Memphis and ask for Elvis’ number? Pull Hef aside on the next flight and ask him? Don’t be so ridiculous, so clingy you tell yourself, disgusted at your inability to let it go. 

Time passes, as it does, and though you somehow feel like you can’t escape him, ultimately you have. Months have passed and you’re busy - being promised a promotion, training a couple of new girls and it means that you don’t get to go home for what feels like weeks.

 You finally get back to your apartment, relieved to be there for at least a week, with a stack of mail waiting as tall as your arm. You take your time enjoying the peace and by the evening it feels like you can relax for the first time in a long while, glass of wine poured, comfortable little short pyjama set instead of the bunny-approved corset or dress. You’re just starting to open the first of what looks like several catalogues of clothes you’ll never get a chance to wear when the phone rings. 

You glance over at the clock, surprised that anyone would be calling you at half eleven at night, when as far as you’re aware none of your friends or family even know you’re home yet. You consider not answering, too content with your night, but it rings insistently so you drag the handset closer, accepting the call. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” You’re immediately taken aback by the annoyed exasperation of the voice on the other end of the line, 

“Where’ve you been?” You start to protest, to question who on earth is questioning you and explain that you’ve been working but the voice doesn’t give you the chance. 

“Listen, Boss’ got a new plane, he’s uh, calling it the Lisa-Marie,” he shouts to someone on his end, “I don’t know man, thought it would sweeten the deal if she knew he’d already named it! Like - ain’t that what you’re supposed to do if you’re negotiatin’ - let ‘em know you have a name?” Right. So, Elvis. Someone is calling about Elvis’ plane. You’re trying to comprehend that when he continues,

 “Sorry. Anyway, he wants you on it. He won’t hear otherwise.” He pauses, “Permanently. On call whenever and wherever he needs to fly,” As if he can sense this isn’t the most attractive prospect, “but you’ll uh, all expenses paid for, apartment in Memphis, the whole shebang, you’ll be well taken care of.” You take a second to process that, 

“Uh, I don’t quite know what to say - do, do you need to know right away?” He chuckles down the phone at you, 

“Well - uh, no, but, he’s goin’ on tour soon and we need the flights staffed by then so….” He trails off, and you know from your limited experience with Elvis and his methods that this means, actually yes, we do need to know right now, and we’re not actually giving you a choice. You take a deep breath, still confused as to why you’re getting this call out of the blue, thinking that you’re going to regret it if you do, regret it if you don’t. 

“Oh, uh, ok fine - look I’ll be at one of the offices tomorrow; I’ll give you a call and you can fax me over the information for the dates and things?” 

“No need, we need you by July.” You pause, that’s… barely a month away, 

“Ok, I’ve got a three week notice period though, I can’t just -” 

“We’ll take care of it with Hugh direct.” You laugh incredulously - is that how they think it works? 

“Hugh Hefner isn’t my boss - how high up do you think I am? I’m a jet bunny for god's sake.” There’s silence on the other end of the line as if they'd expected you to feel cowed, or awed by their famous friend. You can hear them whispering before the voice returns, just as confident as before; 

“Well, we’ll take care of it.” You frown but you’re not sure what else to do but agree - at least this way of something falls through you can claim you had no clue about any of this. 

“Ok, but you’ll have to ask for Ellen at the office and I’ve got a notice of -“ You’re cut off by him, 

“We’ll make it happen.” Well, you couldn’t say more than what you’d said - you’ll just have to hope they do enough that it all gets sorted somehow, and without totally burning all your bridges. 

“Right, well then, -” 

“Tickets for your flight on the 26th June to Memphis will be waiting at the airport. Someone’ll pick you up there.” 

“Uh ok, um, well then that’s -” 

“Thanks again, you’re a doll, bye!” The phone hangs up and you’re left holding the receiver wondering what on earth you’ve just agreed to. 

—— 

It turns out you’ve agreed to a stewardess job pretty similar to any other. You’ve got a cute new little uniform, and it was indeed little, sleeveless and hem skimming the middle of your thighs but Elvis had indeed fulfilled his promise - it was stretchy. With a scarf around your neck and tall boots it almost didn’t feel much different to your bunny outfits. In fact it all would have felt quite similar if it weren’t for the sudden increase in responsibility you were facing. There was another girl who worked on board here and there, but whether as a cost-saving measure (although you couldn’t fathom the necessity considering the gold sinks on the plane) or simply the knowledge that one stewardess and the pilots were enough for a plane of this size you weren’t often put on the plane together. It meant that you were often working alone and solely responsible for the cabin. It was certainly an adjustment, you’d been safety trained before - of course - but you’d never really had to use it; the focus of your jet bunny role had pretty much been to cater to the whims of the people on board. Like a Barbie doll you’d had too many jobs to count, and the responsibility to look good while doing so. On the plane you’d had to be waitresses, dancers, chefs and bartenders but less so a safety officer. 

And it’s so strange, you’d not been expecting much but you had been anticipating at least an acknowledgement, or something? But instead on the first flight Elvis collapses in a seat, clearly out of his mind and ignores you completely, There’s this, somewhat odd, hierarchy evident and you somehow just know that you shouldn’t approach him like this - trusting that his needs are being catered for by his entourage. But you can’t help but glance over at him, inspecting that he looks paler than before - almost sallow-like in comparison to the fit tan of the first time you’d seen him in the flesh. So you do your job, and see them on and off the plane with nary a word exchanged between the two of you. 

You fall into this habit pretty quickly, flight after flight. When he’s awake his eyes skim over you, unfocused and never stopping for long. You hate yourself for how upset it makes you, he hadn’t owed you anything and yet you still feel like you’d signed up for something under false pretences. It keeps you up at night, wondering how you could have been so stupid - you’d given up a stable salary, a life and an exciting one at that, for this - for him. With every month that passes you’re more and more aware that you’re creeping towards your next birthday and the chance to return to Playboy in any capacity is dwindling. They aren’t shy about declaring there’s an age limit. You feel like you’re trapped, in a never-ending cycle - flight, sort the plane while they’re at a concert, flight, fitful sleep in a hotel, flight, flight, flight. 

But then, like magic, two weeks before your birthday - two weeks before the deadline you’d come up with in your head to quit he notices you. He’d been looking better for a few days, on an upward swing or so it would seem, and seems significantly more aware than he had been.  He almost does a double-take, as if seeing you for the first time. It’s then that, suddenly, Georgia - the other girl, starts to come on board with you a lot more frequently - taking care of the other guys while Elvis not so surreptitiously pulls you into his excessively decorated bedroom.

It’s not the first time you’ve been in there, you clean the damn place after all, but it’s the first time that you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes, through the lens of the awe of a girl being invited back there as a guest. You feel the bend of the fibres of the plush carpet underfoot, against the smooth sole of your boot. 

He sits down, patting his thigh, “Give me your lil footsie baby, them little footsie sooties, put ‘em up here.” You look at him slightly askance, fondly, but still do as he asks, putting first one foot up on his lap, letting him unzip your boot, tugging it off and then your other one when he taps your ankle. He looks up at you, as he holds onto your foot, and you know you’re both getting flashbacks to that first flight, when he’d tugged your heels off, got caught in your pantyhose, the joy of that first time. He grips your wrist, forcing you to kneel onto and then shuffle across the bed as he tugs you while sliding back himself.  Pulling you're both placed far enough to the headboard that he sinks down into a lying position and drags you down with him. 

“Elvis - I, I, I don’t know what -“ 

“Shhh baby, don’t worry about anything, just, just feel it with me - you feel that?” He shifts to hold your hand, “Feel that energy? ‘S right between us darlin’ girl, right there.” You’re not really sure what he’s talking about, but you had been feeling the thrum of a connection, willing him to pick up on your silent desires, so you can’t deny a strength of feeling there. 

“I feel it.” He hums at you, happily, still holding onto your hand, threading his fingers through yours and pressing his nose against your cheek. He nuzzles at you for a moment, starting off gentle and slow, before rolling you into him and catching your mouth with his. He’s sure of himself, pressing himself skilfully against you - you’re more than aware that this is a skill he’s nurtured, learnt - been judged upon, almost as much as his singing and it shows, it feels no different to the first time you’d kissed. A masterclass in the right moves, just the right amount of bite, just the right amount of tongue, and it makes you buck into him. You’re suddenly desperate for him to break out of the cultured practiced mould, feel him lose control and slip. You gasp, trying to provoke it in him, biting down on his lip a fraction too hard. He shifts his grip to your neck, clutching it to pull you back a little, 

“Careful, honey, careful.” You can feel his lips move against your skin as he murmurs and it makes you shiver a little at the tickle of his breath. He kisses across your jaw, little sucking presses, before he returns once again to your mouth. 

It’s hard not to assign more feeling or meaning to it than what it is, when he seems to do everything with such feeling. Not for the first time you wonder how it would be possible to be kissed at a concert and then have to continue to go about your life, acting as if nothing huge had happened, as if something totally earth-shattering hadn’t taken place. But then, you imagine, it’s probably not that different to what you have to do. 

He pulls back a little, pushing himself up to be more on his knees than lying back, before he slips a hand down between you, pushing underneath your dress to pull at your panties, rubbing a finger on the outside. He pushes them against your folds, circling with his finger until a little damp patch is forming where he’s touching. He pulls them to one side, shimmying his hand underneath, a ring knocking against your thigh and catching on the fabric and your hair as he cups your mound. You reach a hand down yourself, brushing it over his trousers, but you’re slightly surprised to feel him still soft inside. He jerks his hand off of you, gripping your leg instead, shoving your hand away with his other. 

You pat his face as it peers over the top of you, the creases in the corners of his eyes a little scrunched up in disappointment and his lips in a slight pout; as if he were trying to stop himself being upset.

“‘S ok El, You’ve still gotta perform tonight too -“ You go to tug your dress back down assuming there was no need for you to remain bare but his hand flies out, gripping your forearm and pushing it against your stomach.

“Take it all the way off,” You look nervously over at the unlocked bedroom door but obediently wiggle down a little, as best you can with his arm still locked over top of you to slither out of the dress. He shifts back down into a horizontal position, sliding himself further down, shirt crumpling with the motion, before gripping you with one hand on an arm and one on a leg, to hint at where he wants you to move to, tugging you until you’re in position, straddling him.

“El - seriously, I don’t think, it’s fine, it happens all the time it’s noth-“ He cuts you off by sharply pulling, with hands gripping right on your hipbones, you closer to him - forcing you to stumble on your knees even further up his body. 

“‘Nough of that.” In that wonderful growly voice only he seems able to achieve, he lifts his chin up to press a kiss against your inner thigh. “Can still, still make you feel good Bunny, baby. Still make that pretty yittle cunt o’ yours feel good.” He yanks you so you’re perfectly placed, hands gripping the navy velvet headboard to hold yourself steady. “Just gonna have a lil taste, ok darling? Just needta give me a little more time. Let, let it kick in.” You nod frantically, although you’re not 100% certain what you’ve got to let ‘kick in’. 

“Yes, god, yes. Sure.” The kiss, and his brief touches had been enough to turn you on, and you jerk as he holds your thighs to press a kiss against your now bare cunt, 

“Oh, fuck.” Elvis laughs against you, and you can feel the vibration up your spine, thetickle sending sparks straight into your stomach. The sheer level of arousal makes you feel almost a little nauseous but you’re distracted by the feel of his tongue moving again, holding you tight to him with his grip on your thigh when the feeling makes you try to thrust out of his hold.  You can feel twin bruises form from the thick bands of the ring on each of his hands and the twinge of pain when he lifts the pressure makes you gasp, 

“Oh, Christ - Elvis, need, need you to,” You’re not sure if you were planning on asking him to let go, or hold you tighter - but you’re distracted by him shifting to suck down directly on your clit, briefly, just enough to make you choke on your own spit, before he releases, flattening his tongue and moving it down. Every time you clench or move you can feel his fingers digging tighter in and you can’t help but move, grinding onto his mouth and against his tongue. He pulls away, and you shift your hips slightly so you can look down at him, and your head tips back with a moan as he quirks a little grin at you. It’s utterly filthy the way his chin and mouth is glisteningly sticky and wet.

“You like that honey?” You nod, and he returns, surging forward to renew his efforts, your hips circling in response. 

“Oh god, yes, don’t, oh, holy fuck, - don’t stop,” You can’t stop moving your hips, and part of you is briefly concerned that you might be suffocating him, but the larger part is more concerned with making sure he keeps licking right there until your building climax hits. His tongue is flicks between lapping at your vagina and your inner folds. Your hips are constantly moving and you grip the headboard even harder, feeling the fabric pile shift and flatten under your hold as he finally captures your little puffy clit in his lips again and sucks hard, reaching up to slip a finger inside you as he does. 

Your lower back is starting to ache, thighs beginning to cramp but you can’t think about that, reaching down with one hand to comb through his hair, clutching at it as you thrust up and back, finally your climax rocking through you. He licks you through it, holding you open still, feeling you shudder around him, until you finally insistently tug on his hair enough to make him come away. 

You dread to think what it must have sounded like on the other side of the door, the wet smacking having been all you could hear past the blood rushing through your own ears and you’re sure you couldn’t possibly have stayed silent. You watch him wipe his mouth with a sleeve, blushing the whole while before he slips out of the shirt. Fully exposing his bare chest and, finally, reaching down to unzip himself. 

You’re sticky and soft when he reaches down, running a finger against you, opening you up to bump against you with his now, hard, cock. You’re not quite sure when it had happened, if it was a delayed reaction to a pill he took earlier, or if he simply was that turned on just by licking you to completion, but you’re not about to complain feeling how his head slips against your wetness, nudging at your clit before he angles himself down, bumping against your entrance. 

“There he is, Bunny, got Lil’ Elvie here just for you baby, for my sweet lil - ah, bunny bun,” 

Elvis pushes into you, a hand straying to stroke your labia on its way up to clutch at your waist, feeling the way you open up around him - for him. You groan at the sensation - it’s been a while, actually it’s been a long while; the last man you’d been with was the one currently pressing inside of you. He takes a moment to allow you to adjust, although you suspect it also allowed him a moment or two, either to calm himself down or encourage himself up. 

“That’s it, honey, there we are, there we go, Oh Lord, here we are, I got you, gonna, gonna do such a good job, you just lie back. I got you, got -“ 

He’s fucking into you now, slowly, sweetly, accompanying each thrust with his mouth joining onto yours, and sloppy open-mouthed kisses against your jaw and neck. He’s trying to get the angle right, you can tell, but he’s decidedly less sure than he ever used to be, or least how you remember him. Taking longer to hit the right spot, and then almost immediately slipping away and losing it.

“Ah, that’s - that’s it, right there,” You almost cry out as he moves again, begging him in your mind to return to where he was. 

Still, he’s not totally unskilled, and the motion of his body against yours, of the feel of his hand reaching down to play with clit, combined with the growling curses and praises falling from his lips, southern accent coming out harder as he loses himself in it, is enough for you to feel yourself start to shudder your way towards a second orgasm, clenching down onto him. That is, apparently, enough to set him off and he takes some time firmly rocking his hips into you, before, with a hand splayed on your tummy for balance, withdrawing fast to shoot across your stomach. He collapses there for a moment, lips in a pout and eyes closed from the sheer pleasure of the minute before. 

He rolls off of where he’s pressed against you, where you’d welcomed being crushed under his weight, tummy pushed against yours, hairs tickling your own bare skin to flop onto his back. You watch his chest heave, eyes drawn to his tight little nipples, as he catches his breath back. You take a moment to swipe the cum off your belly with the edge of the bedspread, noting in your head to send it to the laundry later. You know you should be getting up to pee sooner rather than later but he’s holding out an arm to you, and you can’t bear the thought of refusing his offer. Instead curling into him with a sigh. He smells the same as you remember now, that same heady mix of sweat and sex, woodsy heavy cologne combined with the tint of smoke, and you hate how it sends flutters down your tummy again at how you feel a sense of familiarity from it. He murmurs into the top of your head, lips catching on your hair, 

“You been here all along Bunny? Hopping around my plane?” You nod and you feel him grimace, “Didn’t recognise you without your ears, or your yittle tail.” You don’t mention that you very rarely wore ears on Big Bunny, and that he had in fact seen you both on and off the plane without them too. He tips your chin up to look at you and you make eye contact with his pair of guilt tinged blue eyes. Your nose wrinkles and he taps it with a finger, “Twitchy lil thing though still ain’t ya?” He pats your cheek, “Still gonna be my bunny? Ain’t got another bunny, got, got,” He stumbles over his words as he takes a breath in, clearly struggling to stay lucid enough to have the conversation, “got other girls, not got ‘Cilla no more, but got, got Linda … and, and - I got a whole list, baby, but no - you’re my only bunny.” 

The thing is though, it’s never for long. You prefer the flights after a show to the ones before, he’s more awake before but he’s panicked like a tiger in a cage. It’s still difficult to tell what kind of Elvis you’ll be dealing with on any given night. There’ll be one flight where he’s perfect, drowsy from a show but awake and alert, flirty and fun, and then another where he sleeps for so long and so deeply that you worry he’ll never wake up. The worst are the ones where him and Dr Nick, his father or one of the other boys with that damned black bag disappear into the bedroom for the flight. He stumbles down the stairs after in a daze, clearly half out of his mind. The alternative - that you have to listen to his whimpering cries, that his body aches, that sleep won’t come to him - why won’t anyone listen to him? That he wants his mama, that everyone leaves him, “even my yittle yisa.” Is worse, it makes you wish for when he’s sedated or so over the top in his exuberance that you know his ‘vitamins’ have a lot to do with it. You don’t know how much longer you can silently pick up the pieces - cleaning up when he’s trashed the room in a rage, or left pill bottles littering the floor. Going in to him when he calls for you, acting as his waitress, nurse and on-call girlfriend all at once. 

Linda accompanied him often, and you’re shooed out of the way of her keen eyes as they watch you a little too knowingly. She’s sophisticated and classy though, more than you would be in the situation. More than you are. You take the opportunity to swap with Georgia as often as you possibly can when you know she’s coming with him. 

You’d avoided her too at first, often being the only one working on the little plane, not usually that many people on board - maybe ten at most, well within the capabilities of a single girl and the pilots. You hated that you felt the sting of jealousy, of worry that he was fooling around with her too, to the extent that when she, unprompted, had reassured you that she had not slept with him and nor would she ever sleep with him you had laughed it off. Pretending you had no idea what she was suggesting. 

Linda though proved difficult to ignore. She was a presence - even when she wasn’t physically there - he was swearing to the boys they were through, broken up, done, and then would spend hours on the phone to her. He’d swear he didn’t give a shit about her anymore; just had to keep his promises to take care of her - but then a week later she’d appear on the plane with him. They’d sit cuddled together half the time, shouting and screaming for the other half. You had no idea how to react when she called you in to the bedroom, Elvis’ head pillowed on her thighs, dead asleep. She doesn’t ask you for much, a coffee and some water to be brought to them. You do so, still slightly surprised to be invited to intrude on what seemed like an overwhelmingly private moment. But then, a large part of your job is being invisible when necessary. You don’t expect to her acknowledge you when you return, but she does - she’s polite and courteous, but quiet, eyes never leaving his relaxed forehead. A cynical part of your brain wonders if it wasn’t intentional, if she didn’t purposefully call you in at that moment to prove she was different, but that line of thinking gets you nowhere. It’s not your place to be jealous.

Occasionally there’s other girls with him, you burn when Sheila comes aboard - you’d given up your cover dreams for this, and it feels like she’s the new kid in town - replacing you in every way. Better than you in every way, she’s pretty and lithe and young; you’re young and pretty too but you’re feeling it less and less. She’s above you - in the privileged position to sit at the side of the King while you have to settle for serving him and her. She had the cover, you had gotten pouring the drinks into branded glasses.

Elvis didn’t help how you felt - the first time she came on board he took it upon himself to personally introduce the two of you. He was sat with his legs spread wide, Sheila’s own legs over the top of his, an arm tucking her tight against his side out in the lounge area, the public display of affection almost too much for you to witness. 

“Here she is!” He called out when you came around the corner of the half-dividing wall, and you balk a little before steeling yourself to walk over, 

“Here I am.” You respond, flatly. He’d been particularly difficult recently, and your patience was wearing thin. 

“Looksies - this here is my Sheila,” He raises her arm, she nods politely, “She’s - she’s a bunny too, she was on the cover.” You smile, what else can you do? 

“Oh - wow, congratulations.” You nod at her, she’s silent. 

“Two bunnies on the plane! My two bunnies together!” He laughs, and the tone and words immediately make you smart. There’s a cruel edge to it that you don’t quite understand, it’s not like you’ve ever turned him down or refused him, not like you’ve done anything to be treated second best - to have her paraded in front of you. 

 It makes your skin crawl, furious with every decision that led to this point, cursing those pretty blue eyes that you couldn’t refuse. Makes your skin crawl that he’d sworn you were his only bunny; and as ridiculous as it might seem, the evidence that that wasn’t true at all, that it was an empty promise makes you cry yourself to sleep for too many nights in a row. The first time you’d found a notelet, tucked under the bed having perhaps fallen out of a pocket or book, 

“To Sheila, 

Love you allways, 

E.P.” 

You take two weeks off, and debate whether you should even return, if it’s worth how it makes you feel. You don’t have time to see anyone else, and you’re not dating him. But then in some ways it makes sense all your emotions would be put onto him, you weren’t physically seeing anyone else, in general, exclusively cocooned in the Elvis Presley Show bubble. There is, you think after three glasses of red wine at home in your fancy new Memphis apartment, nothing else in your life. There is only Elvis. You wonder if you can use that as the excuse on your notice. You make yourself go back though, determined to get a grip of yourself, of your feelings, give it one last try. 

It’s short-lived with Sheila, at least from your perspective up in the air above the reality of the ground below. Ultimately, you feel you somehow won. And although he may, every now and again, bring some pretty young thing up into the air with him or have Linda come on board during some of the tour he’s fundamentally alone again - the same group of men his only constant companions. You form your own opinion of them, watching two of them cringe at the sight of the little black bag of pills and needles and two others writing his signature out on blank cheques. 

You’re horrified, making eye contact with Charlie, you think, you know their names now you need to start to use them. You open your mouth to say something, but uncertain about what, but he catches your eye, shaking his head and you wonder if there’s anyone on this plane willing to stick up for him.  You’re forced ot consider if it’s something you can do too - turning a blind eye to all of this or if you’re going to be forced to leave because you were unwilling to do so.

But then, there’s a few months where he behaves differently, and he looks different - his face brightens up, and though you don’t dislike how he looked before you can appreciate that he’s slimmed down a little, looking less bloated than he had before. A renewed interest in the happenings of the group. Suddenly, he’s interested in you again - ensconcing you in his bedroom, telling the boys to stop telling you what to do or asking you for things,

“It’s not her job - her job is looking after me.” And you do, distracting him as best you can when that’s what he’s after - reassuring him when it’s not. You have to talk him down from a panic at one point and you’re thankful to have the memory of him calming you down to use as your guideline, even if you find irony in being the one trusted to provide the measured breaths. 

The sex though, is still almost non-existent; he apologises constantly, and at one point you try to have a conversation about it, lying with him in the bed, cuddled together. 

“I’m not your girlfriend, E, you don’t needta explain yourself to me,” He hushes you, 

“You’re my girl as much as any of ‘em.” It’s your turn to stroke his cheek, 

“I don’t need to be, you don’t hafta say that to me.” He just hums at you, tucking you further under his arm and cupping your face to his chest. That’s when the gifts start rolling in, before you’d even arrived back at your apartment for a few days off, finding on the doorstep a gift bag filled with lingerie. You smile when you see it, but you’re a little puzzled - he’s not even seen you in your underwear in months. Was this a hint? Were you meant to be the one putting out? You took it as you thought he intended it, picking out and wearing the little white set you found in there, but you were unsurprised when nothing came to fruition on the flight. You tentatively bring it up the next time you’re curled up next to him - the flight not really long enough to justify a nap but happy to be tucked up in his chest.  You’re drawing circles with a fingertip through the gaping neckline of his shirt, absentmindedly thinking of how best to bring it up. 

“El, what’s -, not that I’m not appreciative but you don’t needta buy me things - especially, especially if you’re not gonna get anything out of it.” You refuse to look at him, anxious for his response. 

“Wasn’t that what you told me before? That you don’t dress for me?” You can feel him already grinning at you in anticipation of your reaction and you laugh, surprised he’d even remember that conversation from a year and a half ago. 

“Well, You weren’t really my boss then.” He chuckles, wrapping his arm tighter around you, 

“Oh-ho, so I can have my wicked way with you now huh?” He squeezes you hard against his side. You giggle, and he continues - his tone turning more serious; “Honey… - Bunny,” he laughs when you squirm at being called bunny still, “I’m just, I can’t, can’t do more at the moment but I uh, I do still - I like thinking about you all pretty for me unner that tiny little scrap of a dress.” He flicks the hem, leaving his hand grasping the back of your thigh and your respond in playful outrage. 

“Scrap! You picked out this dress!” You smile into his chest as you feel his tummy move with his laugh, “Elvis - you don’t owe me anything, I don’t need to be bought things, you don’t need to feel like we have to do anything. I just, just want you to take care of yourself.” He hums at you, as non-committal as one can be. 

He shifts a little so he’s lying on his side, brushing his hand down your body, fingers fumbling as they graze over your core, he seems remarkably less sure of himself than the last time he’d touched you, and you have to wonder if, despite all these girlfriends hanging around, he hadn’t actually been doing it with them either. Whether it’s because his fingers are a little thicker than before, or his skills are simply rusty,  or maybe this is all some new technique he’d thought he’d try, he seems to take a while to do anything. He slips a finger between your folds, gathering the wetness you’d started to feel drip as a pavlovian response to his fingers anywhere near you, and rubbing it up your pussy but when he reaches the apex he seems to struggle, fingertip roving around, rubbing down but not quite finding your clit. You squirm as he continues to rub around just a bit too low, his finger making you pant simply from the virtue of it being Elvis’ finger, but not because of success with his ministrations. You panic, eyes flying open, wondering if you’re gonna have to fake it with Elvis beforehe pulls his hand away with a grunt. 

“Ain’t no good little, my hands are hurtin’ too much tonight, got them, got them shakes again.” You nod even though you know it’s at least partially untrue - his fingers not in the least bit unsteady, if anything they’d been a little too solid. 

“Just, it’s fine to just cuddle El.” He’s silent beside you for a few moments, 

“One sec doll, lemme just -“ He shakes his arms out, staring at the curvature of the plane ceiling as if he’s trying to talk himself up. “Ok, ok Bunny, lets, lets give this another go.” He captures your mouth in his, sucking gentle little bruises across the bottom of your jaw, and lowering himself down to your neck. He concentrates there for a moment as he dances his hand back down your body, shifting your dress up again. His touch this time is more sure, more similar to how he’d always felt, the confidence appeared to be back.

He circles your clit just right, the two fingers curving inside you hitting just the right spot, and he moans with you, 

“C’mon darling that’s it, oh that’s your lil button isn’t it - let me, just relax into me baby, relax, I’ve got you.” He crooks a finger, and your hips jerk, his other hand reaching over to pin you firmly against the bed while he takes the opportunity to brush directly over your clit once again. You squeal, panting, as he whispers into your neck, 

“Such a good girl, good little baby Bunny, c’mon now,” He croons into your ear, voice unmistakable, “C’mon - for me.” His words, the sight of his face, the feeling of his fingers, it all combines so that in mere moments your back is arching off the bed, clutching at his arm as you tip over the edge. 

When you’re back into the land of the living, and your breathing is starting to ease up a little, you’re able to sit up. You get onto your knees for him, expecting to reciprocate but he shakes his head at you, “Just, just lie with me, mama, let me cuddle, ‘s that alright? No-one lets -  everyone wants somethin’ offa me.” You frown, standing up, his words manipulating you into believing you’d even asked him for something, 

“Sorry El- there isn’t, there’s no pressure from me, I just thought because -“ You gesture to his still clearly wet and sticky fingers, “Just wanted to give it back to you.” He huffs, lying down again, and looking over his shoulder at you. Betrayal written on his face. It softens when you clamber back under the covers with him, and he tugs you closer. 

It goes downhill fast, the tours just keep coming, and the random, sudden desires for trips here and there. You’ll be home for a scheduled three, four week break and get maybe 60 hours before a call comes in - he wants to be taken to Colorado, California, to Vegas. Before you know it you’re careening into 1976. He swings like a pendulum from happy to angry - the emotions impossible to keep up with. He wasn’t ever wholly staid before but everything seems suddenly emphasised and the erratic nature of his personality is making you wonder if you can do this job much longer. It’s worse without a girl on board. Linda and he may have argued but he was almost always easily soothed. But she’s coming on less and less, and he’s telling tales about her more and more with the boys. Expressing how he hates her shopping now, how she deserves it but doesn’t earn it, how he can’t stand her nagging. He seems to have more girls than ever before, one or two picked up for him in every city, but they never seem to make it onto the plane.

Without the settling presence of a girlfriend that role falls to you, and although you’ve now spent countless hours with him it’s different; the fits and starts with which you get to see him is completely different to being a girl who’s able to be with him in his home - you find him almost overwhelmingly difficult to manage. The first time he’s brandishing a gun and threatening to shoot you for attempting to put him to bed, you laugh - not expecting to be essentially thrown off of the plane for weeks for such an indiscretion. It doesn’t get mentioned again - not until a while later; simply brushed over, forgotten about. There’s no apology, just suddenly one day, a bashful joke gets made with Elvis tucking his chin to his chest to look at you shamefacedly but almost immediately he cracks a laugh, and you’re forced to laugh it off with him.

His health swings like his moods, it seems to be entirely dependent on a number of factors that all seem to change within a minute’s notice. It’s a combination of his mental health, the exact cocktail of medication at any given time, the number of shows he was doing, how often he was getting to see Lisa, whether he’d been home recently, the financial situation or whether he’d recently liked how he’d looked in the mirror. As soon as any one of these changed it would either send him crashing into lengthy highs or a period of lucidity. 

You didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid - it wasn’t the role you were expecting to fill but as time goes on it seems the only form of relationship you can have with him. You don’t truly mind, although you do wish for more, if he’s going to let you have this part of him - the part of him that’s sad and lonely, the part of him that he’s ashamed of - even if just for a few hours on a plane where he can pretend to be distinct from real life, then you think you deserve the same relationship back on the ground. But you would never broach that with him, not even when he’s alone, or when he brings a girl on board who doesn’t even make it to the next city. All you can do is stay. 

The last part of the year is particularly hard. He looks awful, you only really get to see him directly after a show, the schedule doesn't allow for more spare days in each spot, and the sweat pores off of him. You can’t say he doesn’t look appealing in some ways, you wouldn’t mind  licking him clean, or crawling onto his sweaty chest. But in other ways, his face growing paler and yellower, it makes you cringe away from him. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with him, or that you’re disgusted - a fear he’d mumbled into your stomach one night recently, it’s that it’s so difficult. Difficult to watch a man, so otherwordly virile to succumb to earthly decay. It’s almost painful - and it’s made all the worse by the fact that you’re only given the choice to witness it in fits and starts - over a tour you watch him, keeping a close eye, spending hours alone with him. But then, as you land back in Memphis, or Vegas, or California you lose him again - with no idea of how he’s getting on physically or mentally, no idea of how he’s feeling. He grows distant - and all you want is to make his journey easier, although the destination at this point is unclear. 

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TAGLIST:

i’m just gonna tag anyone that’s specifically msged me about it and/or anyone who commented/reblogged the last two chapters - there’s one last chapter to this ‘verse coming soon(ish) so lmk if you wanted to be added or taken off the list before then :)) 

@ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @a-literal-no-name @elvisabutler @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @iloveelvis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1

[ja3yun]

pour it | p.sh

bartender!sunghoon x bartender!reader

warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, cream pie, cum plugging, choking, slight nipple play, pls never fuck your co-workers (saying from experience), mentions of alcohol ofc, not proof read, anything else lmk!

w.c: 3.5k

REQ: Imagine Sunghoon and you are bartenders for a club and all shifts you guys are always stealing glances at eachother or having lingering touches while you make drinks one day u need to go get more supplies from the back and the tension is so thick he can’t take it anymore and takes you on the boxes of supplies with messy alcohol pouring sex

a/n: hi! it's me and my inability to write a small drabble and turning it into a semi-fic. hope you don't mind, anonnie! i had a lot of fun with this but as someone who used to bartend during uni, you can imagine the flashbacks going through my mind (i also spilt the keg on me like this so, personal experience and some aj lore for you). hope you enjoy!

The club is alive with the throbbing beat of the latest hits, a kaleidoscope of coloured lights dancing over the crowd packed tightly onto the dance floor. The air is thick with the mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of alcohol. Behind the bar, it's a different world, a fast-paced rhythm of cocktail shakers, clinking glasses, and the endless chatter of patrons.

You’re in your element, expertly mixing drinks, the repetitive motions are almost second nature by now. But tonight, there's an added layer of tension simmering beneath the surface. Sunghoon, your coworker, has been brushing past you intentionally for the nth time tonight.

The bar is small, and with Freshers Friday in full swing, it’s a given that there’s going to be constant cross-overs between staff, clambering for ice and lemon wedges. But does he have to hold your waist as he passes, fingers lingering just a moment too long, or reach behind you for a glass when there are plenty on his end? Each touch sends a spark of electricity through your body, your pulse quickening despite your best efforts to ignore it.

You steal a glance at Sunghoon. He’s busy pouring a drink, his jaw set in concentration, but there’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips. He knows exactly what he’s doing. His dark eyes flick to yours for the briefest moment, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. You turn away quickly, focusing on the drink order in front of you.

The club's atmosphere is a mix of chaos and thrill. Neon lights flicker and pulse in time with the music, casting a surreal glow over the sea of bodies moving in sync. The bass reverberates through the floor, through your bones, creating an almost tangible sense of energy.

“Excuse me,” Sunghoon’s voice is low, just above a whisper, as he leans in to reach for a bottle of vodka on the shelf behind you. His chest brushes against your back, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body. You grit your teeth, trying to focus on the cocktail you’re mixing, but it’s no use. Every nerve in your body is attuned to his presence.

“Do you mind?” you snap, but your voice lacks the bite you intended. It comes out breathy, more of a plea than a command.

Sunghoon chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Sorry, Y/N. It’s just so crowded back here.” His hand trails down your arm as he pulls away, and you shudder involuntarily.

You know he’s teasing you, pushing boundaries, testing your reactions. And damn it, it’s working. You can feel the tension between you two building, a palpable thing that hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

It’s been like this since he started working here a few months ago. Training him up was harder than anticipated, not because he wasn’t good at it or couldn’t follow instructions, but because it took everything in your willpower not to pounce on him. Once, you showed him how to make the bar’s signature Long Island Iced Tea. While he was pouring the Triple Sec into the mixer, the veins on his arms and hands strained, the muscles flexing with each precise movement. It was the moment you realized you had a hand kink.

Nothing could stop your imagination since then, constantly thinking about his hands on your throat, the way they would feel gripping you, controlling you. Every time he reached past you or brushed against you, those thoughts flared to life, vivid and consuming.

The club is a frenzy of movement and sound, but all you can focus on is Sunghoon. He’s making his way back to your end of the bar, and you can feel your heart rate spike in anticipation. He stops beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat emanating from his body.

“Need help with that?” he asks, his voice smooth and teasing, as he reaches for a wine glass on the rack above your head. His arm brushes against you, and the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, but your voice betrays you, coming out softer, almost breathless. He smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction. He is nothing if not cocky and you do nothing but fuel it.

“Sure you do,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. His fingers trail lightly across your waist as he steps back, a fleeting touch that leaves you craving more. His cologne isn’t helping either, the dark musk of Sauvage engulfing your nostrils and filtering its way straight to your core.

You bite your lip, trying to regain your composure, but it’s no use. Your mind is racing, filled with images of his hands on you, the way they would feel exploring your body, holding you down. You can’t stop thinking about the power he seems to have over you, how easily he can make you lose focus.

Your manager comes up behind you both, pointing between you. “I need you both to change the Guinness keg. A whole team of Celtic fans just came in and they’ll bleed us dry in a minute,” he explains.

He doesn’t know that the innocent, very much part of your job request makes your heart stop for a moment. The charged energy between you and Sunghoon is so strong tonight that being alone with him, even for a second, could lead to losing all your inhibitions. You don’t mind fucking your co-workers, god knows you’ve had your fair share of fun with Jay and Heeseung in the past, but this feels different.

As soon as Sunghoon bites those teeth into you, figuratively and physically, you have a sneaking suspicion that there is no going back.

“I can handle it myself,” you say quickly, trying to avoid the inevitable. “It’s only a one-person job.”

But Sunghoon is already stepping forward, his hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the stockroom. “Come on, Y/N. It’ll go faster with two,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument, waving the manager off.

His touch is subtle but it feels heavy, and you curse inwardly at how easily he affects you. You let him lead you through the throng of staff, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. This is bad, very bad.

As you enter the dimly lit back room, the noise of the club fades slightly, leaving the sound of your and Sunghoon’s footsteps and breaths as the only chorus to the quiet song of the corridor. The corridor always gives you the creeps, the lime-green walls and chipped floor make you feel sick, sicker than you already are.

It’s not even that big of a deal, so what are you panicking for? Just go in, change the keg, and get back to serving duties. Plain and simple, easy as pie.

But as you reach the keg room, your hands are trembling slightly. You push open the door and step inside, the cold air hitting you like a slap. The room is filled with the metallic scent of beer and the cool hum of the refrigeration system. Sunghoon steps in behind you, the door closing with a soft thud.

He moves to grab a keg from the stack in the corner, and you can’t help but watch, mesmerized by the way his muscles ripple under his white t-shirt. The fabric clings to him, highlighting every contour, every flex. His biceps bulge as he lifts the heavy keg effortlessly, and you swallow hard, feeling a fresh wave of heat course through you.

Focus, you scold yourself. You turn to the valve, reaching up to shut it off. Your fingers fumble slightly, the cold metal biting into your skin. You can’t stop glancing at Sunghoon, at the way his forearms strain, veins standing out in sharp relief. It’s distracting, and you’re not paying enough attention to what you’re doing.

You step forward to disconnect the old keg, but you don’t leave enough time for the pipe to empty. As you twist the connector, there’s a sudden, forceful spray of beer, catching you off guard. You yelp, trying to dodge the spray, but it’s too late.

Sunghoon is at your side in an instant, his hands covering yours as he twists the valve shut. But not before both of you are thoroughly soaked. The cold beer soaks through your clothes, making you shiver.

“Damn it,” you mutter, looking down at the mess. Your shirt clings to you, and you can feel the liquid dripping from your hair. You glance up at Sunghoon, and despite the situation, you can’t help but laugh at the sight of him drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead.

“Nice going,” he says with a chuckle, shaking his head. “You always this clumsy?”

“I usually know what I’m doing,” you retort, but there’s no heat in your words. You’re too distracted by the way his wet shirt clings to his body, outlining every muscle and defined bump of his toned stomach. 

Sunghoon steps closer, his eyes dark and intense. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low with a hint of seduction, the rasp in his voice turning you dizzy.

“Yeah, just...wet,” you reply, shivering slightly. The cold beer and the cool air of the keg room are a stark contrast to the heat building between you two. You probably should have chosen a better sentence to utter into existence, knowing how it could be taken.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “You know, this wasn’t exactly how I imagined getting you wet,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Your breath catches at his words, and you know you should leave it at that, laugh it off, and walk away. But with his close proximity and his breath fanning your face, you’re almost under his spell. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, tinged with curiosity and something darker.

Sunghoon steps forward, and you instinctively step back, making your back press against the cold wall of the keg room. He eyes you up and down, licking his lips as though he was a lion hunting his prey. “You know what I mean, Y/N.”

The beat of your heart skips, and you nod, agreeing. You aren’t stupid, you’re just horny.

Leaning down to ghost his lips over yours, his eyes grow hungry as they hood over, boring into yours intensely. “I want to bend you over and fuck you so hard you can’t remember your own name,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. “I want to make you gasp for air, to hear you scream my name until your throat is raw. I want to leave marks all over your body so everyone knows what I did to you.”

You're quivering now, and every syllable sends a zap of electricity into you. His hand moves down your arm, fingertips brushing your skin and leaving a path of fire in its wake.

“I really thought I was going to lose it up there and bend you over the bar and fuck you in front of all those punters,” he continues, his lips so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his breath. H

A whimper escapes your lips, unbidden, and his eyes widen in surprise and delight. “Oh? You like it when others watch? You want me to drag you up there and give everyone a show?” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement and arousal.

You shake your head in a daze, lust taking over because all you can breathe in is his presence. “No...not there.”  Exhibitionism isn’t really up there in your list of kinks, not really for your own dignity, you couldn’t care less about who sees you naked or fucked out, but you hate the idea of anyone seeing Sunghoon and getting ideas.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion you thought you possessed until he started at the bar. The other bartenders flirting with him in the breakroom or customers asking for his number over the bar quaked your heart a little, injecting a tiny speck of green into your bloodstream. You might have been apprehensive to start anything with Sunghoon, but that doesn’t mean others get a chance to shoot their shot.

“Oh? So what I’m hearing is you do want me to fuck you?” he presses, his voice a husky whisper. His cockiness is showing once again, tongue roaming over his sharp canine lazily as his eyes drink you in.

“Yes,” you breathe out, unable to hold back any longer. The need in your voice is unmistakable, and it only seems to fuel his desire.

Rolling his eyes in relief, he undoes your apron from the front and lets it fall to the floor. “Finally,” he mutters, his demeanour switching from teasing to something darker, more intense. In a flash, he has your black trousers unbuttoned and fully off your body, your panties following, leaving you bare with only your soaked white work t-shirt covering you.

He grabs your waist and hoists you up against the wall, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively. With one hand, he reaches and undoes the button of his own trousers, shimmying them down slightly and whipping out his cock.

As it springs to attention, you feel it graze your folds, so close to where you desperately need it. The heat and hardness of him against your wetness make you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Sunghoon smirks, positioning himself right at your entrance. “You’ve been driving me crazy, you know that?” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your skin. “Watching you, wanting you...you kept me waiting too fucking long.”

“Please,” you whisper, your voice trembling with anticipation. “I need you.”

His eyes darken with lust at your plea, and without another word, he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden fullness makes you cry out, your head falling back against the wall. He’s big, stretching you in ways that have your toes curling. You can feel every inch of him, thick and pulsing, as he fills you completely. It’s overwhelming, the way he pushes your walls apart, making you see colours you didn’t know existed.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, starting to move. His pace is relentless, each thrust hard and deep, driving you up the wall with every stroke. Your moans mix with his grunts, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room. You’re thankful that the room is isolated in the middle of the basement or else you’re convinced everyone upstairs could hear you.

His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he pounds into you. You can feel the power and control in his movements, the way he takes what he wants, and it drives you wild. “You like this, don’t you?” he pants, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and erratic. “You like being taken so hard you forget everything else?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper against the overwhelming stimulation. “Yes, Sunghoon, don’t stop.”

You bring one of his hands up to your throat, a silent plea for him to fulfil your fantasy. His eyes widen for a moment, and then a dark smile spreads across his face. “You want it?” he asks, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You want me to choke you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need. “Please.”

Sunghoon’s grip tightens around your throat, the pressure just enough to make your head spin, adding a delicious haze to your already overwhelming pleasure. Each of his thrusts feels like a shockwave of ecstasy, stretching you and filling you in ways that make your entire body tingle with need. His cock throbs inside you, the thick, hard length gliding in and out with a relentless rhythm.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growls, his voice a guttural mix of pleasure and dominance. His free hand slides up your body, brushing over your sensitive skin, and his fingers tease at your nipples through the soaked fabric of your t-shirt, making you grateful that you wore a mesh bra today rather than your usual beat-up t-shirt. The contact sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core, heightening the sensations.

Your nails dig into his back as you cling to him to stay against the wall, leaving marks that make him hiss and drive his thrusts even harder. Every push, every pull, feels like it’s unravelling you completely. The pressure around your throat makes your breathing shallow, and the world outside this small room seems to blur into insignificance. All that exists is the raw, primal connection between you and Sunghoon.

Clamping your walls down on him, you mewl out as the tip of his cock reaches a depth no other man has been able to reach, kissing your cervix with intimacy and urgency as you suck him in with each clench of your core.

Hissing, Sunghoon’s head burrows into your neck, his palm now pressed against your jugular in a beautifully punishing manner. “Fuck, Y/N, your cunt is so greedy for it.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and your moans become more desperate, more pleading. You arch your back, pushing yourself further onto him, needing him deeper, harder. “Sunghoon, I’m so close,” you whimper, your voice breaking with the intensity.

He responds with a fierce, primal growl, increasing the pace of his thrusts. Each movement is forceful, almost punishing, but it’s exactly what you need. “Cum,” he commands, his voice rough and demanding. “I want to feel you cream all over me.”

With that final command, the pressure around your throat and the relentless pounding of his cock push you over the edge. Your body trembles violently, and you cry out his name as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Your orgasm is all-encompassing, a dizzying mix of pleasure and release that leaves you gasping for breath, clinging to him.

Sunghoon’s own release follows almost immediately, his body tensing as he buries himself deep inside you, groaning your name with a raw intensity. His cock pulses with each spurt, filling you completely. The heat of his climax mixes with the remnants of your orgasm, creating a deliciously overwhelming sensation.

He holds you tightly, his breath ragged against your neck, as both of you ride out the aftershocks of your climaxes. Slowly, he eases his grip on your throat and pulls back slightly, his eyes still dark with desire but now softened with a trace of concern.

Sunghoon’s gaze softens as he looks at you, his breath still coming in short, ragged bursts. He brushes the damp strands of hair from your face, his touch tender against your flushed skin. “You okay?” he asks, his voice a gentle murmur, filled with concern and dissipating lust.

You nod, a satisfied smile on your lips despite the trembling of your voice. “More than okay,” you breathe out, your body still trembling from the intensity of the climax.

Sunghoon’s eyes hold a mix of tenderness and desire. He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The contrast between the gentleness of the kiss and the fierceness of what had just transpired sends a shiver through you. “Good,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and soothing. “Because we’re far from done.”

He slowly lowers you to the ground, his hands steady and careful. As he kneels before you, a look of wonder crosses your face, mixed with a lingering haze of desire. His fingers, still slick with your combined release, gently part your folds, teasing and exploring.

You gasp as his fingers find their way to your sensitive entrance, carefully stuffing his dripping cum back into you. The sensation is both intense and oddly comforting, a reminder of the connection you’ve shared. Your breath hitches as you feel the warmth and slickness inside you.

“Sunghoon-” you start, but his gaze, both commanding and affectionate, cuts you off.

“Keep that there until our shift is over,” he instructs, his voice firm but laced with an underlying promise of more. “I don’t want a drop of it out of you.”

His words send a fresh thrill through you, a combination of pleasure and anticipation. “When we clock out, you’re coming back to mine, end of story,” he continues, his tone brooking no argument.

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of surprise and eagerness. “Okay,” you manage to say, your voice steadying despite the rush of emotions.

“Great,” he smiles innocently, as if he didn’t just fuck you so good you thought you saw Jesus marking you off the gates VIP list. “Now help me with this keg.”

_____

perm taglist: @immortalvee @sunpov @heeseungspookie @strawberrysavi @monstanctiny21 @diorsyun @heexzbae @yzzyhee @baekhyunstruly @zeeloveshee @haechonly @berryblog @no-mannerism @jaehoonii @notevenheretbh1 @shawnyle @addictedtohobi @jiminie-08 @emberuby @nctislifue @lilyuwon @skzenhalove @heeshlove @idkdykilr @chocminteu @y4wnjunz @rikibun @ivesti @parksunghoonsgf @branchrkive @brownsugarbaybee @xxbluestrifexx @bambangan @dollyyun @iluvikeu @deobitifull @yawnazz

[buckymorelikefuckme]

most ardently

lloyd hansen x fem reader

words: 1.1k

warnings & tags: probably inaccurate regency era, pride & prejudice (2005) inspired, i've made lloyd quite soft in this i'm so sorry, enemies to (implied??) lovers, some natasha/sam crumbs even though they're in a totally different franchise/universe pls let me have this, idk idk idk idk it's just!!! this!! also my bad @ mr. collins

a/n: p sure i mentioned being on a jane austen kick lately so this is definitely the result of that. literally wrote this just now so it's absolutely unbeta'd or proofread and i honestly don't know if it even makes sense. might delete it later, we shall see. anyway! feedback is highly encouraged and greatly appreciated. xo

“May I have the next dance?”

Your joyful laughter, shared with your dearest friend, Natasha, abruptly cuts off at the sound of his voice. You blink a few times, as if that will help make sense of the scene before you. The chatter of the ball fades away for the briefest moment.

Mr. Hansen stands stiffly, his spine straight as an arrow, chin held high. His expression holds his ever present disdain and aloofness, but his eyes… For the first time, you're sure you see a hint of uncertainty. It looks rather misplaced on him, especially since he's quite vocal of his own assuredness in practically everything, and yet, there it rests.

“You may,” you hear yourself respond after a pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Natasha’s head turn to you in a snap, no doubt mirroring your internal shock at your reply, but your gaze remains held by the man before you. Mr. Hansen’s shoulders loosen imperceptibly and he nods, giving you a quick bow and waiting for your polite curtsy. He lingers, looking as if he wants to say more before he seems to think better of it and finally leaves.

As soon as she deems it alright, Natasha is dragging you behind her hastily, leading you to a more quiet corner in a different room, whirling around to face you with her eyebrows almost reaching her hairline.

“What have I done?” you whisper in a panic.

She raises one of her hands to cover her amused grin. A stifled giggle from her makes you let out a hysterical one of your own, and then the dam breaks. You're back to laughing together, though for an entirely different reason this time.

“Perhaps you will enjoy your time with him,” she suggests playfully.

You groan in protest through your smile. “But I don't want to enjoy my time with him.” With a dramatic sigh, you continue, “Though, I suppose it's better than allowing his misery to affect my mood.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “I dare say he will not be the miserable one during that dance. He could surprise you, you know,” she counters, her expression pointed yet kind.

“Somehow I sincerely doubt that,” you reply haughtily, which has her giving you another pointed look that has you laughing. “Come,” you say, “let us find a better hiding spot. I want to keep out of Mr. Collins’ sight so I will not have to dance with him again.”

“That is fair,” Natasha concedes with a grin. “Hopefully we’ll find space near Mr. Wilson and he’ll finally ask me to dance.”

You do not have the heart to tell her that her confidence intimidates him, but you do still silently hope that he will ask anyway.

***

To her delight, Mr. Wilson does ask her to dance, just in time to line up with all the other couples before the music starts. You are among them with your sour-faced partner, Mr. Hansen. There are more than a few envious glares sent your way, though you cannot understand why.

Sure, Mr. Hansen is objectively a handsome man, and he's far richer than anyone else at this ball, but he's also blunt and rude and prideful. He leaves much to be desired with every unwanted conversation you have with him. It's as if he enjoys ruffling your feathers on purpose. Very unbecoming of a gentleman, in your opinion.

“Are you having a pleasant time this evening?” Mr. Hansen asks a minute into your dance, sudden and awkward.

“Quite,” you reply, attempting to maintain civility, but hoping to dissuade conversation.

Mr. Hansen’s brows furrow slightly at your curt response. “I’m glad the merriment is to your liking.”

“I should not think my opinion on the matter makes any difference for you,” you say, eyeing him curiously.

He clenches his jaw, looking away. “Right. Of course.”

The rest of the dance is spent in tense silence. No sooner than the music ends, you are curtsying and attempting to slip past him without having to speak another word. However, one of Mr. Hansen’s many admirers decides to take revenge on you for stealing a dance from him by purposely sticking out her foot to trip you. A gasp escapes you as you lose your balance, yet before you can embarrass yourself completely by falling to the floor, two strong hands catch you by the waist, spinning you around in their stronghold.

Your shocked gaze meets Mr. Hansen’s, his arm warm where it's wrapped around you, as is his other hand on your shoulder as he stabilizes you. His eyes, this time, are full of true concern, of worry. They trace every inch of your face, his so close to yours that you can feel the puffs of his breath across your chin.

“Are you hurt?” he inquires softly.

There's an odd, swirling feeling in your stomach, heat rushing up your neck to your cheeks at his proximity and the unusually gentle way he's handling you.

“I… I’m fine,” you stammer.

He cuts his eyes to whomever stands behind you, his face falling into a familiar and severe scowl. “I believe you owe her an apology for your childish actions.”

You finally manage to pull your stare from him to the accused person. The woman is flushed with shame at having been called out, stuttering through her, no doubt, half-hearted and insincere apology, her eyes flitting to the people watching the scene unfold.

“All is forgiven,” you rush, cutting her off. “Thank you.”

She shifts from foot to foot, pursing her lips unhappily, then finally curtsies and hurries off. Her absence draws your attention back to Mr. Hansen, who is still holding you securely and glaring at everyone else and their prying eyes, shifting them away from the two of you.

“Mr. Hansen,” you start, his head whipping back to you and his grip tightening. You exhale shakily. “I am grateful for your help, but I am sure I can stand on my own now.”

You see the exact second he realizes, his hold relaxing slowly, fingers peeling themselves off of your body as he takes a step back. For whatever reason, you feel wobbly on your feet at the loss of him. Mr. Hansen swallows as he rights his coat, bowing jerkily and turning on his heel to walk away. You watch his hand flex at his side, feeling the phantom touch of it on your shoulder.

Natasha enters your view, Mr. Wilson in tow. Her expression is full of questions, but you find yourself at a loss for any answers, your stomach and heart fluttering in what you can only assume is nerves at the near mishap.

That has to be why, surely.

…Right?

[f1nalboys]

Hey! Can you do a Angsty Randy Meeks Fic?

I had an idea about how after the murders Randy hooks up with Karen at Bradleys Video. And the Reader gets jealous and stuff.

It can be SFW or NSFW

I love your writing :)

thanks for the request!!! i realize now that i mostly did a fix it fic and didnt really do muchn angst KSGBSJDBGB im still posting this BUTTT if u sent this request and you'd rather a more angsty ending of this, pls send in another ask and ill rewrite an ending for you!!! otherwise, i hope u enjoy this one!!!

Randy Meeks x GN!Reader

WORD COUNT: 1679

WARNINGS: sfw, descriptions of ptsd symptoms but not talked about directly, jealousy, miscommunication kinda? more like lack of communication, hurt/comfort.

You thought it would bring the two of you closer together. Maybe it was selfish thinking, using the awful murders and traumatizing memories for your benefit, but what else were you to do? You didn’t want to let this all weigh you down, hang around your neck like a hangman's noose, but maybe, just maybe, improve your life a little bit. Sure, your friends were dead and you yourself had nearly died, leaving a nasty wound on your stomach from the blade of a knife you can still see when you close your eyes at night, but it didn’t always have to be that way.

Now you were in college, studying right alongside Randy and Sidney, yet you were the only one who couldn’t feel normal. You stayed in your dorms most nights, too fearful of what would happen if you stepped outside. Going to class was hard, eating was hard, ignoring the anxiety and anger that built up in your chest, cracking your ribs as it tried to get out, was hard, and yet they seemed unaffected. It wasn’t fair of you to think that, let alone be jealous of them for seemingly being unphased, but you couldn’t help it.

Your one saving grace was Randy.

Yeah, you were friendly with Sidney, mostly because of your shared past, but you were friends with Randy. Of course, you’d love to be more than that, and you weren’t exactly the best at hiding those feelings, but for now, being friends was enough. Hell, there were even moments, the briefest of instances, where you thought maybe, just maybe, he might like you back. Times where the two of you were alone together and his eyes would linger on yours for a moment too long. Times where you two would collapse against each other in a fit of laughter that would taper off, leaving you both breathless, shoulder to shoulder, your lips far closer than it had been to any of your other friends. There had even been a moment where you had watched his eyes dart down to your lips only for him to swallow heavily and look away. Small things that seemed to keep that shred of hope alive in your chest. 

And then he had gotten drunk over at your dorm one night and told you through a slurred speech that he and Karen had hooked up. His eyes were lit up and his cheeks flushed as he recounted the story to you, detail after excruciating detail. They had been stocking the porno’s back in the video store where they worked and one thing led to another, he told you. 

Things were different after that. You tried not to let it bother you, but you discovered it was easier said than done; you’d look at him and think of his face screwing up in pleasure. You’d feel his fingers brush against yours when he grabbed something from you and you’d think of his hands on her. You’d see his tongue swipe across the pink of his bottom lip and you’d think of him kissing her, sucking a mark onto her neck. It made you sick. Randy seemed none the wiser to the changes within you, which made you even more upset. How couldn’t he notice? 

And then it all came to a head.

He’d been trying to hang out with you all week and you kept dodging him, giving him weak excuses and blatant lies as to why you couldn’t. When you open the door to your dorm only to see his concerned face, you aren’t sure what to do. “Y/N, finally! You know, I’ve called your phone like eight times, and you can’t even use the ‘unknown number’ thing against me because I know you have the caller ID thingy.” He says as he pushes inside the room, looking around your empty dorm. You sigh, closing the door and wondering why of all nights did your roommate have to pick this one to go home to visit family.

“You’re normally supposed to be invited in before you actually do it, you know that, right?” You ask, a bitter tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes, tugging his jacket off of his shoulders and tossing it onto the back of your desk chair before sitting on the edge of your bed. Crossing your arms across your chest, you lean back against the wall and stare at your feet. 

“Yeah, but it’s me,” Randy says and you can hear the smile in his voice. Instead of giving you butterflies, you simply bite your tongue. “Hey, c’mon. What’s up?” His voice is filled with concern and you look up, your resolve cracking a bit at his face. He pats the spot beside him. “Talk to me, would you? You’ve been acting weird and it’s killing me.”

You roll your eyes but push off of the wall, sitting on the opposite side of the bed near your pillows. You stare at the ground and the energy in the room turns awkward as he waits for you to speak. “I’m fine.” You finally say, sparing him a glance. “Like, seriously. I’m good.”

“God, you’re a terrible liar.” Randy responds, reaching over and gently punching your knee. “Can you just skip the theatrics and tell me what's up? I’m a good listener.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” he grins at you. “Out with it.”

You glance at him and chew at the inside of your cheek, sighing. “Fine.” You look back down at your hands, your nerves through the roof as you speak. “I got jealous. After you told me about Karen… I just… I’ve liked you for so long, and I knew you didn’t like me back and I thought I could handle it, but I guess it was easier to handle when you weren’t telling me about the loss of your virginity.” You try to lighten the mood at the end of the sentence, cringing internally at what you had just admitted to him.

This was going to ruin your friendship. You knew the second you looked over his face was going to be screwed up in disgust. He was going to stand up, tell you that he could never think of you that way, that he was disgusted with you, that he never wanted to see you again. He’d grab his jacket and leave, doing what he could to avoid you. He’d go on without you, live his life free of the memories of high school and you, and you’d be stuck. Instead, you hear him laugh.

It’s almost worse.

“Don’t laugh,” you mutter, feeling your face heat up in embarrassment. You scoot back in the bed, bringing your feet up and tucking your knees up to your chest. The tears you had been holding back seemed to be right there, ready to slip down your cheeks in a second. 

Randy grins, reaching his hand over to run along your back. “I’m not laughing at you,” he says, and you’re once again able to hear the smile in his voice. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back and you lift your head, giving him a cautious look. “I was laughing because… that’s it? That’s what made you all weird?”

“Well… yeah?”

“Y/N, you’re so stupid.” Your eyebrows instantly scrunch together in anger, your legs moving back down the bed as you turn to face him. You open your mouth, ready to tell him to shut the hell up, when he leans in and kisses you.

It’s exactly what you dreamt of.

You melt into the kiss, sighing as he pulls away, your eyes closed. He laughs slightly as your eyes open, tilting his head at you, a smug grin on his face. “But… I thought… what?” You ask, and this time when he laughs, the butterflies are back. “Are you just doing that because you feel bad for me?”

Randy shakes his head, giving you a fake scoff. “What, you think I’m that much of an asshole?” He sees the gears turning in your head, the briefest hint of a grin, and he shakes his head. “Yeah, don’t answer that. But no, of course not. I did it because I like you too.”

“Really?” He nods. “Well… why didn’t you say anything? And why did you sleep with Karen and then tell me about it? That’s pretty shitty.” 

“I didn’t know you liked me!” He says, leaning back onto his hands, your bed sinking under his weight. “And to be fair to myself, I was super fucking drunk when I told you about Karen. And, if I thought you liked me, I would’ve tried way harder to sleep with you instead.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I was so obvious, I thought!” He shakes his head, grinning. You look at him, your smile softening. “You really like me?”

Randy nods. “Yeah, I really do.” He frowns slightly, reaching over and grabbing your hand. “Next time, though, just tell me what’s bothering you, alright? I don’t want the person I’m dating to be mad at me for a fuckin’ week and have no idea about it; you know I’m clueless!”

He brings your hand up to his mouth and gives your knuckles a quick kiss. You smirk at him, ignoring the ever-growing butterflies in your stomach. “Oh, we’re dating now?” He chuckles, giving you a shit eating grin. “I wasn’t a part of that decision.”

“No need, babe, you already admitted you wanted to date me after throwing your little fit!” When your eyes narrow he gives a sheepish grin, poking you in your side. “I’m messing with you… do you want to date me, though? Because I’m like, totally into it if you are.” He seems nervous, his cheeks tinged pink as he glances away from you towards your bed, his hand leaving yours to pull at a loose thread on your blanket. 

You smile softly and answer with a kiss, cupping his cheek as you do so. This time, Randy is the one to melt into it.

(requests are closed - i am finishing up whats in my inbox!)

[iknowshocker]

Was you a fan of kai in season 8? I know alot of people myself included wasn't a fan loved the little bonkai bit we got at the end still was disappointed they waited until the very end to have them reunite and don't even get me started on kai hyping up katherine

here's the thing anon i suffered through s7 holding on by the single fraying thread that was bonnie bennett. then enzo died in such a stupid, ridiculous, heartbreaking way. and THEN kai showed up steaming in the grill and for the briefest of moments i thought to myself: are they about to give us an ambiguous bonkai ending ?? there's no way we can be so blessed ?? and i was unfortunately correct 💀

so seeing kai in s8 at all was like a reward for my suffering. i love that he shows up in the wedding suit (as if that's not wildly traumatic for all of us) i love that he begs to see bonnie every chance he gets, so even if we have to wait until the very end it's confirmation on his end that he's thinking of her/wants to see her. the heart on the window moment ????????? come on.

so yeah im always a fan of kai, but to me we lose him in 6x17. the kai that comes back from 1903 is inherently different and while we get little flashes of good writing here and there, its just never the same. my favorite moments in s8 from his episodes are when he's in the grill, at the bar singing, in the armory cell/chasing the twins through the house, and at the end with bonnie. to me that's when he feels most like himself. if he's centered on a personal/gemini storyline i'm immediately like 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

the scenes with damon fall flat for me because they write kai as relying on damon for help, and i just feel like he would go to literally anyone else ??? like are we supposed to pretend he's not mad damon killed him ??? in what world does kai "revenge is my middle name" parker not try to kill his own murderer on sight ??? so the moment he flips on damon and steals elena's coffin im like thank GOD, there's my boy.

pls the katherine stuff is so fucking funny. the fact that the option to have Kai kill cade and take over as king of hell was RIGHT THERE and they still went with katherine is just 😂 typical 😂 imo kai is only ever interested romantically in bonnie, so i take anything he says about katherine as excitement that she can scare/mess with the mfg. i do think he's mad at them, and it makes sense he'd be happy there's someone else ready to torment them.

but do i think he actually appreciates how evil she is ?? sure, i guess. 😂 like if that's something he even cares about ??? because if that's the case, wouldn't he have been more interested in damon's crimes in s6, or even stefan/lily being a ripper and the damage they could cause ??

there's this weird push for kai to be Absolutely Unhinged and Insanely Evil and i just don't think he is 🙈 i mean the first thing he did when he bargained his freedom from cade was to get drunk in a karaoke bar 😂 so much could have been avoided if they just !! left him alone !!