#not digitally drawing was absolute torture my goodness

[dragonflyxem]

I love me a big boy

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。these traces of love, they outline you | gojo satoru

wc: 12.9k

summary: the 5 times gojo’s sure you’ve changed his life + the 1 time he hopes to change yours. 

contains: f!reader, pronoun she, 18+ nsfw (not super explicit but the act is there), symptoms similar to synesthesia, reader’s cursed technique, sparring, drunk call, pet names (cutie, silly, pretty, baby, loml), nervous feelings, tummy ache, food descriptions, surprise appearance of one character, emotional tears!!, internal thoughts and insecurities.

a/n: primarily in gojo's pov! & best read if you’ve gone through the other parts in the series! (lots of callbacks and references + better context!), lots of songs as inspo (would gladly share if you’re curious!), will add descriptions for the food in the a/n at the bottom!, from conceptualisation to actual writing this piece is my baby!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) <- you are here

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT.

Gojo thinks he might pass out. 

There’s a feeling of unease sitting deep in his gut, nervous and gurgling. His hands have always been restless and fidgety but never this sweaty, and his head feels like it’s floating—even more than that first time he attempted a 24-hour stint on keeping up Infinity. 

It’s eerily quiet in his office as he waits for your meeting to end, the white colon on his digital clock taunting him as it flicks on and off—16:27. 3 more minutes until you finish. 

He paces around the room. 

Attempts at any distraction are thwarted when everywhere he looks, he’s reminded of you. There’s a photo hanging by the door, the mix-and-match of couch cushions in varying hues—all souvenirs you’ve given him from places you’ve been to. The coffee table books hold your touch too, and as he runs his hand over his face. he’s hit with that signature scent, clean and subtle from the hand cream you use.

Waiting in his office today has been absolute torture, but what’s made it more excruciating is the fact that he knows you’re aware of absolutely nothing.

To you, this is just like every other Friday. 

You’d done your usual morning routine, kissed him on the nose with the promise to meet him in his office after work, as you always do. And it feels like a big joke when he thinks about it now, because while he’s been on edge this entire day about it, you really have no clue what’s coming. 

To him, this could change everything with you. 

He’s been feeling it for a while now, the ripple effect of loving and being loved by you—how he can recall every time a single drop of you has shifted something deep within him, marked and colored you. 

There’s not a lot that Gojo wants now that he feels like he truly has it all, but when he thinks about all the times he’s sure you’ve changed his life, he hopes that with this one thing, he can change yours. 

.

.

.

1 — UNDER YOUR TOUCH, WHEN IT GETS TOO MUCH

The weather today is good—sunlight peeking behind cloud pillows and the occasional gust of wind passing through the space you’ve put between you and Gojo. It’s neither too humid nor too dry and though Gojo does get the occasional sniffle from his pollen allergies around this time, he'd woken up earlier completely fine. 

So, the weather today is good, perfect even, for a brush-up on sparring practice. 

You’ve kept a sizable distance away from him since it started, and every attempt he’s made to draw nearer, you’ve only moved away farther—a push-and-pull, an old dynamic that shows itself in the ways you engage in battle.  

Gojo’s hands stay tucked in his pockets, his stance one you know perfectly well as relaxed but still guarded. He’s gotten a lot bulkier than the days you used to spar often, the past few years having filled in all the areas of what used to be slim, lean muscle. He doesn’t move because he knows the style you fight with, how you stay on defense until your opponent charges, utilizing their own strength against them. 

It’s the only way you’ve managed to win against someone as deadly as Gojo, equal-parts lethal in speed and strength. 

So when a cluster of clouds passes by and the sun glares directly into your eyes, Gojo smirks, then bends his knees as he lunges for an attack.

Your senses are sharp and reflexes quick; in the split second that a white-and-black blur appears before you, you attempt a high kick, only for it to be blocked with his forearm. He uses his other hand to twist around your ankle, trying to flip you over, but you see right through his motives. You huff, furrowing your brows as you narrowly escape, slipping your ankle out before he can fully grab a hold of it.

Most of this practice has felt like a stalemate, with the both of you waiting on the other for the most part of the hour. Gojo can see how it’s wearing you down, this entire thing being dragged out, and if he’s being honest—this is exactly what he wants.

Sparring out here with you today, while still meant for actual training, is also just an excuse to do this for old time’s sake—the way you huff and frown, jaw clenched as your fists ball up tightly like you’re doing right now.

He kind of misses seeing you like this, impatient and frustrated, so unlike the tenderness you always regard him with. 

A smile threatens to form on his lips, and he bites it back down. 

You only ever get like this sparring against him. 

The tension breaks when you decidedly throw a punch; it’s a desperate attempt to get the fight moving but he ducks, arm securing itself around your waist as he locks your hip with his. Before you can even comprehend, your body is lifted across his back and lowered down to the grass below—the only thing in sight being two blue skies, beaming at you. 

Somewhere during the commotion, he managed to remove his blindfold, hair let loose, fluffy and white almost like the clouds above you. Gojo isn’t taking this seriously at all; he’s way too soft, having cushioned your fall by carrying most of your weight instead of throwing you down like anyone seriously sparring is supposed to. 

He doesn’t care though. All he really wanted this afternoon was to reminisce with you. 

You’re kept underneath him, one of his arms remains wrapped around your waist while the other cradles the back of your head—and it’s there, that frown on your face, that pout he’s witnessed for years evolve into what it is now. Beads of sweat collect at the crease between your brows, your temples tensing as you breathe out. 

Gojo at 17 would have teased you relentlessly for this, but he feels different now, warmth settling in his chest as he stares; he can’t help it, the words coming out of his mouth—

“You’re so—”

But he doesn’t even get to finish.

Everything around him blurs, green and blue blending in motion before he finds himself on his back, completely flipped over. He’s met with the sight of you, smug smile pulled wide with your hands resting on his chest. And his heart—

Can you feel it under your fingertips? How it’s beating a mile a minute? 

A shiver runs down his spine, the pinpricks of grass tickling the nape of his neck. The shock is tingling, his eyes fully open as he processes what just occurred. 

In the lapse of time he’d been a little too preoccupied staring at you, you managed to inch your leg to wrap around his, locking it at the last minute to flip him over—it lands you where you are now, on his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Sneaky,” he gazes fondly, grin teasing.

You catch your breath, “Do I win?” 

“Only because I let you get too close this time.”

Which is a lie, he knows, because having you near him like this, with some form of touching—you could never be close enough.

You roll your eyes, his fingers grabbing hold of your thighs. The grass pricks at your knees through the fabric of your leggings, and Gojo knows that if you stay like this any longer, it’s going to start to itch.

“Did I hurt you anywhere?” you ask, already assessing him for any point of injury. Your eyes go over his face before trailing down his arms, rarely exposed today in his black compression shirt.

“Yeah,” he pouts, pointing to his lips, all pink and puckered out, “kiss it better?” 

Asking for this is against his better judgment, he’s aware; with the way you’re situated on his lap, this could escalate into something else entirely. You shake your head, swatting at his chest. His grip on your thighs loosens as you get off him, but the curl of your lips is extremely telling. 

As you stand up to dust your knees, Gojo gazes at you fondly. The sun hides behind you from where you tower over him, but the halo effect around your head is just as blinding. 

“Lie down with me,” he pats the space beside him. You quirk your brow but follow anyway. 

He requests, not asks, because the weather today is good, and it’s making him a little bit sentimental, remembering earlier days with you. 

You lie down, positioning your head to align with his. And for a few moments, Gojo doesn’t speak, just looks at you once and smiles before turning to face the sky, hand placed behind his head as he sighs. 

You do the same for a while, this shared silence warm and just right. 

“So rude,” he jokingly tuts, “interrupting me while I was talking earlier…” 

“You shouldn’t have been so distracted then,” you tease back, sneaking a glance only to lock eyes with two skies. 

He wonders if you can tell—how he’s always looking at you in the stolen seconds before you notice him. 

“Well, you shouldn't have been so distracting then,” he holds your gaze. 

It’s incredibly cheesy but a part of you still feels like melting—he sounds so sincere; no lilt, no tease, no Gojo-typical flirting laced into it. 

You scrunch your nose, shifting on your side to face him, the arm used to support your head now resting against your cheek. He follows, taking one last look around him before turning to you. His other hand rests on your hip, fingers splayed out while his thumb draws hearts on fabric. 

You reach for him. 

The gesture is small, just your finger running across his cheek, but it nudges something in him—a memory of you and how you’ve always touched him like this: softly, kindly. 

“Remember when you used to do this?” he takes your hand, long and lithe fingers wrapping around yours as he guides them over his ear. 

Your eyes widen in recognition and he blinks, taking you in as he stares, “Wanna do it now?”

Concern reveals itself in the furrow of your brows, “Is it hurt—”

“No,” he chuckles, already knowing what you’re about to say.

The last time you did this for him, he didn’t even have to ask. One look and you knew—it’d been the night of his final conversation with Suguru. His skull-splitting migraine ensued after bickering with Shoko on what to do with the body. You were there; you heard everything, and when she gave up arguing and left, there was only one thing you could do. 

With his head on your lap by his office couch, you tuned out the sounds. 

He doesn’t prefer you using your cursed technique this way; it takes a considerable amount of your cursed energy to focus its effects solely on another body—and frankly, it’s a waste of time for you to spend all of that on him, at least in his opinion, personally. 

You’d struggled a lot with your technique back in high school, having to learn how to fully manipulate different sonic hues: white noise, brown noise, any and all of it in the entire spectrum. Being able to amplify, distort, reduce, and isolate them into their respective hues covers only the bare minimum when it comes to understanding your technique.

It’s tedious work, and when one of your senses holds so much more power over the others, the information that flows through it can be overwhelming, overloaded even. Sorting through all that noise—he gets it, gets you, and how it must hurt too. 

And yet you, at 17, still figuring out how to grasp it all, came knocking on his door when you noticed he hadn’t come for dinner. Quietly, you placed your hands over his ears and selflessly offered your discomfort for his relief. 

The first time you did this for him, you’d only heard of his migraines from Shoko. You witnessed it yourself when he opened his door and looked so unlike himself: blindfold secured tightly but haphazardly, strands of hair sticking out oddly; his room seemed to be blacked out completely. 

Gojo Satoru is no stranger to sensations beyond what any human should be subjected to, but when you laid your hands on him that day, cursed energy tickling his ears as it flowed through your fingertips—he’d never felt more normal, more human to be able to hear things without conjuring a visual of it. 

It’s almost like you silenced his mind—enough to hear himself, and you, and the buzz of the white noise you’d amplified to flow through him in his blacked out room. 

You’ve gotten a lot better at controlling it now, the task in itself barely causing you any ache or struggle at all. 

“Just like old times,” he nudges you. 

So you keep your hand where he’s left it, covering his ear with your palm as your fingers rest on his temples. Cursed energy flows from your touch, all sounds drowning out. 

He keeps his eyes on yours, watching as your expression shifts with every sonic hue you focus on—an upgrade to your abilities the more you’d gotten the hang of it. 

You concentrate hard for white noise, creating your own mix to emulate radio static, transitioning out to green noise the moment you highlight the sound of birds chirping. Then, you ease it to brown noise, intensifying the soft whistles of the wind to mimic it. 

It’s weird how sentimental he’s been feeling lately—without any trigger or anything, but the more he leans into your palm, the more it gets him thinking. 

Touch had begun as extremely foreign to him—a god revered and valued but never really truly loved, untouchable with infinity, and the pedestal he’s always stood on. 

It was never supposed to be important to him. 

Until you. 

From your kindness that first day, and the many more that followed: of fingers brushing and hand-holding to breaths mingling and bodies moulding, moving—you’ve always touched him in ways no one else has, in places no one’s been able to reach. 

And if it wasn’t important then, completely foreign, it’s important now, so much that he looks for it everywhere, all the time, even. The way you scratch the short bristles of his undercut, fingers dragging down to the nape of his neck; the way you tap his collarbone thrice, run your fingers across his lip, and intertwine your fingers with his at random. 

When Gojo thinks about your touch, he thinks about how gentle it is, with intent and purpose. How it’s always been careful for him but never of him, and that’s made the biggest difference. 

He blinks, and you follow two times, focusing on him. 

All he hears is a heartbeat now, a little too fast to be at rest, but still steady and grounding—

The way he feels when he’s with you. 

Whether it’s his or yours, from your cursed technique or just the blood rushing in his ears, he knows this is pink noise, the one you’d so excitedly shown him when you first mastered it. 

The pink noise that resounded all throughout his twenty-somethings, when he first realized that you meant more to him than what you were. 

.

.

.

2 — WHEN YOU CALL MY NAME

The bed feels cold tonight. 

Gojo’s been staring at the lights on his ceiling for the past 30 minutes, and though his pillow is cool and blanket soft, he’s wide awake—nowhere near falling asleep any time soon. 

He shifts to the side, the space beside him taunting, empty. 

He misses you. 

For the past week, you’ve been off to a much-needed girls trip with Shoko and Utahime. He’d even offered to pay for the entire accommodation—to which you and Utahime declined, while Shoko shrugged, crossing her arms as she snorted, “If he really wants. At least he’s being useful.” 

You’d compromised and agreed that he could pay for an evening out in some nightclub. 

Now, he regrets it. A little bit. Maybe. 

Gojo’s bed is big, a king-size that fits the height of him and all his long limbs, and while it’s comfortable and spacious–supposed good things–he feels anything but comfortable in how spacious and vacant it now feels. 

He turns to the other side, facing his sidetable instead.

The digital clock reads 01:17 and he sighs; you still have a few days left. 

The next time you bring up being away for this long, he’s going with you. Even if he has to spend the entire day on his own, he’ll do it—as long as he gets to end it next to you. 

If he’s really thinking about it, nothing’s stopping him from teleporting there right now. He could hop in quick, give you a hug, hopefully a kiss, and maybe even get lucky if you allow him to steal you for the night. He’ll teleport you right back in the morning and it’ll be like you never left, even. 

He could do it. You can never resist him when he gives you his googly eyes. 

If you’re already back from—

Bzz bzz. His phone vibrates. 

He reaches for it over his night stand, instantly sitting up once he reads that it’s from you—the nickname he just recently changed your contact to. 

(It was always just your name, simple and straightforward, easy to find; when you return, he’s probably going to change it back because you prefer it that way—for safety purposes and everything.

But while he still can, he’s going to keep it like this: a petname with an obnoxious string of emojis that he associates with you.)

1:20 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> satoourur are u awaeke??

The corner of his lips curl up, endeared at the image of you hunched over your phone, fingers slipping as you clumsily press the wrong letters. So cute. 

1:21 a.m.

< yes cutie? ( ˘ ³˘) 💕

1:21 a.m. 

cutie 💞🥺☁️🌸✨

> casll?

He stares at it for a good minute or two, trying to decipher this rare, drunken code from you. But before he gets the chance to respond, your face appears on his screen, a photo of you he’d taken months ago, mid-chew special Daifuku.

You’re calling. 

He grins, biting his lower lip. His feet slip inside the house slippers by the side of his bed as he gets up, swiping his phone to answer before holding it against his ear. 

“Miss me already?” he teases, padding out of his bedroom.

“Satoruuu,” you drawl. Definitely drunk, if not tipsy.

Even like this though, Gojo aches when he hears you speak; there’s a twinge that pokes at his ribcage, making him wish he was right next to you.

The music around you sounds muffled, almost as if you’d stepped out just to make this call—another thought that makes him ache.

He walks down the hall towards his kitchen and stops, realizing: if you stepped out of the club, does this mean you’re alone? He trusts you can take care of yourself, but if you’re this inebriated…

“Are you with Shoko and Utahime?” he asks casually, attempting to mask his worry. His hand digs deeper into his pocket, shifting his weight to his other foot. 

“‘Nside,” you slur. 

You don’t actually sound that drunk, more sleepy if anything, really, but his heart still picks up pace. Maybe he should just go to you already. 

“You should go to them,” he urges, continuing his walk to the kitchen. 

“M’be later,” you sigh, and he hears a bit of rustling on your end—a soft curse and a small thud, “w’na talk t’you.” 

Another ache. 

He can picture it: you, in some sidestreet, phone clutched to your ear as you tuck your hair back before sighing, legs buckling as you clumsily drop down to sit. 

“Oh?” he lilts, eyebrow lifting. A smirk forms on his lips, head tilting as he wedges his phone between his neck and shoulder. He reaches for his refrigerator, “Got something to tell me, pretty?”

He doesn’t really know what he’s expecting you to say, maybe a recount of your day, or something funny that he’s bound to laugh at, whatever it is. 

“Just miss you.” 

He wasn’t expecting you to say this—

—in an exhale, with a slight tremble, like it’s been waiting to be let out. Vulnerable. 

There’s another ache, and he nearly drops the water bottle.

He should really just go to you.

His phone nearly slips from his neck, the thump of his heartbeat on rampage as he readjusts it.

He swallows, “I miss you too.” 

And it’s odd, how it sounds when he says it, a bit shaky too. A stillness settles in the room and it echoes off every kitchen equipment and countertop. He can’t even get himself to tease you for this one. 

“I can go there now, if you want,” he offers, almost a whisper, before attempting a chuckle. It comes out flat, tinted a little sad, “Blink twice and I’ll be there when you open your eyes.”

You giggle on the other end, and it fills him in this moment. 

When he looks around his apartment now, steel finish and walls accented black, the backsplash of his kitchen a grayish hue of iron—it reminds him of luxury fit for a bachelor, sleek in its utility. 

He’s lived here since his mid-twenties, and he likes how it’s designed, the colors and feel of it right up his alley. The furniture remains simple, modern and minimalist, filling the spaces of his open floor plan down to the two bedrooms and office space. 

But right now, it feels so empty. 

“Silly,” you chuckle, he can hear your grin forming, affection dripping, “my silly baby.”

Now his heart really aches. 

The subtle static makes you sound unreal, strung together by radio waves; it’s rare enough for you to call him ‘baby’, and for you to say it when he can’t even see or hold you while you do it—it’s cruel; a test of his restraint. 

He rests his back against the kitchen counter, arm coming across his chest to rest under his elbow, supporting the one holding his phone–you–by his ear. His teasing is softer tonight, tinged by yearning, so he hums, “Your silly baby, huh? Any chance it could be your silly ‘Toru instead?” 

The way he says ‘‘Toru’ is a pitch lower, slower, and exaggeratingly more seductive in his banter; it’s what you call him in bed, or by accident, and in the moments you find yourself needing him in ways he can only satisfy by being your lover. 

If you say it, he’s definitely going to teleport himself over. 

You giggle again. 

“S’that your fav’rite one?” you mumble, words blending together. He can imagine your cheek smushed against your knee, arms curled around your legs as you sit on concrete, “‘‘Toru?’” 

When he thinks about it, you aren’t too big on his nicknames—at least, not as much as he is with you. You only call him three things: baby (which truthfully, he had to convince you to), ‘Toru (first whispered in the moment, heat fueling it), and Satoru (since you were 16, weighted and grounding throughout all the years you’ve known him). 

Is ‘‘Toru’ his favorite? 

For obvious reasons, maybe.

But—

“I like everything you call me,” he smirks, shifting his weight. 

“Sweet-talker.” 

He closes his eyes, head tilting back as he leans further—and he swears, he can see you, the image of you rolling your eyes and scrunching your nose seared into his eyelids. 

God damn, he really misses you.

“You love it,” he murmurs.

A beat. He hears the faint honk of a car before you drown it out, sighing. 

“I do,” you whisper, admission ringing in his ears, “I love you, Satoru.” 

He hears this all the time, but tonight it just aches; the way you say things so sincerely, so honestly even in an inebriated state—how you call him Satoru and it’s still weighted, still grounding, like who he is resides right there, in the softness of your lips. 

Gojo’s always been relevant but when you call him Satoru, he feels more than just the name.

If you’re asking about his favorite, he thinks this might be it—in every handwritten note you leave, his name scrawled in your hybrid of semi-print-semi-cursive letters; in every call you pick up, opening always with a ‘Satoru?’, end pitched higher, sweet and curious. 

“C’n I tell you somethin’?” you ask (even when you don’t need to, even when he’s already listening). 

“Let me guess, Utahime has a travel ick and Shoko—”

“Satoru,” you scold, rolling your eyes, but there’s no bite. The next bit you say under your breath, a little fragile, “‘M serious.”

The nervousness sits in his stomach; this conversation feels significant.

He takes a seat on his barstool. 

“Listening.” 

For a while, it’s only your breathing; knowing you, you’re probably thinking, crafting what to say carefully. 

You sigh again, and—

“I worry sometimes,” you admit.

He furrows his brows, “About?”

“That maybe bein’ with me’s a lil’ boring?”

And this… this aches in a different way. 

How can you even think that? 

You chuckle anxiously; he can bet you’re biting your lips, a habit you’ve picked up from him. 

He rests an elbow on his kitchen island, leaning onto it as he tilts his phone closer to his ear. 

“Apologize right now,” he commands, sternness making him feel a little guilty, “that’s the person I love you’re slandering.” 

But you only laugh, real and more relaxed, nervousness dissipating. 

“My bad, my bad,” you play along before mumbling, “‘m just sayin’, there’re lotsa others who are more everythin’ y’know?” 

He wonders what’s got you thinking like this, if it’s triggered by seeing people at the club, perhaps younger and far livelier—how you spent those years of your life exorcizing curses and making a home for two kids. 

“So what? They’re still not you.”

And he means it, genuinely.

Your breath hitches and he grins, swinging around on the bar stool. 

Those years of youth were still fun, he thinks, and it’s precisely because of you—how you’d made the apartment the four of you stayed in as fun and homely as a teen barely pushing twenty could.

You had your fair share of mishaps and adventures—rushed breakfasts and Megumi’s 'my dog ate my homework's. Tsumiki had to miss a day of school once because you accidentally booked her a birthday trip to Disneyland on a weekday. 

(And he got scolded a lot, ‘Satoru’ exhaled with a look. But it would only last a few moments; you can never stay mad at him, no matter how hard you try). 

There was no way you and Gojo had the maturity and responsibility of actual parents (maybe more like inexperienced guardians, really), but you tried your hardest to give Megumi and Tsumiki a home. 

Home, what he’s beginning to realize reminds him of you.

He looks around him now, at the details of his interior, and begins to think of yours—your apartment, a little more wooden and lived-in; there’s a lot more wear but also a lot more love, never empty like his feels right now. 

“If being with you was so boring, I wouldn’t be itching to go to you right now,” he confesses, fiddling with the string of his sweatpants. 

You laugh again before it falls into comfortable silence. 

Muffled conversations and the occasional beep sound in your background. There’s a couple giggling around you and he thinks that could be the two of you—if only he were with you. 

“Satoru,” you call him softly. 

He hums, letting it sink in—the way you say his name, distinct in how you stress his consonants despite the softness around his vowels.

When you say ‘Satoru’, it always feels targeted, speaking straight to who he is. 

“‘M so happy it’s you,” you whisper shyly, but it’s bright—unmistakably smiling, the visual of your eyes crinkling. 

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, drunken affection and vulnerable confessions, but there’s that ache again, and all he wants to do is go to you, hold you. Be with you. 

For a while, Gojo’s been resigned to the fact that there are some things he can’t give you: how you’ll never know true peace because he’ll always be linked to jujutsu society; how choosing him means choosing the tumultuous, the unpredictable. 

And while you’ve already told him that you prefer this life with him better, for you to say you’re happy, that it’s him—

He’s thankful it’s you, too. 

Tears collect at his lash line, pools of gratitude, “I love you.”

“Hmm? you’re coverin’ the mic w’your double-chin,” you joke, just to hear him say it again, he knows. 

(There’s no way he has a double-chin from how you complain about his jawline being too sharp all the time). 

“I love you,” he repeats, louder, steadier, pressing it into his phone’s microphone. 

He’ll repeat it again as many times as you want him to. 

You giggle and he echoes it—like that couple from earlier, your own version. 

The clock reads 02:47, and he normally doesn’t like being up this late, barely getting enough sleep as is. But if you’re the reason why, he doesn’t mind staying awake.  

.

.

.

3 — TUCKED IN BED, WHEN I LIE CORRECTED

“Satoru, you can’t keep eating sweets on an empty stomach.”

He turns beside you, the dull rumbling of the Shinkansen hardly masking how loudly he asks, “Why not?” 

An old man seated across the aisle looks your way, grumpy by the folds between his brows—as if he’d been woken up by Gojo’s whining. You bow your head slightly in apology. 

It’s been an early day so far, with you and Gojo catching the first train out from Kyoto to Tokyo. Departing at 06:14 doesn’t exactly leave room for food stops, so all you have are the two water bottles handed out from yesterday’s meeting and a pack of (now) half-eaten Hi-Chew that Gojo picked up from the convenience store last night. 

“You’ll get a stomach ache,” you whisper, with emphasis. 

He fiddles with the stick of Hi-Chew, tossing it between his fingers before popping one piece out. 

The seats in the Shinkansen are spacious enough for Gojo to stretch his long, gangly legs, but despite all the free room in your row, he’s chosen to encroach on your space, sticking to you shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” he tilts his face, sunglasses sliding a few centimeters down the bridge of his nose, “I do this all the time.” 

And his eye, clear and bright blue amidst the morning haze zipping past the windows of the train, winks at you. 

Heat warms your cheeks; it’s too early for this. 

The moment you look away, hiding your smile, he knows he’s got you. 

. 

Or not. 

Because you seem to have gotten him—

—tucked in bed, nursing this stomach ache that could have been avoided if he just listened. 

To be fair, he does do it all the time: a few candies, sometimes gummies first thing in the morning, last thing at night. So he’s right, it’s nonsense; he probably got this from something else. 

(Even when you’d both eaten the same meals—how you always order to share because you like tasting a little bit of everything). 

Which is why, you insist it’s from the sweets, his beloved Hi-Chew to be specific. And though he wants to, he can’t argue much when he’s curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach while writhing in bed. 

“I made you tea,” you stand by your bedside, holding out your mug—small cereals patterned all over it. 

He opens an eye, hair mussed up from all his squirming. The pain in his stomach is radiating, a knot that tightens in waves; this is different from the twist-y pop-y sparks of jealousy, and is nothing compared to the sting of multiple slashes. 

Still, it’s a pain he doesn’t understand: a mixture of feeling gassy and bloated, like he needs to run to the toilet only for it to turn out futile. What makes it worse is that when he catches a glimpse of you, a lock of hair perfectly out of place, the sensation in his stomach intensifies—like butterflies flapping (or maybe just another wave of radiating pain). 

“S’hot,” he grumbles, half of his face mushed into the pillow.

The mug in your hand is piping hot, steam lifting from it, and Gojo doesn’t like drinking hot things; he’s burnt his tongue enough times on hot chocolate that he swears any hot liquid is out to get him.

But you don’t know that about him—he’s never told you, he thinks. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“That’s kind of the point, baby,” you chuckle, tone doting with a hint of pity, “It has to be.” 

Your hand rests on his thigh, attempting to soothe him. He catches your eye and whines. 

“If I blow on it, will you drink?” you plead, “Please?”

At this point, he doesn’t know what hurts more: this stupid stomach ache or how nice you’re being. 

You could have said ‘I told you so’ the moment his stomach started gurgling when you both arrived in Tokyo—but you didn’t. Instead, you asked him what exactly he was feeling and had him change into his pajamas as you nursed him to bed. Then, you cooked him real food, a bowl of Okayu for his stomach to digest something plain and non-irritable. 

You haven’t stopped moving since you both got back from Kyoto, unpacking both your things while simultaneously darting in and out of your bedroom, checking in.  

How you speak to him is so gentle, caring, doting—even when you have every right to hold it against him. 

He pushes himself up, leaning back on the headrest. You smile, lovely, and beautiful, and every bit healing that it eases the pain a little, somehow. Your mouth forms an ‘o’ as you blow on his tea, scooting closer.

A gurgling sound comes from his stomach again, but it’s manageable, and he bears it as he takes you in—how you’ve barely had the time to change out of your clothes since this morning. You’re tired, he’s sure, but you don’t mention it as you take care of him. 

The bed dips as you draw nearer, bringing the mug to his lips—he’s a grown man and he can definitely do this on his own, but you always take such good care of him. 

Who is he to say no?  

Sips of peppermint coat his tongue, warm as it eases down his throat. He wraps his fingers around yours, drinking a third of the mug before urging you to set it down. 

“I’ll heat up a hot compress,” you motion to get up, placing the mug by your bedside. 

He stops you, grip loose on your wrist. 

“Have you eaten?” 

You stare at him, a little surprised, but you nod.

“Just stay with me, then. Don’t need that thing.” 

Your brows furrow, pouting, “But it’ll help,” 

“Hug me instead,” his fingers play with yours, intertwining, “or I’ll hug you. Either.” 

You shoot him a look, disbelieving, but he musters up a wink, for you, despite the new wave of pain arising. 

“Okay,” you sigh, knowing you can’t exactly argue. As you get up, you land a kiss on top of his head, rubbing his knuckles as you get ready for bed. 

When you come back, dressed in your pajamas, he’s turned to his side, lifting the comforter to welcome you in. You lie face-to-face with him, his arm reaching out to rest on your lower back, pushing you closer. 

“You sure this is enough?” you whisper, breath tickling his chin. 

“Mm, yeah,” he hums, hugging you tighter as he grins, “you’re hot.” 

You hit his arm lightly, and he chuckles.

It turns quiet, then he shifts, resting his forehead against yours. White strands, as pale as your pillowcases, tickle your eyes. 

He nuzzles your nose, hiking your leg up to rest on his hip while slotting his leg between your thighs—like a pretzel, twisted into each other tight. 

“You’re too good to me.” 

He’s said this before, and no matter how much you say it isn’t true—he’ll always think it, believe it. 

You frown, gripping his waist, “I don’t like seeing you in pain, you know.” 

And he thinks you’ve always been like this: hands outstretched farther than his, offering yourself to help carry whatever pain, struggle, or burden you can. You cry for the sadness others feel, share the hurt of anyone who needs it. You’re the pillar, the support for everyone around you—from Yuuji, Megumi, and Tsumiki all the way back to Utahime, Suguru, and Nanami. 

You’ve always been this way, ever since he met you. 

“Does it still hurt?” you mutter, concerned, fingers grazing his stomach. 

It does and it doesn’t—the pain is unfamiliar but he can take it, having gone through far worse. If he’s being really honest, a part of him just likes being babied by you. 

“Better,” he inches back a little, lips curling into mischief, “would definitely go away with some Hi-Chew.” 

You shoot him a look, then pout. 

“Satoru.” 

He figures there are still a few things you don’t know about him: how he really dislikes hot drinks, how discomfort turns him into a whiney, needy baby, and how he remains incredibly stubborn, maintaining what he stands for (but maybe you know this already). 

“Hey, you should be thanking my Hi-Chew’s. It helps with energy when we fu—” 

You swat at his chest in hopes of shutting him up.

He clears his throat, correcting himself instead, “—make love.” 

This is hardly the time or situation to be talking about the other things you do on your bed, given that he’s been out of commission, curled in on himself the entire day on it. But you sigh, resting your palm on his cheek. 

He turns to peck your wrist, hand coming up to cover yours.

“Just because you were fine doing it before, doesn’t mean you always will be,” you whisper, rubbing your thumb across his cheekbone. 

And Gojo thinks he’s right most of the time, if not all the time, but—

“We’re not old, but we aren’t as young as we used to be, you know? Have to take better care of ourselves now…” you continue.

—when you talk to him like this, you humble him. Immensely. 

He’s always known that if he were to give in to anyone, it’d be to you. 

Things are different now, he knows; his considerations have changed too—like how to lay the foundations of a new, ideal jujutsu society, with all the political and diplomatic gymnastics he knows is necessary; what to do with all this downtime, with all this life and no more death looming overhead; there’s also you, where this relationship is headed, what he plans to do. 

“What will I tell everyone when the love of my life, Gojo Satoru, the strongest, gets knocked out by sweets?” 

Then you joke around like this so casually, kissing his nose and calling him the love of your life like it doesn’t bear commitment that spans your–his–entire lifetime—it shakes him a little. 

He holds his breath, eyes staring at yours. You seem completely unfazed—a slip of the tongue maybe, so he lets it go. 

“Okay, okay,” he pinches your nose as you scrunch it, “I’ll try, but no promises.” 

You kiss his wrist in return—the softness of your lips always turning him a little delirious when he feels it. He pulls you closer to his chest, palm pressed to the back of your head as his other arm wraps around you, squeezing you tighter. 

“But don’t complain if I only last one rou—” 

He gets kicked in the thigh. 

.

.

.

4 — WHEN IT'S YOUR WAY OR DOWN THE DRAIN

There’s the right way, then there’s the Gojo way. 

Sometimes there’s an overlap, but most times he’s just unorthodox. Gojo’s always had his own way of doing things, but now, he’s throwing all that down the drain in lieu of doing things your way (which in this case, he’s decided is the right way). 

Between the two of you, you’re definitely better at cooking. 

He isn’t inept at it per se; all these years, he’s managed to get by. It’s just that, he’s only ever made quick, simple things—barely having the time or need to make things on his own when you seem to have an extra plate on standby.

Long cooks like this, for real, big meals aren’t his forte at all. 

This is the fullest his kitchen has ever been, a trip to the grocery store producing bags overflowing with the ingredients he needs. He tightens his apron (yours, actually) by his waist, pale pink a stark contrast to his black shirt and gray lounge pants. It’s tiny on him, barely fitting, but it covers enough to (hopefully) save him from any mishaps. 

With all the ingredients lined up on his kitchen counter, he stares, hands on hips as he contemplates where to begin. 

You’ve mentioned before how his kitchen is every cook’s dream: complete equipment, all high-grade with steel surfaces for easy wipe downs and more than enough real estate to move around. It’s a shame he’s barely used it over the years, either too busy out on missions or lately, too often staying at yours.

The unease makes him fidgety.

There’s an air of confidence that normally surrounds Gojo in everything he does, but it wavers just a bit with this one. 

He has to get this right. 

It’s your anniversary—the third (officially), but the number doesn’t matter as much when the years have always blurred the lines of what you are to each other. 

The past two celebrations were cute and fun, adventurous in how you’d spent the first one on a trail date up north, and the second one fruit picking in a farm, just west of Tokyo—things you’d both done for the first time, together. Now, there’s added pressure because this is your thing; everything on the menu for tonight’s home cooked dinner is based on your recipes. 

You know all of this by heart. And though he’s aware he doesn’t have to impress you, he wants to. 

He glances at the clock: 15:05 in white, 4 hours until you arrive. The table hasn’t been set up yet and he’s barely dressed, an array of ingredients on the table waiting to be transformed into four of your recipes he plans to attempt. 

Gojo is no quitter, but it’d be stupid of him to underestimate how fast time flies. 

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list—then he shoots a text, pocketing the device as soon as he hits send.

.

In the amount of time between asking for help and said help standing outside his door, ringing the doorbell, Gojo’s managed to do most of the prepwork: slice all the vegetables, set the rice cooker, and mix together all the sauces and glazes so he can set them aside for later. 

“Just type it!” he shouts from the kitchen.

Four beeps sound from the door, a soft woosh following as it opens. Help enters in the form of spiky hair and a deadpan gaze, putting on house slippers by the genkan as he drags his feet to the kitchen counter. 

“Megumi!” 

The younger boy sighs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his joggers, long sleeves wrinkling higher. “Why did you call me?” 

“Oh!” Gojo claps his hands together, “I need your help.” 

Megumi looks him over, eyes zeroing in on the pink apron, then the bowls of sauces and chopped vegetables in front of him. The rice cooker is steaming beside the sink while empty pots and pans line the burners of the stove. 

“With cooking?” Megumi shifts his attention back to Gojo as the older male nods. He mumbles, “You made it sound like an emergency.”

(“Come here now.” in proper punctuation, lacking any of his usual emoticons—only ever being used in the most dire situations).

Gojo furrows his brows, “It is!” 

Megumi stares. 

“Anniversaries are emergencies,” Gojo stares back, holding the silence for a few seconds before he continues, demeanor turned serious, “Think of it as doing this for your Sensei, not me.” 

There’s a crack in Megumi’s resolve that Gojo knows only appears when it comes to you; a soft spot that exists because you’ve always been closer, warmer—an accumulation of all the times you were adamant on being present because the kids deserved someone there, especially when he couldn’t be. 

Megumi sighs, resigned, as he pushes up his sleeves, trudging over to the sink. He turns on the tap, soaping his hands until it suds, “You should have asked Itadori.”

“Yuuji wouldn’t know how it’s supposed to taste though.” 

“Sensei’s recipes?”

Gojo nods, fanning out pieces of paper from the recipe folder you keep in your kitchen drawer, “Your favorites.”

Megumi scrunches his nose, embarrassed as pink tints the tips of his ears. 

His relationship with Megumi has always been a bit weird, a not-quite-parent-maybe-kind-of-distant-guardian-and-good-but-annoying-mentor-slash-benefactor kind of weird. And he’s sure that the boy isn’t too fond of the idea that he knows small, seemingly trivial things about him like his favorite food, but if there’s anything they can settle on, it’s definitely love for you. 

“Do you have another one?” Megumi turns to Gojo, pointing to the hair band pushing back his hair. 

.

There’s a different kind of care in cooking that he’s now realizing, coming face-to-face with the pot of dashi he’s just started boiling—a patience that comes with waiting and an efficiency meant for multi-tasking.

During the 30 minutes of soaking the kombu, they split tasks: Gojo takes duty rolling the Temaki on his own, while Megumi seasons the Wagyu and prepares the Sunomono. It’s not long before Megumi is directed to setting up the table as Gojo focuses on the Miso Soup. 

There’s a reference photo, some picture he pulled online. The gray plates and silverware on his dining table match the iron-hued backsplash and steel surfaces of his kitchen, sleek but softened by the vase of red and white camellias from the florist you frequent. 

Megumi doesn’t say anything, frankly because he’s gotten used to walking in on Gojo searching up these things: a youtube video of trail dates and articles of ‘the top 10 best farms for fruit picking’. There was also that time he found Gojo’s browser open on a catalog of lingerie.

(Megumi’s been trying really hard to forget that). 

These aren’t things Gojo’s done before, much less thought of—romance and all. 

But he admits, it’s hard work, wiping off the sweat on his brow caused by the heat from the stove. 

“Why,” Megumi sighs, “Why are you cooking anyway?” He mumbles, adjusting the silverware on the table, “Couldn’t you just reserve some place?”

Most of the cook has been silent, with Gojo too focused and Megumi barely saying a word. So while adding the katsuobushi after the kombu boils, the older male answers. 

“I would have, but she said she wanted to stay home,” he turns away from the pot, leaving the katsuobushi to soak as he shrugs. 

Megumi snorts, straightening out the black tablecloth, “Don’t you have anywhere you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question. Innocent. 

But it hits him then, how what you say follows; how ‘anywhere he wants to go’ is wherever you are, how he’s choosing to cook this meal for you instead of just ordering in—how he’s now considering you, in everything.

This isn’t his strong suit, far from it, really, but because he’s thinking of what you want—suddenly he’s domesticated, cooking for you in hopes of romancing you (even though he already has you).   

You come first now, and he finds that he doesn’t mind. 

He turns back to the stove, straining the soup through a fine-mesh sieve before adding miso paste, dissolving it into the dashi.

“I guess not.” 

The thought stays with him, even as he drops in the tofu, dried wakame seaweed, and green onion. Even as he waits for it to finish cooking, moving the pot atop a different burner while grabbing a spoon to dip in it. 

“Megumi, come taste,” he calls behind him. 

And when the boy sidles up next to him, he feels nervous, fingers trembling as he hands over the spoonful of Miso Soup. He stares at Megumi, eyes wide open, anticipating. 

The boy arches an eyebrow as he takes the spoon, blowing on it gently. He takes a small sip.

“I added less salt because—” Gojo speaks up, a bit panicked, fingers scratching at his nail beds. 

“She’ll like anything you make, even if it tastes bad.”

Gojo’s brows furrow, “Are you saying it’s bad?” 

“Or bland,” Megumi adds, smacking his lips. 

“So it’s bland?”

The horror on Gojo’s face is laughable, but Megumi continues, deadpan. 

“No, it’s okay.” 

Gojo sighs in relief, then pouts, “Don’t mess with me like that.” 

“I don’t,” Megumi sets the spoon down, walking back to the dining table to finish setting up. 

The 18:03 on his digital clock flickers, and the rest of the cook continues: he heats up the skillet for the Wagyu—Matsusaka Beef, grade A-5, heavily marbled, meant to be tender and sweet. Some oil is drizzled onto the pan before cloves of chopped garlic are thrown in, followed by the beef, cut into bite-sized pieces. He adds a bit of soy sauce and red wine, to draw out the sweetness (or so he’s read), then finishes it up by plating it. 

And, there really is a different kind of care in cooking, he’s now realizing; how, when he stares at what he’s cooked in the past hour, he’s thought of you through it all—your preferences, the way you make things. How big meals aren’t his forte, but for you, he tries anyway. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Megumi asks, adjusting the camellias in the vase one last time. He takes off his hair band and ruffles his hair, hands tucking inside his pockets immediately after. 

Gojo looks up from the spread of food on the kitchen counter, motioning for the boy to come closer, “Taste test everything with me.”

Lined up are a plate of Temaki, a wooden board of Wagyu, a plate of Sunomono, and a bowl of Miso Soup. For every bite he takes, Megumi follows. And honestly? He thinks everything tastes… okay. 

The Temaki bursts with the sweet umaminess of buttery salmon dotted with ikura, the yellow daikon pickles adding a tart balance that complements the salmon well by simultaneously being sweet and salty. The avocado adds extra creaminess, while the cucumber and corn provide a freshness that lifts everything else. For some added decoration, he uses radish sprouts to mimic leaves on the filler plants of bouquets—the main reason he chose to make this: it looks like the bundles of flower arrangements you keep on your desk. What ties everything together though, is the crunchy, crispy texture of the nori, giving contrast to the creaminess it holds inside. 

There’s a reason why Wagyu is so expensive, and it’s being told in the way it melts into his mouth right now, sweet and tender. He paid a pretty penny for this, but it’s worth it because he can’t wait for your reaction. 

The Sunomono is meant to be a palate cleanser—with sesame seeds sprinkled on it, mild and sweet, while wakame seaweed and cucumbers serve as the base ingredients. The sauce is meant to be light, just a mixture of rice vinegar and soy sauce, seasoned to taste—and maybe his is a little lackluster compared to yours, but he swears you have some form of magic when it comes to cooking. 

After each bite, Gojo looks at Megumi for his reaction—but the boy gives nothing away, face blank and devoid of any emotion. None of them are as good as yours, definitely, but for his first shot at this, they aren’t too bad. He’d pat himself on the back for it. 

“They don’t go together,” Megumi regards the entire spread with his chopsticks. 

All his hard work? Shattered. 

Gojo is dumbfounded. 

It’s too late to change everything now. 

Should he just scrap everything and order takeout? 

“But they’re not bad,” Megumi continues, washing his chopsticks by the sink before heading for the bathroom to change out of the house clothes he’d borrowed in lieu of an apron.

When he emerges, long sleeves and joggers, he asks one last time if that’s all he needs to do, taking Gojo’s nods as a sign to take his leave. The older male remains rooted behind his kitchen counter, frozen from the crisis he’s facing.  

. 

You arrive a little later (thankfully), giving Gojo enough time to figure out this whole debacle. He’s ultimately decided to feel around for how the night goes, then he’ll act accordingly—if you show any sign that you aren’t happy, he has the delivery app ready. 

He dresses in simple slacks and a white button down, fiddling with how he’s rolled it up; the thought of you finally seeing everything he’s prepared for tonight makes him nervous—the table set-up, the ambiance, the food.

(He’s even cleaned up his bedroom).

Then he senses it, faint traces of your cursed energy by the door, and he holds his breath. The beeps on his lock count down the seconds to your entrance; and when he sees you come in, surprised and so amazed at the entire thing, the tightness in his chest eases up immensely. 

All he told you was to wear something nice. 

And, by god you did. 

You walk up to him, pretty and smiling in the simple dress you’d opted for tonight—a midi slip-on with a cardigan thrown on top. Black has always looked good on you, uniform or not, ever since up to now. 

But in white, you’re radiant. Glowing. 

He reaches for you. 

The grin on his face is lovesick as he grabs a hold of your waist. You instantly tiptoe up to kiss him, hands on his shoulders as you land a soft peck that transfers a light sheen of lip gloss onto his lips. The view behind him shows the table set-up, a pop of white and red amidst all the food he’s prepared for tonight. 

Your eyes widen, gasping, “Did you make all of that?” 

He nods, pulling away from you as he grins cockingly, “Call me chef.” 

But he immediately bites his lips, restless as he shifts his weight. He hopes you don’t notice how nervous he is—if you weren’t able to tell from his heartbeat, pressed against his chest. 

“You didn’t have to,” you pout at him, eyes watery as you swipe your thumb across his lips, wiping off the residue of your lipgloss. 

“Guess I’ll just undo everything then,” he chuckles, hands sliding to rest on your lower back, fingers tapping against silk. 

You roll your eyes, and before his hands get the chance to grab you lower, you’re whisking him away, holding his hand as you lead him to the dining table.

He pulls out your chair and you sit, the rare gesture making you giggle. As he settles in the seat across you, there’s a disconnect between the expression on his face and his body language—eyebrows wiggling and lips smirking, meant to be lighthearted and teasing, but he won’t stop fidgeting, shifting as he readjusts his seating. 

As you reach for the Temaki, he sucks in a breath, entirely hyper aware of every move you’re making. When you bite into it, he’s waiting. Anticipating. 

Your eyes fall shut as you chew, humming, then you grin. But when you open them and they catch his, it’s like you can tell—what he’s feeling. The furrow on your brows deepens as you look at him, concerned, “Hey, what’re you thinking?” 

How he hopes he hasn’t fucked this up, this dinner. What if the Miso Soup is too bland? Isn’t at all to your liking? What if the Wagyu’s dried out? Isn’t cooked properly? 

If he can’t get this right, this seemingly simple thing, how can he do everything else? Consider you the same way you’ve always considered him? 

He’s so sure of you his heart could burst at it, but what if he can’t ever come to terms with himself? With what he’s able to—

Then he feels it, your hand on his as you reach for him across the table, rubbing the back of it, soothing. 

He doesn’t even realize how much he’s worrying. 

“Megumi said it doesn’t go together,” he stares into your eyes, breathing slowly, grounding. It’s been a while since he’s given you a non-answer, but you accept it, patiently. 

“Megumi was here?” you ask gently, brow arched curiously. 

He nods, “Asked him to help a bit.” 

You hum, looking back at the food on the table before taking his other hand, soothing, “Well, that’s Megumi’s preference. Mine will be different.”

The smile you give him is warm, like the Miso Soup you’re reaching for right now. He watches you take a sip.

“S’good, better than mine,” You hum and he knows you’re lying but it’s still comforting, the fact that you’d do this for him. 

So if this is your effort for him, he isn’t going to waste it.

The rest of the dinner has you making the most exaggerated sounds, your ‘mmm’s and ‘ooo’s emphasizing how good the food is if he still doesn’t believe it. Your reactions are over-the-top and definitely overplayed, but it makes him laugh—has him grinning in his seat the more he relaxes. 

You help clean up, even though he insists that you shouldn’t. 

“It’s our anniversary, Satoru,” you bump his hip, shooing him away from the table as you stack up the dirty plates. 

When he finishes washing the dishes and turns to find you, sitting atop his kitchen counter, nibbling on a piece of strawberry from the special Daifuku he put out for dessert, he approaches you. 

“Don’t be greedy now,” he rests his hand on your knee, coming to stand in between your legs. You hike your dress up a little bit, just to give him some space. 

You chuckle, cupping your hand under his chin as you feed him; he eats the entire thing, half-bitten by you already. And as the tips of your fingers touch his lips, sticky and syrupy from the strawberry coating, he takes them in his mouth, sucking lightly. 

He holds your gaze.  

“Thanks for doing all this,” you blink twice as he releases your fingers, interlacing them with his, “s’not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life.” 

You say it again—how you call him that so casually. 

What do you mean it’s not everyday you have an entire dinner cooked by the love of your life? 

You do it for him all the time.

He hums, moving closer. His other hand rises higher, kneading the flesh of your thighs through the smooth silk of your midi dress. 

“Thought you were going to spit it out for a second there,” he swallows his nerves. 

“Stop,” you frown, grabbing him by his belt loops before pressing your lips against his forehead, landing a loud ‘smack’, “go away silly thoughts.”

He chuckles when you blow a raspberry on it, laughter easing up as you drag your lips down to the center of his brows, tense from all the worrying earlier. 

You always seem to get it right, he thinks, this whole relationship thing—always knowing what to say. 

He tilts his head up, leaning closer to kiss you on the lips, fully. The breath he lets out mingles with yours, sweet with hints of strawberry, and when he catches your bottom lip you lean back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. 

You nip on his upper lip, playful but light, and he groans, hand reaching up to slot itself by your neck. 

It’s there, underneath his fingertips, the pounding of your heartbeat. 

As you squirm on the kitchen counter, you pull away for a moment, restless from the growing heat. The action is subtle but dangerous as your cardigan slips off your shoulder, revealing the strap and lace of your lingerie. 

Blue eyes land on familiar pink, one he’s certain he’s caught you in before, but seeing it now, under white, it does something to his brain—blood rushing, ears ringing. 

He leans closer, grabbing you by the waist as he runs his lips against along your neck, nipping on sensitive skin.

“‘Toru,” you gasp, breathy as you grip his shirt. 

“Tell me what else you want,” he murmurs against your skin, muffled. He sneaks one glance at you, pupils blown, before hovering over your temple, lips barely touching, tickling as he whispers, “anything.” 

Your fingers trail lower, pinching at his shirt before you tug, untucking it from his slacks. You turn to him, finding his lips, sliding them over his as you match his rhythm. It’s careful and slow, the way you unbutton his shirt, but it’s like he said—

This is your way; he’ll follow anything you say.

.

.

.

5 — WHEN ALL I SEE IS ME AND YOU

Gojo never thought he’d make this decision all because of your joint streaming subscription. 

It’s a normal weekend, regular in every way possible—just a night in for the both of you. He usually stays over at the end of the week, but it’s been bleeding into the weekdays too, lately. 

The sound of splashing water against tile echoes along the hallway; you normally play songs when you shower, but he guesses today isn’t that kind of day. 

He plops on the couch, pointing the remote to the TV as he selects the streaming app. Normal weekends consist of movie nights, half actually paying attention to the screen, and half paying attention to other things—either way, it ends in falling asleep. 

When the homepage lights up on the screen, he spots two accounts: yours and his. And it’s joint, under one household—your home. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been thinking about this more lately: how the past months have been a slow realization coming to terms with himself, and where he sees this relationship going, but the visual in front of him sparks an influx of things he’s been noticing. 

The pajama pants he’s wearing now exist as a pair to a matching set he has with you, but tonight, he’s opted for a white t-shirt because his pajama top is tucked somewhere in the drawers of your bedroom. 

(You keep it with you because you like how it fits more, you say, but he thinks it’s because it smells like him, and you sleep with it when he’s away). 

There’s another pair of chopsticks you always wash now, too, plain bamboo with a ring around the handle, light blue. You’d bought it from a market down the street a year ago, and told him it reminded you of him—how it’s his from now on, in the container of utensils by your kitchen sink. 

He’s always known how intertwined your lives are, a decade and more of learning one another is bound to entangle you somehow. But the past few years have caused knots, impossible to unravel—a thought that doesn’t scare him as much as it used to; a thought he now thinks doesn’t sound so bad as long as it’s with you. 

As long as it’s with you. 

The creaking of the bathroom door snaps him back, the soft pads of your footsteps growing louder as it reaches the living room.

“Oh, you haven’t picked a movie yet?” you ask, ruffling your hair with your towel. 

He puts on a smile, facing you as he hands over the remote, “You pick tonight.” 

.

You barely pay attention to the movie, snuggled up against his chest, constantly looking up to kiss his neck. He’s the same, distracted, but not for the same reasons you are. 

It’s a lot to resist, the way your hands creep under his shirt, warm against his stomach, but the sinking feeling in his gut makes it impossible to focus anywhere else. 

“Not the time?” you tap his cheek, and he tilts his chin down, acknowledging you. The look on your face is anything but disappointed, and it tugs at him, makes him feel guilty that he’s making you worry. That he can’t give you what you’re looking for right now. 

“Maybe later,” he takes your hand, lips grazing your fingertips, “I’ll get ready for bed.” 

You nod, sitting up as he taps your hip. He knows you can tell something’s bothering him—it’s impossible to hide anything from you at this point, but this realization feels like a long time coming, like it’s been brewing, now spilling. 

He gets up, kissing the top of your head before walking to the bathroom. 

When he steps in, it still smells like you—the shampoo and bodywash you use. (Technically, it smells like him too—he’s started using yours because it feels like keeping you with him, everywhere he goes). 

As he finishes brushing his teeth, reaching for his towel hooked beside yours, he remembers how none of this existed when it was just you. You only ever had one hook for one towel, how he used to share it with you only to realize that it would never dry in time for the next use.

Then he found it, some time last year, when he walked in to take a shower and saw a hook installed right beside yours, presumably his. 

The lights are adjusted for him too; fluorescent white too bright, a pain for his Six Eyes. You noticed when you caught him washing his face in the dark, so you changed the bulbs to soft white, tinged a bit yellow, warm. 

And the thing is, he never asked you to do any of this. 

You just… did. 

Because that’s you. 

And it’s making him realize even more how he wants to keep it this way, how he wouldn’t mind if this was the rest of his life, everyday.

.

The mood shifts when you both get in bed, and if you notice it, you don’t tell him. Whatever was bothering him before has settled, his head clear, more focused to reciprocate your earlier advances. 

He’s gentle when he touches you, taking the time to love you. Your clothes come off one by one with no haste at all, slowly, almost painfully. 

But he kisses you all over, leaves marks on places only he can see—by your hip, at the center of your chest, and another one, visible, on your neck below your ear. This is more than what he usually does, but he feels determined tonight.

“Off,” you whisper, as you tug at his shirt, pulling it off before throwing it to the side of your bed. 

He holds his breath when your fingers land on his chest, dragging across his collarbones before you tap thrice. This is a spot you’ve loved so intently, he’s become sensitive to it every time you come close. You leave kisses along it, some wet, others dry pecks, but it makes him shudder all the same, every time. 

As he hovers above you, arm bent by your head, his fingers trace your lower lip, tugging only to let it bounce back; he kisses you, noses bumping, softly at first before it turns hungry—lips overlapping, biting. His tongue runs over your lips, smooth and warm. 

There are more touches, more gazes; lips brushing and breaths mixing. The heat between you is shared, intermingling, and when he’s in you—

—it’s too much, how he feels looking at you right now, like you’re everything, the only thing seared into his memory. 

There’s a life he wants to give you, and though he knows there are others who might be more able to—he can’t let go of you, refuses to. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else being this close, doesn’t even want to think about someone else waking up next to you—the bed hair he always looks forward to, the lazy smile against squished cheeks, the hands that always reach for him, first thing. 

These traces of you have made him want the whole of you, and if this is him being selfish, then so be it. 

His arms wrap around your back, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around him, and you’re both moving, timing in sync, and he’s crying. 

He tucks his face into your neck, and he’s sure you feel everything—wet tears, shuddery breaths, but you don’t say anything. You hold him tighter, fingers scratching his undercut as he gets closer and closer. 

Gojo Satoru is a man of impossibilities. 

And this life he thinks you deserve—he wants to be the one to give that to you. 

.

.

.

+1 — WITH MY KNEES ON THE FLOOR, WHEN I ASK FOR MORE

He shouldn’t even be feeling this way, because what’s the worst thing you can say?

It’s just you. 

It’s just you—

And… maybe it’s because it’s you, that the .01% possibility of you even saying no—

—it makes him feel sick. 

He looks back at the clock: 16:30. The walk from the conference room to his office will take an extra 3? 5? minutes. 

The room feels tighter, smaller, floorboards practically worn down from how much he’s paced around it. 

He’s rehearsed what he wants to say, how he’ll grab your hand and look you straight in the eyes as he does it. Fear and excitement churn in his belly, how he’s imagining the look on your face.

If you were here, you’d tell him to breathe—to follow you with every inhale and exhale. 

If you were here, you’d smile at him, lips curled up softly, gently, the one he loves. 

If you were here—

—the door opens, and you step into the room. 

Now that you’re here, he doesn’t know what to say. 

You stand before him in your uniform, smiling, just as he imagined you’d be. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, sparkling, the way he’s noticed they have since you were 17. 

He must be doing a terrible job hiding how he feels because your demeanor instantly shifts, face contorting into worry, brows furrowed and frown forming. You drop your bag as you walk to him, hands reaching to cup his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice hushed and delicate, “Did something happen?” 

Your fingers are warm on his cheeks (or is he too cold?), tilting his head lower so you can look him in the eyes. He can’t breathe, can’t hear you properly; you’re drowned out by the thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Need to tell you something,” he manages to mutter. 

Your eyes widen before you nod, lowering your hands as you speak slowly, “Okay, do you want to sit first? I have water—”

He shakes his head, hand reaching for your wrist, “I think… you should sit.” 

The pause alarms you, your body turning rigid. He has no idea what’s going through your mind, and you give nothing away as you mumble an ‘okay’ while walking to the couch. 

He stays beside you, not too far but still placing a bigger distance than he normally would—for the 0.01% probability that this isn’t what you want, that he isn’t too close, forcing you into an answer you might not want to say. 

The words float in his mind, but none of them string together to form the sentences he wants to tell you. Does he take it from the start? How this whole thing has always terrified him? How he never thought this was meant for him, but here he is, still learning but loving every second of it?

There are things he’s never had to consider before that he cares so much more about now—all because of you, how it’s for you, how he wants to do better by you. 

You call him the love of your life and he hasn’t told you, but you’re that and more for him, too. 

He practiced this, damn it. 

Why can’t he remember a single thing? 

The silence between you is tense, tainted by overthinking on both ends. You look like you’re waiting for bad news, and Gojo’s too stuck in his head, turning over the right words to say instead of reassuring you. 

“I’ve been thinking lately,” he starts, fiddling with his fingers. His feet won’t stop bouncing, knee fidgeting. He’s biting his lips, a tell-tale sign that there’s a lot he isn’t saying.

You place your hand on his knee to calm him down, and he stops bouncing it, looking at you as you muster up a small smile—far from being genuine, but it’s the fact that you’ve mustered it, as if to say: ‘it’s okay, you can tell me; i’ll always want to hear all of it.’ 

He swallows, “This arrangement isn’t working.” 

Your face drops, brows furrowing, “What arrangement?” 

His heart is pounding. 

“I stay over at yours too much.” 

Too much, that mine doesn’t feel like I belong there anymore, he fails to add. 

“I think we need more space.” 

Your hand slides off his knee as you tuck it between your thighs. There’s a frown on your face he can’t seem to figure out, and the fact that you’re giving nothing away, whatever you’re thinking—he’s turning even more nervous right now. 

“Okay,” you finally say, tone flat, “when do you want me to return all your things?”

He tilts his head at you, confused, “What—” 

“Actually, can I…” you shift around, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ears before clearing your throat, “can I ask if it’s something I did?” 

And his heart drops, straight into his stomach. 

It’s not like that at all. 

He’s hit with déjà vu; this conversation feels so familiar, so similar to one he’s had with you before—on the sofa chair across this couch, laying himself bare the same way he is now. 

The couch dips as he scoots closer to you, reaching for your hands. 

“It’s not—”

You scoff sadly, “Please don’t give me the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ thing,” then your tone drops, blinking away your tears, “if you’re going to break up with me, Satoru, just tell me why. Honestly.” 

He blinks. 

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he once told himself he’ll never tell you. 

But now seems like it’s fitting—the right time to say it. 

“You remember when I was unsealed?” he moves to the floor, getting down on his knees in front of you. You nod as he rubs circles over your knuckles, “When I first saw you, it was pretty scary.” 

He brings one hand to your cheek, catching a tear with his thumb. You pout, the crease between your brows growing deeper. 

“You ran yourself dry because of me.” 

When he thinks about it now, he still feels guilty. 

He believes that people are accountable for their own actions, and he still believes that with you, definitely—but he knows your reasons, why you acted that way, desperate for hope everyday. And for that, he takes responsibility. 

“I didn’t want that for you, still don’t.” 

Your frown deepens, tears welling up even more. 

Do you still think he wants to do this without you? 

He can’t take this, seeing you cry; he promised himself he wouldn’t be the reason behind this anymore.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he tells you firmly, surely. 

You blink. 

Then your shoulders drop as you breathe out—what he hopes is relief. When your eyes meet, a little less sad, he sees the stars in them, glinting like they do when you look at him.

This should be his answer already, how much you brighten at the thought of staying with him. But—

“I still think you deserve more,” he brings your hands to his lips, brushing them against it, and as you’re about to interject, he chuckles, “but I’m also too selfish to leave that up to someone else, you know?” 

“Soooo,” his hand reaches for his pocket, fishing around until he feels for what he’s looking for. He takes out his phone, swiping and scrolling until he finally stops, placing it on your lap for the both of you to see, “I’ve been thinking lately…” 

He looks up at you, the two skies you’ve always been drawn to, waiting. The unease in his stomach returns, churning. 

It’s a compilation of properties: houses, apartments, plots of land—all scattered around Tokyo, some central and some further on the outskirts. 

Your eyes widen, tilting your head to the side as you attempt to read what’s on his screen. You turn to him immediately, eyes still watery; the expression on your face is unreadable, a mixture of surprise and confusion, like you don’t exactly know what he means. 

“We don’t have to choose from these, it’s just a few brokers I talked to recently. We can look for others if you want, in quieter areas too—” 

Then you smile, beaming, tears falling from your eyes, “Satoru,” and you breathe out his name but it sounds like I love you.

There’s a quiet life he can’t give you, but he likes this one with you much better too. He takes your hands, placing one on his chest, over his heart, and the other on his cheek. Then, he leans into it, kissing the insides of your wrist before staring back at you sincerely. 

His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure, but if he can continue to make you this happy—

“Make a home with me?”

a/n: food descriptions—temaki is easy hand-rolled sushi, sunomono is japanese cucumber salad.

thank you notes: @stellamancer the actual birthday gift for u :') + @em1e for listening to me talk abt the entire plot and even reading the first few scenes!! + @mididoodles @kissxcore @itadorey @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat for always being so supportive when am sharing my progress posts ilu + @crysugu @soumies @augustinewrites no reason other than i just love u ᰔ i reply so slow when am writing smth...

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

hii:)) i saw you're willing to write about pegging, so could you write something like that with dave? :3 Its fine if not^^

Warnings: Smut, pegging, fingering (m receiving), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

"No!" He yelled. "No, absolutely not, I am drawing a line!"

Dave did not like the scene before him, you naked -that wasn't the bad part- wearing a strap on dildo, a pair a handcuff dangling from your finger by the chain.

A pout tugged at your lips at his disdain. "Please? Just once!"

"No, I-I'm not letting you put that thing up mine!" He yelled, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in surrender. "That is my one thing, I'm not gay."

Your hands fell to your sides. "Dave, it doesn't make you gay if there's a woman at the other end of it."

"Yeah, yeah, you say that." You rolled your eyes at him as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"What will it take, huh?" You asked. "It's my birthday and you know that I like it."

"And you know why I threw out your old harness thing." He said, flailing his finger at your get up.

You huffed, it was going to take a lot for him to let you do this. "Sex whenever you want for a month." You said.

"You do that anyway."

"I won't if you don't let me try this." That made him stop. "Please?" You said in a softer tone, taking a few slow steps towards him. You reached for his arm, running your hand over him and giving his bicep a squeeze. "For me?" You blinked at him, pouting more.

He hated you, he hated that he couldn't say no, he hated being on all fours on the bed with you behind him.

"You better enjoy this." He grumbled as you squirted some lube onto your finger, making sure he wouldn't get too hurt. You pushed a finger into him and he inhaled deeply. "That's just wrong." He said, shaking his head.

"If you could at least try to enjoy this."

"I get a blow job when you're done." He said, looking back at you over your shoulder. You nodded and started moving your finger, pumping it in and out of him until he was stifling moans.

He tried to hide it but you knew it would feel good, you knew what you were doing. You squeezed more lube onto him and pushed another finger in, using your two digits to scissor his hole and loosen him.

Dave was so, so against this, but it was your birthday and he loved you and when you started he liked it. He would never admit that, not even the worst form of torture could get him to speak.

But he did, he never outright said he loved what you were doing, but his face was shoved into the pillows and his back arched, raising his ass for you to thrust into, he was a whining, moaning mess.

"Fuck, mommy-mommy, please!" He whined, tears streaming down his eyes. You laughed at his pathetic sounds, only going faster.

His grip on the sheets beneath him tightened, his knuckles going white as he cried out for you, for more.

The sheets were drenched with lube and sweat and, while Dave refused to believe it, cum. He was a puddle under you, shaking and sputtering.

You watched more strings of cum drip from his tip and figured enough was enough, he couldn't think straight, his vision was blurry, basically you'd left him in the same state he always left you in.

You pulled out of him and he rolled onto his side, body trembling. You moved to sit beside him and he moved his head onto your lap. "Feels good, doesn't it?" You asked, brushing some hair out of his face, wiping away his tears with your thumb.

"Fuck you." He mumbled, nuzzling into you.

"That’s your job.” He glared at you, with much love.

[bullet-prooflove]

New Years Bingo Card 2024: Office Party - Nick Torres x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @whateversomethingbruh @district447 @lovebookheart @stelacole

The NCIS holiday party is torture.

Usually Nick likes a good social occasion but he’s one year sober and you're wearing that dress, the one that hugs your curves in all the right places. It drives him absolutely crazy because all he wants to do is get down on his knees and worship at your alter.

“Earth to Nick.” McGee clicks his fingers in front of his face and suddenly he’s back in a conversation about…

Nick has no fucking idea because his attention is immediately returning to you, to Dale Sawyer as he leans in close, tipping up your chin, looking into your eyes. His jaw clenches, his fist balling because Sawyer doesn’t get to touch you like that, no one does.

This is the problem with dating under the radar, people don’t know that you’re his. It frustrates him because all Nick wants to do is scream it to the goddamn world but you, you’re not ready yet. It’s different for women in law enforcement he knows, especially rising stars like you.

You disengage before he can make a scene, drawing away, leaving Sawyer hanging. Nick dogs your footsteps down the corridor, stalking you as you enter Ducky’s, leaving the lights off as you do. He’s follows you inside, closing the door behind him, turning the lock on the handle.

“You looked like you’re about to lose your shit.” You say conversationally, your fingertips smoothing over his chest through his Henley and Nick’s dark eyes meet yours, burning like coals.

“I don’t like other men touching you.” He rasps, his hands coming to rest on your hips, dragging you against him. “Especially him.”

There’s always been this feud between him and Sawyer. He’s the spry, new puppy, bright eyed, eager to please and Nick’s the old dog you can’t teach new tricks.

“Nick.” You sigh. “You don’t have to…”

But Nick doesn’t care for the chastisement, he just needs you to know who you belong to, when he’s in the room, when he’s not. His mouth covers yours and he drinks down your words like the finest of wines, savouring every drop. His hands thread through your hair as you yield to him, his tongue licking into your mouth, a filthy, unspoken promise of what’s to come. You moan under the onslaught, grinding against his muscular thigh as he jams it between your legs.

“That’s it baby.” He whispers against your lips, gathering your hair up in his fist and tugging it just right. “Ride it for me, soak my jeans.”

The noise you make, its though to drive a man to madness as your clit rubs against the rough denim, your wetness smearing across the fabric.

“I knew you weren’t wearing any panties.” He murmurs, his mouth ghosting over your jaw. “Were you hoping to get fucked tonight?”

You don’t answer, you can’t because his fingers are in your mouth, thrusting in and out the same way his dick did this morning before he fucked you in the shower. You start to moan around his digits, your movements becoming more stunted, more frantic.

“You’re going to come for me mi alma.” Nick tells you, his fingers slipping from your mouth before delving underneath your dress. “And I hope he fucking hears it.”

His fingertips tease over that pink rosebud, parting the delicate petals just before he dips inside you. He presses that delicious little sweet spot and that flower, it fucking blossoms. Your sweet honey drenches his hand as you bit down on his shirt, trying to stifle the sound of your ecstasy. Nick withdraws his fingers, pulling your head back with his fist as he smears that sweet nectar across your lips, watching as they glisten before he kisses you.

That taste, he can’t get enough if it. He fucking dreams about it on the nights he has to alone in his bed fucking his fist. He guides you back against the door before he falls to his knees in front of you, his palms guiding that dress over your hips.

“This time…” He murmurs, his gaze locked on yours as his thumb traces lightly over your clit. “This time I want to hear you to say my name when you come.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[quijabored]

I always see those "They could never make me hate you, [Insert character whos problematic]" and I was trying to figure out which character I related that to.

YEAH SO I HAVE NONE OF THOSE

Kokichi Ouma from Danganronpa V3: Killing Harmony?? He's INCREADIBLY problematic in his own fandom and for good reason. He's an ass, he's responsible for 4 deaths, he's a liar, he's a manipulator, HES NOT DEFENDABLE. AND YET HES MY FAVORITE CHARACTER??? HELLO??? I might post more Ouma art tbh, love drawing the stupid idiot. ISTG I HATE HIM JUST AS MUCH AS THE NEXT PERSON, BUT HES SO... STUPIDLY WELL WRITTEN AND IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY???

Jax from The Amazing Digital Circus. Not AS problematic as Ouma, but still relatively dislikes throughout the fandom. Jax is a jerk and while I'm hoping we get to see why or more of his character, he's still a jerk. AND YET AGAIN, HES MY FAVORITE???? WHY. WHY. WHY. I HAVE LIKE 5 OTHER CHARACTERS I COULDVE LIKED, WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE HIM????

Fyodor Dostoyevsky from Bungo Stray Dogs. HATE THAT MAN WITH A BURNING PASSION. HES A MANIPULATIVE BASTARD, HES AWFUL TO ATSUSHI, HES PROBABLY GONNA KILL NIKOLAI, AND HES SO.... SO STUPID??? I HATE HIM???? WHY IS HE IN MY TOP 5 AGAIN??? WHY DO I WANT TO BASH HIM AGAINST THE SIDEWALK IN A LOVING WAY???

Wanderer from Genshin Impact. STUPID IDIOT CRINGE 2020 SOUNDING ASS, I HATE HIM. He's so??? GOD EVERYTHING IN MY BEING WANTS TO KILL HIM. I love Wanderer so much hes such a well written character but GOD he's annoying. HES ONE OF MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE CHARACTERS BUT AAAGHHHHH HE MAKES ME WANT TO RIP MY LUNGS OUT which is honestly a good thing cuz that means they're doing his character right BUT AAGHHHH

Mahito from Jujitsu Kaisen. OKAY I HAVENT FINISHED JJK YET IM STILL ON SEASON 1 (Mostly bc Ive seen hella spoilers and its just taking me a while to actually watch it since I already know what happens) BUT AAGHHHHHH MAHITO SUCKS I HATE HIM. HES SO CHILDISH AND HE KILLED JUNPEI, MY SON, MY BABY, MY ADORATION??? SO WHY THE HELL IS HE MY SECOND FAVORITE??? First place goes to my GOAT MEGUMI but yk ✌️ HES SUCH AN ASSHOLE AND HES SUCH A BRAT BUT JESUS CHRIST I LOVE HIM SO MUCH 😭😭😭

Kyuubey from Puella Magi Madoka Magica. He's not my favorite character since he could never replace Homura and Sayaka, but I also really really like how his characters made?? BUT THE THINGS HE DOES ARE IRREDEEMABLE AND I HATE HIM??? AAAAAAAAA???

chat I'm trying so hard to think of more examples

Okay weird example, but Rascal from Glitter Force. HES A MAJOR VILLAIN, HE LIKE ALMOST CAUSED THE END OF THE WORLD??? AAAAA??? BUT HES SO FUN TO WATCH ON SCREEN OH MY GOD I LOVE HIM

Sunday from Honkai Star Rail. FAVORITE CHARACTER, HES MY GOAT, HES SO AWESOME BUT OH MY GOD HE MAKES ME WANT TO TORTURE MYSELF AND NOT IN A HOT WAY. I HATE HIM SO MUCH HES SO AAAGHHHH HES SO PATHETIC AND HES SUCH AN ASSHOLE BUT THATS ALSO A GOOD THING CUZ THAT MEANS THEURE DOING HIS CHARACTER RIGHT BUT AAAGHHHHHHH

Yuri from Spy x Family. Hes WEIIRDDD and I hate the incest trope guys please please please please WHYYYY. Still, he's my favorite character and I like watching him but he can get hella annoying fr 😔

Dare I say the plantain chips my mom buys? Dude I HATE plantains but oh my GODDD is that seasoning yummy 🤤🤤

Love Aku, but if anyone hates him I'm personally getting into a fistfight with them. /j

[melodygatesauthor]

Corpse voice request anon here xD

But yeah just kapkan waking up to like very deep voiced reader and being an absolute simp for reader. If you do write kapkan as a bottom then maybe also have reader break kapkans back iyk

Atta Boy

bottom!Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda X m!Reader

NONNIEEEE This is my FIRST MLM fic EVER so it was very exciting for me to do :) I really hope I did it justice and hope you enjoyed it!

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, m/m, anal, anal fingering, anal creampie, bottom!Kapkan

Word Count: 818

Russian Terms:

Dobroye utro = good morning

Khoroshiy = Good

“Dobroye utro.” Maxim said, stirring against you.

“Mm good morning.” You said, voice deeper than usual in the morning haze.

Maxim’s first motive in the morning was to torture you by rubbing his rear against your hardened cock. You snaked your large hand over his waist and felt his abdomen ripple under your touch. You buried your face into the nape of the hunter’s neck, inhaling his musky scent.

“You’re such a fucking tease Maxim.” You groaned, rutting against him through your boxer-briefs.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He said, playing coy as always.

“You know exactly what I mean.” You said in a low growl.

That got his attention. Maxim was a sucker for your abnormally deep vocals. He turned to face you, eyes dark and full of lust. He was already hard, cock touching your thigh. The smirk over his lips was impossible for him to hide around you. If there was one thing that was true about Maxim, it was that he was good at keeping his composure, except when it came to you.

“Atta boy.” You teased, latching your lips onto his harshly, drawing soft moans from him every time your mouth melted over his.

You started tugging at the waist of his underwear, desperate to feel his cock in your hand. He helped you, pulling them down over his ankles and tossing them to the side of the bed. You took yours off too, keeping your mouth on his the entire time.

“Mm…Max.” You groaned in a deep tone past the hunter’s lips.

Your name sounded like a prayer coming from his mouth when he said it in return. You parted from him, making sure to grab the lube from the nightstand while Max got into position for you. He loved nothing more in the morning than a hot cup of black coffee, and your thick cock lodged deep in his ass.

You stroked your fist over yourself, coating your length in the slick substance. Maxim presented himself to you, face down into the mattress, rear out and ready for you. You climbed onto the bed behind him. With a lubed finger, you pushed past his tight ring of muscle, hearing him whine into the comforter.

“Relax, come on. I know you can do it.” You lulled gently.

His cock was leaking down onto the sheets when you pushed another finger in, scissoring your digits to prep him for your size. When you were sure he was ready, as ready as he could be, you lined your cock up with his hole. You grabbed his hip with one hand before pushing past the threshold, and feeling the warmth envelop your girth.

“Oh, Max…fuck.” You groaned, beginning to thrust into his tight hole.

You put a large hand on the strong back of the hunter, pushing him down as you started thrusting into him harder. Maxim’s tight ring contracted, squeezing over your length and drawing deep, raspy moans from you. You started fucking him faster, more ravenously.

You leaned forward and grabbed his weeping shaft in your firm hand, stroking him to the rhythm of your thrusts. His whimpers got louder as you did, though they were still muffled by the mattress. You looked down at him, his face was turned to the side, reddened from the assault on his rear. He was drooling a dark spot onto the sheets.

“Tell me how that feels.” You urged, knowing it would be difficult for him.

“Khoroshiy,” he muttered, followed by a deep groan.

You continued running your fist over his cock, running down the length and then back to the base. He was so needy, so whiny, and you loved every small sound the strong Russian made at your touch. You started fucking him harder, feeling yourself getting closer to climax. His body slid forward. You brought one hand to his hip, and the other to pull on his dark locks. You leaned forward, and pulled his ear to your mouth.

“I’m gonna fill you up Max, you ready for that?” You said in the deepest, darkest tone you could muster.

“D-da.” He managed to get out.

You kept his hair clenched in your fingers, enjoying seeing the way he was coming unraveled under your grasp. You felt the heat pooling in your lower abdomen, and your cock stiffened with your impending orgasm.

“Here we go, f-fuck.”

Even as you came, your gruff voice remained low. You felt your cock pulsating while you filled Maxim with your hot cum. He moaned, and his body trembled beneath you. When you were sure you were sufficiently spent, you pulled out of him and stepped off the bed.

“That’s my good boy.” You cooed, knowing that underneath him you’d find a cumstained sheet where he’d also found relief. “Now get yourself cleaned up, we have a busy day ahead.”

Melody's Birthday Celebration

Celebration Masterlist

[blackjackkent]

An icy chill blows at the top of Moonrise Towers. Even in spite of Selune's blessing still illuminating, the cold goes straight to their bones.

High as they are, they should be able to see for miles, but all is in darkness. The shadowlands stretch in all directions, corrupted and dead. Waiting.

A single point of light shines in the dark. Aylin, wings spread wide, swoops in an arcing circle around the tower's peak, the glittering sword slicing through Ketheric's minions standing guard.

And at the center of the platform between the ornate columns stands Ketheric himself, pale as a ghost.

It is obvious at a glance that Aylin's freedom was the key; he is weakened, even frightened. He stares down at Hector, tries to backpedal away... but there is nowhere to run.

"You..." the general whispers hoarsely, his voice grating with impotent fury. "What have you done?! What have you *done* to me?!"

Hector cannot escape a certain cold satisfaction at seeing the heretofore-omnipotent monster so staggered. This man was responsible for the death and corruption of hundreds of Selunite souls, the torture of the goddess's own daughter, and the destruction of this land for the past hundred years.

Even were he a good enough orator to convince Ketheric to surrender, he wouldn't do it.

"You were feeding off Nightsong for a century." His voice is carefully controlled. In this moment of power, he will not gloat. He will not learn cruelty from these monsters. But he will finish this, for good. "No longer."

Ketheric laughs disbelievingly. "How *dare* you interfere?" he snarls. "You are like the digits of a hand - it is for you to act, not to decide!"

He raises one hand, a blaze of green light twisting in his fingers. "You serve the Absolute!" he roars. "You serve ME! Bow, you dog! BOW!"

Pain, all-too-familiar, bursts through Hector's head, some of the strongest he's felt since the Absolute first knocked him to his knees outside the goblin camp. The sheer power of Ketheric's control is staggering; for a terrifying moment he is aware of nothing at all except the overwhelming urge to bow, to submit.

Rage floods him, and he struggles against that power, struggles to open his eyes and fight back.

The burst of warm light from the Prism goes thorough him like a bucket of cold water over the head, clearing his mind and knocking him backwards off his feet. As he staggers up again, the artifact darts into his hands like a dog returning to its master, and just for a moment he feels the comforting pulse of the dream guardian's presence in his mind.

His shoulders square and he steadies himself, drawing a harsh breath. No more. We are not his to command. And this-- ends-- NOW.

"The Prism," Ketheric growls, and the way he bites the word off makes it sound like a curse. "You've had it all this time, you *worm*! You *will* bow before me. And if you will not bow, you will *break*!"

Hector is saved from answering by a another explosion of light - this time from Aylin crashing down between Ketheric and Hector, flaring with holy radiance. This time it is Ketheric who is knocked off his feet, staring up at the aasimar balefully - seeing in her the personification of his failure just before it strikes him.

"You!"

"How good it is to see you again, Ketheric," Aylin says mockingly. "At last you've found a god-master that suits you, it seems."

Ketheric staggers to his feet, one hand going for his sword. "Aylin. The thief. You stole Isobel from me, and now you think you'll take my life in the bargain?"

Hector watches in astonishment as Aylin's wings lift and a shimmer of radiant glow begins to sizzle all over her body; the mocking calm vanishes, replaced by a fury that is far more than holy.

"You dare to speak her name?" she barks. "After your crimes innumerable, you would evoke her before me!?"

"Enough!" Ketheric snaps back. "This ends here and now - at last!"

Aylin wheels to face Hector, who has regained his balance and is staring up at her with bewildered reverence. "He will crumble at the power of your touch!" she cries, lifting her sword to urge him and his companions to the fight. "Give him all you have!"

"THE GODS FIGHT AT OUR SIDE!"

[sleekervae]

So Good [0.2]

Masterlist

A/N: Heyy, how's September treating everyone? I already hate school and I've done absolutely zero drawing in two months but you know what -- it's okay. Life is full of surprises and I'm just gonna take whatever the universe decides to throw my way -- we're cool. Anyway, thanks for the reads, likes, and reblogs, always helps to save a fanfic!

Warnings: none, spoilers for Yoü & I

Purple text is Korean

Namjoon stayed true on his promise to text Kimberly after she handed him her number, and they had exchanged a few texts in the days leading up to their next show, sporadic messages mostly, but there had been a few nights were the chat ran for hours. They had a particularly lengthy conversation about how she needed a new turntable, then she told him about her most played records; what she listened to first thing in the morning, which tunes kept her going in her workouts, what she played when she took a bath and when she cooked. From there, Namjoon asked about food, what she liked to cook and confessing that he wasn't very knowledgable around the kitchen.

Sometimes though, Namjoon would take hours to respond, not on purpose, either he had forgotten or was simply too busy. Kimberly didn't mind the gaps between their messages, he'd come back and continue the conversation as if nothing had happened whenever he had the time.

In her spare time, Kimberly had done her own exploration into BTS, blown away by the scale of their music videos and charmed in their interviews. Namjoon had a spectacular, though quiet charisma to him; bespoke and concise in some takes, but he could be a complete goofball in others. And those eyes of his were incredible, she could quite easily be transfixed by his gaze regardless of whether or not he was on a screen.

At the moment she was in the middle of one of their catch-up texts, sitting off in the corner of their rehearsal space. Catch the Caper were supposed to be rehearsing for their upcoming tour, however, lallygagging and complacency overtook the energy in the studio.

What would you want to do if you weren't in a band?

Probably something in public relations or just marketing altogether

Sounds pretty smart

Lol, I guess so

You been to college?

I had plans to go to Princeton initially, but the band was the better fit

Did you go to college?

I took some courses here and there, mostly communications stuff

I took some women's and gender studies, too

No kidding? How'd you like those?

Very very eye opening

The other girls were gathered in a circle around the drum set, having one of their usual debates about very important societal topics.

"But why would an audio book be considered the same as reading?" Chloe asked.

Charlotte shrugged back, "I mean -- for one, someone had to read out the book to record it for the audio,"

"But what if you're a really fast reader and the narrator speaks really slow?" Maria replied, "That would be torture for me,"

"... But that defeats the purpose of the idea. You're not doing a read-a-long with a narrator. The platform is just listening," Charlotte added.

"But you have books on a kindle, there's not much of a step up from just listening," Maria said.

Chloe strained her head to get a look at Kimberly in her corner, "Oh, Kimberly! Care to join us?" she called.

Kimberly glanced up from her phone, "Are we starting?"

"Nope," Maria huffed, "But we really ought to,"

"C'mon, this is important," Chloe chided back, "Eva wants to get a joint Audible membership,"

Kimberly cocked her head, "So... what's your problem, then?"

"Her problem is subscribing to another digital platform that she's not going to use so it'll just keep charging her card until she remembers to cancel it," Charlotte explained.

"But if I already have the books that Audible is offering, is there even a point to getting an account? I don't know what the difference would be... other than maybe laziness," Chloe mulled.

Kimberly sighed as she stood up, stretching out the stiffness in her back, "Okay, I define reading as taking in a story, that means visualizing the story and using imagination just like you would if you had a book in front of you," she explained, "I don't think there's much of a difference, anyhow,"

"Great," Chloe nodded, "I still don't know,"

"Just try the free trial for Pete sakes!" Maria snapped, "That's why they're called 'trials', dude,"

Charlotte, quickly becoming disillusioned with this conversation, turned to Kimberly as she walked over, "What were you doing over there, anyway?"

"I was texting," Kimberly sat beside her, crossing one leg over the other, "So sue me,"

"Darius?"

Chloe cut in before she could answer, "Namjoon," she waggled her eyebrows at the bassist. Kimberly glowered at her.

"Tattle tits,"

"Wait --" Charlotte shifted closer, "The BTS guy? Really?"

"Yeah. The tall one," Kimberly replied.

"Bro, they're all fucking tall,"

"The one with the nice quads," Chloe nodded.

Maria raised her brows as well, not so much in amusement, "How long you been talking for?"

"A couple of days. He's really nice," Kimberly replied honestly,

Charlotte smirked, "I'm sure he is,"

"Get that look off your face,"

Maria scoffed, "Well, you can't really blame her. You guys were practically inseparable at the AMAs," she said.

"Right up until you dropped the big B-word," Chloe added.

Kimberly grimaced, the stunned expression on his face continued to flicker in her memory. She truly hadn't meant any harm by it, Darius had become such a natural part of her life that she hadn't felt the need to shout to the world that she had a boyfriend. Furthermore, she didn't want to brush off a potential friendship with the B-word stonewall. Nevertheless, if Namjoon had that simmering hope of maybe -- just maybe -- Kimberly was confident that she had shut that down real quick. She loved Darius, after all, she was comfortable in her relationship.

"So what?" Kimberly replied, trying not to border on defensive, "We've effortlessly proved for the last three and something years that guys and girls can be friends without romantic tension,"

Chloe scoffed back, "Two of us proved it, anyway," she glanced at both Charlotte and Maria. The former was stuck in a will-they-won't-they tension with Luke Hemmings, while Maria had been secretly dating Calum Hood for nearly nine months, now. Only three weeks ago had Charlotte, Kimberly, and Chloe found them out.

Maria screwed up her face at the drummer, "Hey! The other three are still my friends," she pointed out, referring to the rest of the boys from 5 Seconds of Summer. Charlotte rolled her eyes, not having the energy to dignify this topic with an answer.

"Anyway," she sighed, "What do you and Namjoon talk about?"

Kimberly shook her head, debating how much she should privy the girls to. Sure, they all knew everything about each other, but there were still some things Kimberly liked to keep to herself. So far, Namjoon was definitely one of them.

"Anything that comes to mind," she replied, "Music, mostly,"

Chloe scoffed, "With the schedules these guys have, I'm surprised he has the time to text you at all," she said.

"What do you mean?" Maria asked.

"You have any idea how many hours a day they go for? How do you think they move like that? Takes some fucking work," Chloe replied, "Not to mention the strict diets, the travel, the training regimens,"

"So... like our schedules, minus the dancing?" Kimberly queried.

"Our schedules... but on major roids," she replied.

Charlotte raised her brows, "That bad?"

"Depending on the label," Chloe replied, "The boys definitely have a bit more freedom than the girls do,"

"As always in a modern, sexist society," Maria sighed, hunching forward, "So, when do they have time for friends? Dating? A life?"

"Maybe when their contracts run out," Chloe replied, "K-pop idols can't date,"

Kimberly refused to let it show, but she couldn't help the nervous pinching in her gut when Chloe said that, "W-What do you mean? Like -- at all?"

Chloe shook her head, "You ever hear of fan service? The labels make their money off of these guys being quote-on-quote 'available' and 'pure'. If they stay single the younger fans are more likely to buy into their brand,"

The other three sat in a stunned silence. It wasn't the first time they had heard of management getting involved in people's personal lives, but usually it was the other way around. Hell, their own manager tried to set Charlotte up in a PR relationship the previous year.

"Ugh," Maria cringed, "Why's that giving me Jonas Brothers purity ring bullshit?"

"Okay but -- that can't be for forever," Charlotte said, "It's fucking barbaric!"

"Over here, maybe. But Korea's a whole other culture," Chloe replied, "We just don't see it because we're foreigners. They treat us differently,"

Maria cocked her head, "Chlo, how do you know so much about this?" she asked.

Chloe smiled back, sheepish as she replied, "Let's call it a 2am rabbit-hole special. I'm also just a fan. -- I'm a fan of BTS, not of the record labels,"

Kimberly scoffed, "Must be pretty fucking bleak. You're writing love songs and you can't even have a lover to write about,"

"Oh, c'mon. They're grown men," Maria said, "I'm sure they're familiar with getting business done themselves,"

Charlotte physically grimaced, eager to change the subject, "Okay! Back to work!" she announced as she stood up. The girls followed suit.

Chloe chuckled, "Aw, what's the matter, Lottie? You never wanna change the subject when we're talking about Lu --"

"Chloe!" Kim scolded, pointing a sharp, manicured finger at her, "No,"

"Maria started it," Chloe chided back.

"And I'll also end it," Maria decided, looping her guitar strap over her shoulder.

Kimberly sighed under her breath as she did the same with her bass, glancing tentatively at her friends, "So... You guys still wanna' see their show on Friday?"

"Oh, I'm definitely down," Chloe replied.

Charlotte simpered, "Yeah, I'm into it,"

They all then turned to Maria, who stayed stiffly silent at first. Call her a killjoy or judgemental, but Maria wasn't the biggest fan of machine pop music. It wasn't so much BTS she was against, but the entire machine behind them. The industry of pretty boybands and girlbands with fancy dance moves, while definitely exciting, also held many dark undertones that turned her off completely. And she knew the girls felt the same because they had discussed this at length.

Maria could think of a hundred other things she could be doing on Friday, namely one of them being with Calum, and she knew the girls wouldn't hold it against her if she didn't go. Nevertheless, there was this air of hopefulness on Kimberly's face. They loved doing things together, experiencing new music being one of them. And the guys had promised to hold some tickets for them, so that was definitely a nice perk.

"Alright, I'm in," she conceded, "Do we have to get dressed up or..."

"Girl, it's a concert, not the Met," Charlotte pointed out.

"Well, I don't know," she shrugged back.

Kimberly's phone buzzed in her pocket, her lips curved up as she found Namjoon's name flash across her screen.

Do you like TGIF or Chili's better? We're trying to decide what to get for dinner

Ooooh...

Chili's, they're chicken sandwiches are lit

She hesitated as she typed her next message, her thumb wavered over the send button as she felt that nervous pinch in her gut. She glanced at her friends, their previous teasing weighing on her a little. Nevertheless, she averted her eyes to her keyboard as she pressed the send button.

When you have some time though, maybe I'll take you somewhere better than Chili's lol

She had barely tucked her phone back into her pocket when it buzzed again, her smile grew wider, and the pinching in her gut subsided.

I would like that a lot!

Unbeknownst to Kimberly, Chloe couldn't help but take a stealthy peak over her shoulder. Her curiosity however failed her covertness.

"What would he like?" she blurted.

Kimberly jumped forward, hugging her phone to her chest, "Chloe!" and as she turned, she smacked Chloe's side with the handle of her bass.

"Owh!" Chloe faltered, stumbling back and favouring her 'wound', "She hit me!" she whined to Maria.

"She was creeping on me!" Kimberly fought back, both of them looking to the oldest member.

Maria however remained stone faced, her exasperation evident as she turned to Charlotte. The moment the mousy brunette met the fiery Latina's gaze, she couldn't help but burst into giggles.

Kimberly rolled her eyes and took her place, awaiting patiently for the other girls to get themselves together. Despite her annoyance, she couldn't help but have a little bounce in her step, excited for Friday to just hurry up and roll around so she could see Namjoon again.

BTS' Friday night concert came upon them soon enough, and Namjoon was feeling rather calm and confident about the whole affair. Perhaps because he knew he looked good, perhaps because he had put his work in all week, making sure his performance would be flawless. Or simply, his self-assured nature had peaked because they were still riding high off of their American tour, the interviews were almost over and he was living his dream, had little to no worries except entertaining the crowd and not messing up his parts.

Namjoon felt like a fool for the nervous pinch in his chest whenever he saw her name flash on his phone screen, he liked talking to her, even if the limits of texting infuriated him at times. He knew when she'd be laughing at him over messages and when he'd stumble for words at a certain question, racking his brain for the English translation, and relieved he had time to form a cohesive thought before sending the next text.

He had done his own research into Catch the Caper, easily blown away by the rest of their music catalogue. Fiery and outspoken, and Kimberly shone through every solo shot in their videos. She didn't speak much in their interviews either, but when she did she was quite soft, though she had her moments where she had a bite to her. He liked that she always spoke her mind and could be so personable outright.

Admittedly, there were times when his thumb had hovered over the call button just so he could hear her voice again, when he was tired and bored in his hotel bed, when he fresh off his workout, but it seemed too eager, too much. How would he justify that? What would he say when or if she picked up? What if she was with Darius? Ultimately, his insecurity of overstepping the barely sketched boundaries kept him from calling.

At the moment, Namjoon was in the green room; his bandmates were primping, preening, notching the final buttons to their clothes and whatnot. He was keeping his composure, nonetheless excitement bubbled in his chest at the prospect of seeing Kimberly again. He had texted her that morning with details on how to find him once she and the girls arrived but he checked his phone again, wondering if she'd text to announce her arrival, if she'd even come at all.

He stayed slumped in his chair, his image in the vanity mirror a reflection of the self-doubt flickering through his wall of confidence. He wondered what she'd be wearing, what he should say and hoped he'd keep his cool around her, prayed he wouldn't make a wrong move, but no internal preparation could have prepared him for the moment when that green room door opened.

He didn't have to wait for Hobi's joyous greeting, or Jimin to practically fall out of his chair, the moment that door opened he knew it was her. Kimberly, Maria and Chloe had filed in after their stage manager, pleasantly taken aback by the guys' boisterous welcome. Chloe and Maria started integrating immediately, speaking slow with the guys and it gave them an opportunity to reflex their English. Chloe attempted to greet them in Korean, and Namjoon would've given her a solid B- minus.

Kimberly however migrated right over to Namjoon, and he was quick to stand up and greet her.

"Hi,"

"Hi,"

Her perfume enrobed him, kept him there as he inhaled it. He wasn't sure if he should go in for a hug but she beat him to the punch; she had to stand on her toes to reach properly and he found it so adorable. His own scent of equally dizzying to her and she breathed it in now, allowed his spicy cologne to overwhelm her, take her back to the night they'd night. Heat radiated from his touch, his lips at the side of her head and she smiled against his shoulder.

He at last let go and pulled back, he tucked his hands in his pockets to hide the slight shake in them. There was a shimmer of mischief in his eyes, the deep brown alarmingly familiar to Kimberly despite the fact she'd only met him once.

"You look amazing," he mired.

"Thanks," she smiled bashfully, "You look really cool,"

She had seen pictures of him on the tour, somehow seeing him up close in his stage fit was a little bit of a spectacle. He wore dark pants, a black t-shirt, and he had his silver print jacket hanging on the back of his chair. The choker around his neck was an unexpected, but cohesively charming touch. His hair was naturally fluffy, a lock fell over his eyes and it drew her eye to his jawline.

Everything about him exuded an abundance of collectedness but the mischief was still there, strong, bold and he seemed to be eternally smirking, the corner of his mouth pulled up and twitching as if he were about to make a coy joke. Kimberly was convinced she'd never seen a jaw that sharp and if she was unsure she'd been intrigued by him before, now there was no denying it.

"Is this the infamous jacket that's been circling the internet?" she chuckled, pointing curiously to the garment.

"Infamous?" he wondered aloud, "I suppose, if the internet says, so it shall be," he replied, his lips curling. Everything he said had a nonchalance, an effortlessness to it, but at the same time she wouldn't have been surprised should he have fallen into a fit of laughter.

"It looks cool," she nodded, chewing her lip for a split second, "You look cool in the pictures, anyway," stop saying 'cool' so much, idiot.

Namjoon's eyes trailed over her. There was a little less skin on show this time, allowing him less to study than before and he swallowed as his eyes fell on the tattoo on her forearm, peaking out under the rolled up sleeve of her velvet shirt. She wore blue wash denim jeans, baggy in the legs, scuffed white converse, and this time she had straightened her hair, tied back in a clean ballerina bun. It no doubt would've taken her a while to wrangle all those curls; he appreciated the creativity and effort she'd gone to.

"Did you miss me?" he asked with an undefeated smirked.

"Maybe a little..." she nodded truthfully, tilting her head at him and giving her best smile, "Miss me?"

"Almost forgot you were comin'..." he drawled, his lips betraying the harshness of his words.

"Oh, wow. Thanks," she grumbled playfully, "I only gave up my rare Friday night off for you, Joon..."

"Hey, I got the backstage passes for you, Kim..." he teased, cocking his head as they started for their babbling friend groups, "Speaking of, I didn't see Charlotte come in...?"

"Oh," Kimberly bit her lip, a small flush colouring her cheeks. The tone of her voice was clearly different and Namjoon raised and eyebrow in expectation, "Charlotte had something come up, so I brought Darius with me instead... I hope that's okay... he just went to catch up with the guys in the security," she gestured out the door was a particular vagueness.

Though the news was a shock to him, Namjoon nodded to feign as if he didn't care, scratched at his neck and jaw and she tilted her head to see if her boyfriend would come waltzing through the door.

"That's cool," he assured her, "He knows the security guys?"

She nodded, "He moonlights as a bouncer at this arena and at another club downtown,"

"Moonlights..."

"It's another term for 'work',"

"Right, right. Thanks,"

It seemed as though another man had appeared out of nowhere as he chatted in the middle of the group, and from the way Kimberly's eyes lit up he knew that he had to be Darius. He was tense as they approached him, even more so when Kimberly drew instantly to his side. Namjoon watched her boyfriend's hand slip to her hip and bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

For a second, Namjoon could only focus on her smile, the way she'd lit up even more than he thought possible at his side, but then drew his attention to Darius.

He was dressed in an obscure band tee and blue jeans, his hair tied into short dreads at the top of his head, the sides shaved down. He was a little more slender than Namjoon, nevertheless he was built similarly to Jungkook. He appeared quite friendly and his smile was genuine, the kind of smile which seemed to permanently stick even when faced with bad news. It made Namjoon realize he was probably frowning and he consciously turned the corners of his lips up to counter it.

As much as he hated to admit it, they looked good together. But at least he wasn't taller than him...

"Hey, have some water..." Jin said quickly, easily reading the tension in Namjoon's posture and quickly holding out a bottle for him.

"Thanks..." Namjoon mumbled back, drawing his eyes to the bottle. he hoped he was hiding his jealously in his expression but from the way Jin was looking at him, he figured that it was the opposite.

As Namjoon took a first sip, the condensation on the bottle cooling his clammy palm, the familiar cool liquid soothing the dryness in his throat, Chloe suddenly popped out of nowhere.

"Namjoon!" the rainbow haired drummer threw her arms around him in a hug, none the wiser to his sip. He choked back the water quickly and hugged her back, laughing quietly.

"Hi Chloe," he chuckled, "Thanks for coming,"

"Thanks for having us! Charlotte sends her best, by the way," she mired.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Chloe glanced to Maria, who glanced to Kimberly, he glanced back at him with a sly smirk. The girls had a secret between them, "Oh, she's sorting some stuff out with another friend of ours," Maria replied. It was clear by the sunken expression on Jimin's face that he was hoping Charlotte would've come.

Hobi, none the wiser to the tension in the room, unabashedly shrugged, "We send her video after," he nodded, beaming through his broken English.

Chloe then looked to Kimberly and Darius, "Oh! I know he's late, but this is Darius," she gestured to the taller gent.

Namjoon swallowed, "How's it going?" Namjoon drawled, holding his hand out as steadily as he could to meet Darius' already extended handshake, "Namjoon. Nice to meet you,"

"You too, man," Darius agreed cheerfully, meeting Namjoon's eye line directly with a confidence he prayed he was carrying off at least externally, "I'm looking forward to the show. Hey -- do you guys really move that fast on stage?"

"We definitely try," Namjoon smiled back, taken aback at how nice Darius was.

He shrugged his shoulders as an attempt to ease the tension he'd built there, stretched his neck a little. He took another sip from the water bottle to cool his nerves, relaxed his jaw and hoped it made him look much more unaffected than he felt.

Part of him wished that Kimberly's boyfriend was in any way dislikable, but he simply couldn't bring himself to hate the guy, could see she liked him and that he liked her. Darius didn't seem to be fake or forcing anything, had no features Namjoon could distinguish as better or worse than his and he made Kimberly laugh, they were comfortable together.

Kimberly couldn't help but watch Namjoon get pulled between conversations, gauging his reaction. She knew that no matter how deeply complicated that first meeting between them had been, that he'd felt something for her and as cool and collected as he was trying to seem, the effortlessness of his demeanour, his sudden focus on the others' conversations, there was an awkward reserve beneath the surface, a slight fumble for words, a general sense of fluster she could see that Jin had noticed too. She remembered the way he froze on the spot at the revelation of her having a boyfriend, how timid he'd been in engaging in conversation after her show and she hoped things wouldn't be too uncomfortable between them because of their first meeting.

"How'd you and Kimberly meet?" Namjoon asked, nodding to Darius, his voice a little scratchy and he coughed to clear it. He took another sip from his bottle.

"At my job, funny enough..." he replied, giving her an endearing side glance, "Her band had their album debut at the club I work at and, yeah... been a bit of a whirlwind but..." Kimberly turned to him and smiled brightly, "It's been an adventure,"

"Ooh, you a... dancer?" Jimin asked, the dimples in his cheeks visible. He nudged Namjoon who gave an appreciative chuckle as he wiggled his shoulders.

"Uh -- no, no. I'm a bouncer," Darius replied, "You know; security. And I'm in school in the day,"

Namjoon translated quickly for Jimin, who gave a quick nod of understanding, then he turned back to Darius, "What're you in school for?"

Kimberly watched from the corner of her eye, found Namjoon's continued curiosity endearing and his eyes lit up when he caught her gaze.

Namjoon caught Kimberly's eye and raised his eyebrows whilst the rest of his face was taught. She broke away first, looking to Darius as he began to speak and Namjoon considered it a tiny victory.

"Finances right now. I wanna' get my insurance license and go into a firm," he shrugged sheepishly, "It's not really interesting, I know. When people ask what I do, I just tell them I work in a club,"

"Hey, c'mon. Insurance is very important!" Namjoon nodded, "You're the proverbial safety net with a fire, or a car accident --"

"Or a snake bite," Darius mentioned, a quirky smile playing at his lips.

Namjoon hissed, "Ooh, ouch,"

"Nah, that's not the bad part, though," he chuckled, "The claim was filed by a guy who broke a window of this other dude's car to steal the crates in his backseat. Little did this poor guy know that the car belonged to a pest control specialist and there was a live snake in one of the crates,"

He squirmed on the spot, still visually invested in Darius' story, "No way..." he mulled it over for a moment, "Hold on though: the guy who broke into another guy's car filed an insurance claim for --?"

"Health insurance. But then the pest control guy turned around and sued him for damages. The robber counter-sued for snake bites and hospital bills, yada yada..." Darius trailed off with a shake of his head, "Welcome to America,"

Kimberly scoffed beside him, "My favourite is still Grand Theft Garden Gnome," she chuckled.

Namjoon's lips pulled into a confident smile again, his focus brimming more on him, selfishly wanting to understand more about her through him.

"Grand Theft Garden Gnome? This ought to be good,"

Darius opened his mouth to explain, though he was suddenly cut off by Jin and Maria's matching defeated cries of frustration. They were playing against Taehyung and Jungkook on the foosball table in the corner, clearly the youngest members of BTS had beaten them.

"I give up!" Jin cried, flailing onto the couch

"You guys have to be cheating," Maria marvelled at them, turning to Suga behind them, "Do they cheat a lot?" she pointed to them. Suga simply shrugged, Namjoon could tell he didn't understand what she saying yet.

"Suga!" he quickly translated for Suga, who's face immediately lit up as he glowered at the younger boys, shaking head.

"No," he spoke quickly. Hobi and Chloe began to laugh beside him, and Jimin got up from beside Namjoon to partake in the teasing.

Jungkook laughed gleefully, "You give up, yeah?" he giggled, eyes crinkled gleefully.

Maria, ever the stubborn one, glowered back at the pair with a sharp "No..." though given Jin's pouting, she was clearly without a partner.

Darius however took pity on her, excusing himself from Kimberly and Namjoon, "Don't worry Maria, I got you," he winked to Kimberly, "Show 'em how we do it on the East end,"

"Knock 'em dead," she sang back.

From his spot on the couch, Jin gave Namjoon a subtle look and a wink, continuing his pout as Darius took up his spot beside Maria. Taehyung puffed up his chest, trying to come off as intimidating.

"Let's go, let's go!" he exclaimed, and with that, another fiery game was on.

Kimberly looked across to Namjoon, who could barely contain his smile, rolled her eyes jokingly, "You might have to postpone your show. Maria's way too competitive, she's not gonna' quit until she wins one,"

Namjoon rolled his eyes and pouted a little, watching his friends go head-to-head as clearly, Darius was proving to be a tough match for them; his game was tight.

"Jungkook is equally competitive, so we might have a problem," he sighed, "We have to let him win at Mario Kart or his entire day's ruined," he smirked, keeping himself from shifting closer to her on the couch.

"Oh no," she chuckled as she looked back at him, brown eyes bright and shining.

He'd been trying not to lose himself in her too often, had purposely ignored the loose hairs falling from her bun, the way freckles across her nose stood out sweetly in the light, had willed himself to focus on the conversation each time her lips had wrapped around the bottle of her drink but now he couldn't not notice it all, admired her up close, fantasized about having her as close to him as Darius had, then bit the inside of his cheek at his thoughts. It would have been impossible.

"... You can sit closer if you wanna'," she said sheepishly, "I won't bite,"

Despite all the control he'd fought for, the arrogance and air of nonchalance he was desperate to exude, hid face lit up, he couldn't help it.

Chuckling, he shifted closer to her, "Sure,"

Kimberly smiled, glancing curiously at her soda bottle, "I... I don't suppose you have anything hanging around that's stronger than ginger ale?"

Namjoon simpered back, "At the moment -- no. We're supposed to keep sharp for the stage," he smoothed the side of his hair back with the flat of his palm. Kimberly couldn't decide if it was nerves that had prompted him, or if he was trying to keep up his act, but either way, he looked effortlessly cool doing it.

"Very fair," she nodded, "I don't wanna be a bad influence or anything, but I could go for a Paloma right now,"

"Is that your favourite drink?"

She nodded, "Mhm. Tequila, grapefruit, and lime. That's it," she replied, "You have a favourite drink?"

"Probably just soju," he said with a shrug, "The watermelon one is my favourite,"

"Soju..." she marvelled aloud, "It's like sake, right?"

"Kind of, but soju tends to be sweeter," he replied.

"Don't judge me, but I've never tried soju," she admitted with a laugh.

Namjoon's eyes went wide, "No kidding?" she shook her head, "That's like never trying water! If I had known, I would've brought some for you,"

"Hey, gimme' a break. I only turned twenty-one a couple months ago," she tucked some loose hairs behind her ear.

He cocked a brow, "But did you only start drinking at twenty-one?" he asked, bringing his voice to a lower whisper.

"Officially -- yes. Unofficially -- no comment," she sipped her ginger ale to make her point, "Were you such a boy scout back in Korea?"

Namjoon smirked back at her, leaning in close, but not close enough to make her feel uneasy. He didn't want her or Darius to detest him for anything, knew that if friendship was all he could have, then he'd take it and hold it close to his chest.

"No comment,"

[yaminerua]

negative vent

the state of my life rn feels like a runaway train

man idk how people can just cook and clean up and not just completely feel like they’re turning to dust afterwards from exhaustion

idk how my family made breakfast lunch and dinner and navigated me not liking the main dinner as a kid and having to have something else bc just making one meal for three of us is enough to put me in the ground so the thought of having to do an additional meal alongside the first one makes my brain feel like it’s ripping itself apart with stress

I end up completely mentally and physically drained bc of all the different steps plus the anxiety of making sure I tidy up afterwards bc if I don’t do it immediately it won’t get done and it’ll build up

there’s got to be some neurodivergence making this extra hard but whether that’s just the good old fashioned depression or something else that makes it feel like torture trying to maintain just regular daily upkeep idk

my dad is trying desperately to make money in a self employed job that hasn’t fucking paid anything in years bc it relies on business deals he facilitates actually going ahead and reaching the payment stage which has literally never happened in the years he’s been trying to do it bc he lives in a fantasy land where he thinks he can make big money on big deals with people who do not give a fuck that we are struggling to hold onto our fucking house and who could fix our problems with one payment that wouldn’t even dent their mountains of money

so he is on the phone constantly and unable to find time to feed himself or my brother who sleeps until 6pm, won’t eat anything after midnight and is losing weight while already considered underweight despite me now spending nearly all day in the kitchen trying to get meals and snacks and shit for him to keep him from getting any more underweight

and I’m just buckling man

I have no time for myself to just sit and chill properly. Even when I try to get a drawing or something doodled out it’s done while I’m sitting in the kitchen waiting for my legs to stop throbbing so I can get back to cooking or washing up. I keep talking about wanting to get back to digital art and commissions once I have my hands on a laptop but the reality is even when I get that I might still just not have the actual time to do what I used to love doing

I haven��t been out of the house much since before the pandemic. I haven’t seen any friends since then either. My life has become a slog of wake up, spend the day in the kitchen in a constant frenzied anxiety cooking state, go to bed and be plagued by the Horrors making me just want to die and not have to wake up to more of the same and there’s no end to it

I’m still waiting for the dwp to give me the extra money I am eligible for and I’m dreading the winter after the struggle the last one was.

I’d have takeout more often if we could justifiably afford it. But my brother is particular about those too and only eats certain things so even if I had the money and energy I don’t have much I can work with. How do you fit a full day’s worth of meals into less than 5 hours when your options are further limited by what he’ll accept

I’m worried about him and his low energy. I’m worried about dad and his high stress. I’m worried about the house being taken if our money runs out. I feel guilty that I’m failing my brother and dad despite turning myself inside out to cook for them and tidy up after myself and make sure they get food even tho it’s clearly not enough.

and on top of that I’ve had a shitty wheezy chest for months presumably bc of the air quality in here bc of the dust and clutter that just has sat for ages bc who has the time to go through it and there’s fucking clothes moths hanging around spiders everywhere and I can move the clutter to clean around it enough

I’m absolutely clawing my way through each day and the only reason I don’t just give in to the exhaustion and spend the whole week in bed is the fact they both need me to do this

pre-covid my uncle used to spend more time here bc my granny was here so things were so much more balanced and maintained but after his mental health struggles in lockdown knocked him for six the state of the house stresses him out so much he can’t come near and it depresses him and as a result I haven’t seen him since last year at my granny’s birthday at the care home and before that it was sometime in 2020 the last I’d seen him

I’m on the brink of collapse and I’ve had a whole bunch of dizzy spells in the kitchen lately and yet I push on bc I can’t stop

I’ve become some kind of spindly pillar trying desperately to hold up a crumbling household and I’m splintering in the process under the pressure but what can I do? If I don’t do this it’ll only be much worse

fucking hell im so tired

[nateezfics]

♔ PAIRING — yeosang x reader

♔ GENRE — smut, vampire au, fem!reader, vampire!yeosang, dom!yeosang, sub!reader, established relationship if you squint

♔ WARNINGS — mentions of blood, blood drinking/blood play, smut, unprotected sex, biting, fingering, some overstimulation, cockwarming, breast/nipple play, foul language/dirty talk

♔ WORD COUNT — 1.1k

♔ SUMMARY — being undead means always being cold, and yeosang uses you to keep warm in more ways than one.

♔ FIC PLAYLIST — lights out by nbdy, talk to my skin by stalgia

(cover made by the ever wonderful and talented @aveateez )

The fire hummed inside the fireplace, filling the bedroom with much welcomed warmth. It was so dreadfully cold outside the manor walls, the frigid air seeping inside and chilling to the bone. But the fire wasn’t enough, Yeosang needed more, constantly stuck in a perpetual state of cold due to his nature.

But there was you and your perfect, warm body. Your flesh, your blood, your sex — it was all for him to use, all for him and the chill he felt. He had you on his lap as he sat in front of the fireplace, the heat that radiated from you and the flames permeating onto him and already rising his temperature. At the first plunge of his cool digits inside your slickness, he could’ve unraveled at how good your heat felt.

“Ah, so wet. So warm. So perfect.” The words filled the small space between you, Yeosang’s deep voice causing need to rage in the pit of your abdomen. His cold fingers delved into your wet heat, soaking themselves with your warmth and arousal.

You buried your face into his neck. You willed yourself not to rock your hips into his hand, but the temptation was overwhelming. His fingers curled inside you just the right way that had you shivering in his lap. “Oh…”

“This hot little cunt of yours, it’s going to feel so good around me,” Yeosang groaned, words accompanied by the sounds of your wetness. “Would you like that? Would you like to feel my cold cock inside you? “

“Please, fill me up. Please.” Your pleas were muffled by his shoulder. You caved and began to glide your hips back and forth, whimpering at the delectable friction. You were impossibly hot, even with his frigid body beneath you. He was like ice, but he always melted you down into a puddle of need and left you burning in the flames of your desire.

“I love it when you warm me,” he cooed. His unused hand worked to free his cock from his trousers, and the moan you let out when you felt it brush against you was unhinged. “I think I could just unravel from that alone.”

Time was still for a moment as you sunk onto his length. Your mouth formed into a silent cry of bliss as he stretched you, cock cold inside your toasty walls.

It took everything in him not to spill into you right then. His eyes glowed bright red and fangs pierced his bottom lip as he restrained himself, hands gripping your hips so tight that there would surely be bruises left behind. You accommodated him nicely, cunt stretching to take all of his entirety. You were hot, absolutely and wonderfully searing. “My pet, you’re so fucking perfect around me.”

“Please, I need you to move,” you begged him, hips trying to grind but kept in place by his iron hold. It was torture to have him rooted inside you so still and unmoving. You craved that friction.

“Patience,” he whispered. Yeosang tugged at your hair to make you look at him. He adored the pathetic pout on your pursed lips as you struggled to be content with the stillness. You were so greedy for the pleasure he could give you, just like he was greedy for your warmth. “Let me relish in this feeling.”

His hands rose to caress your breasts, offering you some stimulation as he stayed unmoving within you. Your back arched, pressing your chest further into his touch. He smirked just before his mouth latched onto the skin between your breasts, fangs piercing your skin enough to draw blood. He lapped up the trickling crimson, enjoying the way you squirmed. He did this repeatedly across your chest, littering your breasts with teeth marks and smeared blood.

His girth within you and his teeth in your skin was enough to have your heat fluttering with the need to come undone. “I want to cum so bad.”

Yeosang gazed up at you just as he sucked the blood off your breast. “Oh? But I’ve hardly done a single thing to you.” You didn’t appreciate his teasing, whining to show your displeasure of it. He laughed lowly. “Haven’t even moved my cock and you already want to unravel around me.”

“Please.”

His hand dropped to where you were joined, thumb rubbing circles into your mound of nerves. You didn’t last much longer, body falling limp against him as you succumbed to the pleasure, cries loud within his ear. He cursed at the tightness of you, walls clamping around him like a vice, and he so desperately wanted to let you milk him of his own release. “So incredibly tight. Fuck, you feel amazing.”

You shook in his arms when he suddenly rammed his hips upward. Your arms snaked around his neck to keep you balanced while he started to fuck you from underneath. “F-feels so good!”

Driven delirious by your warmth, Yeosang fucked you with reckless abandon. Your slickness began to drip onto his lap every time his cock sheathed inside you, creating a sticky mess on his lap. He paid it no mind as he mindlessly thrusted into your tight cunt. “The most perfect little hole, wrapping me so well. You’re going to make me come undone, my pet.”

You were numb to everything except for him and pleasure he was giving you. You were sensitive, second high already so alarmingly close. “Wanna…cum…”

Yeosang groaned, hips stuttering. He leaned forward and tasted of your blood again, relishing in both your taste and your heat. You were the most perfect heater for him, his little source of pleasure and warmth. “Cum with me.”

In just a few short beats the two of you were releasing together, voices mingling in the air like a sinful harmony as you sang out in bliss. Yeosang’s seed flooded your walls and filled you to the brim until it began to overflow, leaking around his length as he grew still.

Your chest rose and fell as you gulped for air, body spent from the pleasure. You sighed when your hot forehead fell against his cold neck. “Are you warm enough now?”

Yeosang’s fingers ran up and down your spine. “Never enough, my pet.”

A/N: please I redid this so many times because I could never be satisfied and well I’m still not satisfied, it’s so short and unlike how I originally wanted it, but I gotta post something 🥲 Please give this piece a little extra love because I’m coming off the high from Honey and Blood and how proud I am of that fic, so this one just seems…blah in comparison 😣

Tag list: @couchpotatoaniki @kisaraginami @shingisimp @ainaatiny @hongshines @ruwaidahmulla​ @dani41 @pinkbbygirl @yunsangoveryonder (lmk if you’d like to be added to the list)

[v-hope]

Heartcuffed

Pairing: Jeon Jeongguk x Reader

Genre: Smut, fluff, established (kinda secret) relationship au

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: The moment Jeongguk and you saw the pink heart-shaped handcuffs that would be a part of his outfit for the photoshoot that day, you both knew what was coming your way.

Warnings: Fingering, unprotected sex, handcuffs (obviously), dressing room sex, quickie, creampie, Jeongguk is a whole tease in this one. Also they almost get caught?

A/N: You guys know smut is not my thing, but, I mean. Pink heart-shaped handcuffs. Do I need to say more? This doesn’t have much of a plot (I think), but I hope you guys enjoy! Also, I apologize for any mistakes that there might be, as I’m running short on time and couldn’t edit is as thoroughly as I usually do.

Little were the times you were able to go on set to support your boyfriend. The fact that not every member of the staff knew the two of you were dating, along with no one outside of the industry knowing about your relationship either, only made things complicated for the two of you. However, with a comeback on his end and finals on yours being just around the corner, it was either that or having to wait three more weeks until you could see each other again.

You had managed not to draw attention most of the day — acting like a good friend with all seven members of the group, which you were, and eventually sneaking out with Jeongguk whenever he was done shooting his parts, so the two of you could have some much needed alone time in any empty room he could find in the building.

It was only when they had changed for their last photoshoot, Jeongguk dressed in a black coverall with a matching belt that made his waist look tinier than ever, as well as leaving half of his sleeve uncovered, that you found yourself breathing heavily.

Especially when a member of the staff went up to him and hooked something pink to his belt, having to tilt your head to the side so you could take a better look at it.

Handcuffs.

More specifically, a pair of cute, pink heart-shaped handcuffs.

As if on cue, Jeongguk’s eyes went to you, a smile curving up his lips as he teasingly raised his pierced brow when your gazes met. That was all you needed to know you were thinking of the same thing.

The rest of the photoshoot? Absolute torture for you.

“So,” he came closer to you after finishing his solo shoot, having Namjoon leave your side and going to have his. “What do you think?”

“Hot” was your simple answer, earning an amused bunny smile from him.

“Hot? That’s it?” he pushed it. “What about the heartcuffs?”

A laugh made its way out of your mouth at that. “Heartcuffs?”

“Jin hyung called them that” he laughed too. “They’re kinda cute, though…” his eyes scanned the one that wasn’t attached to his belt as he held it up. “Kinda resemble our hearts”.

“I’m pretty sure our actual hearts look a little bit different than these” you teased him over his cheesy words.

Jeongguk rolled his eyes. “I meant that they’re attached, you smartass”.

“So our hearts are cuffed to one another” you gave him a dramatic, understanding nod. “Does that mean there’s no way out for me?”

He chuckled, taking a dangerous step towards you. “Absolutely no way out, sweets”.

“Yah…” you stopped him before he could lean in for a kiss. “Anyone could see us”.

“Half the people here know we’re dating” he whispered without a care.

“And the other half don’t” you pointed out.

Jeongguk huffed, causing you to bite your lip as you thought about it for a moment. After all, and as frustrating as it was, the less people who knew about your relationship, the better.

“How about…” you mumbled, hooking a finger to the handcuff he was holding to pull him just a little closer. “You take these home so we can make up for the lost time later?”

Liking that idea, he found himself smiling, only to later have his cheeks turn a bright pink after having looked around at the people on set.

“They will know what I want them for if I ask to take them home”.

“Bummer,” you lamented.

Jeongguk bit his bottom lip, once again looking both sides around the hectic atmosphere surrounding you as everyone worked on getting the other members ready, before his eyes focused back on yours and his head tilted to the door.

“Let’s go”.

He didn’t hold your hand until the two of you were alone in the hallway, intertwining his fingers with yours and rushing over to the same dressing room the two of you had lovingly been making out inside during his last break almost an hour ago.

This time, however, all sweetness had been left aside.

Mouth hungrily sucking on your bottom lip as soon as your back pressed against the door, he wasted no time on locking it, effortlessly lifting you up and having you wrap your legs around his waist as he carried you to the closest drawer.

Placing you down on it yet not letting go of your butt as he gave it a hard squeeze and pulled you closer, a soft moan escaped your mouth when his wet lips trailed all their way down from your neck to your collarbone.

“We don’t have much time” you reminded him in what came out in more of a huff, knowing well enough he was trying to take his sweet time with you — something you truly did not have that day, not when he was working.

Jeongguk huffed, planting one last kiss on your chest before his mouth went back to yours. “I won’t see you in like three more weeks”.

“And you won’t get to fuck me either if someone comes here and interrupts us”.

That had seemed to convince him.

Taking the handcuffs off his belt, internally thanking the fact that they weren’t real ones and hence he didn’t need a key, he motioned for you to stick your hands out. You didn’t hesitate to do as told, watching him accommodate their particular shape to your wrists so they wouldn’t hurt you, and then, before you could either notice nor protest, lifting one of them up so he could also close it around one of the hooks from the rack you had not noticed was stuck to the wall right above your head.

Unable to move your hands, you caught him smirking at the sight of you.

“You know,” he mumbled, lips brushing against yours while his hand gently stroked your thigh. “I could get used to this”.

Your teeth biting on your lip were replaced by his own as his mouth once again crashed on yours, grinding your hips against the desk when his hand went down to your center, stroking you over the thin fabric of the black pants you had decided to wear that day.

“So needy, aren’t you?” Jeongguk chuckled, thumb rubbing small circles over your core. “Have nearly touched you and I can already feel how wet you are”.

A light moan escaped your lips, pretending to entangle your fingers in his long, purple locks to pull him in for a kiss and shut him up, yet finding yourself being unable to by the cuffs around your wrists.

It was then when it hit you, you were completely under his mercy right then.

Another chuckle escaped his mouth, digging his hands under your t-shirt and pulling you closer to the edge by your waist — keeping you in place as he slowly rocked his hardened member against your center.

“Jeongguk…” you pleaded in a moan.

“Yes, baby?” he sweetly replied, pressing a small kiss to the uncovered skin on your chest.

“Don’t tease me”.

He laughed under his breath. Fuck, there was nothing he wanted more than to take his sweet, oh sweet time with you.

Your words, although had succeeded to bring your point across, had not been enough to convince him. If anything, he only wanted to tease you more — your head going to the side as you tried to muffle a moan against your arm when he slipped a hand inside your underwear and one of his fingers made it inside you, was all the confirmation he needed to keep on driving you to the edge.

“Fuck, Jeongguk” you breathed out when he added another digit, involuntarily moving your hips away from him at the sudden wave of pleasure.

With his free hand grabbing tightly onto your hip, Jeongguk kept you in place, burying his fingers deeper inside you in pistoning and curling motions, having to muffle another loud moan of yours with his mouth as he had seemed to find that one soft spot of yours in no time.

“J-Jeongguk, please” you begged, melting under his intense eyes. “Please, I need you”.

If the two of you had been back home, he could easily have taken hours with you. However, after looking at the clock by the door and hearing a few staff members talking through the halls, he knew, just like you had told him before, that you were running short on time.

Not letting another second go by, he took your pants off. Rushedly unbuttoning his coverall, he couldn’t help but tease you once more after catching up on the way you had fought against the handcuffs to reach out to the white t-shirt that remained under his first layer — the one covering his toned chest you had always loved kissing, and the one he had decided to keep on just to drive you mad.

“You’re such an ass” you recriminated him.

Jeongguk laughed, pushing his underwear down enough for his hardened member to stick out. Pumping himself a couple of times under your intent eyes, his mouth came close to yours.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to be in handcuffs, sweets?”

Feeling your heavy breathing mix with his, he sucked on your bottom lip, grabbing your hip with one of his hands to keep you steady while his other one made your panties to the side as he lined himself up to your entrance.

“Quit the teasing” you warned him this time, not being able to take it anymore.

With a low laugh and one last kiss, he entered you without a warning. Not being able to hold the throaty moan that had just escaped your mouth, you closed your eyes as you let your boyfriend fill every single inch inside of you over and over again with each thrust of his hips.

Burying his face on the crook of your neck, you felt his hot breath hit against your skin as he tried to muffle his own moans.

“Fuck, you always feel so good” he panted.

Still holding you tightly with one hand as he fucked you hard, one of his hands pulled your top up over your chest, keeping it there and pulling one side of your bra down so he could attach his lips to your breast and tease your nipple with his quite needy tongue.

Closing your eyes as you let yourself get lost in the extra pleasure his wet mouth was giving you, you jumped up after hearing a noise coming from the door. Eyes immediately going to it, you watched the doorknob moving forcefully yet not being able to turn, thanks to Jeongguk, who had been careful enough to lock it minutes ago.

“Hello?” you heard a woman ask from the other side of the door.

That hadn’t seemed to bother him, not for more than a second, at least. And even when she kept trying to turn the doorknob and a part of you wanted to tell him to stop just in case someone managed to make their way in, you couldn’t find it in you to actually tell him to. Not when his cock inside you felt so good, not when you could feel yourself getting closer by the second.

“Shh,” he hushed you when a moan slipped from your lips, thrusts becoming slower yet deeper for them not to hear. “They can’t get in, but they can still hear us”.

Although wanting to protest, you found yourself being unable to form any kind of coherent sentence when one particular thrust of his had been about to send you over the edge.

“Jeong—” your loud moan was cut off by his hand on your mouth.

Another moan was muffled by his hand when he pulled his cock almost completely out of you, only to slam it inside the next second. Pressing his forehead against yours and letting you feel his hot, heavy breathing on your face, he removed his hand from your mouth once you were quiet again, only to stick two fingers inside of it just in case.

You could tell he was enjoying this new little game of keeping it quiet — you, on the other hand, were truly struggling.

Once the doorknob had stopped moving and no one seemed to be by the door anymore, he was quick to replace his fingers with his mouth, tongue massaging yours and moaning against your lips when you rolled your hips on his.

“Jeongguk, I’m c-coming” you breathed out as soon as you were able to.

“Hold on a little longer, baby” he rasped out.

Taking advantage of the hook holding your cuffed hands up, he lifted you up from the desk, making you wrap your legs tighter around his waist as he held you up — this new angle allowing him to reach deeper inside you.

“Guk, I—I can’t—”

With your walls pulsating around his cock, you couldn’t hold on any longer, having no choice but to let yourself come undone as he kept thrusting hard into you — nails digging onto your skin when he felt his orgasm approach as well.

“Y/N, f-fuck…” he rasped.

Placing his hand under the curve of one of your breasts as he kept pulling you up and down into his cock, he forgot about the people outside for a few seconds — low grunts escaping his throat one after another until he reached his high.

Feeling his release spreading inside your walls, a light moan escaped your lips as well, being unable to move still while he buried his face in the crook of your neck as the two of you came down from your high and tried to catch your breath.

Breathing heavily against your hot skin, he pressed his swollen lips to it, later peppering a trail of kisses down to your chest, fixing your messy bra and then pulling your t-shirt down.

“Do you think they heard us?” you wondered, quietly watching him dress you up again and then button his coverall just enough to cover his underwear.

“I hope not” his answer didn’t sound very convincing.

Pouting in defeat, you let him press his red mouth to yours. Sweetly, as if nothing else had happened only one minute ago.

“Will you uncuff me now so I can touch you?”

A mischievous smile parted on his lips, lifting you up just enough for you to unhook your arms from the rack, yet not unlocking the handcuffs around your wrists. Instead, he placed your arms over his shoulders, around his neck.

“Let’s stay like this for a little longer” he pecked your lips.

“They must be already looking for the key to get inside” you reminded him.

“So let them” he shrugged, one of his hands going up to the heart-shaped handcuff around one of your wrists, staring at it for a couple of seconds. “I wanna keep them”.

“Please, let’s keep them,” you agreed in a heartbeat. “I need to take my revenge on you and all your teasing”.

“Revenge?” he played it innocent. “I was actually thinking, when we go public we can walk out with them on so that everyone knows we’re heartcuffed for life”.

Throwing your head back, you let a loud laugh out, later resting your forehead on his and entangling your fingers in his purple hair like you had so badly been aching for earlier that day.

“Jeongguk-ie?”

“Yes?”

Not being able to erase your smile, you shook your head. “No”.

Oh well, there would always be other creative ways to let the world know your hearts belonged to each other anyway.

[gliphyartfan]

Here is the rough draft for Time's full normal attire. Some headcanon notes for the design -Time hates ties. With a passion. Its a daily torture that he wears them, but he feels the difference when he is fully put together in expensive name brand suits. Please listen more. He doesn't know if it pisses him off or makes him want to mock them. (and the dream of (y/n) helping him take off the tie at the end of a hard day might be what keeps him going) -The scarf: Its a gift from Wars for one of his birthdays. At the end of the day they are brothers and despite loving the same person I feel like losing each other would be the second worst pain to feel, after losing (y/n), due to how they understand each other. Especially for Time since he waited the longest to finally finally finally have someone who understood him. How tortured he was not knowing if any of his brothers would come, if he would find (y/n). He will be found wearing presents from the others, as he doesn't really buy things for himself.

-The markings. I just never felt right when sketching if Time did not have his signature markings (same with Twilight). I feel like he would at some point dawned the mask. Surviving, especially as a kid is hard in our world. So I see many dire opportunities to need it.

-EARS. Yes I know the ears are human ears. The guys would use magic to hide it. It would be too odd for a group of gentleman to all have pointy ears and be down right fucking terrifying. Also when finally meeting (y/n) it might make her hesitant of them. (not due to anything malicious, girl just watches/reads way too many supernatural shows/movies/books to know something sus was up.) And also the whole, not draw attention to themselves thing. Ask me anything about the design, let me know if you don't like anything. Or even just questions on the art. Like I said in a comment, I'm transitioning from physical materials to digital so I understand if anything looks weird. I even have a blurb in my head of Lilah's(my y/n's) reaction to Time's meeting if anyone is interested in me writing that. I have to go ahead and apologize, my line work will never be straight and perfect. I had an accident so I have some nerve damage in my drawing hand. So just a heads up. Oh! And you can call me, Lyric!! *goes to hide and cry from embaressment.*

@yandere-linked-universe *Excited Noises* LOOK!

Holy shit. I can see his muscles inside those sleeves

You drew this?? Really??!???

And I thought your last drawing was incredible! (And it was!)

The details, the lines, the colors. (That SUIT)

His hair is a in small ponytail!! (The things that face does to me...)

Excellent color choice for him. The scarf is absolutely a perfect touch to his style.

I'm genuinely envious that you managed to draw his hand and arms so well. And LOOK at the way his body is proportioned! And his face. (His expression!)

How he's standing makes me drool. The red of the scarf just delightfully contrasting his blue inner shirt!

I agree with your Headcanons so hard!! (I honestly can't see him without his markings).

Ears? Perfect, I honestly would see them using magic to hide their ears.

Plus I honestly see Time only accepting gifts from the chain, (and (y/n)).

Time not using ties because he wants (y/n) to tie it for him? Oooh, that's gonna be something each of those boys would want. But Time? Peeeerfect!

What are his shoes? I would say boots. Steel toe Boots that can be disguised as dress shoes!

Does he hold rings? Maybe Legend gives them a magic ring for protection?

I know if she gives them a gift, if they can wear it, it's a permanent accessory for them.

You have writing? Please share! I genuinely enjoy other people's work! The world is waiting for your creativity!

Thank you so much for this surprise! I'm actually excited to see more of your incredible work!

Please accept this not as good as your magnificent work traditional sketch of a plushie Sky as a humble bribe tribute!

Can't say no to him can't you?

[tenseoyong]

who in the neos do you think has a preference for fingering vs eating🐱

a/n: i’m just going to do 127 as a base bc trying to do 23 guys is going to kill me lol but if you wanted this for a specific member or unit lemme know!

yuta is an absolute dog, don’t @ me. yuta doesn’t have a preference either way, he’s beyond thrilled to do anything he can to please you, to make you squirm. he would happily spend hours sprawled out between your legs, sloppily eating your pussy like a starved wolf; strong arms keeping you pinned and unable to squirm away from his mouth even when pleasure creeps into pain. and then he’s got such deliciously long, slender fingers just perfect for burying in your aching pussy. sneakily touching you during car rides back to the dorm, hidden beneath the large jacket he’s thrown over you both and the shadow of night. 

doyoung is no doubt one that enjoys a good finger fucking. doyoung has such pretty hands, it’s an absolute delight to see those pretty digits buried inside you, seeing your eyes roll back and hear the pitiful moans falling from your lips just from his fingers. he sort of gets off on it, if he is completely honest, barely touching you and yet being able to see how much it’s wrecking you; seeing his fingers disappearing inside you, reemerging soaked and shiny, hearing the sloppy sounds every thrust of his fingers makes is damn near enough to make him mess his pants.  

taeil is similar in the sense he gets off on giving you minimal touch, and seeing how much it turns you on—how quickly he can bring you to your release time and time again with just two fingers. taeil’s really slow with his touches, less on thrusting his fingers inside you like an animal and more about curling the long digits, expertly seeking out that small, smooth, soft bundle of nerves hidden inside you; tapping on it mercilessly, massaging your g-spot and happily watching your thighs twitching and hips bucking before you’re gasping and cumming around his fingers. 

jaehyun and that tongue...good lord. if mr. origami tongue doesn’t give good head, a lawsuit is definitely in order. I swear he’d make a game out of it, ‘guess what shape I’m making while my tongue is buried in your pussy’ just because he’s a jerk in the bedroom, and rolling his tongue like a wave over your clit. he’s absolutely a mess by the end of it, spit and arousal and cum smeared all over his mouth and down his chin, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

haechan is another member that isn’t picky, he’s beyond eager to jump you any way you’ll allow him. some nights he comes back from practice and just flops down on the bed, yanks your panties off and guides you to kneel over his face before he dives in. other times, he’s content to lazily finger you under the blankets during movie night, teasing you and drawing out your release, working slowly to build up your pleasure before halting his movements until you settle down, before starting his torture up again. 

mark isn’t picky either, but he does have a slight preference for some good head. it’s not uncommon to be spread out on the couch, watching whatever series you’d started while he was away on schedule and when mark walked through the front door, he’d dropped everything and easily claimed his spot between your legs, flipping your his t-shirt up onto your tummy, and barely shimmied your panties down enough before he gets to work. he often wakes you up already between your legs, lazily flicking his tongue over your clit, grinning like a cat when your eyes catches his. 

taeyong is such an eater. 90% of the time, you look at that boy and he’s munching on something. and when you’re both alone....taeyong has a very specific snack in mind. he’s such an enthusiastic eater, sometimes you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s actually eating pussy and not licking at a nice bowl of ice cream but he doesn’t seemed bothered regardless. it definitely makes room for some teasing outside of the bedroom, lots of direct eye contact when he takes the group out for ice cream...

jungwoo can bounce back and forth, to be honest. one week, he’s got this obsession with going down on you, half the time he doesn’t even actually fuck you after, just happy to dine and dash. and then some weeks, he’s just got you against the way, smirking at every pitiful whine you let out while he relentlessly buries his fingers in your eager pussy. every day would be a surprise, you never know if he’s going to eat you like it’s his last meal or he’s going to mercilessly finger you into the next morning. 

johnny has the most perfect hands for fingering but he’s a dog for giving head. he makes use of his pretty hands though, all his working out paying off, huge hands holding you down while he alternates between smoothing his tongue between your slick folds and lazily circling your clit before harshly sucking and repeating again; holding you still though he can still feel you trying to desperately buck against his mouth, but not being able to move more than a twitch from his strong grasp, mischievous eyes watching every twinge of pleasure that flashes across your face that makes him eat your pussy with more enthusiasm. 

sicheng has such pretty hands too, like you could write poems about their beauty. his touches are so delicate, softly tracing through your folds with a touch so light you can barely feel it, heightening your senses to try and focus on the minimal stimulation; yet precise, curling the long digits inside, expertly finding the prize hidden inside you. watching you cum while desperately bucking against his calm, rhythmic touches is a sight straight out of a very artsy porno, and he loves it.

[daddyissuesyo]

Monsta X Yandere Headcanons

tw: implied sexual content, non-sexual consent violation, murder, suicide, emotional and physical abuse, harm/endangerment, severed ties with family, vulgarity

seriously guys this is intense

Shownu: The Protector

- you pique his attention and he asks you out, seemingly normal

- becomes obsessed after the first date and captures you on the second

- avoids physical harm unless absolutely "necessary" to keep you in line. manipulates you until feeling as though you failed him.

- reckless, unconditional love

- you can't help but reciprocate a little; he's just so caring & attentive

- vanilla sex, because he loves you

- funds EVERYTHING you could possibly want: fluffy comforters and a massive mattress, personal maids, deluxe coffee maker, stuffed animals that he doesn't let you name, etc.

- you thought your dynamic was normal until you caught him dragging the limp body of the postman that accidentally saw you changing into a shed

- from that day forth you feared him, yet didn't stop loving him

- "you are my entire world. my everything. we need each other. forever and then some."

- will not kill you unless he convinces himself others will and death by his hands is the better option

Minhyuk: The Deluded

- i n f a n t i l i z e r

- pities you, oh so much

- thinks you are a helpless baby in dire need of rescuing

- treats you like a porcelain doll & refuses to let you make even the smallest decision for yourself

- convinced you are just as infatuated and dependent on him as he is you

- on good days, he will draw bubble baths, play card games with you, and play G rated movies, pausing every minute to explain what happened

- on bad days, he will yell at you, bind your limbs, and carve his name into your flesh

- simply doesn't understand your disobedience and grief and takes it out on you, hoping to "knock sense into you"

- unlike many yandere archetypes, he enjoys parading you about like an accessory. has friends come over to admire you

- "i know it's too much for you to understand, but you need my care. where is this behavior coming from? don't you love me?"

- you'll kill yourself before he can, driven to the point of insanity

Kihyun: The Jealous

- no pets. no friends. no contact with the outside world aside from media he approves.

- shelters you like mother gothel

- insists you cut off all male contacts, even family (if you are lgbtq, it's best not to reveal this to him because then you won't even be able to speak to female family members)

- doesn't hesitate to murder any man you won't cut off. forces you to watch.

- comforts you afterward in a sick way

- you have to PLEAD to go anywhere

- if he allows it, you must wear a face covering and stay by his side

- tends to be rough in bed; he lets loose all his pent-up frustrations on you

- isn't COMPLETELY out of touch with his humanity; treats you well on birthdays and holidays and even permits a supervised phone call with your mother

- "you overwhelm me. you fill me with so much joy and so much rage. you'll never know the effect you have on me, sweetheart."

- inevitable murder-suicide in the end. i give it no more than 5 years.

Hyungwon: The Sadist

- it's all a game of cat and mouse to him; he kidnapped you while you slept after stalking for quite some time

- keeps you in chains in his basement

- decorates his home with your missing posters like a real sicko

- will torture the living shit out of you with no remorse. inflicting fractures, head trauma, slicing you open, digit dismemberment, drowning, strappado

- gets off on your fear more than your pain

- unlike the others, he recognizes when you're suffering; he just doesn't care

- destroys your self-worth and self-esteem by berating and insulting you. it's your fault you can't tell he means "I love you"

- sex entails bondage, degradation, and cruel laughter. incorporates pet names like: "bunny," "little lamb," "kitty," etc.

- may get bored of you and seek out a new victim, leaving you inexplicably desperate for his attention (which is all part of his game)

- always comes back to you after he's maimed and fucked who knows how many people. and you let him every time, holding out hope that he'll stay

- "you're never going to escape me. i hope you know that."

- would rather almost kill you and keep reviving you. you're in it for the long haul.

Jooheon: The Two-faced

- like shownu, things begin typically

- gradually shows his hand over time, but you're blinded by your feelings for him (he's a very good faux boyfriend)

- waits until your most vulnerable moment to attack

- strict and often overbearing; will beat you black and blue to the point of unconsciousness

- will actually apologize, but he doesn't stop

- tries to keep things around that you enjoy and allow domestic hobbies (congratulates your accomplishments but doesn't want to fuel your ego too much because then you'll leave him)

- struggles with internal conflict over how to treat you. wishes he could be more lenient but can't bring himself to

- allows you to have family and friends over while he's present

- very good at acting normal, it's scary. will flash you a psycho smile after they leave.

- "i'm sorry things have to be this way. if only you could see... i really do love you."

- kills himself in the end due to guilt

Changkyun: The Unhinged

- yes, yandere are psychotic, but changkyun is another level

- if you try to escape or resist him, he just stares at you with round eyes, slowly growing a grin that turns into a crazy laughing fit

- protects you from outside forces, unaware that he's the greatest danger in your life

- only upside is he takes you out on the town

- slaps across the face. sometimes at random, just to let you know he's in control

- you live on eggshells, unsure if he's in a loving or violent mood

- a strange dichotomy of worshipping you and craving your attention, yet feeling like you should be the one begging for him

- fucks hard and often, but can't look at you after

- owns an industrial freezer and locks you in there until you collapse from hypothermia III

- "w-were you trying to escape? FUCK no. what don't you understand, hon? you're my fucking property."

- will stab you repeatedly in the end, smiling with tears streaming down his face

Would anyone be interested in me developing these characters/storylines further?

[hansolmates]

jjk; off-league

summary; you decide to do a little boudoir photoshoot for yourself—a little sexy lingerie, some bunny ears, maybe even a little nudity to make you feel more body positive about yourself. that little photoshoot doesn’t end up being for yourself anymore when you accidentally send those sexy pictures to your stupidly hot, stupidly talented childhood friend who you haven’t spoken to since middle school graduation.  pairing; photographer!jk x fem!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers!au, flangst, mutual pining, feelings of insecurity and body image, suggestive language, nudity  w.c; 6.2k a/n: i was feeling a lil meh about this fic after finishing it but a month later it finally makes its debut! for @btsghostiewritersnet​ BGW Bingo Bash! today’s trope is “childhood friends to lovers” which surprisingly isn’t a favorite of mine so it was definitely a challenge to write! 

“C’mon, I need your opinion. Deadass. Don’t just say shit to make me feel better.” 

“Gimmie those nudes, baby girl,” Johnny makes an impeccable fuckboy impersonation, making you feel a little squirmy to your stomach. 

It’s an hour away from being the ass-crack’o-dawn and your impromptu pin-up photoshoot just needs the sexy-star-of-approval from your best friend. Johnny Suh is also up for reasons unmentioned, but you had a feeling his pretty boyfriend is fifty percent of the reason. 

You look at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your frame against the black bodice of the sheer teddy. The only parts that are fully concealed are the parts that don’t matter. The sheer bodice reveals your pert nipples concealed by a thin black mesh, coupled with the deep V in the sweetheart neckline, accented by a little black bow in the dive of your highlighted cleavage. The silky a-line raceways to a set of black garters hugging your thighs, barely hanging onto a pair of lace thigh-highs. 

It doesn’t leave you butt naked, but enough to make you feel confident about yourself. These pictures are for you, and Johnny. And Johnny’s boyfriend if he’s being nosy. 

You tug off the silk bunny ears from your head, flinging it somewhere in your room. The wire started to dig in your brain, giving you a major headache. 

“Sending them now,” you hang up and start compiling the pictures in a folder on Google Drive. Once that’s done you copy the shareable link, sending it to Johnny’s number. It happens all so fast, and you feel kind of giddy. As you were posing for the camera, taking your time to find all the right angles, you felt good, you felt sexy in your little get up. Channeling your inner Ariana Grande was one of your childhood dreams, your fifteen year old self would be proud. 

Five minutes pass, fifteen, and by the twenty-five minute mark you’re pissed. What’s taking Johnny so long? 

Makeup scrubbed clean and face bare, you shuffle in your duvet, far too tired to be waiting up this long. Punching in his number once more, you cry, “Hey! Why haven’t you looked at them yet?” 

“What?” your friend’s voice sounds pebbly through the line. Was Johnny sleeping? “You never sent them!” he whines tiredly. 

“No, I definitely sent them!” you pull the phone away and keep Johnny on call, ready to prove him wrong. 

But to your surprise, the last message you sent to Johnny was this afternoon. 

The most recent message is to a person named John Kook. 

You scream. 

Johnny screams back at you with an equal amount of force, “What the fuck? Did someone break in? Are you being mobbed? See, this is why I wanted to put the baby monitor in your room—” 

“Worse!” you’re well prepared for any break in, but not for this. “I sent my pics to the wrong John!” 

“Well… is he at least cute?” 

“I mean, in the fourth grade he looked pretty cute with that front tooth missing,” you find your output of frustration, your bunny plush, pulling it by the ear and hitting it against the bed. “His name isn’t even John! It was just his English name for a silly project we did in middle school. This is so embarrassing, all I can picture is a twelve-year-old Jungkook mortified from sexual harassment. I basically sent him nudes!” 

“Tasteful nudes.” 

“I’m gonna die.” 

“He’s gonna die, of happiness.” 

Jeon Jungkook was a classmate from elementary through middle school. Time and time again was he the object of your affections, from the first grade at the roller rink to the speech he made at graduation. But really, who cares? You’re old and have a job, and it’s not like you’ve communicated with any of your former classmates. 

Your horror amplifies when the Delivered receipt is changed to Read 3:41AM. 

“Fuck! Fuck me with a fuckin’ fuck nugget he saw it!” you cry, “does he still have my number? What if he deleted my contact, would that be even weirder?” 

“Girl, stop.” Johnny sighs, and you can already picture him running his thumb between his brows. “This doesn’t change anything, alright? You two don’t know each other anymore. Block his number and go to sleep.” 

Johnny leaves you alone after that, and you’re left alone to mull over the implications of sending Jeon Jungkook your nude photoshoot. 

You do block his number, knowing that waiting for a reply would drive you nuts. The one thing that you do which is possibly worse, is look him up on Instagram. 

Of course, he’s stupid hot. 

He doesn’t seem to like being on the receiving end of the camera however, in favor of his timeline being filled with romantic shots of the beach and city. In between the picturesque views and watercolor sunsets do you see glimpses of him and his current life. You can’t help but smile when you see him with his brother and parents during his college graduation, easily towering over all of them. He looks tall with fluffy cocoa hair, big pearly whites gleaming proudly at the camera. He grew up well. 

To torture yourself even more, you even look through his story. Twelve hours ago, he was at the gym lifting weights. Normally, you’d be disgusted by people trying to show off their grunt faces drenched in sweat, but of course Jungkook has to have on a silly smile and pump his fist up after he deadlifts. The sweat clinging to his shirt is also a high plus. His gorgeous display of abs has your hands fluttering over your own belly. Maybe you need to exercise more. 

Four hours ago, you see him and a pretty woman with their cheeks squished together, using the puppy filter. Of course he has a girlfriend. 

Reluctant, you open up your Google Drive and scroll through your photoshoot. Deflated, you frown at the pictures that once made you beam with pride, picking at every little detail that bothered you. You really can’t believe you sent these to Jeon Jungkook, no longer a fourth grader with one front tooth, but a man way out of your league. 

By the time you will yourself to sleep, the sun peeks from the horizon, telling you to move on. 

“Hey Gyu,” you tiptoe over to the table much too small for Mingyu’s frame. The string bean is slumped over his iPad pro, drawing intently at some chibi OCs. “Got a plot for that one?” you ask, pointing at the little pink and blue creature decorating the screen. 

Mingyu grunts in reply, obviously engrossed. It isn’t until you slide him a matcha frappe from Starbucks that he becomes intelligible, muttering a “thank you” as he blends with his pen. 

Sensing that it’s going to be awhile before you get through to him, you take your usual rounds around the front desk and lobby of the cosy photo studio. There’s pretty pictures of Mingyu’s work, along with the other employees Minghao and Hoseok. Each section of the wall features a different taste of each person’s interest. Mingyu is a divine lover of soft bed sheets and hot tea, many of his photographs and paintings featuring cafes or perfectly messy beds you’ve seen on hotel advertisements. Minghao is a tasteful artisan, splotches of color retaliating against neutral backgrounds. Finally, Hoseok manages to find balance in the people, large cityscapes telling both large and small stories.

“Alright,” Mingyu’s deep voice forces you to curl your head, where he’s sipping at his drink with haste. “What’cha here for?” 

You frown, “Don’t you remember? I told you last week I’d be stopping by to get my photos developed,” you gesture to the Pentax in your hands, an heirloom from your great-aunt. While you did take digital photos for sending them to Johnny, the ones you wanted developed were taken side-by-side with the film camera. You figured that film would give a little more authenticity to your photoshoot. 

“Shit, that’s today?” the camera falls like deadweight, slapping against your sweater as you watch Mingyu frantically look through his digital calendar. He looks at you, dejected. “How many prints?” 

“I don’t know, maybe like six. Or eight?” 

“That’s gonna take too long, I’m heading down to Hidden Grounds for a vision meeting at two.” 

“Alright, I’m free all day. What about after?”

“Nah, you came all this way. I can just let the new guy help you.” and Mingyu makes a show of cupping his hands in the direction of the open hallway, “Yah, Jeon Jungkook! Get your cute ass out here!” 

The Pentax around your neck suddenly feels like weight akin to a two-ton boulder, and you surge forward, not caring that the corner of the table is digging into your belly. “Mingyu,” you garble, and Mingyu is shell-shocked by the desperation in your eyes. “Isn’t Minghao around or something? Or I can come back another time? These photos are really personal and I don’t feel comfortable having a stranger see them.”

“What? We’re professionals, don’t belittle us.” 

“No, seriously,” you whine, you tug at the collar of his denim jacket, noses practically touching. “These pictures are different. My tits are out and my legs are spread—”

“—interrupting something?” 

You hear some shuffling, and you turn around to see Jeon Jungkook’s back, comically turned to face the entrance. 

And damn, he did have a cute ass. Nothing is going to hide the glory in those jeans, absolutely nothing. 

“Hilarious,” Mingyu drawls, and you push him away. “Forget it, Kook. She doesn’t feel comfortable letting a stranger develop her photos.” 

Sensing that it’s safe to turn around, you watch as his black bangs flutter as he faces you. You hope your body language doesn’t betray how you’re really feeling, because you are a mere mortal and you’re weak in the presence of god-like figures. 

“Oh, what a relief then,” he smiles at you, and his voice sounds like honey. If there was malice or surprise in his tone, his good-natured expression betrays it. “Because I’ve known this friend since elementary school. We go way back.” 

You ignore the burn in the back of your head, as you are positive Mingyu knows you’re hiding something. 

“Really, what a coincidence.” Mingyu replies carefully, and you feel utterly stuck between these men and their banter, locked up like cream in an Oreo cookie. 

Nothing argues against Jungkook as he easily weaves through the thick wave of awkwardness, hands reaching out to touch your camera. “Wow,” he marvels, holding the object in his hands, “my dad has one of these.” 

“A-ha,” you take a step back, only to bump into the corner of the table, again. Ouch. “It’s okay, Jungkook. I’m actually busy today so I can come when Mingyu’s free–”

“Oh, I thought you were free all day,” Mingyu drawls, looking up through his lashes as he sips languidly at his drink. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says good-naturedly, as if Mingyu just didn’t out you. “We got a lot of catching up to do anyway, c’mon.” 

Jungkook moves to place a hand in the small of your back and that’s enough to get you to rev up. Refusing to let any contact get between the two of you, you zip ahead down the familiar hallway, turning your head to catch Mingyu grinning with all canines, shooing you with his fingers like a puppy. 

You send Mingyu a stream of “fuck yous” into his inbox for later, unwilling to settle with this curse. Busying yourself with your phone, you avoid eye contact with Jungkook until you reach the dark room. The red light turned off at the top of the doorhenge signals that the room is not in use. Jungkook makes a move to open the door and that’s when you pounce, blocking the doorway with your small body. It’s comical, really. 

Jungkook raises a brow at you, but says nothing. 

“I really can wait, Jungkook,” you steel yourself, forcing a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t like you developing my pictures—”

It’s then that his pretty cupid’s bow unfurls into a full-fledged grin. “Girlfriend... you’ve been keeping tabs on me?” 

“Fuck, well I had to!” your face is as red as the dark room’s alert light, now on because Jungkook flicked the switch and he’s between your arm to unlock the door. Your hand brushes his as you both reach the knob. “I’m really really sorry I sent those pictures. They were for Johnny—you remember Johnny Suh from English class? And I saved you in my contacts as “John Kook” so it was an honest mess up.” 

Jungkook hums, so light that the breathiness in his chords flutters your grip on the knob. He forces the door ajar, and you’re left to follow him in the dark room, cluttered with solutions and fancy equipment. 

“Thought so,” Jungkook shrugged, giving a one-over at the materials in the room, mulling over his next steps in developing your film. 

You’re still petrified at the doorway, holding your Pentax between both hands like a lifeline. Jungkook’s head lols to you, and you get a pretty view of the way his bangs brush over his forehead, Adam’s Apple bobbing. His expression is a little tired, but overall unreadable. He sighs your name, lethargic. 

“We’re already here, so might as well get this done,” he gestures to the camera in your vice grip. “Do you wanna pick the shots or do you want me to?” 

He’s already seen the digitals, what’s so different about getting a couple prints? With a slight pout you drag your feet over to him, relinquishing your camera. “I’m thinking you have a better eye for this than I do.” 

“You think right.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Cocky, but what you’ve seen on Instagram definitely justifies his sentiment. Jungkook pays no mind to you, busying his hands with the various containers in front of him, measuring the solutions for the developer, stopper, and fixer. You were always entranced by the process of developing film, especially in highschool where their photography club holed themselves in the darkroom like a secret lair. 

“Alright,” he pops open the canister, carefully laying out sections of the film in groups of four. “Want me to pick a random one for a tester?” 

You frown, “At least put some thought into it.” 

“Always,” it looks like he already decided way before he popped the question, immediately taking a negative and placing it in the carrier. 

His fingers are nimble as he takes the time to clean off the dust and any debris that could potentially ruin the image. Then he turns off the lights and begins the process. You dive around him, trying to keep your distance but still too curious to leave his side. If he’s annoyed he fails to show it, in favor of humming whatever song comes from his Echo Dot. 

You always got the solos in choir. You wanted to reminisce, but you’re too nervous to say it out loud. 

Even though it’s his job and he’s being a professional, you romanticize the experience, watching as he carefully puts the print in each liquid process. Your image blooms to life, and you feel your stomach churn as the photo develops before your eyes. 

After a final dip in the solution stopper, he places the first product in a bath of water. Even though you are mere centimeters away, you can clearly see the image of you swimming around the container. 

“Alright!” Jungkook hangs the finished picture on a pastel pink clothespin, tacking it in place. “Whaddya think?” 

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling heavy as you look at the image of you reflected in the glossy paper. You’re perched on your bed, a hand splaying between your legs as the other hand toys with the silk bunny ears. You’re leaned slightly, giving an ample view of your cleavage. However, the image of you is definitely different from being blown up in comparison to the negatives, and you squirm uncomfortably at your full display. 

“I look,” you bite your tongue, internally debating whether you like it or not. Not to spare Jungkook the theatrics you shrug, “It’s good.”  

The lack of enthusiasm seems to dissatisfy Jungkook however, as he has to take a double take and look back and forth between the image and the real thing. “What’s wrong with it, do you think Johnny’ll not like it?” 

“What?” you furrow your brows, breaking into a nervous laugh. “Johnny has a boyfriend. I just wanted his opinion. This photoshoot is for me, y’know? Just something to make me feel good about myself.” 

Jungkook’s lips morph into a little ‘o’, and you see a little bit of the child you once knew in the way he’s mulling over the situation. 

“Then can I give you my honest opinion?” Jungkook clips off the half-dried photo, holding it between you two. “Stop thinking so hard about every little thing you don’t like about yourself. If I was your boyfriend and you gifted this to me, I’d be creaming my pants. You look fucking sexy, all grown up since you cried in the fourth grade.” 

You’ve just been flung a litany of words you have no brain capacity to digest. Along with that, the immense heat you didn’t know you’ve been suppressing surges to your belly, low and simmering. Jungkook stares at you in earnest, despite his sudden gush of honesty, you don’t know what to say. There’s a dash of pink staining his cheeks, betraying the confidence he previously displayed. He stiffens when you don’t reply immediately and moves to clean his materials, his sudden bout of bold honesty quickly shrinking. 

“Y-you know,” you look down at your feet, “the only reason why I cried in the fourth grade was because you told me Santa wasn’t real.” 

Jungkook softens, tilting his head. “Sorry about that.” 

“Thanks though,” you gently reach for the photo in Jungkook’s grasp, looking at it without contempt. “But won’t your girlfriend be upset if she knew you were saying things like this about someone else?” 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, if you looked through the rest of my Instagram story,” Jungkooks cards a hand through his already mussed hair, splitting the ends. “You would see that she’s not my girlfriend, but my tattoo artist.” 

For added measure, he wiggles his fingers in front of you, revealing pretty ink and silver bands across his knuckles.

“Oh,” your voice is feather light, and you’re sure you’re drooling as you stare far too long at the letters that mark his hands, curious as to what they symbolize. 

“So, as a singleton telling another singleton,” he continues, “I know it’s meaningless if you don’t believe it yourself, but I’m telling you, you’re attractive.” 

“Thanks,” you hold the picture tightly in your grasp, eyes flickering to the negatives in the room ready to be galvanized into a full-fledged picture. “Why don’t we wrap this up, huh? We can continue another time.” 

If he notices how much the paper wilts in your grasp, he doesn’t comment on it. “Are you sure? I know it takes a lot of time, but I don’t mind.” 

“I’m sure,” you force a smile, one hand on the lightswitch. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay?” 

Jungkook swallows, nodding mechanically. “Okay.” 

“It was really nice seeing you, Kook.” you blurt before you could chicken out, letting the room bask in darkness a little longer so he can’t see your flustered state. “I’m not even going to downplay it, you look great.” 

You half-expect a cocky remark, or a little chest pumping from the compliment. At the sound of his nickname however, 4th grade Jeon Jungkook resurfaces and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, so do you,” he replies easily, sending you a soft smile and opening the door for you. 

The door closes shut behind you and you exhale, patting your cheeks and willing for the chilly air to calm you down. 

When you get home that day, you shuck off all your clothes and crawl into bed. You cry out when the metal framing of your bunny ears stabs you in the back, and you fling it to some unmentionable part of the room. You reach for a bag of half-opened sour gummy worms, flipping open your MacBook to continue streaming the soft magical girl anime you’ve been hooked on these past few weeks. 

Not even Sailor Uranus can distract you; however, by the time it’s dark and you’ve run out of distractions, you finally pull the plug and unblock Jungkook from your list of contacts. 

Your phone buzzes, the incessant vibration relaying all the messages you’ve missed. 

[March 12th, 3:53AM]

You: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/0343…

John Kook: ??? 

John Kook: you probably sent this to me by accident… sorry i clicked on it

John Kook: is it weird if i said you’ve done a massive glow up since the middle school dance?

[March 12th, 12:02 PM]

John Kook: are u mad

John Kook: you’re mad

John Kook: am i makin this weird by continuing to text you

John Kook: im making it weird. 

[March 31st, 6:24 PM]

John Kook: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/049…

You tilt your head at the folder link, it was sent only a few hours ago. With a click, you’re enlightened to a set of digital photos. Your photos from your photoshoot, but not quite. They’ve been expertly edited, not too much to distort your looks, but only to enhance your features. A small, barely there smile creeps from your subconscious, ultimately touched by the gesture. 

John Kook: sorry if i pushed too hard today. 

Guilt overrides your nerves, prompting you to immediately press the call button on his contact. Not to your surprise, Jungkook’s light voice calls your name through the line after the second ring. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you blurt, forgoing the hellos. “It was the right amount of push, I feel better, really. If anything, I’m sorry. I blocked your number because I was scared to read your reaction.” 

You hear him sigh along the line, and you feel that breath ripple through your nerves, as if he’s right next to you. “It’s fine, I would’ve done the same thing.” 

“The pictures you just sent, they’re really beautiful. You did a good job.” 

“Thanks, I had a bit of help. I didn’t have to do much.” 

“Oh, did Mingyu come back from his meeting?” 

"No, I uh," Jungkook chuckles, and while you don't really know why, the sound is nonetheless pleasant. “It was mostly the lighting and coloring I fixed up. Didn’t need to do much since you already looked so pretty as it is.” 

You choke on your saliva. 

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you cough, “just choked on a snack I was eating.” he hums in reply, and you pray he doesn’t hear your stomach fervently retort that you haven’t eaten since lunch. “So, I think I’m up for developing more of the film. When can I drop by?” 

“I’m free Saturday,” Jungkook chirps, “I have a shoot until noon but you can come anytime after that.” 

“Sounds good, I’ll be there,” you clutch the phone with both hands. “I can bring lunch. What do you like to eat?” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m already buying for Minghao,” you lie, “do you like burgers?” 

“I can’t say no to a good burger,” Jungkook’s smile feels almost palpable against the line, “do you remember our field trip to the national museum of history? We had burgers on the street!” 

“Oh, those were so good,” you moan, fuzzy memories of a middle grade field trip resurfacing to clarity, “but you ate like, ten of them!”

“I still get nightmares,” he warns, “don’t let me go to bed like this.” 

You giggle, letting your body meld further into your warm mattress. “Maybe I’ll just show up with ten burgers for you tomorrow.” 

“I’ll throw up on you, try me.” 

Minghao’s adjusting the frames on their display wall by the centimeter, and it’s pissing him off. 

“Ah, it’s off,” he mutters to himself when you walk in, indicated by the electronic bell. He turns to you briefly, pulling a leveler out of his overall pocket. “Doesn’t this look off?” 

“Uh,” you look towards Mingyu at the front desk, who is paying no mind as he continues scribbling on his iPad. You tilt your head towards your former college classmate. “It doesn’t look off from over here?” 

Tacking the leveler on one of the frames, he whines, “It’s five degrees off.” 

Mingyu puts his pen down to reach over the counter and grab the paper from your hands, steaming with the scent of fast food, “He’s been like this for hours, don’t mind him.” 

He doesn’t even ask whether the food is his, Mingyu sees grease and he claims. Reaching for an oil-wrapped parchment, he unfolds the paper to reveal a handsome burger with all the fix-ens. 

Barely satisfied, Minghao steps away from the art display. There is a sizable gap in the display, now divided between four artists instead of three. You wonder how Jungkook’s work will look amongst the other artists. 

“Cute ‘fit.” Minghao mumbles, nodding approvingly at your clothes as he digs into the bag for his own burger. 

You send a half-smile his way. If an outfit is Minghao-approved, that means you’ve gone above and beyond. At least, you tried to play it off like you didn’t try to look cute. It’s not like you’re intimidated by Jungkook, living with a major fifteen-year glow up. After all, he’s already seen more than you can imagine. 

Mingyu takes notice, eyes going south to where your white blouse meets your cleavage. You hurl a fry at his face, “Eyes up here, perv.” 

He scrunches his nose, lifting a greasy thumb to slide a manila envelope over to you. “Here’s the developed pictures. Intercepted Kook and I finished them this morning.” 

You frown, “Jungkook’s not done with his photoshoot yet?” 

“Oh, he’s been done.” Mingyu’s eyes roll back to one of the studios. “But I’m saying is, you got what you needed. So you can leave if you want,” but he grins at you, canines so sharp you feel his stare jabbing you in the proverbial neck. “Unlesssss you want to go in and say hi.” 

If he has any inkling of what’s going on in your head, it’s definitely confirmed when your face turns hot. Damn body, you’re betraying me! With a flourish you grab the fries from under Mingyu’s nose, along with whatever’s left in the fast food bag. 

Minghao’s smiling through his burger, knowing if he pulls any type of savagery his lunch would certainly be pulled from under his chin. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, drop it or the burger will be going in your ass instead of out.” You mean to sound menacing, but the Min-squared and their boisterous laughter follow you down the hallway and into the occupied studio. 

“Hey Jungkoo—wow.”

You’re sure you look like Alice, enthralled by the little wonderland she just stepped into. The set is beautiful, right out of a fairytale. It has a very old-romance vibe, like Morticia and Gomez Addams. There lay a couch made of the darkest, richest wood, with velvet red cushions covering the body. Across the floor laid hundreds of black rose petals, blanketing the floor in a sea of ebony. 

“It’s for a wedding, gothic themed.” Jungkook supplies helpfully, still fiddling with whatever he was looking on his digital camera. He’s looking utterly soft in a matching grey sweat combination, something that would easily disgust you during high school, but unfairly works with him. 

“The shoot must’ve been beautiful.” 

“It was.” 

“I uh, got this for you.” Your fingers start to sweat from clutching the bag so hard, and you place it on his work table. 

He finally looks up from his camera, giving you a wan smile. “I thought you got those for Minghao.” 

You mentally slap your cheeks, trying to ignore the way his smile made your stomach do somersaults. “He got his own. Your portion has a cookie in it, so.” 

His cute teeth unveil themselves at the mention of sweets, and you can’t help but smile back at the familiarity. 

The two of you take your time in enjoying your lunch, not meaning to stay but the very back of your mind hoping he’d like to share a meal with you. After all, Mingyu and Minghao are probably at the front relishing in your very obvious attraction. What can you say, first crushes never die. 

Between sips of your milkshake, you’ve taken to flipping through Jungkook’s portfolio. There’s a myriad of different subjects: beaches, people, the occasional squirrel. Each section of the portfolio feels like you’re being transported to a new side of Jungkook and his artistry, and you ached to know more. 

“Wow,” you point at an action shot of two girls in a dance studio, “this duo looks like Chungha and Hyoyeon.” 

He swallows his (second) burger, having the audacity to sink sheepishly in his sweater. “It is Chungha and Hyoyeon.” 

You nearly choke on your cookie. “That’s amazing.” you say breathlessly, looking closer at the image. In fact, the beautiful women photographed are famed hip-hop choreographers Chungha and Hyoyeon. You can’t imagine how good Jungkook must be to manage a photoshoot with them. 

As proud as you are of Jungkook, it reminds you that since middle school you two have lived completely different lives. You wonder if Jungkook gets these kinds of gigs all the time, hanging around with gorgeous, talented people like himself.

Jungkook says your name once, twice. He looks at you concerned, and you’re melting in his large carmine eyes. If he notices your usual overthinking, he doesn’t say anything, and gestures to the section at the end of his portfolio. “This isn’t my best work, but it’s one of my favorites.” 

There’s something familiar about this set. A playground with a busted swing set. Children riding on bikes and colorful class shirts. Ice cream melting on fists. 

Thirteen-year-old you hanging on top of your middle school’s leafless tree, clutching your baseball cap as you shade yourself from the sunset. 

“Was this the first time you took pictures?” you ask, thumbing the picture of yourself. 

“Yeah. It’s when I decided it’s what I wanted to do the rest of my life.” 

“I know we didn’t know each other that well and we’ve only recently connected but,” you give him a shy smile, “I’m really proud of what you’ve grown up to be, Jungkook.” 

He looks like you’ve hung him the moon and stars, his half-eaten burger loosening in his grasp. His lips are parted cutely, like a kitten who’s just been offered a fresh glass of milk. You cough at the sudden pause in conversation, feeling self-conscious of your impulse confession. You don’t even have it in you to be disgusted when Jungkook hastily shoves the second half of his burger down his throat, tips of his ears pink. 

Leaving him be, you press a palm to your cheek, looking at the wedding set. 

Jungkook downs half a water bottle before he speaks again. “Y’know, it would be a shame to clean up this set already. It was kind of expensive.” 

“Yeah,” you echo, standing up and kicking off your slippers. You kick your feet in the air, watching the black petals kiss across your ankles.

“I have an idea,” he wipes his hands on his sweats, “why don’t you go back home and get an outfit you really like. Lingerie, a cute outfit, whatever. Let me give you a photoshoot you’d love.” 

You look up from your petal dance, balking. “Jungkook! That’s not necessary, I told you the photos I took were okay.” 

“Yeah but, you didn’t seem entirely happy. C’mon, I got a camera and a beautiful set. Why waste it?” his hands naturally gravitate towards his charging camera, already turning it on. “I can do lighting, I know all your good angles. What’s stopping us?” 

Really, what’s stopping you? Your hands fiddle with your open flannel, the soft material comforting you as you look across the set. You try to imagine yourself, your body draped across the velvet pillows and black petals. Would it look good? Would you feel good? You think back to how you felt the first time, how scared you were when someone other than Johnny would be looking at your photos. You remember how something weird and sour contorted in your stomach when you scrolled through Jeon Jungkook’s Instagram, no longer the little boy you knew but a man who could have everything he wanted—

“Stop thinking about it.” Jungkook suddenly snaps, and you break from your reverie to catch him looking upset. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him like that. 

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking that you’re out of my league.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You were like this the other day too,” and he looks sad, and puts his camera down to come closer to you. “Why are you feeling this way. Is it me?” 

“Not necessarily,” you huff, hugging yourself.

“Do you not feel beautiful? Do you not like your body?” 

“No, I do.” you say to yourself, and you mean it. Even though there will inevitably be days where you may not feel one-hundred percent positive about yourself, you know at the end of the day, you love you and all its parts. “I don’t know, Jungkook. I had no problem letting Mingyu develop the photos originally, because he knew me in college and I was already sure of myself back then. But I guess when I sent them to you, I felt like I did when I was a little girl, y’know? Going through puberty, and worrying about what other people think.” 

And it’s not like Jungkook teased you or made you feel lesser of yourself. In fact, Jungkook was the student you wanted to be when you were younger. Someone sweet and caring, and unabashedly confident about himself. 

“I guess seeing you so successful and the fact that my stupid childhood crush came back from a time where I always felt low, made me feel a little insecure again.” 

Something sinks in and you feel hyper aware of how crushed Jungkook looks at your declaration. “There’s no leagues, you got that?” he says quietly, walking so close that he’s hovering over you, sneakers brushing. “I get it. I get unsure and insecure just like you. Hell, I was nervous this morning, wondering if you’d really come. We may not feel insecure over the same things, but middle school wasn’t that great for me either.” He makes a funny face, and you feel a smile twitch across your lips. “But it’s okay. Because we’re human and we grow. But now, you are successful. You’ve grown from your time growing up and you’re a wonderful, powerful person. I’m proud of you too.” 

“I know,” you mumble, leaning your forehead against his chest. His arms wrap around you in response, holding you snug.

“And for the record, I thought you were the most beautiful person in the world in fourth grade. Even though my world was pretty small back then, I can say now that what I thought back then still stands true.” 

You look up from his embrace, where he’s leaning down to press a slow, cotton soft kiss to your forehead. He backs up a little to read your face, and you give a tiny nod in response to signal it’s okay. Jungkook exhales in contentment, relaxing against your frame. 

“Thanks, Kook,” you crack a smile, feeling your insecurities slowly evaporate. You feel better, light, knowing that these negative feelings are only temporary, and you’re not alone. Being in Jungkook’s arms, an honest boy turned man you’ve known all your life, it feels almost like home. 

You two stay like this for a while. Exchanging feather-like kisses, feeling irrevocably young and hopeful. Suddenly feeling emboldened, you tug him by the strings of his hoodie to press a long, hot kiss to his lips. There’s a stutter, and you’re pretty sure Jungkook choked on his saliva at the sudden change of pace but you continue, letting Jungkook catch up and follow your lead. 

“Wow,” Jungkook pulls away and his lips are shiny and flushed. Adorable. You think 7th grade Jungkook would be rolling in his Naruto sheets if he knew you two would inevitably end up together. Conversely, 7th grade you would be squealing in your kitten plushie, proud that you managed to nab your childhood crush to live out all the fantasies you’ve imagined since the 4th grade. 

“Jungkook,” you let your flannel fall to the floor in a heap, only leaving your baby blue top in a thin ruched camisole. “I think I want to do the photoshoot. Can’t pass up these pretty petals, y’know?” 

He runs a hand through his hair, gaping. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” you press a wet kiss to his neck, “anyway you want me, baby. Full creative control. I want you to like this as much as I do, okay?” 

With the permission to hold the wheel, Jungkook’s lightheaded and spinning. His eyes rake up and down your gorgeous form, wondering how many good deeds he’s done in his past life to earn a right just as this. 

“In that case,” he presses a palm to your shoulder, pushing you to sit along the velvet cushion, “strip for me.” 

[heliads]

Radio Silence Chapter One: On the Other End

Poe Dameron has been assigned to work as an intel receiver to Acer, a Resistance recon agent. They’ve only ever talked through the comms, so when she’s captured by First Order troops he assumes she’s lost forever. When Poe accidentally rescues the absolutely infuriating Resistance spy Y/N L/N from a First Order Star Destroyer, he knows she’s got nothing do with with Acer. Right?

series masterlist / next

Poe Dameron slides into a seat in front of a gleaming array of navicomputers and tech displays. He considers the many buttons and levers in front of him, then methodically enters a series of commands into a console. He waits one second, two, then it beeps at him. Correct password- well, he’d hope so. He’s done this so many times that he could enter in the digits in his sleep.

After that, it only takes a couple of seconds to call up the secure communications channel. There have only ever been two people with access to this channel: one sender and one receiver. Poe is the receiver, as always, recovering data sent to him by the Resistance recon agent they’ve got stationed out somewhere in the Outer Rim or the Unknown Regions. He doesn’t know anything about her, that’s stated in the Resistance regulations- no sharing information that could get your spies killed. That’s a must.

At exactly twenty standard hours, it is time for Poe to flip on the radio channel and receive the latest intel from his sender. He waits for a minute or two in silence, brow furrowing as he spends more time in solitude, and then his ears are greeted by the reassuringly familiar crackle of static across the console speakers. Poe grins. “Acer, that you?” He can practically hear her smile across the radio channel. “Who else would it be?”

Poe leans back in his chair, finally able to relax. “You were three minutes late, you know. That’s against protocol.” Acer sighs dramatically. “Oh come on, Bravo. You going to report me to the General for overwhelming tardiness in the line of duty?” Poe rolls his eyes. “I might, now that you mention it.” Acer laughs. “I’m sure you will. Honestly, I just think this means you care about me. Were you worried for me?” 

Poe taps a few buttons on his console, adjusting the sound for perfect quality. “I’m not going to answer that. You got anything good for me?” He can hear the sound of Acer’s navicomputer as she loads in the data filed for transmission. “I don’t know, Bravo. I’m not sure it’s anything major.” A sudden whir from the console catches Poe’s attention, and he waits as the data files finish sending. There’s a final ding of completion and Poe grabs the readouts from a dataport.

He whistles as he takes in the preview on his console. “You got troop lists? How’d you manage that?” Poe can’t see her face, but he’s fairly sure Acer’s smirking. “I figured that if I was going to peek through the transparisteel to see the bucketheads shine their shoes, I might as well tally them down as well.” Poe shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s amazing. I don’t know how you manage it.”

Acer speaks through a slight flash of static. “Well, I’m not going to act like it was easy. My hands are still shaking.” Poe clicks his tongue. “Hey, that’s personal information. I’m not supposed to know about that.” Acer’s worried tone breaks up into laughter. “What, that I have hands? Did you think I was a droid?” Poe grins, pleased with himself for making her smile. “I wasn’t about to assume anything. You could be a very human-sounding droid.” Acer groans. “If you thought I was a droid throughout all of this, then I think I understand why the General doesn’t have you as a spy.”

Poe’s mouth drops open. “Are you insulting me, Acer? After all we’ve been through?” Her laugh sounds musical, even through the crackles of a radio line. “I don’t know. It might not be in my programming.” They chat for a while longer before Acer’s voice drops off. “It’s time already. The minutes fly by, don’t they? Well, that’s all the data I’ve got for today.” Poe smiles ruefully. “Well, there ain’t nobody like you. Bravo, over and out.” Acer calls out the same goodbye code before her end of the line goes dark. Poe waits a few minutes, as according to radio procedure, then shuts off the encrypted line.

It’s strange to think that at the end of the day, Poe doesn’t know anything more about Acer than he would a First Order lieutenant. Can you consider someone a friend if you’ve never seen them before? Whenever Poe’s sent on a mission to some planet under First Order command, he can’t help scanning the crowds of people as if he thinks he’ll see her somewhere. It makes no sense- he has no idea what Acer looks like, and she only knows him as Bravo, the voice across the air. Yet he still looks around as if hoping she’ll show up, like he’ll see someone and just intuitively know that they are the spy he’s been speaking to for so long.

Poe can still remember when he was first given the assignment. At first, he had chafed at the idea of being confined to a desk when he could be out in his X-Wing, taking down TIE fighters and rescuing Resistance officers like always. He’d plunked himself down at his assigned station, an empty room in a distant corner of the base. Poe had turned on the encrypted channel, readying himself for a boring half hour of talking to some dry business-as-usual intel agent. Yet instead of being forced to share comms with a watery old recon officer, he’d been greeted by Acer. Wild, laughing, ruthlessly clever Acer. He’d want no one else.

They’d become friends soon after that, it was practically inevitable. Poe doesn’t know much about the other spies the Resistance sent out, but he does know that Acer is one of the best there is. Poe feels some extension of pride whenever he gets to deliver the newly recovered data files to the General, like he had just as much of a role in their transmission as Acer. To be fair, he has talked her through a couple of bad scenarios, like when a First Order intercomms agent demanded to see her radio or when a shady Knights of Ren sympathizer nearly found her out. No matter how bad it got, they’d always found some way to make it through. They were a team, weren’t they? Acer and Bravo, the two ends of the comms.

Poe finds that he’s actually come to rely on his daily check-ins with Acer like he would a chat with a friend. He has no idea how it feels to be in her position, stuck in the middle of First Order space with nothing but a fragile lie to protect you. Sometimes, he can hear it in her voice- the fear, the knowledge that at any moment she could be found out and shipped off to a distant cell where she would rot for the rest of her days. Spies are risky operators, and oftentimes the Resistance can’t afford to bring them back, not if it would compromise the rest of their intel rings.

Poe remembers the instance when he was captured by the First Order and tortured on board their ship. He had known even then that the likelihood of him being brought back to the Resistance was low, almost negligible, yet he’d been fortunate enough to have been rescued by Finn. Renegade stormtroopers with hearts of gold, however, were hard to come by, and so Acer wouldn’t even be able to rely on that. It twists Poe’s stomach to think of her on her bad days, when she’s surrounded by the fear that she would disappear on those backwater city planets and never be found again. He’d look for her, he promises himself, but even Poe knows that one radio operator wouldn’t be enough to find Acer if she went missing. All he can do is hope that it won’t come to that.

A couple of weeks later, Poe is on the line with Acer again when he first hears something in the background. It’s a quiet noise, barely there, yet something about it feels strange. He speaks up. “Hey, Ace, you got a roommate there? I thought I heard something behind you.” There’s quiet for a moment, and then when Acer speaks again her voice is strained with panic. “I live alone. There should be nobody here with me.” Both of them stay silent for a moment as they realize the implications of this. If Acer should be alone, but somebody is there, then that means-

The explosions go off about half a second later. Distantly, Poe can hear the draw of a blaster from a holster and repeated fire. Acer bends close to the radio, speaking quietly so the attackers won’t hear. “There are First Order troops in my quarters. I repeat, there are First Order troops here. This is Acer, I am requesting sendoff. Bravo, do you copy?” Poe’s blood feels like ice in his veins. The sendoff code is one that he had hoped to never hear. It means that Acer is outnumbered, that she’s about to be captured. It means that the Resistance has to make a choice whether to save her or to damn her to end the rest of her life in First Order cells.

This is Poe’s greatest fear. When he speaks again, he has to force his voice to stay calm and never waver. If he sounds nervous, then it will only enhance her own fear. “This is Bravo, affirmative. I verify your sendoff.” He can hear a quiet sound, like a half-sob almost hidden in the din of the blaster fire. Poe feels sick to his stomach. He can’t do this, can’t abandon Acer like this. He knows in this moment that if he doesn’t do something he will never forgive himself, but what is there to do? It’s not like he can help fight the stormtroopers. He feels their separation like a knife. She is cut off from him in all ways but the radio, but what good can a comms channel do in a firefight?

Desperate, Poe clicks on his mic once more. “Acer, can you read me? Can you send your location?” This is his last hope- if she can send even a couple of coordinates they might be able to track her down, might be able to save her from the cells. Acer’s voice comes back over the air, and Poe feels his heart drop at her words. “That’s a negative, Bravo. I can’t risk any more transmissions.” Her voice breaks off, but it doesn’t sound like a tech difficulty. When she speaks once more, her voice is leaden, and it chills Poe to the bone.

“I’m not making it out, Bravo. It’s been good to know you. See you in the fall.” Poe’s jaw tightens when he hears the last phrase. ‘See you in the fall’ is a joke they have between them, that someday there will be a day when he and Acer will be able to leave their stations and find each other at the end of all of this- at the fall of the First Order, of the war and resistance effort itself, when everything is finally over. If she’s saying this, then she knows- Acer isn’t making it back.

Poe’s voice is seconds away from breaking. “I’ll see you in the fall, Acer. I promise.” He can hear her slight smile over the line, and it nearly kills him. Even now, she’s forcing herself to stay strong. “You have to end the channel, Bravo. Otherwise they’ll find you.” Poe shakes his head before forgetting that she can’t see him. “Don’t make me leave. I know I’m not here, but I can’t-” Poe forces himself to remain calm. He has to do this, it is his last job. He owes her this, at least. He owes it to her that the mission not fail completely.

Poe takes a moment to steady himself before continuing. “Affirmative, Acer. This is Bravo, over and out.” Poe drags his hand over to the buttons lining his console and robotically types in the command to permanently end the channel before the First Order can find them through it. Just before he severs the line, he hears her voice one last time. “I read you, Bravo. Acer, over and out.” Then there’s one last flurry of static, and everything goes quiet.

Poe sits for a second in the silence. His ears are ringing with the last remnants of the blasterfire. He stares at his hands, still hovering over the controls. Just like that, his friend is gone. Acer has been captured, and she knows that there’s no hope of her return. Poe has been fighting in the Resistance for a long time now, and he’s seen many friends and allies fall. This loss, however, is the hardest he has felt in a long time.

Poe’s footsteps echo through the halls until he comes to a stop in front of General Organa. She turns to him, expecting a proffered data file, but her smile fades when she sees the haunted look on his face. Poe’s voice registers dully in the room. “Recon Operator Acer has been cleared for sendoff.” And just like that, Poe has lost one of the best things in the fight.