#note to self: don’t stay long at work events

[rebirthofartemis]

And that my friends is why I don’t go in the outside. With people from the inside places.

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy���

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[seospicybin]

WORSHIP.

CHAPTER II

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Chapters: Chapter I

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (17,4k words)

Author's note: Hot priest Jeongin returns! Please enjoy this one too and leave a feedback ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

The church is quiet, save for the distant murmur of prayers and the soft creak of old wooden pews. Outside, the scent of burning incense lingering in the air, wrapping around the sacred space like a whisper of devotion. Candles flicker along the altar, their golden light casting shifting shadows against stained glass, illuminating stories of faith, sacrifice, and redemption.

But in the privacy of his office, Jeongin feels none of that.

The sanctity of the church should be enough to steady him, to remind him of his place, of his duty. And yet, as he stands before you, his pulse thrums unsteadily beneath his skin, loud enough that he wonders if you can hear it too.

You’re still close—so close that he can feel the warmth of your body in the dimly lit space. The air between you is thick, heavy with something unspoken, something dangerous. It coils around him, testing the limits of his restraint, daring him to step over a line he swore never to cross again.

He should say something. He should tell you to leave, that this—whatever this is—has to stop. But his voice betrays him, staying lodged in his throat as his gaze drifts to your lips, remembering the way they felt against his only moments ago.

His mind is a mess, tangled between restraint and desire, faith and something that feels just as powerful. But when he looks at you—at your glassy eyes, at the way your lips part as if searching for something to say—his resolve fractures.

And then, before he can stop himself, he kisses you.

The moment his lips meet yours, Jeongin feels his world shift. It's soft, tentative at first, but the second he feels you respond—your fingers tightening around his, the slight tilt of your head, the way you sigh against his mouth—something deep within him crumbles.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is dangerous, that crossing this line again will only complicate everything further. But with you pressed close, his hands finding their way to your waist, he feels everything else slip away—the church, his vows, the weight of his title. Right now, none of it exists. There is only you.

A part of him waits for guilt to settle in, for the crushing weight of his conscience to pull him back. But it doesn’t come. Instead, all he feels is warmth—the kind he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the quiet space between you. His hands linger at your sides, hesitant, as if unsure whether to let go or pull you closer.

“This… isn’t right,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, he doesn’t move away.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you search his face, as if trying to understand what’s going on inside his head. When you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Then why does it feel like it is?”

Jeongin closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He doesn’t have an answer. Maybe because part of him agrees. Maybe because, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t want to fight it.

But wanting something doesn’t make it right.

And yet, as you stand there in the quiet of his office, as he traces the shape of you with his fingertips, Jeongin wonders if maybe—just maybe—this is the one sin he’s willing to commit.

-

Jeongin moves before he can think.

One second, he’s battling the storm inside him, and the next, his hands are on you—grasping, pulling, pressing. Your back meets the bookshelves with a soft thud, the scent of aged paper and ink mixing with the warmth of his breath as his lips crash against yours. It’s desperate, consuming, a kiss that speaks of everything he’s tried to bury.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans against your mouth, his grip tightening on your waist as he presses you further against the shelves. Books shift, a few tumbling to the floor, but neither of you notice. The weight of restraint, of months spent apart, shatters between you.

Then, suddenly, he lifts you—strong hands curling under your thighs as he carries you across the room. The edge of his desk meets your stomach as he turns you, his fingers splaying over your spine, guiding you down. Your breath hitches as he leans over you, his lips trailing along the curve of your shoulder, his hands exploring, worshiping.

As for his hands, they're busy pulling, yanking your underwear down and once it's pooling around your ankle, ha palms your sex, feeling your clit pulsating with every gentle rub of his fingers on it.

The room is silent save for the ragged breaths you share, the faint creak of wood beneath you, and the whispered remnants of his resolve unraveling with every movement.

Here, in the dim glow of his office, Jeongin surrenders. Not to temptation, not to sin—but to the undeniable truth that when he’s with you, he feels whole.

The moment he fully sinks into you, he pauses, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. He hears you breathe in and out, and then suck in a sharp, needy inhale as his hand land on your clit again and begin circling on it. He doesn’t move for several long moments, simply letting you feel his whole length inside you.

His hands grip your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as if to remind himself that you're real—that this moment isn't some fleeting dream. He moves with urgency, with hunger, each motion a confession of everything he's tried to suppress. The need, the longing, the ache of your absence—it all unravels in the way he takes you.

Your body molds against him, meeting every touch, every thrust with the same desperate need. A sharp gasp escapes you, followed by another, and another, until your voice grows louder, echoing through the quiet of the office.

Panic flickers in Jeongin’s eyes. The church is vast, but sound carries, and the thought of anyone hearing you—of anyone knowing—sends a jolt through him. Without thinking, he presses a hand over your mouth, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he whispers, “Shh…”

But even as he says it, he knows he's lost. Knows he can't stop, can't pull away, can't pretend he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need this. And the way you tremble beneath him, the way you don’t resist—only sink further into his touch—tells him that you don’t want him to stop either.

The desk creaks beneath you, your bodies moving in sync, tangled between want and something deeper, something unspoken. His hand remains over your mouth, but your muffled moans still break through, each one unraveling him further.

He’s never wanted anything more than this—than you. And right now, nothing else exists.

Jeongin's grip tightens on your waist, his pace unrelenting, his body pressed firmly against yours. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, voice low, teasing, sinful.

"Do you want the whole church to hear you?" he murmurs, his tone laced with something dark, something wicked. "Want someone to walk in and see you like this? See you bent over my desk, moaning like a sinner?"

A shiver runs down your spine at his words, a rush of heat pooling in your core. He feels it—the way your body clenches around him, the way you react to his taunts—and it only spurs him on.

"You like that idea, don’t you?" he breathes, his fingers trailing up your back, your skin burning under his touch. "Filthy."

Your muffled whimper against his palm betrays you, and Jeongin chuckles, the sound deep, knowing. His other hand slides down, gripping your hip tighter as he pushes into you with more force, more purpose.

"Maybe I should take my hand away," he muses, teasing. "Let them hear exactly how much you love this."

But he doesn’t. He keeps his hand firmly over your mouth, swallowing every desperate sound you make, as if he knows you’d be too loud—too lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. And that thought alone—knowing how much he affects you—undoes him completely.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmurs, his voice a deep whisper against your ear. "The thought of someone hearing, of someone knowing what I’m doing to you right now."

Your body tenses at his words, a shudder rolling through you as your fingers curl against the polished wood. You shouldn’t like it—shouldn’t crave it the way you do—but the way his voice drips with something almost sinful makes your breath hitch.

Jeongin chuckles softly, pressing a kiss against the back of your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin. "You're so eager for me," he muses, his grip tightening, his pace unrelenting. "Maybe it’s a good thing I covered your mouth. Otherwise, the whole church would know just how filthy you sound when I touch you like this."

Your muffled whimper is his only answer, and it only fuels him further. His restraint is fraying, unraveling with every desperate sound you make beneath his palm. The weight of his presence, the heat of his body against yours—it’s overwhelming. Consuming.

Jeongin pulls out just to push it back in, hard enough that he launches you forward, he continues thrusting and slides a hand around your hips to play with your clit. Three or four strokes later, and you come around him.

He follows you over the edge, chanting your name like a prayer andAnd in this moment, with nothing but the heavy scent of old books and candle wax in the air, Jeongin lets himself forget. Forget the weight of his collar. Forget the vows he’s breaking. Forget the world beyond these four walls.

Right now, there is only you.

-

The weight of the moment still lingers in the air, thick and heady, as Jeongin slowly exhales. His hands move on their own accord, instinctively smoothing down your dress as he kneels before you. His breath is warm against your skin as he leans in, his lips brushing over the inside of your thigh, a soft kiss before his tongue flicks out to taste the remnants of himself on you.

A quiet gasp leaves your lips as your fingers weave into his hair, but Jeongin doesn’t linger—not this time. He’s gentle, thorough, his hands gripping your legs steady as he cleans up the mess he made with his slick, hot tongue, the intimacy of it making something tighten in his chest.

Once he’s finished, he reaches for your discarded underwear, sliding it back up your legs with careful hands. His fingers graze your skin as he adjusts the hem of your dress, his touch lingering a second too long before he finally stands.

Neither of you speak as he helps you straighten your clothes, his hands smoothing out the wrinkles on your sleeves, then reaching down to pick up your purse from where it had fallen. When he hands it to you, your fingers brush, and you look up at him, searching his face.

“Can I see you again?” you ask softly.

Jeongin hesitates for only a second, but he already knows the answer. He’s too far gone to turn back now. His fingers find their way to your hair, gently tucking a stray strand behind your ear as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs, his voice low, steady. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

A small smile plays at your lips, and something inside Jeongin eases at the sight. But the moment is fleeting, the reality of where you are settling back in as he glances toward the door. Without another word, he kisses you again, quick and rushed, as if afraid someone might walk in and shatter this fragile moment.

Then, with one last glance, you turn toward the door. As you step out of his office, you flash him a smile—soft, knowing—and then you’re gone.

Jeongin stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Tomorrow.

It should scare him. It should make him second-guess everything. But instead, all he can think about is how he already can’t wait to see you again.

-

The café is tucked away on a quiet street, far enough from Jeongin’s neighborhood that he doesn’t have to worry about running into anyone familiar. Still, as he steps inside, a flicker of unease settles in his chest. His eyes scan the room, searching—until they land on you.

You're sitting by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, absentmindedly stirring the liquid with your spoon. Sunlight filters through the glass, casting a soft glow on your skin, and when you finally notice him standing by the entrance, your face lights up.

Jeongin’s breath catches.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’s been with you before—held you, kissed you, memorized the way your body fits against his. And yet, standing here now, watching the way your lips curve into a smile just for him, he feels his heart stutter like a nervous teenager on his first date.

His first date.

A strange thought, but an accurate one. He hasn’t done this—met someone in a café, taken the time to sit across from them and just exist together—for over three years. The realization unsettles him, but before he can dwell on it, you wave him over.

“Hey,” you greet, your voice warm, inviting. “You made it.”

He exhales, pushing away his hesitation, and moves toward you. “Of course,” he says, pulling out the chair across from you. “Sorry, I—” He clears his throat. “Didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

For a moment, there’s a beat of quiet between you, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable. Jeongin watches as you take a sip of your drink, your eyes flickering toward him with something unreadable in them—something soft, something patient. It grounds him.

The conversation starts naturally, flowing like it always does between you two. You talk about little things—the café, the pastries, the books stacked neatly on a nearby shelf. At one point, Jeongin admits he hasn’t been to a place like this in years, and you smile at him knowingly.

“I guess it does feel a little… date-like,” you tease, your eyes glinting with amusement.

Jeongin scoffs lightly, though his ears burn at the comment. “It’s just coffee.”

“Mm.” You hum, stirring your drink again. “And what if I told you I liked the idea of it being a date?”

He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cup. “Then…” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Then I’d be in trouble, wouldn’t I?”

You grin at that, tilting your head slightly as if studying him. Before he can overthink whatever it is you’re searching for in his face, you reach into your bag and pull something out, sliding it across the table toward him.

Jeongin blinks.

It’s his book—his latest one, the one he spent months agonizing over, the one he thought you’d never read.

“I was going to ask you last time,” you say, tapping the cover. “But… we were kind of preoccupied.”

Heat rises to his face as flashes of last night fill his mind. He coughs, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Preoccupied.”

You laugh softly before sliding a pen toward him. “Would you please sign it for me?”

Jeongin hesitates, his fingers brushing against the book’s worn edges. He should’ve expected this—he’s signed copies for other readers before. But something about this feels different. More intimate.

Carefully, he flips open the cover, pen poised above the blank page. “What do you want me to write?”

You shrug. “Whatever you want.”

That’s almost worse.

Jeongin takes a moment, staring at the empty space in front of him. He could just sign his name and be done with it. But instead, his hand moves on its own, words flowing before he can second-guess them.

To the one who sees me, in ways no one else ever has.

He pauses, pressing his lips together before adding his signature beneath it.

When he finally pushes the book back to you, you glance down at the page, eyes skimming over his handwriting. Jeongin watches closely, nervous for some reason, but when you look up at him again, there’s something softer in your expression. Something that tugs at the deepest part of him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tracing the edge of the book.

He nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”

And just like that, the café, the people, the outside world—it all fades into the background. For this moment, it’s just the two of you. Just coffee, a book, and something unspoken lingering between you.

-

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting streaks of gold and orange across the horizon as Jeongin walks beside you. The air is crisp, filled with the quiet hum of the city winding down, the occasional laughter of children playing in the distance, the rustle of leaves beneath your feet.

For a while, neither of you say anything. It’s a comfortable silence, one that Jeongin has grown to cherish. But then, you sigh, gaze flickering toward the sky as if searching for something.

“A lot happened in the last four months,” you murmur.

Jeongin turns his head slightly, giving you his full attention. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I graduated.”

His lips curl into a smile. “I knew you would. Congratulations on that!”

You let out a quiet laugh, but there’s something tired in the way you do it. “Thank you. I also got an internship at a magazine.”

“That’s great,” Jeongin says, genuine. “You always wanted that, right?”

“I did,” you admit. “It’s been… busy, but I’m learning a lot.”

There’s something unspoken in the way you say it, and Jeongin waits, knowing there’s more.

You take a deep breath before continuing, “I moved out of my parents’ house.”

That catches him off guard. He blinks, processing your words. “You did?”

You nod again, but this time, your expression shifts—like you’re remembering something heavy, something that weighs on you. “My mother refused the idea. We fought about it. She said I was being selfish, that I didn’t think about the family.” You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “It got bad. And now… we’re not really on good terms.”

Jeongin listens intently as you speak, taking in every word, every hesitation, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. But what truly catches his attention is your hand—the way it drifts to your thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt, pressing down, gripping tighter with every mention of your mother. He knows that kind of pain, the kind that doesn’t just exist in your heart but demands to be felt in your body, as if hurting yourself physically could somehow lessen the ache inside.

“I don’t really have anyone now,” you say softly.

And maybe you don’t even realize you’re doing it, but he sees the way your nails press into your skin, the way you try to keep your voice even when it trembles at the edges.

Before he can think twice, he reaches out, gently prying your fingers away and taking your hand in his. His grip is firm but warm, grounding. Your breath hitches slightly, eyes darting to where his fingers intertwine with yours.

"You’re not alone," Jeongin says softly, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You look up at him, startled, as if hearing those words out loud shakes something loose inside you.

"Sometimes we have to leave things behind, even people we love, to become who we’re meant to be," he continues. "And it hurts. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry it all by yourself."

Your fingers twitch in his grasp, but you don’t pull away. Instead, after a moment, you squeeze his hand back, just barely—but enough for Jeongin to feel it.

He exhales, a quiet relief settling over him.

It’s such a simple thing. Just holding hands. And yet, standing here, feeling your warmth, feeling the way your fingers fit so perfectly between his—he knows this isn’t simple at all.

Holding your hand isn’t just about stopping you from hurting yourself. It’s a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the spaces where the past still lingers, where the pain still throbs—you’re not alone.

And he likes it. He likes the way it feels, how easy it is, how right it seems. He likes that everyone around can see that you’re with him and he’s with you, like any other couple walking through the park. Just two people enjoying the sunset together.

Forgetting, just for a moment, that there’s anything complicated about this at all.

-

As Jeongin walks you home, the city hums around you—the occasional car passing by, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the soft glow of streetlights casting elongated shadows against the pavement. But none of it registers, not really. Not when you're right beside him, your fingers occasionally brushing against his as you walk.

When you finally reach your apartment building, you stop at the entrance and turn to face him. The warm glow of the lights above the door softens your features, making you look even more beautiful, and Jeongin grips the edge of his sleeve to stop himself from reaching for you outright.

"Thank you for today," you say softly, your voice carrying a sincerity that makes something in his chest tighten. "I had a nice time."

He holds your gaze, his fingers twitching at his sides. His first instinct is to say something, anything, but the words don't come. Instead, his hand finds yours again, holding it between both of his, as if reluctant to let go.

A moment passes in silence.

Then, you ask, "Do you… want to come upstairs?"

Jeongin knows what will happen if he says yes. If he follows you up, if he steps into your apartment, if you’re alone together behind a locked door. His body wants to say yes. His heart wants to say yes. But his mind tells him to stop.

Not yet.

He swallows the urge and offers you a small, apologetic smile. "Maybe some other time."

You nod in understanding, though there's the smallest flicker of disappointment in your eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it came when you gather the courage to ask, "Is it too soon to ask when I can see you again?"

Jeongin exhales a soft laugh, warmth blooming in his chest at your shyness. "The church is giving out free ice cream this Sunday," he tells you. "You should come."

You smile. "I will."

He wants to hold you, to pull you against his chest and feel your warmth, not even in a way that would lead to something more—just to embrace you, to exist in this moment together. But it's too public, too risky.

So instead, he swallows the urge and nods toward the entrance. "You should head in."

You hesitate, as if reluctant to leave him. But then you nod, whisper a soft, "Goodnight," and turn toward the door.

He watches you take a few steps away, pausing at the entrance, glancing over your shoulder at him one last time before finally stepping inside.

As the door closes behind you, Jeongin lets out a deep breath, a realization settling heavily in his chest.

He just let you go. And he doesn’t want to.

Before he can stop himself, he moves. His feet carry him forward, past the entrance and up the stairs, two at a time.

When you hear his hurried footsteps, you stop on the landing and turn around, eyes widening slightly when you see him coming up to meet you. He slows as he reaches you, stopping one step lower so that, for once, you're at the same height.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then, Jeongin reaches out, his hand cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek. He kisses you. Softly, gently—so different from the way he kissed you last night. There’s no urgency, no desperation, just a quiet reverence, a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he’s terrified he’ll never get to do this again.

And then he pulls away, though not entirely. His lips linger close, his breath still warm against yours, as if he isn’t quite ready to break the moment.

Finally, he steps back, his lips curving into a small smile. "Goodnight," he whispers.

And then, before he can change his mind, he turns and makes his way back down the stairs.

As he steps onto the street, he exhales slowly, his fingers brushing over his lips, still tingling from your kiss.

-

The church is filled with soft murmurs, the rustle of pages turning in hymnbooks, the occasional cough echoing against the high ceilings. Stained glass windows filter the morning light into fractured colors, casting hues of red, blue, and gold onto the congregation. It should feel like any other Sunday, another routine sermon, another familiar rhythm of prayers and scripture.

But Jeongin knows this Sunday is different.

Because you’re here.

He suppresses the smile threatening to curl at his lips, instead lowering his gaze to the pages of his Bible, feigning concentration. But no matter how hard he tries to focus, his mind keeps drifting—to the soft lilt of your voice, the way you looked at him two nights ago on the stairs, the feeling of your lips against his.

The knowledge that you’re sitting among the parishioners, listening to his sermon, sends a strange warmth coursing through his veins. It’s an awareness that settles deep within him, a silent anticipation that he tries desperately to suppress. He shouldn’t be this excited to see you.

And yet, as he stands at the pulpit, addressing the congregation, his eyes instinctively scan the pews until they land on you.

You’re near the middle, sitting quietly among the others, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Your head is bowed slightly, your eyes fixed on him with an attentiveness that makes his pulse stutter.

For a fleeting moment, the rest of the church fades away.

It’s just you. Just him.

Then, realizing he’s lingering too long, Jeongin quickly looks away, clearing his throat before continuing his sermon.

He reminds himself to keep his voice steady, to not let the words tremble with the weight of knowing you’re watching him. But even as he speaks about faith and devotion, about God’s plan and the strength to follow it, he wonders—if he were to step down from the pulpit, if he were to walk through the pews and take your hand in his… would that be straying from God’s path?

Or was it possible… that you were part of it?

The thought lingers, even as he bows his head in prayer, even as the choir sings its final hymn.

And when the mass ends and people begin to file out, Jeongin finds himself searching for you again, anticipation thrumming beneath his skin.

Because this Sunday, for the first time in a long time, he’s not just waiting for the service to be over.

He’s waiting for you.

-

The late morning sun casts a warm glow over the churchyard, the air filled with the laughter of children as they eagerly crowd around the ice cream booth. Their voices blend together, bright and full of excitement, their small hands reaching out for the free treats.

Jeongin spots you standing a few feet away from the scene, watching with a faint smile, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your cardigan. He approaches, keeping a safe distance between you, aware of the parishioners mingling nearby.

“You’re not joining them?” he asks, tilting his head toward the booth.

You shake your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

He laughs at that, the sound coming naturally, effortlessly. “You’re lucky you’re with me, then. I can get you one without queuing.”

Before you can protest, he turns on his heel and heads toward the booth. The kids part easily for him, greeting him with bright smiles and playful chatter, and within moments, he returns with a small cup of ice cream in hand.

“Here.” He hands it to you, and for the briefest moment, your fingers brush against his as you take it from him.

It’s nothing—just a fleeting touch, a second of contact. And yet, the sensation lingers, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. He quickly looks away, willing himself to act normal, but it’s difficult when you look so beautiful today. When all he wants to do is hold you, pull you closer, press a kiss to the corner of your mouth just to see you smile like that again.

Instead, the two of you stand there in silence, side by side, neither of you quite knowing how to act.

Then, you clear your throat, breaking the quiet. “I, um… I won’t be able to see you for a couple of days.”

Jeongin blinks, glancing at you. “Oh?”

You nod, stirring your ice cream with the small plastic spoon. “I have a work trip—just two days. I’ll be back soon.”

A teasing smirk tugs at his lips. “I thought you were going to ask when you can see me again.”

You laugh softly, a little shy, a little flustered. “Well… maybe I was.”

He’s about to respond, to say something he shouldn’t, when a voice calls his name.

“Father Yang!”

He turns to see a parishioner approaching, one that he recognizes has been a generous donor to the church, smiling warmly as he makes his way over.

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You step back almost instantly, gripping your cup of ice cream a little tighter. “I should go,” you say quickly, nodding toward Jeongin before offering the other man a polite smile. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

Before he can say anything, before he can even think, you turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd.

Jeongin exhales slowly, watching you go, his fingers curling into his palm as he swallows the urge to follow.

-

Jeongin tries to focus. He really does.

The late afternoon sun filters through the church windows, casting golden light across the wooden pews, the air thick with the lingering scent of incense. The afternoon mass had gone smoothly, the hymns sung beautifully, the prayers spoken with quiet devotion. But even as he stood at the altar, delivering his sermon, his mind wandered elsewhere—to you.

You, with your soft voice and bright eyes.

You, with your laughter that still echoed in his ears.

You, walking away from him after mass, leaving him with nothing but the ghost of your touch and the lingering scent of your perfume.

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as he steps outside, hoping that the cool air will clear his mind. He has some free time before the Bible studies, and a part of him hopes that the distraction will be enough to keep his thoughts at bay.

As if you sense that he's drifting away from you, his phone buzzes inside hus pocket. He pulls it out and sure enough, your name lights up his screen, a simple message waiting for him:

Can I call you?

Jeongin's breath catches, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looks around the church, empty except for a few parishioners coming into the church to pray in the peaceful silence.

With that, he turns on his heel, making his way toward his office. His pace quickens with every step, anticipation buzzing beneath his skin.

Jeongin shuts the door behind him, leaning against the solid wood as he exhales. His phone is still buzzing in his palm, your name glowing on the screen. He hesitates only for a second before accepting the call, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

There’s silence for a brief moment, just the soft sound of your breath filtering through the line. Then—

“I’m so wet.”

Jeongin stiffens. His grip on the phone tightens. “What?”

A quiet laugh escapes you, breathy and teasing, but there’s a slight tremble beneath it. “I started thinking about you… and I just—” You sigh, the sound dragging against his nerves like a slow burn. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Jeongin swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His free hand flexes at his side before gripping the edge of his desk. “Where are you?” His voice is lower than he expected.

“My hotel room,” you murmur. “Lying on my bed… naked, touching myself.”

A sharp breath leaves him, and he clenches his jaw. His mind floods with images he shouldn’t entertain, things he shouldn’t want, yet his body betrays him, heat pooling low in his stomach. He exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice comes out rough, unsteady.

“You,” you admit without hesitation. “Your hands, your lips… how you feel against me. I want you, Jeongin.”

His breath shudders as his restraint frays. His fingers move almost unconsciously, yanking open the front of his dark slacks. The pressure has been building since the moment you spoke, his body responding before he could stop it.

He shifts against the desk, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.”

You do.

“My legs are spreading open and it makes me think of you kneeling between them.”

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers tightening around the phone as your voice filters through the speaker. The sound of your breath, the quiet rustle of fabric—he can picture it too vividly.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough around the edges. His free hand moves to palm over himself, feeling the ache growing unbearable. “What are you doing now?”

A shaky sigh comes from your end. “I’m spreading my legs wider,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m running my fingers down—” You cut off with a soft, unsteady breath. “It’s so wet, Jeongin. I need you inside me.”

His name leaving your lips like that sends a sharp pulse of heat through him. He groans under his breath, finally giving in as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly.

“Keep going,” he tells you, his voice strained.

“I’m making a mess on my bed and I wish... wish it was your cock instead of my fingers.”

You describe everything in vivid detail, every touch, every movement, every filthy thought that runs through your mind. And Jeongin—he can’t help it. His fingers tighten, his strokes becoming more deliberate, matching the rhythm of your breathless moans.

“I want you in my hand, in my mouth, inside me... I want you all over me.”

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows this is wrong. But right now, with the way you sound, the way you’re whispering his name like a prayer—he’s too far gone to care.

Jeongin’s grip on the phone tightens when his screen lights up with a notification—your name, followed by a video attachment. His breath catches in his throat.

He knows he shouldn’t open it. He knows this is crossing another line. But with your breathless voice still in his ear, whispering filthy things, he doesn’t even hesitate.

The video loads, and then he sees you—naked, spread out on the bed, fingers disappearing between your legs, your lips parted in a soft moan as you arch slightly against the mattress.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his jaw clenching.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his hand tightening around himself.

On the other end of the line, you let out a breathy giggle. “Do you like it?”

His eyes stay glued to the screen, his chest rising and falling heavily. “You’re a dirty girl,” he rasps. “Filthy.”

You hum at that, clearly pleased by his reaction. “Only for you.”

His fingers flex against the phone. “If you were here right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’d have you bent over this desk.”

You let out a soft, needy whimper.

“I’d have spanked you,” he continues, his tone dark with promise. “For being so shameless. For teasing me like this.”

Your breath stutters, and Jeongin feels a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing how much his words affect you.

“Would you like that?” he taunts. “Would you take it, like a good girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

His movements grow erratic, his head tilting back as pleasure crashes through him. He groans lowly, your name slipping past his lips as he comes undone.

Silence stretches between you after, filled only by the sound of your quiet breaths.

Jeongin swallows hard, still gripping his phone like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But right now, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

Finally, he exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “And yet, you can’t resist me.”

He rubs a hand over his face, a helpless smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he admits. “I can’t.”

The tension coils tighter inside him, his breathing uneven as he leans heavily against the desk. His grip on the phone trembles slightly, his fingers flexing against the smooth surface.

“Jeongin,” you whimper, and he swears he can feel it—feel you—even though you’re miles away.

His jaw clenches, his movements turning almost desperate. “I wish I was there,” he admits, his voice thick with need. “I wish I could touch you myself.”

“Me too,” you whisper. “I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

His restraint snaps like a thread pulled too tight, and with a low, guttural sound, he comes undone—his mind drowning in thoughts of you, his body giving in to the pleasure you so easily draw from him.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your unsteady breaths and his own. Then, silence.

Jeongin swallows, forcing his breathing to steady. He runs a hand through his hair, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He shouldn’t have done that. He knows it. But he doesn’t regret a single second of it.

Finally, he clears his throat, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhales a small chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

You hum, a warm, content sound. “I miss you.”

Jeongin closes his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips despite everything.

“I miss you too.”

The moment the high fades, reality crashes back in like a tidal wave.

Jeongin blinks, chest still rising and falling, as his eyes dart to his desk—where he’s just made an absolute mess. His stomach twists in a mix of guilt and disbelief.

Here. In his office.

His hands move on instinct, grabbing tissues from the drawer, hurriedly wiping away any evidence of what just happened. His mind races as he works, as if cleaning the desk can somehow cleanse him of the sin lingering in his veins.

But it’s not just about the act itself—it’s the way he felt during it. The way he surrendered so easily, the way he let your voice, your breathy moans, your whispered confessions unravel him entirely.

And worst of all? The way he still wants more.

His phone buzzes again.

Did you make a mess?

Jeongin swallows, discarding the last of the tissues before picking up his phone again. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he types back:

Yes and you're in big trouble.

Your reply comes almost instantly.

If I were there, I'd lick every drop off you.

A breath of laughter escapes him—soft, barely there. He leans back against the desk, running a hand through his hair, and sighs.

If you were here, it all would have gone into your tight little cunt.

A second later, his phone buzzes with your response.

Yes, please.

-

Jeongin tells himself it’s just a matter of hours now. Less than a day until he sees you again. He only has to wait.

And yet, someone interrupting his focus as he helps set up the hall for tonight’s lecture, one hand carrying a stack of hymn books he’s arranging.

"Jeongin!"

He looks up and immediately recognizes the familiar figure approaching him—Father Hwang. A smile tugs at his lips as he steps forward. "Sam," he greets, using the name he's always called him by. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm the guest lecturer for tonight," Sam says with a grin, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. "Figured I’d get here early and catch up with you."

Jeongin nods, welcoming the distraction as they fall into step together.

“How have you been?” Sam asks, glancing at him curiously. “Still writing?”

Jeongin lets out a small chuckle. “Yeah. My latest book came out a few months ago.”

“I heard.” Sam smirks. “A detective novel, right?”

Jeongin nods. “It’s doing well, I think. I haven’t really been keeping track.”

“Well, my sister’s a fan. She told me I should ask you for an autograph while I’m here.”

Jeongin laughs at that. “I didn’t know she read my books.”

“Oh, she does. She even said she has a theory about your next one,” Sam says, nudging him playfully. “She thinks the main detective and the love interest are finally going to get together.”

Jeongin swallows, his smile faltering for a split second. Love interest. The word alone makes something in his chest tighten.

Sam notices the change in his expression. “You okay?”

Jeongin forces a small smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Sam hums, clearly unconvinced but doesn’t push further. Instead, he changes the subject. “How’s life here? The church? Everything going well?”

Jeongin nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Everything’s… normal.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at his choice of words. “Normal?”

Jeongin hesitates. “I guess.”

Sam studies him for a moment before shaking his head with a knowing smile. “You know, I always admired how devoted you are to this life. Even when we were in seminary, you were so sure about your path. It was never a question for you.”

Jeongin opens his mouth to respond, but the words catch in his throat. Because for the first time in years, he isn’t sure if that’s still true.

Before he can dwell on the thought, his phone buzzes in his pocket. At first, he ignores it, keeping his attention on Sam. But then it vibrates again.

He hesitates, already knowing who it is before he even pulls out his phone.

A part of him feels guilty—he hasn’t seen Sam in months, and cutting their conversation short would be rude. But at the same time… he wants to hear your voice. To talk to you, even if just for a few minutes.

Sam, perceptive as ever, glances at Jeongin’s phone and chuckles. “You should get that.”

Jeongin looks up, startled. “I—”

Sam waves him off with an easy smile. “Go on. I need go get ready anyway.”

Jeongin hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Thanks, Sam. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocking the screen with an ease that speaks to how often he checks his messages these days.

I'm here.

Two words. That’s all it takes to send his pulse into a frenzy.

Here?

Panic grips him before he can stop it. The church is busy tonight—people are arriving early, chatting, gathering in the halls. What if someone sees you? What if someone knows?

He presses the call button before his thoughts can spiral further. The moment you pick up, he’s already walking, leaving behind his task without a second thought.

“Where are you?” His voice is hushed, urgent.

“In the hallway,” you answer.

Jeongin doesn’t hesitate. His feet move faster, shifting from a brisk walk to an outright run as he pushes past the heavy wooden doors and into the dimly lit hall. His breath catches the second he sees you.

Standing beneath the glow of flickering candles, you look almost unreal—soft, waiting, your expression easing into a smile the moment your eyes meet his. Relief crosses your face, as if you had been holding your breath this whole time.

He doesn’t stop to think. He reaches for you, his hands finding yours, gripping them tightly. “Why are you here?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the question carries weight.

You squeeze his hands, your fingers curling around his and a grin painted your face. “I just couldn’t wait to see you again.”

His heart stumbles in his chest. He shouldn’t feel this way—shouldn’t feel this kind of elation just from your words, just from the way you look at him like he’s someone you’ve longed for.

But he does.

He shifts closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, ready—so ready—to taste you again. But just as he tilts his head, footsteps echo down the hall, followed by murmured voices.

His stomach lurches.

Without thinking, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the church doors. You don’t resist, letting him lead you past the altar and toward the confessionals at the back. He tugs open the wooden door of one of the booths, glancing around quickly before whispering, “Get inside.”

You don’t ask why. You just obey, slipping into the tight space, the scent of aged wood and candle wax surrounding you.

Jeongin follows a second later, shutting the door behind him. The moment the latch clicks into place, his restraint crumbles. His hands cup your face. His lips find yours.

The kiss is urgent, reckless—nothing like the gentle press he gave you last night on the stairs. This is raw, a collision of breath and need, the kind of kiss that speaks of stolen moments and unspoken desires.

You sigh against him, melting into his touch, and Jeongin thinks—God forgive me, I don’t want to stop.

-

The confessional is small, barely enough space for two people, but in this moment, Jeongin uses that to his advantage. Your back is pressed against the wooden wall, breath uneven, lips swollen from his kiss. His hands tremble where they rest on your waist, the weight of what he’s about to do pressing down on him, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning in his veins.

"You really couldn’t wait, could you?" His voice is low, just above a whisper, yet it carries the sharp edge of control. "Had to come find me here, of all places?"

You shake your head, but your body betrays you, pressing closer as if drawn by something stronger than logic.

Jeongin exhales, his hand trailing lower, fingertips teasing the hem of your skirt. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows where you are, knows the kind of sin he’s inviting.

And yet—

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, his hand easily finds the heat pooling between your legs and the sharp breath you take in nearly makes him curse. You’re warm, soft, and so wet, so... ready for him. The realization sends a shudder through him.

"Bad girl," he breathes against your ear. "So desperate you made me do this here."

You whimper, a sound too loud for a place like this. He doesn’t even think—his free hand is on you instantly, fingers slipping between your lips, pressing down against your tongue to stifle your noises.

"Shh," he warns, dark amusement lacing his voice. "Or do you want someone to hear how filthy you are right now?"

Your breath hitches. He smirks.

His fingers move deeper, slow and deliberate, feeling the way your body reacts to him, the way you tense and then soften, surrendering to his touch. He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" His voice is barely audible, a ghost of a sound against your skin. "Want someone to walk in and see what I’m doing to you? See how you let me ruin you in the house of God?"

Jeongin works on your clit in earnest now, circling it hard and fast, loving the way you’re thrusting against his hand.

You whimper around his fingers, your body trembling as you struggle to keep quiet. The thought alone makes heat coil low in his stomach, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

"I could do this all day."

But Jeongin isn't ready to let go just yet.

Not when you’re this vulnerable beneath him. Not when you’re this beautiful in your surrender.

The tension inside you snaps, waves of pleasure rolling through you under his relentless touch. He feels it—the way you shudder, the way your fingers clutch desperately at his wrist as if to anchor yourself. He doesn’t stop, not yet, not until he’s sure he’s wrung every last bit of pleasure from you.

When you finally go limp against him, he exhales a shaky breath, wrapping an arm around you to hold you up. His lips find your temple, then your cheek, soft kisses pressing into your skin as you come down from your high.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his voice thick with something unspoken. His fingers—now wet with your release—trail up to your hip, lingering there before he finally pulls away.

You sigh, eyes fluttering open to meet his. There’s warmth there, something tender despite everything that just transpired between these walls.

Jeongin swallows, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells you, voice softer now. “Until then…” He smirks faintly, tilting your chin up. “Be a good girl and go home.”

You nod, though your fingers curl slightly in the fabric of his sleeve, reluctant to step away. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s kissing you again—slow, deep, as if he’s memorizing the shape of your lips against his. He lingers, drinking you in, letting himself have this moment before he has to let you go.

Eventually, he does.

With one last look, you slip out of the confessional, smoothing down your skirt, composing yourself. Jeongin stays behind, leaning against the wooden wall as he listens to the soft echo of your footsteps fading into the church hall.

As Jeongin takes his seat at the front of the lecture hall, he clasps his hands together, willing himself to focus. But then—he smells it. The faint, intoxicating scent of you lingers on his fingers, a ghost of what just happened in the confessional booth. He flexes his hand, bringing it closer to his lap, but it’s no use. The memory of you is branded onto his skin.

And then, there’s the smudge of color on his other fingers—a trace of your lipstick. It’s subtle, just a faint stain, but it’s enough to make his stomach tighten.

He should feel guilty. He should be ashamed. Instead, all he can think about is tomorrow.

-

Jeongin shifts the plastic bag in his grip, glancing at the number on your apartment door. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady, nervous rhythm that refuses to slow down. This shouldn’t be a big deal. He’s just bringing dinner. Just spending time with you. But something about standing here, outside of a place that is yours, away from the church, away from everything that defines him as Father Yang, unsettles him.

He raises a hand and knocks. The sound is firm but betrays the slight tremble in his fingers.

It only takes a moment before the door swings open, and then—there you are.

You’re smiling, bright and warm, like you’ve been waiting for him all day. And before he can say anything, you slip into him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a hug so natural, so easy, that his entire body relaxes before his mind can catch up. Your lips brush against his cheek, soft and fleeting, but it leaves warmth spreading across his skin.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say softly, looking up at him.

And just like that, the tension in his chest vanishes. He forgets about the nerves, forgets about the careful restraint he had tried to build on his way here. It's just you. Just him. Just this moment.

His hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he tilts his head down. He doesn’t think—he just moves, closing the space between you and pressing his lips against yours in a soft, unhurried kiss.

And somehow, this feels right. Natural. Like he’s done this before—coming home to you, being welcomed into your warmth.

You stay like that for a moment, lips barely apart, breathing in each other’s air, until you pull away with a gentle tug on his wrist.

“Come in,” you say, still smiling.

The food is simple but warm, filling the space between you with something comforting. Jeongin hadn’t realized how much he needed this—an ordinary meal, shared with someone who looks at him like he’s more than just Father Yang, more than just a priest trying to keep himself together.

After dinner, you stand and pick up the wine bottle, pouring him a glass with a teasing smile. “It’s not communion wine, but I hope you like it.”

Jeongin huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he takes the glass. He follows you to the sofa, sitting beside you, still holding the wine as if unsure what to do with it.

“You look like you need it,” you add, tilting your head. “You’re so tense.”

Jeongin exhales through his nose, amused. He lifts the glass and takes a small sip, the rich taste spreading over his tongue. When he lowers the glass, he catches you watching him, your gaze steady and warm.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against his arm as you speak softly, “We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you. Get to know you better.”

Something in Jeongin eases at that. The tight coil of uncertainty unwinds, and he nods, taking another sip of his wine before glancing at you. “What do you want to know?”

At that, your eyes light up, and you shift closer, resting your elbow on the back of the sofa as you begin.

“What’s your coffee order?”

He blinks at the unexpected question, then chuckles. “Ice Americano. Extra shot.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Uh…” Jeongin tilts his head, pretending to think. “Do I lose points if I say I don’t watch many movies?”

You gasp dramatically. “Unbelievable. We have to fix that.”

Jeongin laughs, fully relaxing into the cushions. The questions continue—his favorite color, his favorite season, if he has any siblings. With each answer, he feels more like himself—Jeongin, not just Father Yang. The more you learn about him, the more real he becomes, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel trapped in his own skin.

And then, he notices the way your eyelids grow heavy, the way your fingers curl loosely around the fabric of his sleeve as you fight off sleep. He watches you for a moment, the way your breathing slows, and then he brushes the hair away from your face as he murmurs, “It’s time for you to go to bed.”

You blink up at him sleepily, then reach for his hand, holding it gently between your fingers. “Will you stay?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Jeongin swallows, his heart skipping. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But the way you look at him, the quiet plea in your voice—it weakens him.

He nods. “Okay.”

You smile at that, tugging him toward the bed. Soon, he’s lying beside you, the two of you facing each other in the dim glow of your bedside lamp. The warmth of your body seeps into his, and he’s surrounded by the scent of you—clinging to the sheets, to the pillow, to the very air he breathes. It’s intoxicating, and yet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His arm is wrapped around you, holding you close as your head rests against his chest. He feels the steady rise and fall of your breaths. So quiet, peaceful, serene.

Then, in the quiet, you speak.

"You might think I don’t have to worry about anything because I have money," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "But that’s not true. I’m scared. I feel so alone."

Jeongin’s heart clenches at your words. He tightens his hold on you, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles against your back. He understands. God, does he understand.

"I know what that’s like," he murmurs, his voice raw with something he rarely speaks of. "When I was struggling with my drinking… people turned their backs on me too. I had to deal with it alone, with no one to help me climb out of it."

You shift slightly, looking up at him with soft, searching eyes. "How did you do it?"

Jeongin exhales, his grip on you tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. "I just kept going. I clung to the belief that I could be better. That I could be more than my mistakes." He pauses. "But it was lonely. So lonely."

You reach up, your fingers grazing his cheek, grounding him in the present. "You’re not alone anymore."

His chest aches at your words, at the quiet sincerity in your voice.

"And neither are you," he whispers.

He tilts your chin up gently and presses a soft kiss to your lips—not out of desire, but out of understanding, of shared pain and quiet comfort. Then, he pulls you even closer, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

And in the dark, as he whispers quiet prayers against your skin, Jeongin feels it—this thing between you, slowly consuming him, pulling him under. Love.

And for once, he isn’t afraid of it.

-

The church is silent except for the flickering of candles and the distant creak of old wooden pews. Jeongin kneels before the altar, hands clasped together, eyes closed. The scent of burning wax fills his lungs as he exhales a breath that feels heavier than usual.

"Is this what You want from me?"

His whispered prayer disappears into the vast, hollow space of the church. He has never questioned his path before—not once since he took his vows. But now, every moment with you tugs at the very fabric of his being, unraveling convictions he once thought were unshakable.

You are not a temptation; you are warmth. Peace. Love. And yet, desire coils inside him like something he’s afraid to name.

"If I love her, does that mean I am failing You?"

Silence answers him, as it always does. He wishes for clarity, a sign, something to confirm whether this love is a blessing or a mistake. But all he has is the weight of it, pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

The vibration of his phone in his pocket jolts him out of his thoughts. He blinks, the golden glow of the altar candles sharpening into focus as he pulls out his phone.

It’s a text from you.

What should I do? My mother wants to meet me tomorrow.

He can feel the nerves in that short message, the anxiety woven between each letter. He knows how much this weighs on you, how every interaction with your parents leaves unseen bruises on your heart.

His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before he types out his response.

Come to the church tonight.

He presses send. He will see you soon. And maybe, just maybe, being with you will quiet the storm inside him—if only for a little while.

The church is empty when Jeongin steps inside, the quiet humming around him like a sacred lullaby. But before he gets to you, he stops by his office, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve something—his fingers brushing over cool beads before he carefully slips them into his pocket.

When he pushes through the wooden doors, his breath catches at the sight before him.

You’re not sitting in the pews, nor waiting by the entrance. You’re standing in front of the altar, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candlelight. Your head is tilted upward, eyes fixed on the crucifix, and in this moment, Jeongin swears you are in a state of divinity—here, now, standing in the presence of God.

He doesn’t feel like an intruder as he steps closer. If anything, it feels like he belongs in this moment too.

Slowly, he walks up behind you, his movements careful, reverent. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t stop. He lets his chest meet your back, his arms slip around your waist, his head rest beside yours.

You don’t flinch, don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into him. And then, in a hushed voice, you ask, “Do you feel it?”

Jeongin’s eyes flick to the crucifix before closing for a brief second. “Yes.”

Your voice is a whisper now. “Is this how you always feel when you pray?”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Not always but sometimes.”

And then, silence. Not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that feels full—of something holy, something sacred. The two of you just stay like that, breathing in the stillness, existing in the same presence. As if God Himself is here, witnessing this moment, embracing both of you as His children.

After a while, Jeongin turns his head slightly, and you do the same. Your gazes lock, an unspoken understanding passing between you. And then, as if guided by something beyond himself, Jeongin leans in.

The kiss is soft, slow—gentle in a way that doesn’t feel like it violates the sanctity of this place, but instead, becomes a part of it. Like this, too, is a prayer.

When he pulls away, he lingers, his forehead nearly touching yours. A breath, a heartbeat. Then, he slowly steps back, standing in front of you.

“I have something for you,” he says.

Curiosity sparks in your eyes. You watch as he reaches into his pocket, fingers closing around something before he carefully pulls it out. A rosary.

Taking your hand, he wraps the beads around your fingers, binding them there before enclosing your hand in both of his.

You stare at it, wonder and awe flickering in your expression. “It’s beautiful.”

Jeongin smiles softly. “This was the first rosary I received when I decided to become a priest.” His voice lowers, turning earnest. “And I want you to have it.”

Your smile falters slightly, hesitation flickering in your eyes. “Are you sure? Is it really okay for me to take it?”

Jeongin doesn’t waver. He nods, his grip on your hand firm, warm. “I want you to have it.” A pause. “Whenever you get the urge to hurt yourself, I hope you’ll hold this rosary instead.”

Your breath hitches. And then, something shifts in your expression—a different kind of smile forming on your lips. Sad, yet thankful. A quiet acceptance.

Jeongin gently squeezes your hand. “Promise me you’ll always keep it with you.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I will. I’ll keep it close at all times.”

Relief washes over him. A sense of peace settles in his chest. With his hand still wrapped around yours, the rosary binding you together, he leans in once more—this time, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips.

A kiss that seals this sacred moment.

-

The next night, Jeongin finds himself standing in front of your door once again.

Unlike the previous night, there's no hesitation when he lifts his hand to knock. Maybe it's because he spent the entire day thinking about you, picturing the way you smiled when he gave you the rosary, the way your fingers curled around it like something precious. Maybe it's because the moment he finished evening mass, he felt a pull—one that led him straight to you.

The door opens, and there you are, standing before him.

Your eyes light up the second you see him, and without hesitation, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against him in a hug that feels warm, familiar.

"You came," you murmur against his shoulder.

Jeongin exhales, his arms coming up to hold you just as tightly. "Of course."

For a while, neither of you moves. You stay there, wrapped up in each other, as if this is the only place either of you is supposed to be. And maybe, in some way, it is.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your smile is soft, full of something unspoken. "Come in."

Jeongin follows you inside, shutting the door behind him. The air in your apartment is warm, scented faintly with something floral—something distinctly you. He catches sight of the rosary on your coffee table, neatly placed as if it’s waiting for you to pick it up at any moment.

Something settles in him at the sight.

You glance over your shoulder. "I made tea," you say, leading him toward the living room. "I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but I have some food too."

Jeongin shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Tea sounds perfect."

You pour him a cup before settling onto the couch beside him, close enough that your knee brushes against his. For a while, you both sit in comfortable silence, sipping tea, letting the presence of each other be enough.

Then, quietly, you say, "Thank you for last night."

Jeongin looks at you. "You don’t have to thank me."

You smile, but there’s something deeper in your expression—something vulnerable. You lift your wrist, letting the rosary dangle between your fingers. "I’ve been holding it. Just like you told me to."

Warmth spreads through Jeongin’s chest.

He reaches over, gently brushing his fingers against yours, against the beads. "I’m glad," he murmurs.

Not that he doesn’t trust you but Jeongin feels the need to check on it himself. He leans back against the couch, his gaze steady as he studies you. Then, softly, he says, "Come here."

You blink at him, uncertain. "Here?"

He nods, patting his lap. "I want to make sure you held in like you said."

A flicker of hesitation crosses your face, but eventually, you move, shifting carefully until you're perched sideways on his lap. His arm wraps around your waist, keeping you steady, his other hand resting gently on your thigh.

He looks at you for a long moment before his fingers move, reaching for the hem of your dress. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts it just enough to reveal your thigh, his eyes scanning for any fresh marks. When he finds none, he exhales, something softening in his expression.

"You really didn't," he murmurs, as if he can't quite believe it.

You meet his gaze, nodding. "I promised, didn't I?"

A slow smile spreads across his lips—pride, warmth, something deeper flickering in his eyes. His hand moves up, brushing your hair back, his touch lingering at the nape of your neck. "You did so well," he says, his voice low, affectionate. "I'm proud of you."

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. His mouth is warm, gentle but firm, like he's savoring the taste of you. When he pulls away, his lips graze your cheek, his breath fanning against your skin.

"Good girl," he whispers.

Heat pools in your stomach at the way he says it, his voice filled with quiet reverence, with something possessive and sweet all at once.

Then he dips his head, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His voice is barely more than a murmur, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers trace slow, idle circles on your thigh, featherlight and teasing, his touch both soothing and electrifying. Then, he asks, "And do you know what happens to good girls?"

A bashful smile tugs at your lips as you glance at him. "What?"

Jeongin smirks, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your thigh. "Good girls get rewarded."

His eyes glint with something mischievous as he watches your reaction, and you feel your breath hitch, anticipation curling in your stomach.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “Keeping your promise… being such a good girl for me.”

His praise makes you melt, makes you pliant in his arms, and he feels it—the way your body leans into him, the way your breathing hitches ever so slightly.

His hand drifts higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skimming over your skin, testing. He hums when he feels the heat of you, the way your thighs press together instinctively.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he muses, his voice like velvet against your ear. “How easy it is for me to tell when you need me.”

His fingers tease at the edge of your underwear, a featherlight touch that makes you shiver. Your breath stutters, and he smiles against your skin.

“Say it,” he coaxes, his voice both gentle and commanding. “Tell me what you need.”

Your answer comes out in a whisper, barely there, but it’s enough. “Please. I want to come,”

It’s all he needs before his fingers push aside the last barrier, dipping into warmth, finding you already soft and wet, ready for him.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Always so good for me.”

He doesn't need to look to know how to please you. His fingers part your folds, allowing him to touch your bundle of nerves, applying gentle pressures on it as he rubs on it.

His touch is slow, deliberate, savoring the way you react—how your fingers clutch at his shirt, how your body trembles in his hold. He keeps you close, his other hand firm on your waist, steadying you as he works you open, coaxing pleasure from you with careful precision.

His mouth on your neck, placing hot, wet kisses on the sensitive spot on your neck, teeth faintly scraping the skin just to edge you. He watches you, drinking in every little sound, every flutter of your lashes, every way you shift against him. His lips graze your ear again, his voice thick with something indulgent, something dangerous.

“Just like that,” he praises. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does. With how drenched you are, he can easily slips his two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out of you. He moves with patience, with reverence, as if he’s unraveling something sacred, something only meant for him. As if this moment—just the two of you tangled together, bodies pressed close, his name slipping past your lips in a breathless whisper—is all that has ever mattered.

You make a tiny cry that is muffled by his kiss, squirming under his touch for a long minute before finally come down, sagging against him. He keeps his hand there, tenderly palming you for a minute or two longer, loving the way it

look drenched in your essence, loving the way it feels, and then reluctantly withdraw.

Jeongin watches you, eyes dark with something unreadable yet intoxicating. His fingers, still coated in the evidence of your pleasure, hover just before your lips. He doesn’t have to say a word—your lips part instinctively, your tongue flicking out, tasting yourself as you take him in.

His breath catches. His free hand tightens on your waist.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Always so eager for me.”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking lightly, and Jeongin groans low in his throat. His thumb brushes over your cheek, a tender contrast to the heat pooling between the two of you. When he finally pulls his fingers away, he presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your forehead, grounding you, letting you settle in the aftermath.

But then, softly, he asks, “What else do you want, mmh?”

You don’t answer right away, just blink up at him, lips still slightly parted, your breath uneven. “More.”

There’s a pause—a moment suspended in the space between you. Then, without a word, your hand drifts downward, slow and deliberate, until your fingers press against the growing strain in his jeans.

Jeongin’s breath stutters. His grip on your waist tightens.

“More what?” he asks, teasing, his voice huskier now, laced with something heady.

You still don’t answer, just press your palm a little firmer, feeling him twitch beneath the fabric.

Jeongin exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head slightly, watching you with something dangerously close to reverence. He hums, almost amused, almost resigned.

“Greedy,” he murmurs, the word dripping with fondness. Then, his lips ghost over your jaw, just barely touching. “But I suppose my good girl deserves it, doesn’t she?”

Jeongin shifts beneath you, his strong arms guiding you gently as he lays you down against the cushions. The leather is cool against your heated skin, but all you can focus on is him—the weight of his body as he hovers over you, the warmth of his breath fanning across your lips before he captures you in another slow, intoxicating kiss.

His hands roam your sides, mapping every curve, every dip, before he pulls away just enough to tug his sweater over his head. The dim lighting casts shadows over his toned torso, the sharp ridges of his muscles shifting as he moves. Instead of pulling you back into a kiss, he takes your hands in his and presses them against his bare skin.

“Go on,” he murmurs, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “Touch me.”

You do—fingertips tracing the firm lines of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. Your breath catches, and when you meet his gaze, he smirks, clearly pleased by your reaction.

“Do you like that?” he asks, his voice dipping lower.

You nod, swallowing hard.

He rewards you with another kiss, deeper this time, before he begins a slow descent down your body. His lips brush over your collarbone, then lower, each kiss leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. His hands slip beneath your dress, pushing the fabric up inch by inch, exposing more of your skin to him. The anticipation coils in your stomach as he moves lower, closer. He gently bites your inner thigh and earned him a sharp gasp from you, then he stops.

You whimper in protest, earning a quiet chuckle from him. He tilts his head, teasing. “Wouldn’t this feel better in bed?”

Before you can argue, he presses a firm hand to your waist, keeping you in place as he effortlessly scoops you up in his arms. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as he carries you, the strength in his hold undeniable. He walks with purpose, each step deliberate, and when he reaches your bedroom, he gently sets you down on the mattress, hovering over you once again.

He smirks, brushing his thumb over your swollen lips. “Now,” he murmurs, eyes dark with intent. “Where were we?”

-

The air between you crackles with tension, thick and charged, as Jeongin hovers behind you. Both of you are naked, he's standing at the end of the bed while you're on the bed, on all fours.

His big hand glides over the curve of your ass before squeezes on the flesh, his thumb hovers over your entrance, slippery wet, ready to take him.

“Be a good girl and hold still,” he instructs, his voice is heavy with want.

His hands ghost over your hips, firm yet patient, waiting for you to obey him. But you don’t. Instead, you push back just slightly, teasing, challenging—just enough to test his patience.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement.

You hum in response, feigning innocence, but he sees right through it. A slow smirk tugs at his lips as his fingers tighten on your hips, holding you still as he aims his cock toward your entrance. Then, without warning, he drags you back toward him, your breath catching as his warmth presses flush against you.

“You really want to be difficult tonight?” he muses, leaning in until his lips are right by your ear. “Fine. Let’s see how long you can last.”

The next moment, he begins thrusting, slow and deliberate, driving you to the edge with every controlled motion. You bite your lip, refusing to give in so easily, but he notices—of course he does. He always does.

“You’re holding back,” he taunts, his hand sliding up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the mattress. “That’s cute.”

Then he pulls away and you mewl at the suddenloss of contact. Then he slips it into you again, all at once and proceeds to thrust into you, hard. A choked sound escapes you before you can stop it, and he chuckles, low and pleased.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

You try to push up again, just to regain some control, but his hand presses firmly against your lower back, keeping you in place.

“Not so fast,” he says. “You wanted to be a brat, didn’t you?” His fingers trail down, teasing, punishing in the slowest way possible. “Now take it like one.”

The fight within you starts to crumble, your body betraying you, giving in to him. He feels it—the way you’re starting to submit, your stubborn defiance slipping away with every passing second.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now, let’s see if you can behave.”

And with that, he makes sure you do.

Jeongin doesn't ease up—not yet. He keeps you exactly where he wants you, every slow, controlled movement drawing out the pleasure until you’re trembling beneath him. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, then tangles into your hair, giving a gentle but firm tug that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You still with me?” he asks, his voice teasing, laced with dominance.

You nod breathlessly, but that’s not enough for him. His fingers tighten just slightly in your hair, tilting your head back so your cheek is almost against his lips.

“Use your words,” he commands softly.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice shaky but obedient.

A pleased hum rumbles in his chest as he presses an open-mouthed kiss against the side of your neck. “That’s my girl.”

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, knuckles going pale as he keeps pushing you further, his pace calculated, his touch relentless. Every time you try to regain control, he meets your rebellion with something stronger—something that pulls you right back under him.

“You thought you could win, huh?” His voice is a slow drag, intoxicating. “But look at you now…” His hand slides over your hip, his fingers curling, gripping—owning. “Completely at my mercy.”

You let out a broken sound, and Jeongin chuckles, low and satisfied.

“Are you done fighting me now?” he asks.

You hesitate for half a second, the last trace of defiance flickering in your eyes as you look over your shoulder at him. And then he moves just right, tipping you over that fine line between resistance and surrender, and the fight in you shatters.

Your answer comes in the form of a whimper, your body melting under his touch. That’s all he needs. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Good girl.”

And this time, you don’t push back. You let him have you, completely.

Three more of his hard, deep thrusts into you and you come undone before him, your body collapsing onto the bed. He can feel his release is close as well, he leans down, his mouth hovering close to your ear as he asks, “Where do you want it, mmh?”

You're clearly too disoriented to respond so he buries his head in your neck and places a slobbering kisses there. “Should I come all over your back and claiming you as mine, mmh?”

You turn your head slightly to the side and nod. He smirks at that, his hips keeping the pace going as he grips yours, taking himself to his high almost immediately.

Jeongin pulls out just in time, his seed spurting out and painting pearly white streaks on your back. He slips it back in, wanting to feel you pulsating, quivering around him as you both come down from your highs.

He looks down at his claim on you and smiles in pride. “You're all mine now,” he sighs, before lowering himself on you and roughly kisses your open mouth, “All mine.”

-

Jeongin hums as he wipes a warm cloth across your back, his touch now gentle, a stark contrast to the way he’d handled you earlier. His other hand strokes soothing circles on your arm as he takes care of the mess he left on your skin. Once satisfied, he sets the cloth aside and climbs back into bed beside you, immediately wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

His lips find your forehead first, then your temple, then your cheek—sweet, lingering kisses that make your heart swell. His fingers brush your hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear before his lips meet yours in a slow, affectionate kiss.

You sigh into him, utterly content, and then, out of nowhere, you ask, “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

Jeongin pulls back slightly, blinking in amusement. A small chuckle escapes him. “That’s the first thing you want to ask me right now?”

You nod, watching him expectantly.

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head before answering. “Vanilla.”

“Vanilla?” You raise an eyebrow, as if unimpressed.

He grins. “It’s a classic. You can never go wrong with it.”

You hum in thought before moving on to your next question. “Okay, favorite book?”

“That’s tough,” Jeongin admits, running his fingers absentmindedly over the curve of your shoulder. “But I think it would have to be The Little Prince.”

Your expression softens. “That’s a good one.”

He nods, smiling. “It is.”

Your next question makes him pause. “How many languages can you speak?”

Jeongin tilts his head, thinking for a moment. “Korean, English, a little bit of French... and Latin.”

That catches your interest. “Latin?”

He smirks at your intrigue. “Yeah.”

“Say something in Latin,” you request, eyes glimmering with curiosity.

He chuckles and takes a second to think. Instead of a single word, he decides to share one of his favorite proverbs. “Ubi amor, ibi fides.”

You blink, waiting for him to translate. “And that means…?”

“Where there’s love, there’s faith,” he explains softly.

You let the words settle between you, their weight sinking in.

Jeongin continues, his voice calm, thoughtful. “Love originates from God, which means when we love, we reflect God himself. Love and faith go hand in hand.”

You watch him, admiration clear in your eyes, and Jeongin can’t help but smile. He brushes his lips against your forehead, murmuring, “You’re proof of that for me.”

A warm silence fills the room, and Jeongin just holds you, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Jeongin keeps his gaze on you, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your arm as he lets the weight of his own words settle between you.

"Ubi amor, ibi fides," he repeats, this time softer, like he's tasting the meaning all over again. “Faith isn’t just about believing in something unseen—it’s about trust. About surrendering to something bigger than yourself. And love… love is the same.”

You stay quiet, listening, the warmth in your eyes urging him to continue.

“When you love someone, you place your trust in them. You put faith in them—faith that they won’t hurt you, that they’ll cherish you, that they’ll choose you just as you choose them. Love and faith, they aren’t separate. They exist together.”

A beat of silence passes, and then, you smile. It’s small, gentle, but it holds so much—understanding, appreciation, something deeper that makes Jeongin’s chest ache in the best way.

“That’s beautiful,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

Jeongin’s lips quirk up, his heart warming at the way you look at him. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, to your lips—slow and tender, like a silent prayer.

Ubi amor, ibi fides. That’s why, to him, loving you doesn’t feel like he's turning away from God. It feels like he's turning toward Him.

-

Jeongin hadn’t expected to see Sam so early in the morning, much less kneeling at the altar, his hands clasped together in deep prayer. The solemnity of the scene makes Jeongin hesitate for a moment before he quietly takes a seat in the pew behind him, deciding to wait. The church is silent aside from the occasional flicker of candlelight and the distant creak of wood as the old building settles.

When Sam finally finishes, he makes the sign of the cross and pushes himself up, turning toward Jeongin with a calm but knowing expression. He slides into the pew beside him, settling in with a sigh before speaking.

"Do you have something to confess to me, Jeongin?"

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. "Confess?"

Sam tilts his head slightly, studying him. "I saw you."

Jeongin’s breath catches. His heartbeat stumbles before picking up pace, his mind racing to decipher Sam’s meaning.

"Saw me…?" he echoes, feigning ignorance.

But Sam only offers him a small, almost amused smile. "That night. Inside the church." He turns his head slightly, watching Jeongin's reaction. "I saw you kissing her."

Jeongin’s stomach drops. The memory of that night floods back—the hush of the church, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the way your lips felt against his in the dim candlelight. He had been careful, or so he thought. But Sam had seen.

Jeongin swallows, his fingers curling slightly against his knees. "...How much did you see?"

"Enough." Sam exhales, leaning back against the pew. "Enough to know that it wasn’t just some passing moment of weakness." He turns his gaze forward, eyes fixed on the altar as if waiting for some divine intervention. "It’s more than that, isn’t it?"

Jeongin doesn’t answer immediately. He looks down, staring at his hands as if the answer could be found in the lines of his palms. He could deny it. He could try to brush it off as a mistake, a lapse in judgment.

But he knows that would be a lie.

So instead, he closes his eyes briefly, exhales, and admits the truth. “Yes.”

Jeongin keeps his gaze lowered as he exhales slowly. "Yes," he repeats, quieter this time. "It’s more than that."

Sam doesn’t react immediately. He simply hums, nodding slightly as if he already knew the answer. Then, after a pause, he says, "Are you here to confess, then?"

Jeongin finally looks up at him, his brow furrowed. "Would it matter?"

Sam tilts his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not really."

That catches Jeongin off guard. "What do you mean?"

Sam leans forward, resting his arms on the back of the pew in front of them. "I mean, there’s no use in confessing if you don’t intend to stop."

Jeongin’s mouth parts slightly, but no words come out. He suddenly feels exposed, as if Sam has reached straight into his soul and pulled out the conflict that he’s been trying so hard to ignore.

"Are you going to stop seeing her?" Sam asks, voice even.

Jeongin opens his mouth, but hesitation clings to his tongue. He should say yes. That would be the right thing to do. The expected thing. But the words won’t come.

Sam watches him carefully, his silence speaking louder than any confession. With a small sigh, he shakes his head. "Then there’s no use in absolving you."

Jeongin tenses. "Sam—"

"You’re not sorry, Jeongin. At least, not in the way confession requires you to be." Sam turns to look at him directly. "You’re not asking for forgiveness. You’re asking for permission."

Jeongin’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. He wants to argue. But deep down, he knows Sam is right. He’s not looking to be absolved. He’s looking for reassurance. Validation. Someone to tell him that this—you—isn’t a mistake.

Sam lets out a sigh, leaning back against the pew. “Jeongin, I’ve known you for years. You’re not the type to act on impulse. So tell me, is it something more?”

Jeongin lowers his gaze, his fingers curling together. “It’s more,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to fight it, but I can’t. Being with her… it doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels right.”

Sam hums in thought before turning to look at Jeongin fully. “Then you have to ask yourself, what do you want?”

Jeongin remains silent, his mind tangled in conflicting emotions.

Sam sighs again but offers a reassuring smile. “I won’t tell anyone. Not yet. You need to figure this out on your own, without the weight of judgment hanging over you.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, gratitude flickering in them. “Thank you, Sam.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Sam replies. “But know this—there’s no shame in choosing love. The only shame is in living a life of regret.”

Jeongin feels the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. He nods, even though his decision isn’t fully made yet. But one thing is certain—he doesn’t think any amount of penance could make him stop wanting you.

-

The church is quiet, save for the faint crackling of candles and Jeongin’s own restless breathing. He sits in the pew, his hands clasped together, fingers digging into each other as if grounding himself. Sam’s words replay in his mind—The only shame is in living a life of regret.

But what if choosing you meant turning his back on everything he had built? What if staying meant turning his back on you?

His chest tightens.

Jeongin exhales shakily and reaches for his phone. His fingers hover over your name before he finally presses the call button.

It barely rings twice before you pick up. “Jeongin?” Your voice is soft, warm, familiar.

He shuts his eyes for a moment, hating what he’s about to say. “I… I can’t see you for a while.”

There’s silence on your end. Then, “Why?”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, his grip on the phone tightening. “I just—” His voice falters. He takes a breath, steadies himself. “I need time to think.”

Another pause. Then you ask, quieter this time, “Think about what?”

His heart aches at the way your voice trembles, but he forces himself to stay firm. “About us.”

The word hangs in the air, suffocating.

When you finally speak, there’s hurt in your voice, but no anger. Just quiet understanding. “Okay.”

It makes his chest ache even more. He almost wishes you would be upset, would demand answers—but instead, you accept it. Just like that.

“I’ll wait,” you add after a moment.

Jeongin swallows the lump in his throat. He nods, even though you can’t see him. “Thank you.”

Then he hangs up, staring at the screen as if it holds the answers he’s looking for.

But it doesn’t.

And for the first time in a long time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

He has always believed in God's plan. In His guidance, His timing. But for the first time, Jeongin feels completely lost.

His heart aches with the weight of his own decision—to put space between you and him. To think. To figure out if he's making the right choice or if he's simply running away from the inevitable. The words he said to you over the phone—"I can't see you for a while."—echo in his head, and he wonders if they hurt you as much as they hurt him to say.

Jeongin exhales sharply, his fingers pressing into his forehead.

He misses you already.

Misses the way you look at him, the way your touch grounds him, the way you make him feel like more than just Father Yang. Like he’s Jeongin, a man with desires, fears, and a heart that longs for something more than a life bound by vows he’s no longer sure he can keep.

But what does that say about him?

What does that say about his faith?

His grip tightens. He feels selfish. Faith is supposed to be about surrender, about putting God above all else. But if love, true love, comes from God—then why does it feel like he’s betraying both?

A sharp breath leaves him as he forces himself to sit back against the pew.

Maybe space will give him clarity. Maybe distance will tell him if what he feels for you is temptation or something deeper, something worth changing his entire life for.

Or maybe...

Maybe he’s already made his choice, and he’s just too afraid to admit it.

-

The scent of burning wax and aged wood lingers in the air as Jeongin listens to the soft-spoken confessions of the parishioners before him. One by one, they enter the booth, voices hushed, burdened with sins that they seek to be absolved from.

A woman confesses to speaking harshly to her husband. A man admits to faltering in his faith. Another prays for forgiveness for the resentment he holds in his heart. Jeongin listens, guiding them with gentle words, offering penance and solace in the name of God.

Then silence.

He waits for the next person, expecting another familiar voice, another routine confession. But when the door creaks open and the last parishioner steps inside, his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t need to see your face to know it’s you.

The moment you settle in, the moment your quiet, trembling breath slips through the lattice screen, he feels it. A shift in the air, a tightening in his chest—something unspoken, yet undeniably there.

And then your voice comes, barely above a whisper.

The wooden divider separates you from him, but the air between you is thick—heavy with unspoken words, raw emotions, and the weight of everything left unresolved.

Jeongin sits on the other side, his fingers curled tightly around his rosary, knuckles white. He hadn’t expected to hear your voice through the lattice screen tonight.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Your voice is quiet, trembling, but laced with something deeper—pain, desperation. “It’s been… some time since my last confession.”

Jeongin swallows, his heart hammering in his chest. “What is it that burdens your heart?” His voice is steady, but his hands shake.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if this is a sin, Father, but… I love someone.”

His breath catches.

“And I miss him,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. “I’ve been praying every night, asking God to bring him back to me. I kneel beside my bed, clasp my hands, and beg Him to let me have him again.” A bitter laugh escapes you. “But nothing changes. He’s still gone. And I don’t know if that means God is telling me to move on… or if that means he never wanted to come back.”

Jeongin shuts his eyes, his grip on the rosary tightening as a deep ache spreads through his chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “How long am I supposed to wait? How long until the emptiness goes away?” You inhale shakily. “Because the truth is… I feel more alone than before.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jeongin’s throat tightens, words clawing at him, begging to be spoken—but he can’t. He can only press his fingers to his lips, as if to hold back the confession that wants to spill out of him.

That he misses you too. That every night, he fights the urge to pick up his phone, to hear your voice, to run to you and never look back. That he doesn’t know how to be whole without you anymore.

But he stays silent. Because if he speaks, if he admits what his heart already knows… he’s afraid he’ll never be able to let you go.

You wait, but no answer comes.

And that’s your answer.

You let out a small, broken sigh before whispering, “Thank you for listening, Father.”

Then you rise, footsteps retreating, the door creaking as you step out of the booth.

Jeongin doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring blankly at the wooden divider, feeling more lost than ever.

-

The next day, Jeongin commute for almost an hour to get to St. Augustine church, where Sam is assigned in. The church is quieter than he expected. Even as he steps inside, the echo of his own footsteps feels almost intrusive.

He makes his way toward the pews, taking a seat in the dim light of the sanctuary. The flickering candles cast long shadows, their glow barely reaching the vaulted ceilings. Jeongin folds his hands in his lap, staring ahead at the crucifix mounted above the altar.

He waits.

Through the silence, he hears faint murmurs from the other end of the church. Sam must still be finishing his Bible study. Jeongin doesn't mind. If anything, the stillness gives him a moment to steady himself—to gather what little resolve he has left.

It isn’t long before he hears footsteps approaching.

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, only making his way to the pew beside Jeongin and settling in next to him. They sit there in silence, the weight of unspoken words thick in the air.

Then, finally, Sam exhales.

“You didn’t come here for confession,” he says, his voice calm yet knowing. “That must mean you’ve already made up your mind.”

Jeongin keeps his eyes ahead, staring at the altar, his fingers loosely intertwined in his lap. He hears the certainty in Sam’s voice, the quiet understanding behind his words.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Because Sam is right. He didn’t come here to confess. He came because he already knows what he wants—what he has to do.

Jeongin inhales slowly. “I thought it would be harder,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Making the choice.”

Sam hums, tilting his head slightly as he studies him. “And yet, you look like it’s tearing you apart.”

Jeongin’s lips press together. Sam has always been able to see through him.

He exhales, his hands tightening slightly. “I love her,” he says at last, the words raw, unfiltered. The moment they leave his lips, a wave of something crashes over him. Relief, maybe. Or certainty. “And if love is supposed to reflect God, then why does it feel like I’m betraying Him?”

Sam is quiet for a moment before he speaks again. “Because you were taught to believe that loving someone this way is a betrayal.”

Jeongin swallows.

“Did you ever want to be a priest?” Sam asks, not unkindly. “Or did you just think you had to be one?”

Jeongin turns his head, meeting Sam’s gaze for the first time. The older man’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are steady, patient, waiting.

Jeongin wets his lips. “I wanted to serve God,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I still do.”

Sam nods. “Then serve Him.”

Jeongin blinks. “What?”

“You said it yourself,” Sam says. “Love originates from God. Serving Him doesn’t have to mean shutting yourself away from the world.” He pauses. “And it certainly doesn’t mean shutting your heart away from someone He led you to.”

Jeongin breathes in sharply. His mind reels, but somewhere deep in his chest, something settles.

Sam clasps his hands together, leaning back slightly. “You’ve made your decision, Jeongin. You came here to say it out loud.” He tilts his head. “So say it.”

Jeongin looks at him, then exhales.

“I’m leaving the priesthood.”

The words linger in the quiet air of the church, heavier than anything Jeongin has ever spoken before. But this time, for the first time, they don’t feel like a loss. They feel like freedom.

-

Jeongin stands outside your apartment door, his heart pounding, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. This is it. The moment he’s been working toward, the choice he’s finally made. There’s no turning back now—not that he would ever want to. He raises his hand and knocks.

It’s barely a few seconds before the door swings open, as if you had been waiting for him all along.

And then he sees it. The rosary. Wrapped tightly around your fingers, clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

His breath catches.

Your eyes meet his, wide and shimmering, disbelief and relief crashing together in one overwhelming wave of emotion. Your lips part, but no words come out. Instead, tears spill over your cheeks, and before Jeongin can even think, you launch yourself forward, arms wrapping around him in a desperate, shaking embrace.

A choked sound leaves you, something between a sob and a breath of his name, muffled against his shoulder.

Jeongin closes his eyes and holds you tighter. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice steady, unwavering. “I’m here now.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his coat, like you’re afraid he’ll slip away, like you need proof that he’s real.

He presses his lips to your hair, his grip firm, grounding. “You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers. “You have me.” He swallows, voice thick with emotion. “Always.”

You sob again, but this time, it’s lighter, almost a breath of relief. You nod against his chest, your whole body trembling in his arms.

As Jeongin stands there, holding you in his arms, he realizes that this moment—this fragile, breathtaking moment—is the answer he’s been searching for all along. The weight of uncertainty, of fear and hesitation, slowly unravels, replaced by something steadier, something undeniable.

Love.

Not just the kind he’s always known, the kind that’s bound by duty and sacrifice, but the kind that feels like warmth after the cold, like light breaking through stained glass. The kind that isn’t separate from faith but a part of it, interwoven in every whispered prayer, every unspoken longing.

He cups your jaws with both hands and tilts your head toward him, as he looks into your eyes, he knows—this is where he’s meant to be. Right here. Holding you. Loving you.

Then he kisses you, with every fiber of his being, committing himself into this love but at the same time, breaking away from the doubts and fears that shackles him.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your face streaked with tears, but your lips curve into a small, wobbly smile. He lifts a hand, gently brushing away the dampness on your cheeks with his thumb, his touch lingering, reverent.

“Come inside,” you whisper.

And Jeongin follows, stepping over the threshold not just into your home, but into a future he’s finally ready to embrace.

-

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[blackbat05]

Opposites Attract

Congressman Bucky x Library Staff Reader

Plot: You were never really one for politics, but when Congressman James "Bucky" Barnes and an Avenger comes to grace the library for work, he may just prove you wrong...

Genre: PG-13

A/N: Super self-indulgent (yet again). Watched Thunderbolts over the weekend and despite being very partial to the MCU, this movie seriously impressed me! I love my rag-tag team~ Please excuse the subpar writing as I feel like I'm still in a funk.

He absolutely regrets this.

Yeah he should have never agreed to this.

“Congressman Barnes?”

The secertary snaps him out of his anxiety hazed stupor. “Sorry Linda, you were saying?”

“As I was saying, your appearance at the public library has been shifted up to 2pm. There’s a kid’s program and they’re hoping you’ll be able to grace them with your presence.” Linda informs.

“Thank you.” Bucky dismisses the secretary, immediately taking out his darned notes that Gary insisted he had to read.

“New York Public Library recently had their children’s library go under redevelopment…”

***

“Y/N!” Darcy rushes over. The young girl drags a chair to sit beside you as you’re pouring over the story time you planned for the kids coming in for the reading session at 2pm.

“Someone’s awfully cheery after lunch.”

“Congressman James Barnes is coming! To our library!” She hisses with excitement. “Gosh he’s so cute, I hope he gets to interact with the kids because that would just make me explode!”

“Okayyy, someone needs to calm down on the caffeine.” You swivel your chair to face her. “First of all, he’s doing his duty Darcy, second of all aren’t you being too vocal with your fantasies?”

“A girl can dream.” Darcy singsongs. “Good luck!”

You sigh at her enthusiasm that was bordering on naivety. The congressman was probably going to be the same as the rest, they always are. They’ll come and show their faces for photos and leave without truly understanding what they had to be here for.

Though a part of you can’t help but to agree with Darcy. Those good looks are wasted in politics.

The clock read 1.15pm. You should start getting ready for the session.

***

“You seem very engrossed in that packet, sir.”

“I find it tough how we can fund billions for weapons and nuclear warfare but it takes almost six years to refurbish the children’s section of the New York Library.”

“I can’t say anything else apart from my need to agree with you, sir.” Linda crisply responds.

Bucky stays silent, thinking about his own memories as a child in the library. A library was meant to be a safe space, away from the ruckus of life.

The car rolls to a stop and Bucky gets out with two guards trailing behind him.

“What am I? An invalid? I don’t need bodyguards, Linda. This is a Children’s Library. I don’t need them to have more things to be scared of.”

“Apologies sir. I’ll speak with the Director and make other necessary arrangements after the event.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

The trio departs from Bucky who decides to take the chance to explore the library that was as every bit as he remembered it.

He takes a random book and finds a spot that is hidden away from the public eye to do some people watching at the Children’s Library.

Mothers take this chance for a reprieve and catch up with their friends while the little ones try to flip big picture books with much effort. The older children roam around the series section, discussing in excited hushed voices the latest book that they had each read. Bucky’s heart oddly feels satisfied when he sees a little boy nose deep into a Geronimo Stilton book. Ah, a timeless classic for kids.

“Congressman Barnes?”

Bucky turns around, slightly apologetic that he had been people watching for too long.

“I’m the children’s librarian- well, technically support staff. I’m working towards becoming a librarian but of course you didn’t need to know that.” You inwardly cursed at yourself. He’s definitely going to think you’re bonkers.

Then, he chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

“I’ll be sitting in your session later? I promise not to stare as much.”

Before you can get a good word in, the charming congressman strolls away, leaving you in a mess.

***

"Good afternoon children!" You put on your best enthusiastic voice, as you greet the crowd.

"Good afternoon Ms Y/N!"

Even after doing this for too many times to count, being in front of children who were waiting to be impressed still gave you the jitters. Nevertheless, you were proud to say that you had build rapport with them steadily over the past six months.

"So, we've been reading books about values and I thought we could continue our discussion with a short but humorous story that I know will promise a good laugh." You show the book, eliciting a couple of giggles from the children.

“Today’s story is by Jon Klassen and it’s titled - I want my hat back…”

***

By the end of the story, the children were throughly amused at the simple but larger than life visuals that told a clear message. You were also glad that all that practice of different animal voices came in handy.

“Thank you for listening so well! For the last part of our session as we won’t be seeing each other for two weeks, we can do something fun! We’re going to create our very own paper hats!” You continued. “That’s not all, we’ll be doing it with a very special guest so I want all of you to help him along okay?”

Once you introduced Bucky, you offered him to roam around the tables where the children were already planning how to design the best hat.

As you helped a boy add stickers to his hat, your attention is diverted to a mini commotion at the table ahead.

“What’s all the buzz about?” You moved closer, almost bursting into unruly laughter yourself when you see the Congressman sitting in tiny plastic chair wearing a red cone hat similar to the character while the kids fluttered around to add sparkles and glitters, blissfully unaware of your presence.

Not Bucky though as his eyes widen at the sight of you. You give a slight cough to get the attention of the children.

“Alright now, let’s not crowd around Mr Barnes.” You ushered the children away, giving a couple of soft apologies on their behalf.

“Don’t be. I enjoyed it.” He appeared to have snapped out of his momentary embarrassment of being covered in glitter, back to his charming self that you had the privilege of experiencing firsthand.

The rest of the session went smoothly (and glitter free). Bucky watches you bid goodbye to each kid in a unique and special way, from fist bumps to hugs and sometimes just a simple wave of the hand to the quieter kids. The children's section is quiet once more and he is amazed how you flutter around the tables, cleaning up effortlessly.

"Can I help?" He finds himself speaking up.

"Oh, that's alright. Wouldn't want to get your suit all messed up." You respond airily, trying to ignore the close proximity with Bucky.

"I insist." He says firmly and starts helping you to gather the scissors. You can't help but to notice how there's a butterfly sticker on his metal hand.

"A little girl - Lucy, she put this on me." He explains fondly. "Can't bear to take it off, at least not today."

Lucy. She never failed to turn up for every library session. Although she wasn't the loudest in the room, she participated with a quiet determination. Which was why you found this revelation particularly surprising.

"That's amazing. She takes a while to warm up to strangers. Well, not that you aren't a complete stranger. You're an Avenger- oh I'm doing it again aren't I?"

"That's okay." Bucky reassures you calmly. "I like it."

His straightforwardness throws you off, leaving you flustered but oddly pleased.

"Hey-"

"No, you go first."

"Do you want to get a drink?" Bucky asks. Before you could respond, loud voices could be heard from the adult's section, slowly becoming much louder.

"Oh no..."

"There you are!" Bucky spots Alexi from a mile away with that strikingly bright red suit. The rest of the team hushes him collectively, with Yelena attempting to make herself as small as possible.

"We've been trying to call you! Then your assistant- and she said you were in this place of knowledge! Oh, and who is this lady?" Alexi stares at you, intrigued. Bucky steps in front, feeling protective.

"Alright, can we focus, please?" Bucky shoots you an apologetic look that you clearly understood.

You'll have to reschedule.

***

“So! Are you not going to tell us who she is?” John is the first to broach the topic. Bucky gives him one of his famous death glares. However, this only encourages him and the rest of the team more.

"She seems lovely." Yelena teases, "Though I'm not sure why she would be attracted to a grump like you."

"Opposites attract." Ava adds helpfully (or unhelpfully in Bucky's opinion).

The jet flies across the ocean, making its way back home. Bucky taps his foot impatiently. Any longer with this group and having to endure their teasing might just make him commit daylight murder.

Bucky feels a buzz in his pocket and he fishes out his phone to read the message.

"Oooooh! Someone's texted back!" The team is in sync with their onslaught on their leader.

"Someone just kill me now." He mumbles under his breath.

*** You tug on your cardigan, waiting for Bucky on the steps of the library.

"Doll!" You hear a familiar voice that made your heart skip a beat. Though you must say, you were a little shocked to find out that he wasn't alone.

"Hello! Miss Librarian!" Alexi booms.

"Oh my god Dad she has a name." Yelena groans.

"Yes but she is proud of her job no?"

"Sorry about these idiots. Hi, John Walker." The man extends his hand for a handshake before being brushed aside by Bucky.

"Hi," you decide to make yourself known. "Bucky's told me about all of you."

"Whatever he's told you, don't believe all of it. The man's too grumpy for his own good." Yelena pipes up as Ava nods.

"Ok! And it is time for you to all go. The jet does not need a parking ticket." Bucky interjects pushing his teammates away from you. "Bob's waiting!"

With a couple more goodbyes, the jet zooms away, leaving the two of you still standing on the steps of the library.

"Not everyday my date is late because he's keeping the world safe from bad guys and outer space threats." You joke.

Bucky doesn't say a word and you're suddenly afraid that you may have fried his internal circuits.

"Sorry, I wasn't mad-"

"I'm your date?" He says with a grin and your words slowly sink in.

"Oh, well... I thought... um..." You scramble for words much to Bucky's amusement and he takes a step closer towards you.

"Would it be weird to say right now that I was thinking exactly the same thing?"

The both of you laugh and your stomach takes this moment to grumble loudly.

"Someone's hungry. I know a good Japanese Restaurant."

"I'm always down for good food."

He slots his fingers in between yours, holding on to your hand firmly.

"Great, then Sushi awaits."

"You are a god send."

[cloudcountry]

Plot twist: Tokyo Debunker is actually an otome game that's why there're wedding cards (developers are trying to keep it a surprise)

How would the wedding or marriage life be with the ghouls

*Your opportunity to dream of your perfect wedding ceremony with a certain someone 👀*

Side note: is it actually a plot twist? Probably not

SUMMARY: the proposal / the wedding / how your married life is afterwards headcanons!

CHARACTERS: Edward, Alan, Jiro, Ritsu, and Leo.

COMMENTS: dgsfhaj ritsu wedding ritsu wedding....EHEHEHE IM GIGGLING RN ANON THANK UUUU this is so funny like . imagine the devs were like SURPRISE!! ITS AN OTOME NOW!! i doubt it because theres so many guys and planning out routes would take a hot second (stares at cybird) but yk if cybird can do it maybe they can too................

leo is an asshole i am not going to hold your hand...i am sorry.

Edward actually proposing to you would more likely than not be a SHOCK to Rui and Lyca. What do you mean he’s taking something seriously for once? Rui even asks if Edward is aware of what he’s doing, to which your now fiance gets all dramatic and whiny about how mean Rui is.

Planning the wedding itself is more of a hassle than you thought. Edward, still as Edward as ever, has absolutely no hand in the planning. He says it's because he trusts his darling human’s judgement with these things, but you know that’s only half the truth. Rui ends up helping you with virtually everything, and if it wasn’t for him, the ceremony itself would have been much more disorganized.

Speaking of the ceremony, you opted to have a nighttime wedding for the sake of your future husband. It would likely be indoors, with plenty of candles for ambiance. His vows are actually very sweet! They aren’t overly sappy, but he does put aside some of his teasing in order to be upfront and honest with you.

I think he’d have a small wedding...only inviting close friends and stuff. It’s important that Rui and Lyca be there, at least! Your other human friends may also attend, so long as they don’t cause a scene. He’s serious. Nothing is going to go wrong on the day you and Rui planned so meticulously.

Having Edward as a husband would definitely be interesting...definitely a househusband LMAO. Rui is exasperated because he’s been trying to get Edward to clean up for SO LONG, and now you two get married and he cleans up for you? What are these spouse privileges! Edward actually attempts to cook now!?

He might claim it’s because of his YouTube videos but please. He loves you. YouTube might motivate him and teach him new tricks but he wouldn’t have looked for them if it wasn’t for you.

Alan almost doesn’t propose. It’s another one of his self sabotaging moments that he’s had while being with you, one that you happen to pull him out of when you bring up getting married first. He genuinely doesn’t understand why you’d want to marry someone like him, even though he’s already brought a ring and wants to—

Wanting the best wedding event possible, he yields to your opinion every single time. He still contributes to the planning and helps wherever he can, but he wants the day to be special and perfect for you, so he doesn’t try to butt in and talk over you.

A small ceremony again! I genuinely do not think he’d invite a lot of people at all...it’d be mostly your friends, from school and your work (if you have any.) If anyone from Darkwick is on your invite list, I think Alan would be a bit embarrassed to see them depending on who it is.

Do NOT invite Leo do NOT INVITE LEO. He’s already foaming at the mouth the second he hears that you and the himbo are getting married. Also, please have bodyguards to prevent him from crashing the wedding. Influencers are crazy, man.

Married life with him is really sweet, as you’d expect! He works, so you’re free to stay at home or work if you wish. You both work out a system at home where each of you have equal responsibilities around the house. For example, if you cook, he’ll do the dishes, and vice versa.

Alan isn’t going to catch onto any passive aggressive or subtly attempts to communicate. If you need a problem solved, or just want to talk to him, please just let him know. He’ll feel worse if he felt you couldn’t tell him, especially now that he’s married to you.

Jiro probably proposed before he even really had a ring. He just turns to you one day and asks if you’ve ever thought about getting married, and if so, would you want to marry him? Obviously you fumble a bit, flustered at his sudden declaration, before Yuri starts screeching at him that that is not the proper way to propose!

Jiro promptly apologizes and immediately leaves to get a ring, leaving you and Yuri sputtering in the lab. Yuri runs after him and tells you to stay there, that the ring should be a surprise for the spouse! before taking off.

It’s chaos. But you know, it’s a loving type of chaos. Yuri will be by you and Jiro’s sides the whole time, gracefully holding back his two cents during the wedding planning (even if he doesn’t agree with some of the choices...)

Zenji will be there, and he will be SOBBING. Please pull him aside into an empty room or something to talk to him about how much you love his brother and he’ll be a MESS. He’s so happy for you two, he just wishes he could be there to help with the wedding. Tell him he’s doing enough just by taking care of the two of you. He’ll try to hug you and fail, but the sentiment is there.

Married life with Jiro will involve visits from Yuri whenever possible for his health, so be prepared for that! (Zenji will also be around, but he knows when to leave.) Other than that, things are pretty calm. He stays home and cleans the house, you go out and work.

If you ask nicely, he’ll read you bedtime stories before bed at night, and you’ll giggle at his monotone voices. Jiro doesn’t understand what’s so funny, but the sound of your laughter makes him so happy...he’ll keep doing what he’s doing forever.

FINALLY THE ONE I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG ahem. Ritsu is a very classy young man. He dates to marry to the extreme, and likely had a hypothetical marriage page in his files for you the day you get together. Obviously it’s not something you know about—he’ll tell you after you’ve been dating for a year, though.

Buys a ring during your final year in Darkwick. You definitely have a promise ring already! He’s actually really excited to make you his spouse, but you wouldn’t know it unless you really pay attention to him when you’re alone. Also, it’s very important that you meet his parents.

His mom is really nice and welcomes you with open arms, but his father is harder to please. I can imagine the Shinjo family is very strict with who marries into the family—but honestly, Ritsu refuses to marry anyone else. It’s a rare moment of him deviating from his father’s footsteps...

He justifies this by saying that getting married to anyone else would hinder his productivity in the long run. They wouldn’t know him nearly as well as you do, and they never would have worked with him before, so they would lack understanding. Ritsu basically defends your resume in front of his dad. Yikes.

Anyway, the ceremony! I think this one would be quite big actually. Being the fiance of a big shot lawyer family’s son leads to you inheriting a lot of social connections. There are a lot of rich people at this wedding, with a unsurprising number of them actually being Shinjo clients.

It’s a nightmare, to be frank. You’re not really allowed to be yourself at this wedding, since your every move is being scrutinized. Ritsu will notice your unease and smooth talk his way out of any and every situation you find yourself in, so really all you have to do is smile and nod!

(Pssst, if you want a do over of the wedding where you only invite your friends and make it less formal, Ritsu can totally make it happen! He’s more than ready to see you in your wedding attire and marry you all over again. In fact, he feels he missed out on seeing the full extent of your happiness because of his family’s connections...)

Once everything has settled down, he’s a wonderful husband. Honestly, he’s worth it. Definitely the type to have cameras everywhere in his house though...just in case you get hurt or something goes wrong, he needs the evidence to defend and protect you!

He’s working for sure, so if you want to stay home you can! Whether you’re a working spouse or not will influence how the two of you divide household tasks, but make no mistake, it will be a fair division. He’s nothing if not fair after all :)

It’s not uncommon for you to wake up and see him already awake—or, on the weekends, with a book over his face. Kiss him good morning and make him some coffee, he’ll sleepily hang over your shoulders and try his best to wake up :(( He’s so CUTE.

Leo...He’s a tough one. You’d have to be with him a long time, and even though I don’t think he’d really think about proposing until it’s been a long LONGGG time. Doesn’t take it seriously either. I don’t...He’s just not a good person. Leo cannot be vulnerable. If you proposed first he’d probably make fun of you before accepting. He’s so MEAN.

I don’t understand why you’re doing this but yk what I support you. Someone’s got to marry him and if you think you have what it takes then go for it. He’s definitely posting your engagement online for clout and being super sweet and fake in front of the camera...sigh.

He’d invite SO MANY PEOPLE to the wedding and ENCOURAGE them to have their cameras out to record everything. At least he’s sweet to you during the ceremony, and he doesn’t smash your face into the cake or anything for clout. Maybe he does care a little bit WHAT WHO SAID THAT.

Sho is definitely there in some capacity. Maybe catering? He’d do a good job at it. Probably asks you if you’re sure about this right before the wedding because he sees what a dumpster fire it could be.

After all of that mess is over, Leo switches his social media to a more family vlog type of vibe. This is great for him because he rakes in a bunch of views from posting the two of you doing domestic things!

He’ll help out around the house for sure, but acts grumpy about it if you happen to catch him. He really doesn’t mind cleaning, but if he’s cleaning up after you he’ll be a bitch about it. He can be nice sometimes though! Lets you pitch ideas for his merch and listens when you tell him to put the phone down sometimes...

[milkoomi]

how i maintained a 4.0 gpa. ᥫ᭡

a lot of students strive to be the “perfect” student, me included! i’ve been able to achieve academic success, and i’m here to share my knowledge on how to do so! these are some things that have personally helped me, and so hopefully they can help you too! maintaining a 4.0 isn’t an easy feat, and i know that from first-hand experience. i haven’t always maintained this gpa, especially when i entered college, but i started implementing new things into my routine and study sessions that have helped me immensely!

let’s begin …

୨ৎ — daily/weekly planning

this was a game changer for me! especially coming back into college after taking some time off from school, planning my day/week out helped me tremendously! it helps you set aside time for schoolwork/studying as well as things that are more personal (i.e. self care, running personal errands, appointments/events, hang outs with friends/loved one, etc.).

time blocks

if you have a planner that includes an hourly schedule, use it! i recently got one that has one, and it’s helped me so much! getting an idea of a time frame for how long you work on school assignments or for studying can also help to alleviate any overwhelming feelings that a to-do list might give you (though, i am a huge fan of to-do lists personally!).

to-do lists

if you’re like me, and you enjoy lists, i highly recommend creating a to-do list! keep it simple if those kinds of lists tend to overwhelm you and create a more generalized to-do list.

generalized list example:

review course modules

complete 2 hours of work

rest for 30min - 1hr

journal before bed

the key with generalized to-do lists is to keep them very simple! maybe include the most important goals for your day/week, but avoid including every single thing you need to get done for the day!

୨ৎ — consistent routine

i’ve talked about routines a plethora of times, and you’ll hear so many others talk about it as well, but routines are so important when you’re on the road to academic success!

i’ve been able to feel more accomplished with a set routine during the week. waking up at the same time, ensuring i set aside time at night to myself, and time-blocking portions of my day to complete tasks! a good routine will help you stay on track.

even if you don’t have a set morning/night routine, still try to establish a good study/schoolwork routine! create a study ritual where you light your favorite candle, set the mood with ambient lighting (or whatever lighting you prefer), or maybe you have a designated study spot at a library or café!

if you do create a study routine, it would also be a good idea to freshen things up a bit here and there so that the tasks don’t start to seem mundane! maybe change up the location of where you study or maybe you might want to listen to a different playlist while you work or even starting with a different class instead of the usual first choice.

don’t be afraid to spice things up in your routine, even if it’s the smallest changes. doing so can also help prevent burn out!

୨ৎ — completing assignments ahead of time

working ahead (if possible) is always a great choice to make! or even simply just getting assignments done the day they were assigned is also a good idea! get your homework out of the way so that you can create more space for personal time to rest and recharge or, if you’re feeling energized and motivated, more time to focus on studying for upcoming exams!

also, making sure you get assignments done well before their due date also ensures that you work thoroughly and efficiently. it prevents rushed work and lessens the chances of any mistakes!

be diligent when it comes to your homework assignments! if you have the time now, get it done!

୨ৎ — attending all lectures

this is so important! catching up with missed assignments, notes, and lectures can be extremely overwhelming. it leads to that feeling of needing to rush your work and then creating that opportunity for mistakes. it’s also just, in general, difficult to keep up with your classes when you aren’t physically present in class. you lose the opportunity to ask questions in class, to take proper notes, to record lectures for later studying, and you miss out on key information/announcements from your teachers/professors.

of course, there will be days where you literally cannot make it to class, and that’s okay! don’t go beating yourself up for having to take a sick day, your health always comes first! be sure to communicate with your professors and to ask any and all necessary questions!

but i only bring this point up because it’s something that’s helped me succeed. plus, some of my grade depended on my attendance, which you’ll come to find while in college.

୨ৎ — creating connections

build relationships with your classmates and your professors! this is a really great way of ensuring you get good grades! how? well, as i mentioned in my post about how to study effectively, i brought up study groups. if you start building connections with your classmates, you’ll be able to create those study groups and work with others to continue to learn and study the material! it will help so much to have another friend who can help you out with a topic that you might be struggling with!

also, connecting with your professors is really great for 1. setting that good impression for yourself and 2. building that relationship with them allows for more comfort and ease of mind when you need to go to them for extra help and guidance! your professors are there to aid you in any way they can to help you achieve success in their class. i know it might be daunting to reach out to your professors, but i promise that they’re there to help you and that they are more than willing to guide you on the path to success!

୨ৎ — implementing study methods

i touched on various study methods in my post that i linked in the previous point! but study methods can give you a variety of new ways to learn the material! also, playing around with the material in different methods can spice up your study routine while also seeing what kind of methods get the topics to really stick.

i definitely recommend referring back to my “how to study effectively” post for a more detailed discussion on studying!

୨ৎ — romanticizing school

when i started treating myself as the main character, it gave me so much more motivation to get things done for myself. including my studies!

think of yourself as rory gilmore, blair waldorf, elle woods, hermione granger, or any of those iconic, studious characters!

how to romanticize your education:

set an aesthetic for yourself

light academia

dark academia

pink academia

coquette

there’s so many different aesthetics out there that you can play around with or follow to get inspiration! pinterest will be your best friend, and i recommend creating a school/study vision board with the aesthetic of your choice!

once you’ve settled on an aesthetic (or a few, whatever you’d like!) find school supplies that relate to what you chose! fancy notebooks, planners, cool pens/pencils/highlighters, and maybe be a new bag that fits into your style! having the supplies that bring you joy make your studying experience ten times better, trust me!

dress the part

again, take inspiration from your favorite educational icons! or simply, wear what you feel the most confident in! when you show up to class knowing you look good along with having those supplies that you know look aesthetically pleasing, you feel like you’re already a top student!

your study environment

this gets talked about a lot, but when i’m studying in my freshly cleaned room that’s been decorated to my liking and i have a nice candle going with my choice of lighting, i feel like my studying experience is a million times better! even when i go to a café to study or i’m in the library to get work done, i just feel like the main character in my own movie (which i am because, hey! it’s my life!)

let your workspace be your ideal space! when you work in an environment where you can get things done and you feel comfortable, you can accomplish so much.

study playlists

those ambient vibes playlists on youtube with those really aesthetically pleasing backgrounds on them are my go-to whenever i’m getting work done. it helps set the vibe for my sessions and it puts me in a good headspace to get into the grind! so pick a playlist that motivates you to get tasks done!

my favorite youtube study music videos:

Winter Jazz Library - Chill Crossing Hour

** i also recommend this channel for all their playlists!

Get to Work Sleepyhead - jelly

4-Hour Study with Me - Emmalilyn

** Emmalilyn has so many of these kinds of 4-hour study with me videos! i believe majority of them include the pomodoro method, so if that’s something you do or want to try i definitely recommend her channel!

2-Hour Study with Me - Tanyi

୨ৎ — final notes

those are all the tips i had to share with you all! this is what has personally worked for me, so there might be some things that might not work or you might do differently! regardless, you are capable of achieving great success throughout your academic career! never forget that. school is all about learning, and one of the things you learn is what works best for you and your road to success! do whatever works for you and play around with different ideas and methods! i wish you all the very best for your academic career! i’m rooting for you!

with lots of love, faustina 🌷

[rosecoloredsunshine]

have i found you, flightless bird — james patrick march

masterlist | request link

PAIRINGS: james patrick march x female!reader

SUMMARY: you're the only one who truly understood james. you are his greatest muse, and now you are bound together even in eternity—and you've both never been more happier.

REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, fluff, brief mention of murder (not really major), and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i really had fun writing this request, thank so much! i tailored morticia's characteristics with the reader, so there are some similarities (if you squint enough) with her and the reader. i originally wrote two versions of this request, but decided to ultimately go with this one. plus, if you know by now, i draw inspiration/align my fics with songs hehe so i hope you'll enjoy this one! :)

The golden sconces along the velvet-papered hallways of the Hotel Cortez flickered with a low, ambient glow, casting elongated shadows against the ornate walls. It was a quiet night tonight, quiet in a way a building like this could only pretend to be. The silence always buzzed faintly, like a secret breathing through the bones of the place.

You walked slowly, deliberately, heels clicking rhythmically against the polished black and white marble floors. The gown you wore hugged your form like a second skin—silken, obsidian, matching the inky hue of your hair that tumbled in soft, disciplined waves down your back. It is James’ favorite color on you, telling you once that it made you look like a sin made flesh. You told him that he was biased, but he only grinned, feral and fond.

James’ hand was resting on the small of your back, his touch possessive but reverent, always reverent. As if to remind himself and others that you belonged to him, and he, very thoroughly, belonged to you.

“I do believe,” James murmured, voice low and indulgent as you walked together past room 43, “that time itself slows to accommodate your passage, dearest. What a shame it does nothing to calm my racing heart.”

You gave him a faint smile, eyes half-lidded as you turned towards him slightly, heels clicking against the tiles. “You don’t have a heart anymore, my darling,” you reminded gently, voice smooth as silk and just as cold. “Remember? You left it on the twentieth floor, for me.”

A delighted chuckle left him, the sound echoing in the corridor like a kiss to a mirror. “And you wear it so well.”

James never gets tired of looking at you. The fall of your hair, always coordinated with your gowns, whether it is black as ink or ivory as moonlight—either way, it always leaves him breathless, if such a thing could still be said about a man long dead. You were an enigma, ethereal and reserved, intimidating to most and worshipped by all who dared look at you too long. Ghosts, guests, even the walls. You had the kind of beauty that made time forget how to tick.

He didn't walk beside you so much as orbit you, like the moon to a glittering, celestial flame. The hotel had been his monument, yes, but for you? It became his temple.

“I saw Sally again,” you murmured, finger brushing along the velvet wallpaper, nails short and elegant, painted a soft shade of wine. “She’s still bitter.”

James snorted disdainfully. “Ah, the opium banshee. Let her wail, her pain is entirely self-inflicted.”

“She tried to ask me again why I stay with you,” you said softly, voice like smoke and smiling.

He tensed ever so lightly beside you, but you reached for his lapel, smoothing it gently with your thumb, visibly relaxing.

“And what did you tell her, my love?” he asked, gaze intense and yearning.

You tilted your chin up, eyes catching the dim chandelier light like pools of mercury. “I told her that no one could ever understand you the way I do. That she mistakes obsession for love, but what you and I have, it’s devotion. It's a ruin, an art.”

James groaned—yes, groaned, his forehead coming to rest briefly against yours as you paused at the base of the grand staircase. “You wound me in the most glorious way, dearest. I should carve those words into the walls.”

“You already did,” you whispered softly. “Every inch of this place is you, bleeding for me.”

It was indeed true. The Cortez was a tomb, yes, a house of horrors, but it was also a palace. A mausoleum built not for death, but for love. Every brass doorknob, shadow, nook and cranny, every inch of cursed carpet was placed for you. A monument to your elegance, a fortress to keep the world out and your bond sealed within.

Even now, long after your mortal bodies had ceased to matter, James still treated you like something holy—buttoning the back of your gowns delicately with his fingers each evening, kissing the top of your hands, and worshiping the curve of your neck with the patience of a priest. You—though quieter, less demonstrative, held his heart in your fist. You shared his darkest secrets, the cruelest truths of his soul, and instead of recoiling, you had smiled. You accepted him, and sharpened your claws alongside his.

“Remember that one guest?” you murmured idly as you ascended the staircase, fingers sliding along the railings. “The one who lied about his name to get a room?”

James exhaled in a sound that was more growl of a growl than breath. “The stockbroker in 902. That cretin.”

You hummed. “He looked so confused when I slit his throat.”

He let out a scandalized laugh, arm around you tightening, almost giddy. “Oh, how you moved that night. Poetry in crimson.”

“I don’t like liars. You know that, my darling,” you said simply. “And most of all, I don’t like it when someone tries to deceive you.”

James gently leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your lips. “You are far too exquisite for this wretched world. Thank god it ended.”

To others, perhaps you were terrifying. But those who feared you had never felt or experienced your kindness. Your words were sparse but true, you had stitched the unraveling tapestry of Hotel Cortez together by just existing in it. Ghosts who hated your husband—the ghosts, the damned, they couldn't hate you. Some even dared to speak to you with a quiet sort of admiration, knowing that to cross you would be their last mistake.

You never raised your voice. You never needed to. For James, you were the reason death wasn't a punishment—but a gift.

Deep into the night, you sat in one of the velvet armchairs in your and James’ suite, firelight casting flickers of gold across your collarbones. James poured you a glass of ghostly burgundy, as ritualistic as ever. He didn't need to eat, nor did you, but the motions—ritual, brought you both comfort. He stood behind your chair, hands moving up and down your arms, slow and deliberate.

“I do so love this,” he whispered.

You tilted your head back lazily. “What’s that?”

James bent to kiss your shoulder. “This peace. This illusion of the living, you in the gown, my name on your lips, your hand in mine,” he circled to kneel in front of you, taking your hand, pressing it to his lips. “You make the afterlife bearable. No, more than that—beautiful.”

You looked at him. Really looked at him. The moustache you used to tease, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the utter abandon in the way he adored you.

You cupped James’ cheeks softly. “I would've followed you even if you hadn't built the hotel,” you said quietly. “I would've followed you into hell.”

“You did, my love,” he whispered back. “And you made it heaven.”

The moonlight spilled silver across the dark floor of the room. James held out a hand for you to take, and you let him lead you in the middle of the room, leading you in a slow waltz. The gramophone hummed a tune no living soul remembered, soft and sorrowful. James held you like a prayer—one hand in yours, the other splayed across your waist, fingers aching to be closer.

“You never tire of this,” you said softly, eyes closing as you moved in tandem.

“Never,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not when it’s with you. You are the only eternity I welcome, the only ghost that haunts me in the way I crave.”

Your laughter was quiet, breathy, and warm. “You’re awfully poetic tonight, darling.”

“I’m always poetic when I’m in your presence,” he grinned.

James’ mouth found the curve of your neck then, slow and reverent, began leaving a trail of kisses along your skin as if worshipping a temple while you both sway softly to the music, and you let him. Of course you did. James never needed permission, but he always earned it.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured.

“I am yours, and you are everything,” he corrected, pulling back just enough to look at you—truly look. “The curve of your mouth could command wars, the kindness in your eyes silences my rage. You are the only one who saw me and didn't run. Who loved me, chose me, even in my vilest hour.”

“I didn't see vileness,” you said simply. “I saw pain, beauty, and brilliance. A man with fire in his soul and a broken heart in his chest.”

James’ throat tightened, and for a moment, that dark bravado cracked, showing you the vulnerability he his from fhe world.

“You terrify me,” he whispered.

You blinked, gently tilting your head. “Why?”

“Because I would tear down the world for you. I already did once, and I’d do it again, with less mercy.”

You kissed him, slow and sure. The kind of kiss that felt like sealing a vow older than time itself, and when you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

“I’d help you burn it down,” you said softly. “Just don’t lie to me. Don’t let them try to turn you from me.”

“They wouldn't dare,” he growled. “And if they did, they would meet the end of my wrath—and the sharper edge of yours.”

You smiled widely. James always liked the way you smiled before destruction.

You continued waltzing in the middle of the room, like any husband and wife would when they’re in love. Except you were not breathing, and time did not matter. There were no dishes to clean, no errands to run. Only endless hours to love and be loved, for eternity and beyond it.

And James, hopelessly devoted, would spend every second of it tracing the shape of your soul.

© rosecoloredsunshine, 2025

[pearlywritings]

Blade + the erhu, please and thank you!

(Miss pearly, is that another reference to the phantom of the opera? Just asking)

Crazy but this prompt was asked for Blade twice! And once again - yep, that's the reference! (hopefully you all are not fed up with me yet--) On side note - it's been always a challenge to write for this man and every single time I pray that I didn't fuck up his character,,,,,,,

Always there

pairing: Blade x reader

prompt: "I will wait for you"

word count: 812 words

~ The Music of the Night event ~

The ever-sullen Stellaron Hunter has always had a hard time understanding your reasons to stay by his side. It isn't obnoxious clinging or following him wherever he goes, or even intentional lingering in the shadows nearby like you are some kind of a stalker.

No, it is none of that. You are just… there.

Obviously you are always there - working for Elio at the base as the Hunter’s personal chef quite literally predestines it. Blade doesn't remember the details, but it had probably something to do with Kafka and her complaints about Silver Wolf’s eating routine. And his. And the fact you poisoned someone to the point of royally pissing the IPC, which put “Wanted” posters across the universe with your face on them and landed you in the care of Destiny's Slave.

What he means is…you are strangely there for him.

You notice the dishes he takes liking in (despite him dodging all your questions) and cook him those when you think he looks especially gloomy. Every time he departs on a mission, somehow you manage to send him off with a packed meal - either you slip it into his luggage, or pass it on through his assigned partner or simply distract with conversation and thrust the container right into his hands. Lately, as you two got closer, you also started adding self-made sedatives and sleeping medicine to his meals. Did he try to kill you for that? No, but he did suggest adding poison next time.

Which you never did.

Why did his sleep get better?

Of course, you’ve grown to be caring towards every member of the crew - making Kafka her favorites whenever she had a shitty day, gently but sternly forcing Silver Wolf to eat properly, coming up with ways to feed Firefly delicious food too and letting her help in the kitchen, and managing to fulfil wild requests Elio sometimes has.

But Blade feels like he is special to you. Even if it took him half a year to admit it to himself.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me,” you once told him, as you were stirring the pot and Blade came to the kitchen to hide from the girls who, led by Kafka, wanted to mess with him. Too focused on wrapping clean bandages around the fingers of his left hand, the man didn’t let the thought sink at first, but once he did, he said nothing.

Something told him these were not the words you said to everyone.

Why did they bring him an allusive sense of peace?

Later on he started spending time with you - in training. Being a chef and knowing your way with the knife is good, but, as you reasonably noted, you are a part of the Stellaron Hunters now. It’ll never hurt to learn to defend yourself. 

Blade has never been known to be gentle. No matter if you are a sword master or a newbie - he’d go hard on you anyway, putting you through a hell of a routine. He was honestly thinking you would’ve soon realized that such harsh treatment wasn’t for you and turned to one of the female members. However, every day he’s at the base, you come. You whine and huff from exhaustion, but don’t complain. You listen carefully to his instructions whenever he stops the fight to give them (and he does so rarely, preferring the learning through the ‘life or death’ combat). You lie on the floor of the training area every single time the training ends, look up at him holding his sword and boring his red-hot coals of the eyes into you, and promise with a shaky smile, that ‘ten more minutes, a shower, and I’ll go make us an after-workout snack’.

Usually it’s more than ten minutes. Occasionally he has to carry your body to the showers, and you go limp on his shoulder on purpose. He quite often waits for you after he’s done with his own clean up. He rarely misses your cooking afterwards.

When did he start standing close to you as you cook, looming over you, staring at your hands over your shoulder?

He also doesn’t know how you two ended up sharing a living space, a bed even. Once, twice, a week, a month… At some point he just accepted it as a part of his life now. After all, you are not making it worse.

He is sane enough to be honest with himself - it got a little bit better.

You kiss his scars and run your fingers through his hair to calm him.

He lets you.

You are not clingy though.

He turned out to be one.

“I want you to see me as the place where you can always return to.”

He…bitterly laughs, but doesn’t say anything against.

“I will be waiting for you.”

…

He chooses to believe you.

[after-witch]

Oh What a Birthday Surprise [wri0thesley’s OC Lucas x Reader

Title: Oh What a Birthday Surprise [@wri0thesley's OC Lucas x Reader]

Synopsis: You want to surprise Lucas on his birthday.

Word count: 2841

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, abuse

Lucas is not much for celebrating his birthday. 

You know this, not from experience but only because he mentioned it to you, when you’d finally asked--soft, tentative--when he was born. It wasn’t that you truly needed to know--but details were good, especially if you thought you wanted them.

Technically speaking, the question was asked out of that self-preserving politeness that you’ve begun to hone so keenly in order to keep yourself appealing; to keep yourself alive.

Still. Something about the way he mumbled it, the way he confessed that he never paid it no mind. It made something twist inside you. Some curdled bit of pity.

Your own birthdays… before… had been wonderful, delightful affairs. Filled with friends and noise and laughter.

Your friends would take you out shopping, to some excursion, and end with dinner. Sometimes they even planned overnight trips so everyone could squeeze every last ounce of fun from the event. The evenings would end with cake and candles and everyone drunkenly scream-singing “Happy Birthday!” before you all dug in.

Your last birthday had not been quite so grand, though you wouldn’t say Lucas didn’t do his best. He bought a cake in town, and got you some fresh notebooks that you’d asked for (completely new, from the drugstore--oh, to have a notebook without someone else’s scribbles inside it, someone else’s desperate scrawls for help-help-help!) and even some new books. 

Well, used. But new to the cabin, and that was all you wanted.

He let you watch one of the few movies he’d procured that weren’t Westerns. A romantic comedy  that you used to binge-watch on VHS during summer break from school. He was gentler, that night, in bed; more focused on your own pleasure than pounding inside you, as he sometimes did when he got overwhelmingly smitten.

It was a nice day, all things considered.

Maybe that’s why you decided to make his birthday as nice as you could. Within reason, within your severe limitations. Yet there was a nagging thought: what if he told you not to? What if he waved you away if you asked him what he wanted for his birthday?

What if, what if, what if. Maybe those little what-ifs were why some little impulsive imp in your head told you to make it a true-blue surprise. He might not make a fuss over his birthday, but he couldn’t object to you going the extra mile if he didn’t know about it.

There’d be no twisting in your gut if he waved away attempts to find out what he wanted, or sternly told you to leave his birthday alone. No sighs, no slamming of the door leading to the backyard, just a delightful smile and a pat on your head for being so sweet.

Right?

Right.

--

You have to be sneaky. But life with Lucas, by design, makes this difficult. When you stretch your arms and stand up from the sofa with the intent of going into the spare room to work on your gift, he wants to know where you’re going and why you don’t want him to follow and how long you’ll be good.

And you can’t tell him, exactly, that you’re going to work on the handmade scrapbook you’ve decided to give him. Sketches of the cabin, of the chickens, of nature outside the bedroom window. Of him, listening to his record player, a glass of whiskey in his hand. 

An almost serene expression on his face, caught before he turned and saw you staring, and stammered something about not staying up too late.

It’s really a ridiculous book. An overly cloying, sentimental thing that only a parent should enjoy (and even then, it would swiftly find itself relegated to the inside of a drawer once childhood faded); but you think Lucas won’t mind the saccharine, homemade nature of it all.

If you could just keep it a secret for two more weeks, anyway.

--

You’re hunched over the worn-out sitting chair in the spare room, adding some color to one of your birthday sketches, when a sudden heavy prickling presence crawls over your back--

Lucas clears his throat and you practically jump, colored pencil nearly stabbing the paper as you bring the book up to your chest.

“Lucas!” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t see you there. I thought--you said you’d be out with the chickens.” It was the perfect opportunity, you’d decided, to get some more work done on the book. With Lucas outside, there was less of a chance that he’d see--that he’d snoop.

So you thought.

It’s hard to make out his expression too clearly, from this distance. It had been two years now since your last eye exam, and you were sure you needed a new prescription. The thought of bringing up such a request with Lucas made you feel sick, so you didn’t. He’d just say no, wouldn’t he?

“Darlin,” he begins, voice low, almost hesitant. “What’re you doin’ in here? Thought I said you should tidy up the living room for me.”

“I did--” You stammer out the lie, stupidly, then correct yourself. “I mean--I was going to, after. I just had to do… something… and then…” The words curl up with your tongue, lying limp as you even from here, you can see his eyebrows start to furrow.

“You know I don’t like lyin’. Ain’t ladylike.” The admonition makes your stomach flip, and you claw desperately to steer everything in a more acceptable direction.

Setting your book away, sketch-side down so he doesn’t see, you stand up and fold your hands prettily together in front of you.

“I’m sorry, Lucas,” you begin, voice quieter, more mousey. “I should have tidied up like you said. I just got… too eager to draw, and--” Your mind fights for what he might want you to say, and comes up with little else than contrition. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry.”

Lucas frowns. You can see that, even from here. Can feel it, really, in the air. 

Eventually, the tension in him loosens. Enough for the knot in your stomach to unwind a little, at least.

“Mind you don’t, darlin’,” is all he says, an edge at the tip of his words, before he gestures for you to follow--no doubt to tidy up the living room like you should have done in the first place.

Working on the book will have to wait until you can get him in a better mood.

--

Two days.

There are only two days left until Lucas’ birthday, and you’re quietly thanking God (if he really exists–you’re torn on that idea, now) for that because: one, there is a small sense of pleasurable curiosity at imagining how Lucas will react to your gift and two, two being the most important of these two factors: your nerves are just about shot. 

Lucas can tell something is up. You’ve been skimping on chores, running to the spare room before bed instead of waiting in the bedroom or living room while he finished up some outdoor evening chores, throwing out excuses when he catches you and asks what you were doing and why you didn’t tell him you were going to be in here. 

Each time seems to stretch something harder between you–some awful sort of tension that you hope will melt away as soon as he gets the book. 

Dinner was quiet, but not the comfortable, homey kind that Lucas sometimes enjoys. There was a thin string plucking against your chest the entire meal, as you placed forkful after forkful of food in your mouth. Meat, vegetables, the usual style of homespun dinner he enjoys and you’ve learned to eat without question.

All that is left tonight is dessert, a slice of blueberry pie you made with a heaping spoonful of ice cream on top, the edges of it melting against your plate as you try to discern if Lucas is angry with you or merely tired from splitting wood in preparation for the upcoming fall.

“Darlin.” 

 Your spoon trembles against the edge of the ice cream, and you set it down.

“Yes?”

When you flutter your lashes and look up at him, Lucas has his face set. Firm. Unyielding. You wonder if you did something truly awful and run a checklist through your mind–you kissed him good morning without a reminder, let him dress you without getting huffy about it, did your chores, set the table, chewed with your mouth closed, ate everything on your plate–and nothing stands out too much.

It’s worse, actually, to not have something to hold yourself accountable for in the face of his apparent irritation.

“You’ve been… quiet lately,” he says, finally, slow, picking his words carefully. “Like you got a secret.”

The food in your stomach feels as hard as a rock, and a low stomach cramp makes sweat bead on the back of your neck. 

You could tell him. Confess it all, right here, right now. Yes, you’ve been quiet and sneaky and weird–because you’re working on a stupid little gift and you thought it would be a good idea because you’re a great big moron.

But… the surprise would be ruined and there’s something awful about being so close to his birthday and giving up on the idea. You can make it through two more days, can’t you? The book is technically done, anyway. You’ve only got to wrap it, and you’re sure you saw some gift wrap in the back of the closet in the spare room. 

So you, divine actress you sometimes imagine you are, swallow hard and try to look demure and apologetic and weak. (You are, in truth, in the face of Lucas and axes and freezers of meat, one of these things.)

“I’ve… I’ve been really tired lately.” You flutter your lashes. “I haven’t been falling asleep right away and… I just didn’t want to worry you. I’m sorry.” 

Sorry, sorry, sorry, a word that flies from your lips so often nowadays, and Lucas seems to eat it up as heartily as he does his meals.

His voice is still gruff, though, and he still frowns despite the slight edge of a worried coo in his voice.

“You need an earlier bedtime, then. And no more extra sugar, least ‘till you start sleepin’ better.” His hand pulls away your pie plate, ice cream uneaten, and he sets about covering the plate with plastic to set in the freezer for some undetermined later date when dessert will be returned to you.

A shame–you really wouldn’t have minded eating ice cream tonight. 

--

Normally, Lucas’ grip on you is as tight as a vice. It was something you worried about, the last few nights, as you debated on how you were going to surprise Lucas with his gift. Ideally, you’d grab it before he woke up, so you could surprise him in bed. It would be more fun that way, more like something they do in the movies.

On this morning though, the morning of his birthday, his arm is not squeezing you like a particularly well-loved teddy bear but simply sprawled loosely across your chest; so loose that you can wiggle out from underneath it.

Which you do, slowly, one eye on him, sure that he’ll wake up with every inch you get. He doesn’t. His eyes stay closed and his mouth stays slack and eventually you reach the end of the bed, thrilled at your blessings, and silently step onto the floor in triumph.

Even then, you keep an eye on him as you creep as quietly as you can–homemade floorboards do love to creak–to the bedroom door. It opens too loudly, and you cringe; but Lucas stays asleep and your stomach flips with excitement as you make it into the hallway and down to the spare room.

You almost want to hum by the time you’re rifling through the closet, but catch yourself before you make too much noise. The book is right where you left it, hidden away in the closet underneath the faded lilac of a jaggedly unfinished crochet blanket.

The wrapping paper is shiny and smooth as you clutch the gift in your hands, a soft, almost stupid little smile on your face, and you turn to–

To find Lucas standing in the doorway, a hulking form, an axe slung over his shoulder, his expression a slightly blurred mask of betrayal and rage. 

There are thoughts in your head. Oh, yes there are. Short, simple.

Oh, you think. It’s Lucas.

Oh, you think. He has an axe.

And “Oh,” is what you say as it all clicks together, as there is an imaginative flash of him bringing the axe down on your skull, as you realize that he is going to kill you and it’s going to really, really fucking hurt. Your stomach clenches and there’s something warm running down your leg and your thoughts spin, desperate to think about something nice before it all ends–

And maybe.

Maybe there is a God after all, or just sheer dumb luck, because Lucas does not spring forward and bring the axe down in the middle of your face. Instead he seems to flinch, seeing the colorful purple-and-gold wrapping paper shimmering in the morning light creeping through the window, a shiny package clutched in your trembling hands.

It’s his turn, now, for “Oh.” His mouth forms a circle over the words, savoring them like cake. “Oh, darlin.’” The snarl turns into a trembling smile, something soft and intimate and almost new to his expression. “You… for my birthday?”

You’re not dead, you realize, eyes still frozen on the axe he’s holding. You’re not dead, because you can still speak. “Yes,” you said, wheezing. “I-I wanted to surprise you. For your birthday. I thought… thought that might be okay.”

“Darlin,” he says, softly, almost unbelieving. “‘Course it’d be okay. You think I’d say no to anything you make me? To you thinking ‘bout me so sweetly?” 

You don’t answer, and his gaze finally follows your own–the axe still slung against his shoulder, the handle gripped in his palm–and he looks almost sheepish as he steps back into the hall, hefts the axe back onto the wall, and comes back in the room with an almost shy smile on his face. 

There is even, just visible in the morning light, a blush deepening the color on his cheeks.

Like he’s pleased and embarrassed and like he didn’t intend to just bash in your face with the sharp end of an axe, like he wasn’t going to grind you into hamburger for a Friday night dinner, like he wasn’t about to end your life.

He steps forward, and it takes everything inside you, every bit of strength you’ve tried to build over your captivity, to not flinch as he embraces you, present squishing against your chest.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever known. No one’s ever made such a fuss for me on my birthday. ‘Cept you. You know that, honey?”

It is a testament to your carefully constructed layers, mud and slime hardened to protect you, that you do not let the internal scream pass your lips. You shove it down with the other reactions where it belongs--where it must be, if you want to live.

Still, you can’t speak. Not yet. You whimper something–in fear, in agreement, all mixing together in the moment. 

Lucas pets the back of your head, smiling down at you. He almost looks lost in love, in wonder. “Wouldn’t hurt you, sweetheart,” he continues, just as kindly. “Not as long as you never give me a reason to. You know that, don’tcha?” 

You nod, obedient spouse that you are, through the prickling tears that make him coo and wipe his thumb near your eyes.

He presses himself against you, and murmurs.

“If you ever left me, darlin’, why--I just couldn’t take it. Just couldn’t take it,” he repeats, holding you tighter. Kisses are pressed against the top of your head, and you feel him breathing through his nose, slower and slower. Like he’s the one who just had the fright of his life. 

Eventually, he pulls away, not before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He’s got morning breath and so do you, but at least he didn’t kill you, so there’s no point in complaining. 

If Lucas feels any particular way about the damp patch against your nightgown, about the small puddle of urine on the cabin floor, by-products of seeing your own death in the doorway, he says nothing about it.

He’s kind enough to simply put his arm around your shoulder, your own arms still clutching the gift, and begin guiding you out of the room. 

“Thank you for thinking of me, honey. Let’s just… get ourselves cleaned up and I’ll open my present. I bet it’s something real special.”

He doesn’t stop smiling as he leads you into the bathroom–he won’t stop smiling all morning, in fact. 

Next year, you will simply ask him what he’d like for his birthday instead. 

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

things friends do

pairing: bsaa circle jerk - chris, jill, piers, rebecca, reader (ends up being nivanfield and reader/jill/becca)

tags/cws: everyone is gay, mutual masturbation, oral m! receiving, sex toys

summary: reader walks in on a totally regular event for the bsaa crew

a/n: this permeates my mind constantly. ik no one asked for this. this was for me

div creds to @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

wc: 1.7k

tags: @rigorwhoring @leonfucker3000 @withonly-sweetheart

There’s no such thing as home anymore, not right now. You’ve got your own bunk and your own bag. Everything else is shared. You’ve got one roommate which is better than some can say, but the extra space means nothing when she snores loud enough that you can still hear her through your earplugs. At some point, you just pass out, you always do, but it’s not too late and you’re not too tired yet. A little walk might do you some good, you figure. 

You don’t dare leave the building, you stay in your lane, as always. But, at the end of the corridor, you hear chatter, a light streaming into the hall. Curiosity has you in a vise grip, and it drags you to the door, slightly ajar. You get the sense that you’re not supposed to be here. 

Out of all the things you’ve seen in the short time you’ve been working for the BSAA, this is the most surprising yet. It’s like an opposite nightmare – you’re usually the one naked in front of your coworkers, but tonight it’s the opposite. Chris, Rebecca, Jill, and Piers all in varied states of undress, gathered around a TV that currently displays a couple – a woman with big fluffy blonde curls sitting at the edge of a bed, wearing nothing but her stockings, legs spread in front of a man sporting a typical 70s pornstache and a pair of bell-bottoms. 

But you’re more focused on Rebecca’s t-shirt that’s not long enough to cover her white panties; Chris’ chest fully bare, one arm across the back of the loveseat and the other hand slipping beneath the denim of his jeans; Jill’s tits spilling out of her bra that match her panties in color; and Piers’ t-shirt lifted just above his abs, letting his cock sit stiff against his skin. 

Maybe you could’ve slipped out unnoticed if you hadn’t taken a self-indulgent survey of the room. 

Still, you back away with an apology. “I’m sorry, I had no idea –I’ll just get going…”

But Chris stops you. “Hey, wait–”

“I won’t tell, don’t worry.”

You may not have read the rulebook thoroughly, but this has to violate at least one clause in there. 

“No, it’s okay. You can come in, if you want.”

Should you? Probably not. Are you nervous? Probably. Is your heartbeat speeding up as you slip inside the room, slowly shutting the door behind you? 

Yes. 

The hardest decision is where you should sit. There is a space between Jill and Piers, as they sit on opposite ends of the couch, but it’d be a tight squeeze. Luckily, Piers eagerly moves to sit next to Chris and Jill smiles when she pats the spot next to her. 

Everyone aside from the couple on TV stops touching themselves as a welcoming gesture. 

Chris and Jill explain that this is something they've been doing for ages. You get used to it when you're in the military, and neither of them are into each other so, it's just a casual friendly activity. Piers and Rebecca joined the group in later years, and now, it seems, they've gotten a fifth member.

"You don't have to do anything if you don't want to," Rebecca notes. "Sometimes I don't."

You’d always known Rebecca to be empathetic, but her voyeuristic tendencies are a new discovery. 

"But, if you want to, you can borrow this," Jill says, holding up a small vibrator. 

“Oh, I um…”

“It’s clean, don’t worry,” she says. 

“I wouldn’t want to take it from you.”

“I always keep an extra,” she says, pulling a similar one from her bag that sits beside the couch. 

In that case, you think, I’ll take it. 

But the smile you share says all you need to convey your thanks when you accept the gift she holds out to you. 

In an attempt to avert everyone’s gaze from your hands fiddling with your belt, you ask, pointing to the TV, "what are you guys watching?"

"Porn," Chris says.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"Barry gave us a whole stack of tapes — ancient stuff, but he found it all in a box in the basement when they were moving and decided he wanted to get rid of them, and why let them go to waste?" Jill explains.

"Does he do this too?" you ask. 

"Jerk off? Probably," Piers says.

"Statistically, yes," Rebecca agrees.

"No, I meant this, as in, this," you say, gesturing to the room, the gathering, the situation.

"Oh. No, that'd be weird.” Piers has a flash of disgust cross his face at the thought which is amusing considering the fact that he’s pining after another one of his superiors – the one next to him on the loveseat. 

But you’re too new to the group to poke fun, you decide, and moreover, befuddled, so you continue the same line of inquiry."But he knows about this?"

"Yes. It'd be kinda weird if he was giving us pornos randomly," Piers says in a tone that almost makes Chris’ constant irritation towards him make sense. 

It's still a little weird, you think.

"Shh!" Chris says. "I can't hear what they're saying, and I'm not putting the goddamn subtitles on."

"Does it matter what they're saying?" Jill laughs a little when she speaks. "Here, let me recap for you," she sits up straighter in her seat like she's about to perform – because she is – before dramatically moaning, "oh, baby, your cock is so big," and in a second, manlier voice, "oh yeah, baby? you like that?"

Chris, unfazed while the others chuckle, clarifies, "They're not even fucking yet, Jill. He was saying—"

"No one cares about the plot."

"I care about the plot."

"We'll be quiet, okay?" you say to diffuse the tension which is already high considering everyone in the room is visibly aroused, likely to the point of frustration. 

"Thank you," Chris says with a sigh that sounds different when his hand is around his dick.

The sounds of his hand, covered in spit, pumping his cock barely covers up the buzzing of the vibrator as you place it against your clit on the lowest setting. 

You can’t help but feel embarrassed by the moan you let out despite how tiny it is, insignificant among the other lewd noises around you. 

You don’t even realize that your gaze has settled on Jill’s tits as they bounce slightly with each heavy breath. She notices, though. 

“I’m not a museum. You don’t have to just look,” she says. “You can touch them.”

She unclasps her bra with one hand and reaches out her other palm to guide your unoccupied hand, knowing you’re new to this whole thing. Her eyes meet yours and you nod before she places your hand on her breast. 

“Shit,” Chris mutters, “that’s hot.” 

And he’s not talking about the TV. 

It’s the thought in everyone’s mind, he’s the only one brave enough to say it aloud. 

Knowing Chris’ eyes are no longer fixated on the TV, Rebecca takes the opportunity to cross in front of it and sit beside you. 

“Tit for tat?” she asks. 

“Tit for tit, you mean?” Jill says.

The joke is stupid but it earns a laugh from you nonetheless. 

And, of course, you agree to the bargain. You take your shirt off and so does Rebecca. 

The vibrator buzzes aimlessly against the fabric of the couch, but you no longer need the artificial stimulation. 

Rebecca's touch is gentle when she rubs your thigh, asking for permission to touch you. In response, you open your legs, allowing her access. She keeps one hand between your thighs and the other between her own, working them in tandem, making you moan in time with her.

Surprising and arousing enough to make you gasp, Jill’s lips meet your neck, and it makes you moan. You're too distracted to hold anything back. Too distracted by the show Piers and Chris put on across the room. The constant sexual tension finally bubbling over in front of your eyes is a miracle. They've been head over heels for each other for years, but neither one of them was willing to admit it. They're still not admitting it per se, they'll say they're just giving each other a hand, being a good friend in a time of need. At least, that’s what they’ll say if you bring it up tomorrow. 

Piers' eyes flit back and forth from Chris' hand around his cock and his around Chris'. He's in shock, awe, and bliss all at once. Chris, is looking directly at you, smug about something.

"Forgot to mention," he says, "whoever cums first is on cleanup duty."

"That's not fair!" you whine. "You should've told me that beforehand."

The worst part is that watching Chris get sucked off is one of the hottest things you've seen (aside from Jill and Rebecca leaning over you to kiss each other).

Your jumbled up mind is still sharp enough to come up with a plan, one good enough to win, you hope. 

“Piers,” you say – your voice coming out a bit shaky, a bit desperate –pointing to the scene on TV – a brunette woman with the most obviously fake boobs you've ever seen is sucking the life out of a man whose barely-trimmed bush is the only thing visible.

You don’t have the strength to say anything else, but he knows what you mean: copy her technique.

While your focus is on Rebecca and Jill, on putting your fingers to good use, on listening to them moan in tandem, you can hear the faint sounds of gagging, presumably from Piers, though they're nearly covered up by Chris groaning in a manner that you'd never expect from someone so stoic.

You can feel Rebecca's thighs begin to tremble and hear Jill's breath hitch while the slick sounds of Chris' hand around Piers' cock get louder as his pace speeds up. But in time with the porno, like it's fated to happen, Chris says in sync with the man, "Shit. I'm fucking cumming."

The woman says something stupid, but Piers just coughs as he tries to catch his breath before letting himself fall over the edge.

Knowing that you've already won, you surrender to the pleasure of Jill and Rebecca's combined assault on your pussy, your tits, and your neck with fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth. And you return the favor with equal determination and fervor.

The tape ends and the screen turns to static (and your mind seems to mirror it). You are snapped out of your daze by Jill, nudging you with her shoulder, "So, same time next week?"

[rene-of-the-blackouts]

Hey-hey-hey! I know you have been wondering, waiting, looking forward to...

Our Let's transmute something together event news!

The time has come to find out who our gorgeous alchemists' duos or teams are!

Lo and behold, the matches are now public (as well as some fun teasers😏):

@neda-epik & @ajthepeach

@anthropwashere & @silosbears

@klainelynch & @hawkeyes-darling

"Never Acting At All"

@detroyteck & @kimbleefucker

@graphx & @the-catmans-offical-2

@aquafrost & @littlebear1537

by Jordana

@paintbrushfrog & @saphkick

@codyis-not-cool & @gooseberryfox

@lycaran & @j0rdync & @jackelopeshop

"Envy is Self Destruction"

by Lyca

@cilasbestos & @scarymonsters-andsupercreeps & @temsiik

@deaddovehasbeeneaten & @bees-and-spice

@momomorriko & @swaggeringsinusoid & @zeaofgreed

Time and time again, Bido had wondered how he’d die. He wasn’t naïve, he had never believed he’d live an exceptionally long life and die peacefully in his sleep. He had tried to avoid danger, had been careful enough to not get involved in any fights, always snuck away before anything could turn violent. When these people had taken him, he had been sure that this would be it. And then, when they hadn’t killed him, part of him had wished they had. That time had been worse than death. And yet… He hadn’t wanted to die. Even now, he still wanted to live. But he wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t strong enough. And he was alone. This was it then. Just so soon after regaining his freedom. Closing his eyes, he waited for the shot to happen. It never came. Instead, there was the sound of bones breaking, followed by a scream and the thud of something metallic hitting the ground. “Y’know, I don’t appreciate others damaging what’s mine.”

by Lina

@writerofallthingsfandom & @pennbzh

@peapodsinspace & @shuboxx

@dont-open-dead-inside-net & unrevealed:)

Professor Elric was a legend. A terrifying legend. Rumours about him ranged from mildly surprising to utterly preposterous, yet they all agreed on one thing: Edward Elric was undefeated, unafraid of anything and anyone.

That was before he encounters his worst enemy. Milk.

"Professor Elric vs. Milk"

Carter & @fandommenagerie

@d1ssolv3dt0by & unrevealed :)

@lynyangell & @awesomedurraworld

‘Take care of my daughter, Roy.’ The array on her back. She’s alone and destitute. And Sensei intended for me to have his notes…He thought I’d marry her. He meant for me to marry her. Is that what she’s expecting?

He’s sitting way too close to her. He can smell the earthy, piney scent of her shampoo, and it’s damn appealing. She’s eighteen. He could… But that’s crazy. What sort of life would that set them up for? A marriage of convenience and obligation? A marriage without love for the sake of alchemy? He wants flame alchemy. Badly. It will change the entire course of his life if he gets his hands on it. He’d endure a loveless marriage if that’s what it took. But the idea of sentencing her to such a fate makes him feel vaguely sick. That’s exactly the opposite of protecting her. Then again, what other options does she have with the array on her back? If he doesn’t marry her…. “Do you want to get married?” he blurts before he can think the words through. He draws away from her, feeling a flush rise on his cheeks. She stares back at him, seemingly stunned as she takes in a quick breath of air. “I mean…only if you do,” she says quietly. Roy blinks. The flush creeps up his collar, and he swallows hard. “I’m sure it’s what my father intended,” Riza murmurs. “But I wasn’t going to approach the subject unless you did.”

"I'll Keep You Safe"

✨️

Stay tuned for the full works, the majority of which will be posted on February 20✨️

[mori-does-sw]

CLONE CRUSHES: DOGMA

PAIRING \ Clone Trooper Dogma x GN!Reader SYNOPSIS \ How Dogma behaves when he has a crush on you. WARNING(S) \ A teensy bit of angst. AUTHOR'S NOTE \ It has come to my attention that I forgot to include Dogma when I wrote the Torrent Company headcanons, and I can now definitively say: My bad. I wrote it as a mini-project while I work on some bigger things. Stay tuned!

If you thought that Rex was awkward, Dogma is so much worse. All of his more-than-platonic thoughts about you are filtered through enough layers of self-repression and self-consciousness that his cuteness aggression turns into passive-aggression.

In truth, Dogma is fascinated by you. 

Raised in Kamino, he doesn’t have much reference for how normal people live other than the very essentials that flash-training taught him. When you offer to show him and his vode where to find those holovids you like so much, what your favorite things to read are; little things like tooka cafés or street musicians or stealing the free paint chips in hardware stores, he’s overwhelmed. But he likes it.

A little too much.

He isn’t sure what you’re doing to him, isn’t sure if he’s okay with it or not, and proceeds to shut down almost entirely the moment you start giving him Feelings™. You’ll be having a perfectly normal conversation and, the moment you accidentally touch or smile at him too brightly, he’ll just disengage. Any attempt to continue speaking will be met with grunts, and the minute you turn your back he’ll run away.

Every interaction with Dogma feels timed, but you can never decipher how long you have on the clock. It’s no wonder that, with his strange behavior, you’re completely at a loss when it comes to his feelings for you—no idea how much you mean to him.

Ironically, he’s very much like a cat. He’s only comfortable being close when you aren’t paying attention to him. If you’re working, he’ll bring you the holopads you need or fetch you a ration bar if you decide to skip eating. He tends to stick near to you at large events or in a crowd, keeping an eye on you even as your presence reassures him.

He’s secretly fond of being in the same space as you. You don’t have to talk or even acknowledge him, just being able to listen to you relax or do your tasks makes him happy.

While it’s true that Dogma’s actions are more effective at making you confused than getting his interest across, your positive reactions help him gain confidence. A little patience with him goes a long way.

Eventually he’ll come to terms with the fact that he wants you, and that he wants you to want him back.

[heartofwritiing]

home is wherever you are tonight

paring: cc!wilbur soot x fem!reader

summary: its your birthday, a day you dread every year due to bad memories, and wilbur manages to change your mindset.

authors note: this has been sitting in my drafts since march and i forgot about it oops. this is completely self indulgent. Ive dreaded my birthday for the past five years because of personal reasons… i thought maybe writing a non-shitty fake birthday would make me feel better so, it did lol. enjoy!! :)

warnings: self indulgent, mentions of childhood trama, negative past events, mentions of toxic family, fluff, Wilbur being the cutest-best boyfriend, hurt-comfort, yes the title is a lyric from a lizzy mcalpine song.. unedited!

The day had come. the day you dreaded every year for as long as you could remember. it was your birthday.

Most people would be elated about turning another year older, to celebrate but not you. Instead, it filled you with utter disinterest and resentment. To you, it was just another day on the calendar.

Ever since you could remember you’ve just hated your birthday. Each year just felt like they got worse and worse with the number of times You had been let down. Whether it was by family drama or people just forgetting. It was the same every year. So when you finally moved away from your toxic relatives you pretty much forget about it. Only remembering when you'd get a text from your parents to wish you a happy birthday. At least they remembered now that you were gone...

You were relieved when no one at work had brought it up. you never really talked to your coworkers about your personal life, you weren't that type of person. Still, you were grateful the only attention you got today was from one of your peers Matt, asking about the printer in the office not working right.

When you walked into your flat, what you weren’t expecting was too see your boyfriend standing near the door waiting for you.

“why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?” Wilbur asks in a slightly offended tone.

The front door hasn’t even shut yet and he’s caught you completely off guard with his question. Your heart drops in your stomach.

“hello to you too,” you snort, putting your bag down and sliding your jacket off. "And how'd you even know?" Avoiding the question. Cause that will make this better.

he sighs.

“Answer the question please, love,”

You’re toeing off the uncomfortable shoes you were required to wear at your job as you blankly bink back at him.

You can tell by the frowned expression on his face that he wasn’t just gonna let you drop this anytime soon. His arms are crossed over his sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as his curls fall around his eyes.

“maybe because it's not a big deal,” you shrugged. Wilbur stops you with a hand on your shoulder before you can escape to your shared room. It wasn't forceful but gentle, his eyes asking you to stay, talk, anything. You just wanted to go to bed and sleep until your shift tomorrow and just forget about this whole day.

"What do you mean by that?" he asks. "I don't particularly like my birthday but still celebrate with friends, family, and loved ones."

There it was.

You wanted to avoid this.

"Look, I don't want to pressure you into talking about this, you can tell me when you're ready. I can tell how uncomfortable you got when I asked you outright why you didn't say anything about it being your birthday, I'm sorry..."

You could tell he was just confused and who could blame him. You had only been dating for about a year and finally moved in together last month. He didn't want to pressure you into anything you weren't ready for, which was one of the many things you adored about him. Always so patient and thoughtful about your feelings and well-being.

There was no avoiding it now as he asked the question. Your heart beating in your ears.

“Why don’t you like your birthday, love?”

“well…” you began, but you could feel the lump in your throat forming as you thought carefully how to put it. You clear your throat and take a deep breath. “I just, have a lot of trauma revolving around today,”

Wilbur has moved slowly towards you now, almost like you were a spooked animal and he was trying to calm you. He listened carefully as you spoke slowly.

“my parents fought a lot growing up, and even on my birthday they just didn’t seem to care, even for one day, so i mostly spent my birthdays alone.”

The look in his eyes says it all. He feels so heartbroken for you. You collapsed into his chest and he wrapped you in his arms, squeezing you firmly and you felt the weight in your chest fading.

"Well listen, I got you your favorite type of cake, a good bottle of wine, not that cheap shit, the really nice one we liked. we're gonna sit on the couch and eat, and you can tell me all about your day." he pauses only to bring your face out from his chest to look you in your eyes. "and then, we're gonna cuddle and I'm gonna tell you how much I love and appreciate you."

With that, he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs and kisses your nose softly. You swear that press of his lips was what made you cave. You began to break down in front of him.

Wilbur's hands seem to be the only thing keeping you upright at the moment. If he wasn't holding you, you were sure you would have fallen to your knees by now. You sob silently as you take his wrists in your hands but don't remove them from your cheeks. The intensity of the long work day and all the recurring memories this day brought you every year, combined with Wilbur's sweet gestures and words made you break.

You felt everything come down on you all at once, yet there Wilbur was, always waiting for you at the end of the day. Always there to comfort you and support you. So these weren’t sad tears no, they were happy tears. Finally, you found someone who cherished you and cared for you enough.

-

@trashcanduck @merakiwi @addxms @ax-y10 @highstonedcat

[spidrzfall]

Tough Night? ⤑ Peter Parker.

Should this be an extended series? I dunno yall but hey we working w this. Literally 5 pages long oml 💀 please somebody take away my computer as alwags love you guys smm enjoy !!- A.

☆° Peter Parker x Male Reader

☆°• slight angst + fluff

°•▪︎ Fem readers DNI ♡♡

♧ warnings: Mentions of drinking! all characters are 21+ !!♧

♡ NOTES: might turn this into a possible series - slow burn

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Peter took a long sigh. He shouldn’t be here, he knew it was wrong being there let alone when he was in a sour mood, how couldn’t he though? He acknowledged it was wrong and even with the underlying guilt in his heart he couldn’t stop from just…feeling it. That sense of sadness and deep longing, after all seeing your crush marry your best friend wasn’t always the best thing in the world. Seeing Gwen getting married to his friend, Harry, it felt awful to say the least, he was happy seeing his two friends get married but the thought of Gwen just being happy with someone crushed him, more than he would ever admit. Peter knew he shouldn’t ruin this and didn’t plan to by any means, he didn’t plan on stealing the spotlight and yelling out ‘I Object!’ in the middle of the ceremony. If anything he was willing to suck it up and continue forward, supporting Gwen and Harry, it’s what was right, especially because he was Harry’s Groomsman. 

Though he had to be honest with himself, there was only so much he could support, as the ceremony came to a close and they all headed out to the open garden venue to begin the rest of the event’s party, as for the most part Peter stood off to the side of the whole party, not knowing much people who attended and the ones he did know showed up with their dates or were chatting it up. Watching the newlyweds dance together only planted a sad smile onto Peter’s face deciding to himself that this was enough self-torture, stepping outside the venue and down to the concrete stairs in hopes of being alone. His eyes landed on somebody sitting on the steps a few beer bottles sat next to the man as Peter sat 3 steps behind him, “tough night?” Peter whispered as he brought his legs up so he could rest his head on them as he faced the back of the other. “You could say that, not that this is the toughest night of my life but it qualifies” the man spoke as he turned around to face Peter, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand and beside him another 3 full beer bottles and 2 empty bottles which were thrown to the other side of the steps long forgotten and a safety hazard for people who didn’t spot it. “You too, huh?” the man spoke as Peter let out a soft strained chuckle as he nodded “Hah…yeah but what are you gonna do… Mind if I take a sip?”

“By any means” the man replied, handing Peter the bottle he was drinking which Peter gladly accepted, not bothering to clean the top of it as he just took a large sip of it, an exhale leaving his lips the liquor hitting his system. “You know, this ain’t exactly the ideal place to be lonely” Peter commented his hand playing with the bottle as he saw the liquid inside it splosh around. “Yeah, not exactly the scene” The other replied as Peter stood up walking over to the man and sitting next to him. “What are you doing out here all alone? I’m sure the groom and the bride are dying to see their guests having fun.” Peter partially joked, getting comfortable on the steps or as comfortable as a person could be sitting on a concrete surface. 

“I’m actually a plus one.”

“Ah, Where’s your friend then?” Peter asked, handing the man back the bottle after mindlessly toying with it, seeing the man take a swing at the beer before handing it to Peter who finished it off. “Took the car and got lucky” the man replied. “Seriously? Let me guess; they didn’t have the decency to tell you?” Peter set the empty beer bottle down as he licked his lips savoring the leftover taste of the booze. “No they did, I just decided to stay at a party where I don’t know anybody” The guy spoke sarcastically “He’s got an attitude” – “And a name” – “Does he?”

“(M/N)).” (M/N) replied calmly the feeling of the two prior bottles finally starting up his confidence. “Peter Parker” Peter replied as he shook the man's hand. “So, what’s up with you?” (M/N) asked as he faced Peter, turning his body towards the brunette. “Well, you know, not every day you see your crush get married to your long-term best friend” Peter replied as if it was a completely normal thing to feel or even dare to confess. He caught a glimpse of (M/N) hearing the sound of him sucking in some air as cringed slightly before speaking “Yikes. So, you’re in love with the bride?” That caused Peter to take in what he had said and realized he probably didn’t word it correctly. “Not on purpose, I’ve always had a crush on her since high school and well…Harry well he’s charismatic and more confident than I so naturally he got the girl.” Peter explained. “Well at least you’re not crazy and yelled out object mid ceremony” (M/N) laughed as he opened up another beer bottle. “I’m in love but not that in love, I'm not going to just ruin my best friend's wedding!” Peter laughed along with him. 

“Fair enough, you don’t exactly look like the type who would do something so extreme. You look like…the awkward type.” (M/N) commented as he chuckled teasing the other man earning a scoff from Peter who didn’t know if he should take offense or laugh so he took the latter, “Got me there. I’m not exactly well in public settings, I’m not terrible at it either but you know.” Peter defended himself as he looked up at the night sky, the moon whole as the light emitted below towards the two men. “Did you and her ever…?” (M/N) asked as he looked at Peter. “What? No…no we never dated, I really only had a crush on her and nothing more, Though I’m sure she knew, it was blatantly obvious” Peter replied as he rubbed his hands together out of sheer nervousness. “She just never returned the feelings, so she never said anything which im grateful she spared the embarrassment of rejection” he continued. 

“Ignorance is bliss.” – “Ignorance is bliss.” Peter repeated. “Best thing’s to move on, you know? I know it’s hard to move on…but if you don’t, you’re only hurting yourself at the end of the day besides I’m sure you’ll find somebody soon. You seem like a sweet guy from what I've seen hanging out with you or maybe it’s just the booze.” (M/N) spoke earning him a small laugh from Peter. “Yeah, I know. I’ll just have to move on, if she was able to, I’m sure I can too…” Peter replied, sighing and taking a deep breath right after as he heard the slow music come from further into the venue, knowing the slow dance for the newlyweds had just begun.

How Deep Is Your Love by Bees Gees can be heard playing as Peter smiled sadly, humming softly to the song. A part of his heart broken, the song bringing back old memories…

It was high-school prom, right before graduation. Gwen was outside crying seeing as her date had stood her up. Peter took note of her crying as he wanted to make his way outside only for Harry to practically beat him to the punch, going to comfort the girl as Peter watched from the sidelines. The music from inside the venue played as the slow dance music finally started, most of the couples were already on the dance floor getting ready for their little romantic moments. How Deep Is Your Love slowly taking its start as Peter watched Harry bringing Gwen inside and dancing with her…Peter only looked from the sidelines as he took that as a sign to just leave the dance, always wondering in the back of his mind…what if he never asked Harry to give him a ride to the dance? What if he never asked Harry to stay behind and wait in the parking lot? It was far too late to wonder though.

(M/N) frowned slightly as he saw the change in Peter’s behavior as the song played behind them inside the venue. Seeing the man disassociate in front of him he lightly tapped Peter’s shoulder, causing the other to snap out of it. “Sorry,” Peter mumbled out an apology as he rubbed his arm trying to get rid of the chills he felt from the cold breeze. “You don’t have to apologize, just making sure you don’t cloud out on me…I’m like not exactly sober and don’t have a car to drive you to the hospital or to help.” (M/N) commented as he looked away from the other, a part of him feeling bad for the other's misfortune of being stuck in a situation as strange as this one. The muffled music filled the tense air as the two sat down next to one another, leaning into each other's company after all who else to rely on than a stranger? 

“You wanna dance?” (M/N) broke the silence as the song continued from behind them, the question breaking Peter out of his dazed mind as he hesitated before nodding. (M/N) getting up as he and Peter walked to a secluded area of the venue, the music slightly louder as they were near the speakers, Peter placed his hands on (M/N)’s shoulder and the other took the man’s hand as they laced their fingers together, (M/N)’s other hand placed onto Peter’s waist as the two slow danced. It was botched up as Peter could smell the clear aroma of booze within the other man as they stumbled occasionally stepping on one another’s feet earning themselves a good laugh. “You’re a terrible dancer” Peter laughed, his words nothing but the truth. “I’m drunk, I’m usually a great dancer.”

“Talking about your clear unsober-ness, you need a ride?” Peter whispered knowing the man wasn’t in any condition to drive besides it wasn’t like he had a car to even drive back, the question earning Peter a nod from (M/N) as they both pulled away from each other as Peter began walking out and heading towards the parking lot before being pulled in by (M/N). “You know we have to say goodbye to the newlyweds, right?” Peter had the misfortune of agreeing that it would be beyond rude if they didn’t, as the two walked into the loud open area where the guests all were the slow dance over as they saw Gwen and Harry making conversation with some of the guests.

The two men walked up to them as Peter cleared his throat gaining attention from the two as he began to talk, “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt but I have to head out already.” Earning sad stares from the two “already? The party started less than an hour ago, you can’t be seriously leaving already.” Gwen spoke up first as she looked at Peter. “Yeah man, you usually stay late. I know you don’t have work tomorrow, did something happen? Did somebody tell you something? You know we’ll handle it right?” Harry spoke right after Gwen. “What? No it’s nothing like that, I offered them a ride because I’m pretty sure they hit the booze a bit too much and they don’t have a ride” Peter replied pointing towards (M/N), letting the two’s concerns die down.

“Why don’t they just get a cab?” Harry mumbled under his breath, it wasn’t meant to come out as rude and yet it slightly did. Peter sighed as he shook his head, before speaking once more “I don’t think it’s safe getting a cab in New York half drunk” Harry had to agree there as it didn’t take long for the two newlyweds to accept Peter’s leave as they said their goodbyes as well as (M/N) saying his goodbyes, the two men finally leaving as they walked to Peter’s car; a black Range Rover Sport. ‘Fancy Car…’ (M/N) spoke in his mind as he checked out the car Peter unlocked the car got into the driver's seat and (M/N) followed suit and got into the passenger side. (M/N) mumbling out his address to Peter as the long ride began back to Queens. 

“You don’t live as far from where I live…” Peter commented as he drove, the radio silently playing in the background. “Really?” – “Yeah, 10 minutes away I believe” – “What are the odds…” (M/N) whispered as he rested his head against the window of the car, seeing the street lights pass by them the two eventually getting to (M/N)’s apartment complex. As Peter put on his emergency lights the other got off and closed the door behind him, the window rolling down directly afterwards. “Thanks for the ride, Peter. I appreciate it” (M/N) spoke as he leaned against the frame of where the window was. “Don’t mention it, thanks for the almost empty booze and listening to my tragic love life” Peter joked as he laughed. “Hey anything for a suffering stranger, seriously though keep your head up. I’m sure you’ll find somebody great one day…but if you need a friend to talk gimmie a call or a text any works.” (M/N) suggested as he took out a pen from his pocket and an old receipt scribbling his number onto it and leaving it on Peter’s dashboard. “I’ll make sure to bug you whenever I can…stranger” – “Can’t wait”

A car behind them honking its horn tore them both out of the conversation as (M/N) quickly waved his goodbye as he saw Peter drive away, taking that as his cue to make his way quickly into his apartment complex. Who knew meeting up with a stranger would be quite an interesting side quest? Entering was greeted by his adoptive brother, Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson, who was on the couch.

“Well look what the cat dragged in, thanks so much for stranding me at the wedding!” (M/N) spoke as he smacked his brother's head, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. “Sorry, I got caught up in a moment, I was blowing up your phone. How’d you even get home?” Flash commented as he didn’t bother looking at the other his eyes focused on the screen of the television that played the basketball game. “I got a ride, no thanks to you.” – “who gave you a ride?” – “Some guy named Peter Parker.”

The name caused Flash to go wide-eyed as he spit out the water in his mouth that he was about to drink, “You got a ride from WHO?!”

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[cannedpickledpeaches]

Insert Your Name (11)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Congratulations! You have successfully made it all about you (positive). This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Sorry that the tags haven't been working for the past couple of posts! I had to go in and edit the html for each individual one T-T please forgive me

Tags: @guava-enjoyer @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol @night-shadowblood-writes2 @haveneulalie @owodi

A strange sense of satisfaction fills you as surprise fills the man’s face, but you don’t show it. You need to see this through. If you’re powerless in the face of his ability, you simply need to borrow his power. So what if he’s akin to a god? All you need to do is bring him to your side. Whoever that author is, whoever took over (Y/N)’s body—maybe they aren’t capable of using such an asset effectively. However, you’re confident you won’t let that advantage go to waste.

The man hums in thought. “I suppose it could be done without much fanfare. I would simply need to shift my attention to your experiences and abandon the current story. However, you would need to have your story recorded somewhere, in whatever form you may wish for it to take.”

You understand what he’s getting at. A story needs a medium, just like that manuscript. There are many options: on film, as a novel, as a collage of pictures. No strict rules exist for expression of self.

“I’ll keep a journal. Every day, I’ll write an entry, and I’ll also use it as a planner. This way, my ‘story’ will have the events that occurred in my life, how they affected my ‘character development,’ and also outline how I expect the story to ‘progress.’ Is that good enough?”

You still don’t think of yourself as a fictional character. You’re real, in every aspect, to yourself. But that doesn’t matter right now. Functionally, you’re a character to this man. You’ll use that assumption to put yourself in the most advantageous position.

“Yes, that would be a rather interesting way to tell your story. There are indeed many stories that were written in the form of diary entries, so this is not an issue at all. This would, in fact, make things easier for me. I would not have to go through the paperwork and expend energy to bring someone from another world since you already exist in Twisted Wonderland as an established character. There is just one thing you should know before you make this decision.”

“Tell me.” Of course there are strings attached. There always are. You prepare yourself. Self-sacrifice in small amounts is necessary, of course, but if there’s anything you can negotiate with . . . .

“I will have to take the previous author’s soul out of (Y/N)’s body. (Y/N)’s soul will regain control of her own body, since it was never removed, only dormant. Since the author’s original body cannot function without a soul, she cannot return to her world. It will disappear, never to be recovered, lost to the fabric of what forms this space. Are you still willing to proceed?”

“Is that it?” You expected something else. This has nothing to do with you giving up anything. In fact, it could even be considered a bonus. This woman whose story made your life and relationships exceedingly difficult will disappear down to the traces of her soul. It’s an easy decision. “Of course.”

“How cold-hearted you are.” He chuckles down at his teacup. It never seems to drain empty no matter how he sips it. “That is not an undesirable quality in protagonists, although they often do not have a happy ending in fairytales.”

“Is that supposed to deter me or something?” You stay resolute. “My future was always uncertain no matter if it’s a story or not. I’m in the mafia. I’ve come to terms that horrible things could happen at any moment because of the nature of my job a long, long time ago. It’s my responsibility to plan so that I reduce those chances as much as possible. And you’re going to help me.”

“Yes, I am.” He glances at the fireplace, which has burned down to glowing red embers. “Perhaps you should count yourself lucky that you are under my jurisdiction. I am partial to tragic endings, but I also do not mind if an amoral character triumphs in the end. Some of my peers would adamantly ensure it does not happen.”

You furrow your brows. This is not the first time he brought up something being under his “jurisdiction.” However, this is the first time he’s mentioned “peers” instead of “characters.”

“There are others like you?”

“Yes, of course. Twisted Wonderland is filled with too many stories for me to manage on my own. Since you are mainly involved with the Leech Mafia and stories of the Coral Sea, you fall under my jurisdiction.”

It makes sense. This man compared himself to a god, but he isn’t one. He isn’t omnipotent or omniscient.

“Who are they?”

He tilts his head. “You would not know us even if I told you.”

“I’m curious. Tell me anyway.”

“Such a curious character.” He glances at the embers again. “Alright, I see no harm in it. My peers overseeing Twisted Wonderland include Walt Disney, the Brothers Grimm, Hanna Diyab, Victor Hugo, and Lewis Carroll, among others.”

None of these names ring a bell. It is just a list of names, but having more information is never a bad thing.

“And your name? I should know how to address you.”

“Oh, I have not yet introduced myself to you? My apologies, I must be turning forgetful in my old age.” He laughs at himself in a good-natured manner. “My name is Hans Christian Anderson. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You introduce yourself as well. He extends a hand to you. When your hands connect in a firm handshake, the new deal you’ve made feels solidified.

Anderson looks at the fireplace one more time. The light has died completely, the little room lit only by the moonlight pouring in the window. With a gentle but decisive clap of his hands, he stands from his armchair.

“That was a fruitful discussion, and I thank you for your patience and understanding. I fear time has run out, however, and so I will be sending you back shortly. I’ll place you right back where you came from: at the moment when I brought you here.”

“Hold on!” Too soon, too sudden. You still have so much to say. He holds up a hand, stopping your protests.

“If you’d like to communicate with me, simply write a request for it in your new journal. I wish you best of luck.”

And with that, the world goes white again.

This is the story of a girl whose name is no longer hers. A girl so common that she may as well be a faceless background character in another person’s story. A girl who wishes, more than anything, to be the protagonist of a love story that will sweep her off her feet and solve all her problems.

Her family is normal. Her friends, too. And so is she. It isn’t enough for her. The world inside that game she plays is so magical, so whimsical, so perfect. The characters are handsome, powerful, clever, funny, or rich, or some combination of those qualities. If she enters this world, surely all those wonderful characters would treat her as someone special. They’d love and revere her unconditionally. She pines for a man who would love her and her shortcomings in their entirety, no matter what she does.

The beauty about fictional characters is that because they are fictional, they can be whatever she wants them to be. She can wholeheartedly believe they’ll love her, and there is nothing wrong with that. But she isn’t satisfied with that alone. It needs to be real.

Desperately, she writes a story revolving around a faceless, flawless main character who she desperately wishes she could be. Everyday, the writing consumes her, dragging her into a fantasy of bliss. She begins to resent her reality. Nobody in real life will love her the correct way. Nobody can be as good as the characters she pours her love and headcanons on. She doesn’t consider how love can be gradual, nor does realize someone might have to get to know her before loving her. After all, in her fanfiction, the perfect mafioso loves her main character upon the first meeting and devotes himself with no questions asked. Isn’t that the ideal love?

One day, a miracle occurs. She meets a man who offers to make her story into her reality. Jumping on the chance to live her perfectly crafted life of happiness, she agrees. Finally. Finally, she will be loved the way she wants.

At first, everything went perfectly. Real life follows her fanfiction to the letter. Jade is charming, Floyd is endearing, and a string of coincidences leads her to meet Vil, another handsome bachelor. Love surrounds her at every turn. All she needs in this life are the handsome men who give her special treatment. After all, this body, this life—(Y/N)—was created by her, for her use. All of the previous relationships this body entertained no longer matter. They aren’t hers, anyway.

The polaroids that occupied her nightstand are probably in a landfill somewhere. The aesthetic was cute, befitting the tastes of a character she modelled after herself, but the person in them is irrelevant. Some side character she’s never going to see again. No matter; she’ll eventually replace those polaroids with cute photos of herself and her new love. (Y/N)—no, the placeholder—has served its purpose. It will not miss those useless decorations since it will never again have its own consciousness.

So where did it all go wrong? Perhaps it was wrong from the start. She should have cursed that old man for scamming her. Her happy ending was never a guarantee. How dare a throwaway side character upend her perfect, fairy tale ending? Is that even allowed? They’re all just characters anyway. How can they steal from a real person?

Until the very end, she couldn’t see anyone around her as anything other than characters in a story. Maybe if she did, she might have gotten the love she wanted. Now, she disappears, having never achieved the goal she so desperately grasped at. Like seafoam, her hopes and yearning for love bubbles and disappears.

Hans Christian Anderson places a book into an empty spot on one of his many shelves. He has always been fond of tragedies. As for this new story that’s unfolding . . . who’s to say how it will end? He’s a patient man. With a smile, he settles into an armchair and sips from a cup of tea. He’s looking forward to it. When it eventually ends, like all stories inevitably do, he’ll shelve it and find another story to bring to life.

The world suddenly flashes into focus. The sun’s dying embers flicker on the sea. Sand shifts between your toes. Fingers graze your neck. Before you can activate your Signature Spell, (Y/N) crashes into you and you both topple over into a bed of sand. Bloodlust raises the hairs on the back of your neck. But it isn’t coming from (Y/N). Instead, you instinctively wrap one arm around her and hold the other one out in front of you, shielding her from Jade.

“Wait, wait! Jade, it’s fine. I’m okay.”

He freezes. One of his hands stops a centimeter away from (Y/N)’s hair. She doesn’t react. Slowly, you lay back down, heaving a sigh. You shift her face to the side so that she doesn’t suffocate in your shoulder. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones, complementing the slow rise and fall of her ribs.

“See? She’s asleep.”

Jade furrows his brows. “I fail to understand. Most importantly, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah.” You chuckle, staring up at the stars that unveil themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m just a little tired.”

You explain everything to him. He seems skeptical, but eventually, he accepts it. He sits in the sand next to you, his hand covering yours. You pretend not to notice, but it offers a soothing calm to your exhausted mind.

“I’m sorry,” you say, glancing at his side profile. “Even if I write that Vil Schoenheit will cure your parents, it might not happen because of continuity issues. Maybe (Y/N) will still be able to convince him.”

“That’s alright.” He catches your gaze. “It would make the story progress more smoothly if we continue with our talks with Walrus.”

He accepted it so quickly. For that matter, so did you. You wonder briefly if there is something at play that makes you accept the reality of your situation as fact—if it’s because you’re a character after all—but that’s all speculation. Not worth your time and energy to figure out.

“Bottom line is, this is my story now. So I’ll make sure the curse on your parents is dispelled.”

“How reliable.” Jade gives you a gentle smile, one that causes an unfamiliar stirring in your chest. “Thank you. What would you like in recompense?”

You weren’t expecting him to offer anything at all. But since he offered, you aren’t one to refuse.

“Money.”

His quiet laughter blends in with the sound of rushing waves.

“No hesitation at all, I see. Of course, I will pay you adequately for your invaluable help.”

“I also want something else.” You fiddle with the strands of (Y/N)’s hair. “I’d like a vacation. Just a week or two after everything settles down so I can go back to my hometown with my mom.”

“Is that what the money is for?”

“Yeah.” Your heart feels a little lighter. “You should visit the Coral Sea after your parents wake up as well. I’m sure you’ll want to spend time with them.”

A pause. You scrutinize Jade’s expression in the low light, but his expression is wholly unfamiliar to you. He almost looks . . . nervous.

“Would you come with us?”

You blink. “Don’t you want to spend time with just your family?”

“Yes, but my parents would be delighted to have you over again. You have not been to our home under the sea in a long time, and I would be more than happy to show you around again.”

“It won’t be a bother?”

“Far from it.” His thumb rubs softly against the back of your hand. “I . . . We are very fond of you.”

You can’t help but think there’s an ulterior motive, but you accept. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve travelled to their home under the sea, and this most likely won’t be the last.

Suddenly, (Y/N) shifts on your chest. A soft noise escapes her lips as though she’s finally awakened from a long nap. Her bleary eyes find yours. Kind, lovely, and gentle eyes. The eyes of the (Y/N) you know and love, the eyes of your friend.

“Huh? Are we on the beach? What happened?”

A relieved laugh bubbles out of your throat and you hug her tightly. Confused but sweet, she reciprocates with reassuring pats to your arm.

“Yeah, we’re on the beach. Let’s get you home.” You sit up and smile as she fusses over the sand in your hair. Normalcy is slowly but surely returning. “I’ll tell you everything on the way there.”

[mochilatae]

Underneath (JJK x FemReader)

Word Count: 5.0k (ish)

Pairing: JJK/Jungkook x FemReader (Y/N)

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Public play, oral sex (you receiving), orgasms (multiple), fingering, sexy Jungkook, college aged Jungkook and older reader, tension, clit sucking/licking, nervousness/fear, implied other public stuff later.

Genre: PwP

AUs: College Jungkook/College BTS

Summary: A special dinner date in the big city turns into something more with your younger boyfriend.

Author’s Note: Fearless, hot college boy Jungkook (from my Jungkook story Adore) is back. This is some love for my older readers and those who have that younger guy/older woman kink (like me). I've been working on this since the middle of November off and on. Due to life events and lots of struggles/crisis of self love, it took me far too long.

The usual: forgive/overlook typos, inaccuracies or issues and just enjoy it. No one is perfect. We're here for a good time. Thank you for reading and giving a kudo or reblog, if you liked it. Neither is required but always appreciated.

Tag List: @kiestrokes @worldwideseal

Jungkook pushed you closer to the table with a single burst of effort. 

It was nothing for him–as if it could ever be troublesome. To you it was everything. A hallmark of his younger age and the strength that came with. You tried often to forget the difference in years, but moments like this came so often, ready to prod your memory, relentlessly. 

Your inner teen was squealing at this display of raw power. At least this time any reaction stayed off your face. “Thanks..” Smiling and pensive, your eyes trailed Jungkook to his seat. 

He settled, then grabbed and unfolded a napkin, dutifully laying it across his lap. Finally his eyes returned to you, where he seemed to enjoy having them the most. The interest always stunned you. It never flagged regardless of place and time. Mundane or fancy–like now with limited candle light in this massive dining space.

“You don’t have to thank me, baby.” He wore an easy grin like his favorite sweatshirt. Natural. Oh-so casual and fitting just right. You loved his sweatshirts–spending weekends wearing one with just panties and socks. Sometimes at his place, but most of the time at yours. You’d loved his smile from the first time you’d seen it at the coffee shack. Each day since had just cemented that enjoyment.

“Baby..” Your face, once prickling in the night’s crisping temperature, now warmed far too quickly. A few words and he brought the blood right to the skin. It was like fire on your nerves,too. When it came to Jungkook you were always so easy–not that he minded. 

You brushed twitching fingers along one temple and tucked a strand along the back of one ear. “You like calling me that..” Your tone was calm, reminding him. Jungkook’s grin was charmingly boyish. 

“I like what the name does to you, Y/n. There’s a difference.” 

Around you both the restaurant hummed with voices. Other customers–pairs of couples most of all–enjoying the same experience you two were about to have: fine dining in a big city. It wasn’t anything like the small town you’d hardly traveled away from your whole life. 

As he studied the silverware on either side of the plate, you watched that dark, lightly fluffy hair dancing sliding either direction as his head tilted. He studied the menu for a moment. Confusion slowly changed his expression but you found it all the more endearing. There wasn’t much your younger boyfriend could be baffled at but this menu was among those few things, apparently. 

“There’s nothing like this place in town, is there?” He observed, tentatively. You picked up a menu, scanning the offerings. Peeking over the top, you saw his eyes peering again. Gone was the eager glimmer. Now there was a quiet heat.

You knew that energy. 

“What?” Your menu inched higher, shielding from his hungry stare. Maybe futile, but necessary. Jungkook’s closed menu now met the table.  He must have already decided. As usual the appetite had come along. When it came to food, Jungkook never left that behind.  

“Do I have something on my face? Staring at me like that–” Your fingers twitched around the menu, feeling the firm leather and small bumps of stitching. EVERYTHING felt palpable. Even the air. Funny how often that still happened with him.

“No. But I can think of something that should be. Those lips..cheeks… your forehead, maybe—” 

“Jungkook!” It was like a phantom gut punch as you gasped out his name, eyes popping. The back of your neck warmed too as temperature expanded and descended. Damn him and that lack of awareness for social expectations. He wasn’t bothered OR pressured with the limitations that your age had given you. There was still a light freedom to his mind and attitude. 

“I can’t help it.” He pouted, almost ready to burst with a faux innocence, if it weren’t for that smirk. It was arousing and infuriating. If Jungkook could understand how readily you whipped back and forth between excitement and fear. Just once..to have that same power over him…

“We’re here for dinner. You know what you want?” You finally sighed. 

“Yes.” 

“I need a minute.. If the waiter shows up to take our orders, you go first. It’ll buy me some time.” He should know the routine–you did that often enough every date night at any local restaurant in town, even if you both always got the same thing at those favorite haunts. 

The dark sweater and slacks he’d worn had done exactly as you’d hoped, taking the youthful attractiveness and leveled it to a handsome maturity. Since you’d started dating, his evolution was stunning. Jungkook was calmer. More confident, where he’d been boisterous and devil-may-care. With his maturity you’d been in the fight of your life against a regression to “horny college girl”. 

Eventually that was supposed to go away, right?  

-----------------------------------------------------------

A few minutes passed, then the waiter appeared. As usual, Jungkook was already smiling, making conversation readily. So easily it was never unsurprising. This man was a social butterfly and it was a charm to watch. 

Even his hemming and hawing over a choice only brought you so much reprieve. Eventually it was your turn. The waiter was facing you, pen poised over the order pad, lips curved politely and eyes distant. Expectation grew in the silence. It was doing a good job to push back the voices at the perimeter of this shared space. 

Eyes trained on the menu cover, you combed back into memory quickly. No need to panic, even if you couldn’t remember right now. What had you chosen? Why was it only blank when your lips worked? Finally you grasped at the first thing that came to mind: a chicken dish–glazed with something. A pureed vegetable. Something else too–a side with a vaguely french name.  

Finally you spoke. “I’ll take the chicken–” The waiter smiled, pen already moving with the barest head bob. “I think it’s the one with the puree—” You could feel Jungkook’s eyes and the waiter’s curt nod, cutting off further comment. He knew what you’d meant and that was enough. 

“That’s a good choice. Some wine for you both?” 

Jungkook’s eyes darted to the waiter. “Red or white?” He’d just recently learned the difference with your last date to a local winery. That date ended on the best experience you’d ever had in the backseat of his car. 

“We have both. Is there a preference?” 

Even spotting Jungkook’s checking glance in your peripherals you kept focus on the waiter, watching as he jotted a note then waited, staring at Jungkook. You dared not protest, even if it was predictable what had always happened when enough wine got in your system. At home it wasn’t a big deal–it was familiarity and fun. Tonight, in a big city? Slight inebriation in a big, confusing city like this didn’t seem nearly as appealing or sensible. 

Left in charge Jungkook finally spoke. “We’ll leave it up to you. Surprise us. We trust you.“ 

The waiter’s brow lifted, his smile tight. If your boyfriend was going to take a risk, he was determined to make it big AND interesting. Of course you should have guessed, but the bell was rung now–no going back. A quick nod and the waiter straightened, closing the order pad. Tucking the menus under his arm, the man bowed lightly. 

“Very good..I’ll get the order in and bring something back shortly.” 

You watched Jungkook’s stare following the waiter’s departure. The man rounded the corner and went out of sight.

“What?” Jungkook’s brows pinched when he met your gaze again. Like he had exactly zero idea what he did to the night’s direction. 

“Wine?” You hadn’t planned to be the scolding girlfriend but you couldn’t hide the surprise at Jungkook’s choice. He knew his way around beers and shots–based on the stories he told you from his life on campus, but this wasn’t a college party. Rather than annoyance, his face was serene. 

“Y/n, it’s a special occasion. We don’t go out like this–out of town. Last time I checked we enjoy ourselves pretty fucking well, even with alcohol.” Jungkook was substituting the word ‘even’ for ‘especially’, calling back memories. Nights of tangled limbs. Moaning. Sweating and many, MANY orgasms. That was what brought the weighted heat in his eyes again, right now. Stupid, optimistic you, thinking the ravenous gleam was just hunger for a good, expensive meal. 

“That might be true.” You murmured. “..But we’re far from home. What if something happens? Buzzed or drunk in a big city… Lots of true crime and horror stories start that way.” You weren’t a teetotaler, but you weren’t young and foolish anymore. With age you’d abandoned blind trust that the world was a safe place. 

Jungkook tittered. “Big imagination, Y/n.  I never have an issue and believe me..I’ve wandered to the wrong end of the city on the most godless of hours. You know I wouldn’t let you get hurt. You’re with me–and safe..” He glanced and let one hand stretch across the table. You took it, enjoying the tightening warmth around your fingers that stopped the shaking right away. A reassuring squeeze, and he tugged a little. When you looked up, he continued. 

“Nothing will happen… Nothing you don’t want, anyway.” There it was. The flirt. Subtle but still enough to wriggle up inside you. 

“God..” You groaned. The urge to hide behind something again was instant. If only the waiter hadn’t been prompt in taking the menu away… Fussing with your hair again, you huffed “..As long as you behave..” 

“I’m a good boy when I’m drunk.” Jungkook chuckled. “Anyway.. You never seem to have any complaints. This won’t be any different.”  

“You’re killing me. We’re here for dinner.”  You groaned quietly and tugged your hand back until Jungkook let it go, reluctantly, with a measured smirk and a nod. He straightened in his chair, took a sip of water. So casual and unbothered. Borderline relaxed. Like he hadn’t blended up your insides with horny confusion.  

“And we’ll eat. Want to do dessert somewhere else? Not sure I saw a ‘dessert’ section on the menu.” He hadn’t looked long and probably missed anything approaching the end of meal offerings. 

“Whatever you want–I’m good with it.” Jungkook’s reply was low and easy. Quiet and assured, The way he stared back you knew: he was fully aware the fractures in your self control had already begun. 

“Might be one of those separate menu things. We can decide after?” You suggested, hopeful with eyes drawn to the way his sweater drooped enough at the neck. The subtle v shape teasing muscled lines under smooth skin–the kind that felt too good against the insides of both thighs. Suddenly the horny teen inside you was breathing down your neck.

Your smile bared gritted teeth.

-----------------------------------------------------------

“What’s the verdict? On a scale of one to ten..” Jungkook asked, laying his fork down after taking the final bite from the plate. He’d almost licked it clean. Nothing but a thin sheen of oil remained. Without a doubt this was a stellar dinner, by his book and the standards of dining that back home had set.

You glanced up, watching the light reflect off his dark eyes and that skin, nicely golden now. Maybe it was the wine or you just hadn’t noticed his sun kissed tone before. Alcohol did play tricks and you were easily almost 2 glasses deep with Jungkook a bit further ahead than that. 

Scraping up the last of your meal, you took the final bite and chewed. Neatly you laid the fork across your empty plate. Your choice had been saucy enough to draw his attentive stare and a jealous lick of the lips.

“I’d say..a robust seven.” 

Jungkook blinked at your sparkling clean plate. “I think the fact that there isn’t a single smear of sauce tells me you’re aiming low. A 7. I don’t SEE anything there, Y/n.” 

You stole a peek at his plate just to be sure, even if it was moot. Empty. As expected. A bare plate set down in front of him would have been exactly zero difference. Clearly he’d worked hard to eat slowly when he could have inhaled it in a few bites. The flavors weren’t the only impressive thing this evening.

“Questioning my rating?” Not that you minded. Wherever you were coy, he knew exactly how to counter it and call you out. “I might have been understating it..” You hedged, a bit quieter. Jungkook’s hand crept across the table, seizing your own.

Like usual, when his touch connected to your skin, you inhaled. And held it. Hoping that ball of pressure wouldn’t flow down and fill up the space between your hips so soon tonight. In such a public spot. He gave a gentle squeeze, then an even fainter tug. 

“You like it when I call you out.”

“True.” 

“And I like that you let me. Usually it gets me in trouble, being the guy who speaks up. I can’t help it— calling it like I see it. You’d do the same for me, even if you’re not used to it.” He was putting an awful lot of faith in your self confidence. You had much less courage to speak up when your food order was wrong, let alone checking your boyfriend’s behavior. If you were honest it had gotten easier but you were still a work in progress.   

“There’s a lot of things I’m not used to when it comes to you, Koo..” You replied, lips tightening to keep in the images currently parading across your mind and make further trouble. Even so, the way Jungkook searched your face, brows relaxing apart, he knew. 

“Mmnn.. I remember some of those things. Not so inexperienced now, are you?”

“Do you get off on this whole flirt-in-public thing? Or is it just the rise you get out of me?” You brushed both temples with your napkin, desperate to avoid eye contact. It didn’t help when you spotted his grip pulsing. 

“Like kissing? I remember doing that pretty intensely, on our mini-golf date. You didn’t mind much. I wouldn’t say that’s flirting. Might be a little more…” 

You quickly fought to swallow down a groan, for the most part succeeding except for a tiny squeak at the very end. Jungkook’s mouth quirked. His brow rose, head tilted. That first date was something else–one blistering moment in time, in an era of sexual awakening. Starting a relationship with Jungkook woke your body in many ways. All the avenues of experience that this young man guided you through–A date… a kiss…. A fuck at a time. 

You wondered just how often Jungkook looked at you and thought about that very first date. Did his desire for your body and your heart go further back? Was it lust at first sight? 

When he noticed the wandering of your stare, beyond his shoulder, his brows drew down again in curiosity. “What is it, Y/n? There’s something—” He probed. Your eyes went to his plate and the way he’d laid the fork and knife neatly in an ‘x’, then the napkin on top. 

“The first date..” 

“If you want to be technical, pizza was the first date.” He flashed a prideful grin.

“..Jungkook..” You huffed. “Just eating dinner isn’t technically considered a date.” 

“We were together.. Kinda counts to me. We spent a lot of time together that night. Way more than I expected–more than I hoped to get. I loved it. …Probably think about it more than I should.”  

That answers that. And it felt GOOD to know. 

“Yeah?” You looked right up into dark, wide open eyes. Only raw honesty floated in the depths.

Whenever he looked at you, it was always there. To say you’d never fought was disingenuous. There were moments of tension, with a disagreement here and there, but the fundamentals of an ill fitted dynamic that kept you both trying to pull out of a tailspin weren’t present. You couldn’t say that had been the case in previous relationships—both the shorter and more intense alike. Jungkook was a very big departure from previous relationships–even without the age gap. There was and continued to be something about him that just worked with you in a way that your brain couldn’t get around.

“Why not? I’m in love with you, Y/n. If that’s not obvious by now. When I told you I liked you, that wasn’t a line.” 

“To be picky, it was that you liked older women–” Jungkook’s narrowing eyes rebuffed your correction, sending it to both cheeks in a rush of warmth. Shyness washed over you and ended with a shy smile.

Jungkook’s smirk tightened. “--Don’t wanna debate it. I remember what I said. I want YOU and that won’t change.” Briefly his eyes went to where the waiter had come from–and where they’d be coming from soon. His eyes came back. Jungkook picked up a napkin, swiped over his lips, then pushed back in his chair. 

A moment later the napkin dropped from sight and Jungkook’s brows rose, disappearing under his dark hair. Both shoulders jerked and that biteable lower lip jutted in a faux confusion. “Oops..”

One knee touched the floor and he nodded towards the main dining area, now abuzz. Somewhere out there your waiter was doing whatever came next in the course of the night. For your table, it meant bringing the check. 

“Ask for the dessert menu..” Jungkook directed, peeking at you just over the table edge. “I’ll be right back.” 

“--Koo..what–” 

“Just do it for me, hmm? I’m not sure what I want and need to think.” Back in brief was a doe eyed innocence Jungkook knew how to weaponize. Like flipping a damn switch. I don’t know HOW he does it…

Still, you gripped the table edge and leaned towards the empty seat when Jungkook’s form disappeared underneath. Your toes curled. After a huff, then a hard swallow your heart rate climbed, matching a subtle pounding in your head.

“Jungkook!” You hissed, finding it harder to breathe with your now clenching throat. Pressure skirted your bare ankle making your body still. Your wild eyed gaze locked on Jungkook’s unfilled seat. The room faded around the edges. As quickly it darkened when panic was filling the gaps of your senses. What the HELL was he doing? A napkin didn’t take that long to retrieve. And it most definitely hadn’t fallen across to your side. 

Fingers circled your ankle, gripping just enough around skin and bone. It didn’t release, even through the unconscious kick towards the sensation. You whined and still in blind panic, grabbed the nearest napkin, smothering your lips. 

Of COURSE the waiter was approaching now. It couldn’t be a worse time, you reasoned. Reeling with panic, you and Jungkook might as well have been an island unto yourselves. Everyone and everything else seemed so far away. The man was all smiles and ingratiating. His face registered a blip of momentary confusion when he noted Jungkook’s empty seat. You were ready with the standard ‘bathroom’ excuse, if he was going to ask, but you hoped for silence. Non-commentary. The waiter knew that kind of thing wasn’t unusual.

Your luck stood when he leaned closer and held out the check, neatly tucked into a black leather presenter with finely done gold lettering. To your over working attention it looked even more fancy.

“We were about to ask for the check–” You mumbled as you reached. A massaging squeeze on the back of your calf induced a flinch. The waiter didn’t seem to notice, even standing nearby, watching in passive silence. 

“Was there…something else?” He asked, evenly. One of those ‘part of the jobs and by rote’ things wait staff were trained to do. You’d eaten out enough times to know the drill. You had the sense he didn’t expect anything above a ‘No, thank you’, which would be good right now. You wanted to get the hell out, given what was brewing under the table. 

“Yes..” You finally forced out basic words. “..There’s a dessert menu?” 

“Yes.” The waiter smiled tightly. 

“I’ll have that, please.” After the waiter glanced at the empty seat again. “He’ll be back.” You added. Technically true. He wouldn’t have far to go whenever this was..finished. 

A brief nod later, the waiter turned and walked away. After he was out of sight, you shoved a hand under the tablecloth, grabbing into the darkness between your knees. A giggle puffed across your forearm. Jungkook caught that hand and pulled your fingertips against his lips for a brief kiss. The moan that followed made your pussy tighten.

“...Get up here!” You pleaded. This was peak desperation and your nerves. You hadn’t been this keyed up in..forever. The heat and dampness was building steadily at the tops of your thighs. While your mind was conscious of every second, your body was only attuned, like it always had been—readily and against your control. 

“Planning on it…” Jungkook’s nose grazed the inside of one knee. Palms pushed at both to guide your thighs wider apart. “---Want dessert first.” 

“Oh my god–” You swooned back as the kisses climbed inside one thigh, plodding closer to the hot center of your being, where Jungkook’s mouth seemed the happiest. No plate of food or cup of drink kept his mouth as long or as left it as drunkenly grinning afterwards. Sightless and in a horny panic, your eyes searched the crowd from under heavy lids. You couldn’t make out more than forms going back and forth through dark and light. 

Your fingers moved through his hair and when you pulled it wasn’t to pry him off. Without a scoff of victory, Jungkook was just as sure as the smooth skin of his cheeks nestled higher up your thigh. When the tip of his tongue scooped through your folds and the waiting slick, your eyes finally shut. 

Suddenly it was all nothing. Being in this downtown restaurant. In an impossibly large city, a place you’d never been–it was all unimportant. This swelling pleasure was a feeling you knew too well. Once Jungkook dragged you into the depths, you only wanted to stay. Lucky for you, Jungkook knew how to keep you there as long as he wanted. 

Both of you fell into the moment and the pace that had become as familiar as each other’s bodies. You didn’t have to see his eyes to know they were closed or the way his nostrils flared as he pulled back, then dove back in. 

Your thighs shook, falling open more and the chair under your ass shuddered as it slid closer to the table. A low growl under the fabric of the tablecloth and Jungkook’s mouth opened wider. His tongue stabbed deeper into you as your hips rocked up. You were stressing the chair back, laying more against the padded surface. 

You didn’t care. Neither did the man under the table, happily sinking his nails into the outsides of your thighs about halfway up. One of your heels slid down your foot, hung on your toes and finally dropped to the floor when they curled as pressure swabbed across your clit. 

When the suction began, your fingers curled around the dessert menu edge, warping the fine paper slowly. You barely noticed the figure standing at your side again. The waiter had returned, offering a thinner, tighter smile than before. 

“Did you decide?” He asked. You nodded against the chair back, thankful for the firmness keeping you from sliding down off the seat. But that might also be something to do with Jungkook’s shoulder, bullying against the inside of your thigh as he rutted nose and lips harder against your pussy. Your skin vibrated as he hummed. 

The waiter’s smile almost disappeared. “What sounds good.” 

“The mousse.” 

“Hm. Yes. Very popular.” 

“I do love chocolate.” You sighed sharply. Grabbing for a napkin near your plate, you waved it vaguely at him and nodded. “We’ll share. He’s…on his way back.” The waiter didn’t bother to look at the still empty seat. He collected the check and your card, then was gone again. 

When he was out of your view, you let out a long, quiet moan and worked all ten fingers around the back of Jungkook’s head and pulled him closer, rolling your hips in counter to his flicking tongue. The kitten licks and blackhole power of his suction were going to make short work of any issues with performing in public. 

The beautiful hot, thick rope of tension coiling up under your mound was giving you all you needed to know: an orgasm was a when, not an if. And the when was running right at you as your ears caught someone’s distant laugh far behind your seat. Among the faint clink of glasses and a titter of laughter, your pussy squeezed extra hard as shock waves of pleasure rolled through your body. The fizzled in your brain had you giggling. Maybe any onlookers would think it was the wine.  

Cumming on Jungkook’s mouth was always so good. Orgasms with him at all—a 5 star experience. He was like a machine: guaranteed to give the expected level of performance and outcome without fail. Something prodded your fluttering opening and pushed through, then pulled your walls a little wider. The tension was perfect as Jungkook tongued spirals around your still sensitive clit until your brain was drowning in ecstasy again. 

You barely felt anything, body abuzz when Jungkook’s head and body slipped back into view from under the tablecloth. He stood entirely upright, smoothing his thighs and tugging his sweater back in place. Fingers combed his bangs away from his forehead as he settled into his seat.

Not a moment later the waiter arrived with the most perfect chocolate mousse you’d ever seen, on the most bone white china place you’d ever seen. It was almost blinding. Wordlessly he set the plate in front of you and without hesitation Jungkook reached across, pulling it closer to center. 

“We’re sharing..” Jungkook smirked. “You can leave the receipt. Thank you..” 

The waiter did a double take, seeing your date back where he’d been. Maybe the man wanted to ask where Jungkook had been but he knew enough to not ask and only nodded. You picked up your napkin, grateful you hadn’t dropped it on the floor in the haste of what had taken place just minutes before. 

Jungkook, for all his surprises under the tablecloth, had not forgotten his napkin, waving it with flourish so it snapped in the air, then laid it over his lap and selected a smaller fork from the remaining silverware still neatly in place. 

When you were alone again, you pulled the receipt closer to your side and watched Jungkook’s solemn expression–he was looking for just the right angle to take his first bite from this mousse. When he had a forkful, your stares held. Slowly he leaned across the table and the serving came closer to your lips. You noticed how shiny and more reddened his smile looked. No way you could deny that was your doing. 

“Open. Eat..” He intoned. When your mouth opened, he guided the heaped fork through until the serving was gone and slid the fork back. Every tine came back sparkling clean. Not a trace of this sugary and sinful chocolate heaven remained. And that was just how Jungkook liked it: when you took it all and left no trace. 

In life and in love, it seemed. 

“You’re going to have some, right?” You asked after swallowing. He wasn’t looking at you but Jungkook grinned again, cutting off another bite, nearly identical in size. 

“Not sure. I’m pretty full..” 

“Jungkook..” You withered with a flush of heat and his tongue swiped his lips as if he was tasting again. Then he shrugged and the fork rose higher, heading your way again. 

“It’s not a ‘No’.” 

“And it’s not the truth–that you’re full. I know your appetite….don’t lie.” 

“True. I DO like to eat. I’m a growing boy.” He chuckled, then continued. “Tell you what.. Eat a few more bites and then you can feed me.” 

“Mmnn.” Now a chill climbed your spine. Feeding this cute college boy was most certainly a kink you’d discovered was very high on your list. It was Jungkook’s fault, though. He made eating look so good. “You sure you want to start that? You know where it’s led us in the past.” 

A warning that was anything but and Jungkook’s brow arched. He cut a third bite and paused after raising it between you two. There wasn’t a tremble in his fingers. The contents of the fork sparkled under the lights. 

“I do. Why do you think I suggested it? Now..is that a yes or a no?” 

“Don’t expect me to climb under this table and return the favor. I’m not that type..” 

“I don’t.” He moved the fork towards your lips and his plush lips parted with a hushed desire as he stroked a morsel of chocolate lightness across your lower lip and whispered “Take it..” 

You barely managed, letting the flavor melt across your tongue, senses reeling and guts sinking down, pulling energy to your pussy again. How quickly he had you bouncing back, round after round. He never ceased to amaze you. 

Eventually he braced the other forearm on the table, leaning that much closer to speak. 

“There’s still the drive home. Plenty of room in that car. Your lips on me.. I do the driving. Sounds like a great continuation. You didn’t start this, but I want to see how we can make this end.”

You couldn’t speak. His audacity and unquenchable desire was undoing your very soul. You could only stare at this handsome young man who looked like he wanted nothing more than to come across this table and elevate his ruin of you with less clothes and more skin. There was no need to guess: he’d leave nothing behind when he was done with you tonight. 

And that was exactly the way you liked it.