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nanamiskentos · 4 months ago

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SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

5K notes · View notes

be4chywritez · 28 days ago

Text

neck kisses | oscar piastri

oscar piastri x fem!reader

You love kissing up on Oscar, and this time it lands him in trouble.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warnings: use of y/n and like allusions to smut, but no real smut

It starts with a perfect day.

The kind that makes your heart feel full, your skin warm, your cheeks sore from smiling too much.

Oscar had insisted on a proper date—something that didn’t involve race strategy meetings, travel schedules, or rushed dinners between flights. So, you ended up at the beach, just the two of you. The sun had been high, the waves had been gentle, and Oscar had been… well, Oscar—smiling at you like you were his entire world.

You spent hours there, playing in the water, sharing an ice cream that melted too fast, and walking along the shore, fingers laced together like you’d done it a million times before.

Oscar's hand rests lazily on your thigh as he drives, his fingers tapping lightly to the rhythm of the song playing through the car speakers. It’s comfortable—easy.

Until you get an idea.

A very reckless, stupid, undeniably tempting idea.

The two of you had stopped at some random fast food place on the way back to his apartment, and now you’re parked in some empty lot, eating fries out of the same carton. The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely illuminates the car, making the space between you feel even smaller.

Oscar is mid-sentence—something about the race next weekend, about tire strategies, about things you should probably be paying attention to. But you aren’t. Not really.

“You know,” you mused, shifting slightly so you could turn toward him, “I never actually thanked you for today.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked toward you, suspicious. “For what?”

“For taking me to the beach,” you said smoothly, tilting your head as you let your fingers trail lightly up his forearm. “For driving me around. For looking—” you paused, letting your gaze drop to his exposed throat, “—really, really good in that hoodie.”

His lips parted slightly, his hand tightening on your thigh just a fraction. “Uh—”

Before he could say anything else, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his neck.

The effect was immediate.

Oscar inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing beneath you. His grip on your leg tightened as his free hand instinctively shot to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Y/N—”

“Mhm?” You hummed against his skin, letting your lips trail lower, feeling the way his pulse quickened beneath your mouth.

His breath hitched. “We are in a parking lot.”

You let your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse point before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “And?”

Oscar groaned, his fingers digging into your waist as if that would stop you. “And—you—fuck—” His head tilted slightly, giving you more access even as he tried to resist.

You grinned. “You were saying?”

His response was cut off by a sharp inhale as you sucked lightly at his throat, your tongue flicking over the warm skin before biting down just enough to make him jolt. His other hand abandoned the wheel entirely, wrapping around your thigh as he instinctively pulled you closer.

“Jesus—” he muttered, voice strained. His grip was firm now, his hands no longer hesitant as they roamed over your waist, your thighs, like he needed something to hold onto.

You pressed a final, lingering kiss just below his jaw, grinning against his skin. “I love how easy you are to mess with.”

Oscar exhaled shakily, his grip on you tightening. “I hate you.”

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before—

Thud.

The car jolted forward.

The two of you froze.

Oscar’s hands flew to the wheel, his eyes going wide as his head snapped up. “Oh—oh my god—”

Your stomach dropped as you turned your head just in time to see a very unfortunate tree now very much in front of the car.

Silence.

Your jaw dropped. Then you looked at Oscar, whose face was rapidly shifting from panic to pure, unfiltered mortification.

And then—

You lost it.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying and failing to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god—” you gasped, shaking with laughter as you leaned back against your seat. “Did you—did you just—” You could barely breathe, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Did you just get so flustered you hit the gas?”

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I—I wasn’t flustered—”

You threw your head back, cackling. “Babe, you just ran into a tree because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar groaned louder, slumping against the seat. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you corrected smugly, wiping at your eyes. Then, just to be cruel, you leaned in again, brushing your lips over the still-warm mark you’d left on his neck.

Oscar snapped.

His hands flew to your waist as he abruptly yanked you into his lap, your knees hitting either side of his thighs. “No. Absolutely not.”

You grinned, settling comfortably against him. “Aw, baby, are you scared I’ll make you crash again?”

His hands tightened on your hips, his expression a mix of exasperation and something darker, something you weren’t used to seeing from him. His fingers dug into your sides, his lips parting slightly as he met your gaze.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but his hands were saying something entirely different as they trailed up your sides, over your ribs, pressing into your back like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair before whispering against his lips—

“And yet, you can’t keep your hands off me.”

Oscar groaned again, but this time, he didn’t argue.

Oscar’s hands were everywhere. His grip on your waist was firm, grounding, but his fingers weren’t still—they kneaded at your sides, then trailed up your back, pressing into your spine before slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you shiver.

His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and he knew it.

You tilted your head, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “You okay, baby?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on you tightening. “You almost killed me and my car, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You grinned, shifting slightly in his lap just to see him react. His hands flew to your hips again, holding you still as his jaw clenched. “I didn’t do anything,” you teased, your breath ghosting over his lips. “You were the one who hit the gas.”

Oscar groaned, his head falling back against the seat for a moment before he looked at you again, eyes flickering between your lips and the smug expression on your face. “I swear you do this on purpose.”

You pretended to think for a second. “Do what?”

His fingers flexed on your hips before suddenly dragging you forward, closing the small space between you. His nose brushed against yours, his voice lower, rougher. “Drive me insane.”

Your breath caught for half a second before you recovered, pressing your palms against his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered beneath your fingertips. “You love it,” you whispered.

Oscar exhaled shakily, his hands sliding up your back again, pulling you closer until your foreheads nearly touched. “I hate how much I do.”

Your heart flipped, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you let your fingers trail lower, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

For a second, you thought he might break, that he might actually kiss you, that he might completely lose himself in you the way you wanted him to. But then—

A loud knock on the driver’s side window made both of you jump.

Oscar jerked so hard that his knee hit the steering wheel, his hands flying off your waist as he nearly knocked you off his lap in sheer panic.

Your head snapped toward the window, your heart hammering. A cop.

Well. Shit.

Oscar scrambled to roll down the window, his voice cracking. “Uh—hi, officer.”

The cop—a tired-looking man with a badge and a very unimpressed expression—peered into the car. Then, at the tree. Then, back at you two.

Oscar swallowed.

The cop raised an eyebrow. “You good, son?”

Oscar let out a nervous laugh. “Uh. Yeah. Just. Um. Just a little parking mishap.”

The officer looked at you, then at Oscar’s still-flushed face, then at your position half in his lap. His expression didn’t change. “Right.”

You bit back a laugh, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it.

The officer sighed. “Try not to run over any more trees, alright?”

Oscar nodded so fast that you had to hide your face against his shoulder to keep from wheezing. “Yes, sir. Definitely. No more trees.”

The cop gave you one last knowing look before turning and walking back toward his car.

The second he was gone, you lost it.

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I am never recovering from this.”

You gasped for air between giggles. “Oscar. You crashed your car because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath before tilting his head back to glare at you. “I swear, if you bring this up to anyone—”

You grinned, leaning in again, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “What? You gonna lose control again?”

Oscar groaned. “I hate you.”

You smirked against his skin. “Liar.”

#be4chywrites #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri x reader

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gldrushh · 3 months ago

Text

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈

"You are stuck in time, and Jungkook doesn't stop running from it until he eventually does, and you learn that grief doesn’t wait for death, that love isn't all that dignifying."

→ Pairing brother in law!Jungkook × widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut

→ W.C 17. 32k

→ Warnings unrequited love :(, oc is in love with his older brother, early character death of the said older brother who is haunting the narrative, cute childhood sweethearts who are doomed by me, mentions of dealing with grief and acceptance, mention of cancer, a minor scene where harassment is attempted,emotionally troubled! oc, emotionally troubled and detached! jk, simp jk, pathetic man in love, he's so so lovesick, ceo! jk, protective jk, yearning, pining, loads of angst, fluff if you squint, breif yoongi mention, namjin yay!!,rich people party, mentions of anxiety,sexual tension,slow burnish,smut (omg everyone look away), kissing, unprotected sex (raw and deep, next question),dirty talking, oc is insecure,hickies,oral (f! Receiving), he cums in his pants,big dick jk, soft Dom Jungkook, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie, praise, cuddles if you squint again

→ Playlist Guilty as sin, control, killing me softly with his song, do I wanna know?

→ A/N the idea of this one shot came to me at 1 am when I was supposed to be studying for a test that probably my future depends upon and after much much complementing I'm finally posting it. To me, its very experimental and I was just trying to explore my writing style and writing things that I haven't before, like smut 🫠 so please please bear that in mind!! I hope you enjoy reading and if you did please comment!! It makes my whole day 🥰💕��

P.S: cross posted on wattpad.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

It is a believed fact that it takes three to four short months to fall in love.

For you, it took one summer. The summer spent watching him sketch galaxies in the dirt with a twig, summer spent learning the way his laughter sounded after stealing popsicles from the freezer, summer spent holding his hand as they made paper planes under the blazing sun. It was the kind of love that grew roots so deep, you couldn’t separate where he ended and you began.

That summer, you met Minho. The boy next door with a mind as wild as his curls and a heart so warm it seemed to shine blindingly bright. He showed you how to climb trees, told stories he'd crafted all by himself, convincing you that the universe could be held in the palm of your hand. He shared his world with you, and you fell in love with it.

You kissed his cheek on the porch of your house one late July evening, bold and brimming with the kind of confidence only childhood summers could bring. “Now you’re gonna have to marry me, Min Min,” you teased, hands behind your back, your toes curling against the wooden floorboards.

He blushed, a shade of red that rivaled the setting sun, but his grin mirrored yours.

The porch of your house was a witness to many things. Your first steps, held your first scraped knees, your first dog and Minho's new brother; your new friend.

A boy of your age, younger than Minho had appeared from right behind him, his hands clutching onto Minho's flannel, his watchful eyes going everywhere all at once. The kind of boy who never spoke unless he had to, the kind who was more familiar with loss than comfort, lingering on the edges of things, unsure if he belonged.

Jungkook.

Now, Jeon Jungkook.

You and his brother had taken it upon themselves to bring him into your fold, turning your duo into a trio. With time, he laughed with you both, trusted you both, became one of you both.

The three of you were inseparable— in the backyard of your house, in elementary school, in high school. How could you not be? You had tied the promise in the form of handmade friendship bracelets around the wrist of both boys.

Even though what you wanted with minho was far from friendship. A bold dreamer, you always have been. But not so much when you turned sixteen. Sixteen; what a awkward age.

An age of overthinking haircuts, dreams, and the lives your peers are gonna live all at once. Visits to the school councilor are doubled. Relationships happen; Friends part.

But you only grew closer with Jungkook. He didn’t seemed interested in making a move on the timid, short haired girl who passed him notes in chemistry class, neither did he talk much about the future. When you asked him what he wanted to do, he’d shrug and say something like, “Whatever makes sense at the time.” He wasn’t aimless, exactly—just grounded in a way that made you think he didn’t feel the need to plan everything out.

Minho, though, was spiraling.

He now spent more time with the councilor that he spent with you both. Had this bitter look on his face every morning you saw him on the bus stop that will have you sharing a knowing look with Jungkook—Minho had been having a lot of fights with his dad, had been overthinking a lot more because the world seemed so much bigger than he had imagined.

Maybe for the eldest son and heir to a family that ran a company as old as the town itself, the world really was big. But to you, he was just a hopeful boy with all the colors in his eyes. The colors that you loved. The colors that didn't belong in a office, crunching numbers.

Your heart ached for him, but you didn’t know what to say. At sixteen, nobody has the answers.

Seventeen is a different story. It's a starlight dream. It's you acing the college entrance test. It's Minho surfacing back. It's Minho kissing you on that very same porch, promising, “One day, we’ll have our own porch, and I’ll kiss you there every day.”

And he was one to keep his promises.

You married him at twenty-five, in crisp autumn. To your family and friends, it was "About time." To you, it was nothing short of a dream as you walked to promise forever to the man you love, a vision in white. It was nothing big, just a dreamy intimate affair with soft twinkling string lights. Something you both agreed on. Because you were content with what you had, overjoyed actually after picking out a quite cozy apartment for the both of you and landing a job as a humanities professor in a university that wasn't too far from the said apartment. Minho was too and while things weren't the same with his father now, he did what he loved. Ever the artist at heart.

It was like everything you ever wrote in your middle school diary, everything you wished for was now laid under your feet like a carpet unfolding.

You were given a good time before it started pulling away from your feet.

At first, it was subtle. A missed dinner here, a canceled hangout there. Then he told you both he’d taken up an opportunity abroad to manage the family business, something Minho had no interest in, just on the night of your wedding after he had fulfilled his role of the groom's best man, watched you walk down the aisle.

You hadn’t seen the decision coming—not that night, not like this—but you couldn’t deny it either. Jungkook had seemed restless here, especially after finishing college.Conversations with him in those days had been brief, distracted, his eyes darting to the distance even as he smiled at you. It felt as you were trying to talk to the Jungkook who had appeared on your porch the first time. He hadn’t asked for understanding, and you hadn’t known how to offer it. His reasons were vague, more like placeholders for something unsaid. And so he left, quietly, with little fanfare, and though Minho seemed sad to see him go, you could tell he understood.

“It’s good for him,” Minho had said. “He deserves something for himself.”

Relationship happened; Friends parted.

You weren't sure if you understood. While you agreed with Minho, you couldn’t help but feel the loss of a friend now that his calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether. One day, he was simply gone, leaving behind only the memory of the boy who had once trusted you with his rare, precious smiles.

"You’d laugh if you saw me right now. I tried to fix the leaky sink in the kitchen, and now the entire floor is flooded. Minho’s being no help—just standing there laughing."

"Hey, stranger. Our anniversary is next weekend. We’re just doing a small dinner. You should come. Seriously, koo, don’t make me guilt-trip you."

"Saved you a slice of cake, but Minho ate it. You’d better show up next year, or I’ll stop saving you anything."

"Hey, Koo. Just checking in. Hope you're healthy and happy. Would love to hear from you"

You'd text him timely, in hopes that he still knows how to use a phone. But apparently, not.

Still, you had Minho. Your husband, your best friend.

Until you didn't.

Until the carpet was at last, snatched right down from your feet.

The diagnosis came in the spring. It started with a faint weakness in his voice. A shortness of breath he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “Just tired,” he’d say, smiling that same easy smile. But tired turned into tests. Tests turned into results. And results turned into a diagnosis that was oh so cruel.

Leukemia. Early stages. Aggressive.

The months that followed were a blur of hospital visits, treatments, and quiet nights where you held him as he cried. You tried to be strong, for him, for both of you. Told him what the doctor in the sterile white office will tell you. "They've caught it early so we're not at a great risk here." You'd reassure him. "You have yet to get away from me, min min." You'd try making him laugh but he had always been better at that.

Now, suddenly he wasn't. The next two years, your life was just the slow, agonizing process of watching the man you loved fade away, losing every bit of his lively soul to the cancer, holding his hand when he was too weak to hold yours back.

Perhaps it wasn't only Minho who was chipping away. It was you too.

You turned into the woman who knew exactly how to track medication schedules, who could list every side effect of his treatment in order of severity, who spoke with doctors as if reciting a memorized script. You learned how to bite back the frustration when he snapped at you because he was in pain, and how to smile when all you wanted was to scream at the unfairness of it all.

You started to measure time not in days or months but in cycles of chemotherapy, in percentages of remission and relapse. Life was divided into hours spent in sterile hospital rooms, waiting for results that were never as hopeful as you needed them to be, and hours spent at home trying to pretend those results didn’t exist.

You had stopped dreaming. And minho had stopped painting.

Grief doesn’t wait for death— or so you've realized as you often found yourself grieving the life you had built together, the one you knew would never be the same. You grieved the sound of his laugh, which became quieter as the months passed. You grieved the way he used to tease you about your love for terrible reality shows, You grieved the mornings spent tangled together, talking about everything and nothing.

By the time the end came, you had already lost so much of him that you thought you might be prepared.

You weren’t.

And then he was gone.

With an, "I'm sorry. I love you." He was gone.

The house was too quiet without him, the days too long. You withdrew, not just from the world but from yourself, letting grief shape the edges of your existence.

The world moved on, even if you didn’t. They tell you how long it takes to fall in love but not how long it takes to get over it.

2 years, 240 days. And you're still counting.

Time passed in pieces—fractured and unrelenting.

Your family, Minho’s family, even well-meaning friends—none of them knew what to do with the mess you’d become, so they did what people often did. They tried to fix it. To fix you.

Blind dates were their answer, little nudges toward what they called healing. The word had been said so many times it began to lose its meaning. Healing. As if it were something—a destination you could stumble upon.

You didn’t have the energy to argue anymore, so you let them dress you up, hand you phone numbers, and convince you that this—whatever this was—was what you needed.

But your heart wasn’t in it.

Because as the man sat in front of you in the dimly lit bar continued to talk about how his ex couldn't handle his success, the trials of being a man with ambition, you really couldn't even bother to pretend you were interested. He was nice enough—tall, well dressed (consdering the dingy bar) with a confident smile but your thoughts kept drifting, as they often did.

2 years, 240 days since Minho had died.

2 years, 240 days of waking up alone in your bed, his side untouched.

2 years, 240 days of trying to find your way back to the woman you used to be.

“Hey,” the man interrupted your thoughts, leaning forward with an eager grin. “I feel like I’m talking too much. Tell me about yourself. What do you do for fun?”

You forced a smile, your stomach twisting. “I paint. It’s... therapeutic.”

“That’s nice,” he said, reaching across the table to touch your hand. You pulled back instinctively, your stool scraping against the floor. His brows furrowed.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “I just—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, but his tone was tighter now. He leaned back, shrugging as if trying to dismiss the moment. “You know, you should loosen up a little. You’ll never find anyone if you keep acting like you’re still married.”

The words hit you like a slap, your chest tightening as you struggled to process the audacity of his statement. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, ignoring the warning in your tone, “you should give people a chance. I mean, you’re here, right?” He smirked and stood, coming around the table. “Let me take you home. We can—”

“Stop,” you said sharply, rising to your feet.

But he didn’t listen. His hand reached for your arm, his grip firm.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed you, he was gone.

The man stumbled backward, a hand jerking him by the collar. The force was so swift, so unexpected, that it took you a moment to register what had happened.

And then you saw him.

“..Jungkook?” The name caught in your throat as you turned.

You took in the man standing before you, taller and broader than you remembered, the years etched into the sharp lines of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. His dark eyes were fixed on the man who had dared to touch you, glinting coldly.

His voice was low, dangerous. “She said stop. I suggest you listen.”

For a moment, the world tilted.

You weren’t in a dingy bar anymore.

You were standing at the edge of a memory—the first time you’d ever seen Jungkook, the quiet boy who clung to Minho’s shadow.

And the last.

The last time you’d seen him, a looming figure in an ocean of black suits. A barely recognizable shadow among the mourners at your husband's funeral.

Now, standing before you, he was real, tangible—and so was the flood of emotions crashing over you.

It was so loud, you could barely hear as the the man stammered out an excuse, something about a misunderstanding.

“Leave.” Jungkook snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut and bring you back to the moment.

The man hesitated, his mouth opening as though he wanted to argue, but one glance at Jungkook’s expression and he decided against it. Without another word, he turned and stalked out, muttering something under his breath that neither of you caught.

Silence followed.

Only then did you felt his gaze on you. His presence was larger than life, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of how much had changed. How much he had changed. You hadn’t registered that at the funeral. Now, you didn't know what to say, you could hardly manage to look at him. While he wasn't Minho's real brother, didn't share any resemblance with him, it still hurt you, sucked you back into those times when it was the three of you, when it wasn't.

He too didn't reply right away, his gaze searching your face, as though he was also trying to piece together the version of you he remembered with the one standing before him now. When it landed on the arm you were clutching, the arm that dipshit had grabbed, you saw his eyes glint again.

"Did he hurt you?" It sounded more like a demand rather than a question but you couldn't even deciper the words, too focused on how his boyish tone had turned sharper, harder.

"W-What?" You fumble out like a fool.

"Did he hurt you, y/n?" This time, you heard him.

Letting your hand fall, embarrassed, you shook your head, finally managing to utter something sensible out. “No—yeah. I’m fine.”

He glanced back at the door that man had fled from before looking back at you. Finally, he exhaled, his voice low and quiet.

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

You blinked. “My phone?” You don't remember getting a call from anyone but then you realize your battery had died down as you looked down to see your dead device laying flat. "Oh. I didn't realis—"

“Mom said you’d been gone a while. Told me where you were.” He interrupted. There was an edge to his voice now, faint but undeniable.

You feel more embarrassed now that you know it's because of your mother in law's anxious nature that he is here. Your fingers brushed against the strap of your purse, desperate for something to do, something to hold onto as he speaks again. "Are you ready to leave?"

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could think them through. “I can get a cab.”

His brows furrowed, just slightly, and you noticed for the first time the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hint of weariness in his expression. “It’s late,” he said simply.

"So?”

“So,” he echoed, his tone calm but unyielding, “I’ll take you.”

You hesitated, your pride and your exhaustion warring within you. Finally, you exhaled out in defeat, reaching for your coat. It's just a thirty minute ride. You reassured yourself. It'll be fine.

The cool night air wrapped around you and so did your coat as you stepped outside, and the streetlights cast long shadows that flickered as you walked toward his car. He opened the passenger door for you, his movements deliberate, and waited for you to slide in before closing it softly behind you.

The drive started in silence.

It wasn’t the silence of old friends, the kind that felt easy and safe. This was different—fraught, taut, like a thread stretched too tight.

You stole a glance at him as he started the engine, too aware of the small space you were packed in with him.

“I didn’t know you were back,” you said finally, your statement sounding more accusatory that you or he would have liked.

“Just for a little while,” he replied, his tone ofcourse, unfazed. “Business.”

Buisness. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the word. If someone could look like that word, you thought, it'd be the man in the fine tailored suit with eyes fixed on the road ahead and a rolex that didn't look any more cheaper than the car he was driving and you wondered.

Wondered if the lines of his palms—the callouses from late-night basketball games, the way they had felt solid and familiar when he held yours to steady you on the wobbly bike Minho had convinced you to ride—had changed too.

Had they turned forigen, unyielding? Had time eroded their familiarity?

When the car slowed, you glanced out the window, expecting to see the acquinated sight of your apartment building. But instead, the streetlights gave way to a quieter, darker road. You frowned, turning to him.

“This isn’t the way to my place.”

“I know,” he said simply, not bothering to elaborate. "You're coming with me."

You felt your chest tighten, your pulse quickening as unease prickled at the back of your neck. “Jungkook,” you started, the word heavy with protest.

"Y/N." He ends, sparing you a glance that has you sinking back into your seat, arms folded across your chest like a petulant child that you could swear made his lips twitch at the corner, you could swear you saw your old friend who had grown a sassy tounge at the age of fourteen that'd earn smacks at the head from his older brother for a fleeting cruel second there. But that was it. It was gone as fast as it had appeared, summoning the return of the silence that felt like its own living thing.

The house was still the same.

That was the first thing you noticed as the car slowed down in front of the building that loomed at the end of the road like a memory waiting to consume you.

The overhead lights still flickered faintly, casting shadows across the steps where you and Minho had once sat, daring each other to stay outside until the stars disappeared. Even the smell was the same—faintly woody, with the comforting hint of whatever candle Jungkook’s mom always lit in the hallway.

You hesitated in the doorway, the memories rushing in too fast, too loud. It's not like you haven't been here in ages but since the year you celebrated your first marriage anniversary with Minho here, it felt like you have lived a thousand lives.

Lives that haunted you still, made you randomly pause in the grocery aisle and now before this house until you felt Jungkook’s presence press behind you as if silently urging you on.

Clearing your throat, you slipped out of your heels that have been as much as pain as the man you had been on a date with. The floor creaked softly beneath your feet as you stepped inside, the sound jarring. The same hardwood floors, polished to a faint sheen. The same floral wallpaper lining the hallway. The same photo frames arranged along the wall—a collection of childhoods captured and frozen in time.

But as you glanced toward the corner of the living room where the three of you used to pile up pillows and blankets for makeshift forts. The corner was bare now, save for an old armchair, but in your mind, you saw it vividly: Minho’s determined grin as he shuffled the pillows, Jungkook, always following the lead but never quite competing for it. You would snuggle a pillow to your lap, nestled between the two brothers, peeking from behind your fingers and giggling at the the way Minho’s face would light up in triumph when he won another round of rock-paper-scissors.

A type of smugness that came from knowing he’d get to flick Jungkook’s forehead next. But your smile would fade as soon as you would realize that it's your turn next. “Wait, wait!” you’d plead, wide-eyed, deploying the best puppy-dog look you could muster. It was the same look that had, on occasion, earned you extra TV time with your dad. Jungkook would glance at you and chuckle. Relent like your father would and sheild your forehead with his palm that'd have Minho pouting. "Hey! That's not how you do it!"

"Y/N?" A well recognized voice pulled you back to the where you were supposed to be, back from the fort of pillows and blankets.

You turned around and instantly found yourself wrapped up in a tight hug. You managed a small smile, letting your arms wrap around the warm frame of your mother in law, the scent of her jasmine oil and apprehensive energy pulling you in. "Mom." You greeted back.

Mrs Jeon hadn't always been this.. overbearing. Though after the passing of your husband, she had teamed up with your mother and been on a determined mission to make sure you are well and on a road to healing.

The next few minutes, she did what she had been doing best—fussed over you, asking how you’d been, if you’d eaten, if you were warm enough. In that time being, Jungkook had resigned to wherever his room was.

You planned to do the same, especially now that you could see on her face how she is on the brink of asking about the disaster tonight. You showed some obvious sign of weariness, in hopes she'd let it go for the night and tell you where you're supposed to go to bed for.

"Third on the left, my dear. And I'm gonna need you to stay for breakfast, okay?" You wondered if stubbornness was a running streak in this family.

Hours later, sleep had yet to come.

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint grooves in the plaster as if they could somehow lull you into rest. The trick didn't work. It hadn’t worked in your own apartment either—the one you and Minho had picked out together, picked the colors of the walls together, and argued over where the bookshelf should be. Yet, it was still your space. You could control how you faced the memories there, pacing them, deciding when and how to confront them.

There, at least, you’d managed four or five hours of sleep on a good night. Here? In this house that held so much of him, so much of them, you weren’t sure you’d manage even one.

The room you were led to was neat and welcoming, the kind of space that had been carefully prepared for guests. But there was no comfort to be found in the knowledge that two doors down lay Minho’s childhood room, untouched, a shrine to a boy who grew up into the man you loved and lost.

At some point, you gave up.

Sliding out of bed, you wrapped your arms around yourself as you padded quietly downstairs. The house was silent as you made your way downstairs, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound, the indistinct glow from the kitchen spilling into the dimness. You didn’t expect to find anyone there, but as you rounded the corner, your steps faltered.

Jungkook stood by the counter, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his other resting on the marble surface. His jacket was gone, abandoned somewhere, leaving him in his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Tattoos.

They sprawled across his skin, intricate designs etched into muscle and sinew, that you didn't think you'd ever see on him.

Perhaps you thought wrong. Perhaps you never knew. Never knew him.

He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting yours that looked just as caught off guard as yours did. For a moment, you didn't feel comfortable moving from your spot until he eventually spoke.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You shook your head, stepping into the kitchen. “Needed some water.” You said and opened a cabinet, finding the glasses exactly where you remembered, and filled one with water.

Behind you, Jungkook leaned against the counter, his presence impossible to ignore. Funny, how he always preferred to blend in the background as a child, now his mere cologne—earthy and warm—demanded attention, filled the room before he had even entered.

“Do you… do you drink often now?” you asked hesitantly, glancing over your shoulder, at the way his fingers curled around the glass, the tattoos on his hand shifting as he tilted it.

“Sometimes.” he said, his tone vague.

If things were anything like before between you two or anything like before at all, maybe you'd have pushed further, asked him if this was growing to be a unhealthy habit.

Now, it didn’t seem right when there was an ocean between you—a chasm of time. Felt intrusive. And you know it would only sound hypocritical from your mouth—talking about unhealthy mechanisms. Hah.

You ended up only nodding and put the washed glass back so you could go back to counting the grooves in the plaster. Resume your restless attempt at sleep.

But Jungkook spoke again.

"How long have you been going on.." He started suddenly, setting his glass down with a quiet clink. His voice was calm, but the muscle in his jaw twitched as he spoke. "These dates?"

You blinked at him, taken aback by the question. "Uh—for a while now, I guess?"

“Are you willing, or are they forcing you?”

The question, the way he asked it—sharp, direct—left you off balance. So did the way he was looking at you now, his eyes no longer holding the casualty as they once did when he had the glass of alcohol in his hand.

“I—” You faltered. “They just want to help. They think it’s time.”

“And what do you want?”

To go back to your room. To ask him what did it even matter to him, after all this time.

But what came out was forthright honesty. “I don’t know,” you admitted, “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

He stepped closer, his feet padding softly against the kitchen floor—a contrast to his rigid frame that now towered just close enough. Close enough to see how his chest rose and fell with every breath. Close enough to see how his eyes lingered on you, like he was trying to unravel something he didn’t understand.

“You don’t have to do anything for them or anyone,” he said, his voice soft but no less rough. “Not if you’re not ready.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to deflect, to do something, but his gaze held you in place, tracing down from the dark circles that weighted your eyes to your parted lips. All you could feel was his gaze burning on you and hear your own pulse in your ears.

“Jungkook…” His name escaped your lips in a whisper, barely audible.

He lingered for a beat longer, his eyes searching yours, then he stepped back, his jaw just as tight. “Get some rest.” He clipped out before he turned and walked away, leaving you alone again.

You didn't got any sleep that night.

8:00'o clock. The time's a etched number in your brain ever since you started your job at the university.

It's a routine that needs no alarm clock. It's a number you keep waiting for as you blink at the time passing. And you're more than eager when the morning comes softly along with smaller needle stopping at 8, sunlight slipping through the curtains in streaks too gentle to match the weight in your chest.

With Minho, you were the one to wake up first but here you find that the house was awake before you.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sound of voices coming from the dining room. Breakfast was warm and lively, much like your mother in law. She greeted you with a brightness that almost made you feel guilty for your somber disposition.

“Good morning!” she said with a smile that could have been plucked from a painting. Reaching for a plate of toast, setting it down in front of the empty seat beside her.

“Good morning.” you murmured, sliding into a chair.

Across the table, your father in law sat at his usual spot, his attention fixed on his phone, only looking up to give you a nod of acknowledgment. You had never fully understood him, not as Minho’s father, not as a man.

Perhaps, It had always been because of the sore spot between him and your husband, the way his father disapproved of his wishes—choosing art over business, passion over practicality. You remembered the arguments you thought would never hear after the age of sixteen, the way Minho would come home, his face tight with frustration. “He doesn’t get it,” he’d say. “He never will.” You saw the way it wore on him, the way he carried the weight of his father’s disapproval like it was stitched into his very skin.

Even now, as you sat across from him, you wondered if he ever regretted it—if he ever wished he had spoken softer, loved louder. But his face was as impassive as ever, his thoughts a mystery.

“Jungkook left early this morning,” his mother said, breaking the silence. “Something about a meeting downtown.”

You nodded, relief washing over you in a way that felt almost shameful. You hadn’t realized how much you were dreading seeing him until you knew you wouldn’t have to.

“Busy as always,” you said lightly, reaching for your coffee.

The conversation drifted into familiar topics—neighbors, extended family, stories you half-listened to with polite nods. The table felt both too full and too empty, the gazes of all the people that sat there never straying to the right one in the left corner, just right beside yours.

The older woman turned to you, her tone bright with enthusiasm.

“There’s a party this weekend,” she said, her smile widening. “Just a small gathering with some friends and business partners. It would be lovely if you came with us.”

The suggestion made you squirm uncomfortably in your chair. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“It’ll be good for you,” she interrupted gently, her gaze soft but insistent. “Everyone would love to see you.”

You hesitated, the thought of mingling with people, of putting on a brave face for strangers already making you want to go back to bed. “I’m not sure I’d be good company,” You glanced towards your father in law, half-hoping he might say something to discourage the idea, but he couldn't be any less bothered.

“Nonsense!” she pressed. “You don’t even have to stay long. But it would mean so much to us.”

There was no malice in her persistence, no attempt to guilt you, just a genuine desire to include you in their lives. You couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come.”

Her face lit up with a smile. “Wonderful. Jungkook will pick you up and bring you there. That way, you don’t have to worry about driving.”

You froze, cup midway to your mouth. "There's no need for that, mom."

"Oh hush." she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll be coming from the office, so it’s no trouble.”

You nodded slowly, your appetite not too great or you just wanted to get out of here.

8'30. You glanced at the rose gold wrist watch, your first anniversary gift. Your first class is due in an hour, the perfect excuse wrapped around your wrist which you use to excuse yourself from the suffocating walls that always feel like they are closing in on you.

You have come to prefer the morning buzz of the university more—the hum of young adults chatting in the hallways, the scrape of chairs against tiled floors.It was a rhythm you found comforting, predictable in its own way. Here, you were just a professor, the one who explained history and philosophy with hands that only shook sometimes.

The teenage year you would have thought predictable as boring but you— a woman gone through a dubious sets of events found a fellow feeling in it.

Found the task of grading thesis, making power point presentation better than you would have ever imagined.

But Gods, your students need to realize that they can't dump about their toxic ex in every essay. A woman can only take so much.

You were sorting through the said papers in your office when the door creaked open, and a woman peeked her head in, the light from the outside catching in her curly locks.

“You busy?” she asked, her voice light and familiar.

You looked up to see Mira, the economics professor and one of your closest colleagues, walking toward you with her usual warm smile. Mira was more than just a coworker though—being practically family, the wife of Minho’s dark haired cousin who didn’t talk much in family gatherings, and over the years, she had become a friend you could rely on and share lunch with.

“Not for you,” you said, smiling as you waved her in.

She dropped into the chair across from you, setting her bag on the floor. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

Was it that obvious?

“I didn’t,” you admitted, sighing softly. “I stayed at the Jeons’ last night.”

Her eyebrows rose, but there was something in her eyes—a softness, an understanding—that made you look away for a second. “How’d that go?”

You hesitated, picking at the edge of a notebook on your desk. “It was… fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Jungkook’s back,” you said, and her eyes widened slightly, the topic seeming to catch her attention.

“Really? I didn’t know he was in town.”

“Neither did I, until yesterday.” You shrugged, leaning back in your chair. “Just for a while, though. Business stuff, y'know?”

Mira tilted her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And how’s that going?”

You frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, but her eyes stayed on you, curious. “I mean, it’s been years, hasn’t it?"

“Yeah,” you said slowly. "It's fine, I suppose. We didn't talk much."

“Hmm.” Mira hummed thoughtfully as if tasting the question she was gonna ask on her tounge. “Are you okay with him being back?”

Were you okay with him behind back? Okay with him stepping in your vicinity after years of acting like you were not even family, let alone a friend?

“I don’t know,” you admitted finally. “It’s strange seeing him again after all this time. But he’s been… kind. Quiet, mostly.”

Mira didn’t press further, but there was something in her expression that made you uneasy, as if she knew something you didn’t.

You cleared your throat, desperate to change the subject. “There’s a party this weekend. His mom invited me. Please tell me you’re going.”

Mira winced, her smile apologetic. “Date night with the husband. Non-negotiable.”

"Oh." You tried not to show the dejection on your face but it was there. "Lucky you."

She studied you for a moment, her expression gentle. “Are you okay with going?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I feel like I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything for them. Not if you’re not ready.”

If only he understood how much easier it was to do things for others than to face yourself.

“Y/N…” Her voice softened, and for a moment, she looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she reached out and squeezed your hand. “You’ll be fine. And if you’re not, you can text me. I’ll make up some excuse to get you out of there.”

You smiled, grateful for her before bidding bye to her for her next class and focusing back on the pending work spread across your desk while simultaneously going through your closet in your mind.

Minho had always said red made the brown of your eyes excel more.

And you have really tried to believe it, looking at yourself from above your shoulder, from the side of your arm in the mirror but perhaps it's not only this red, off shoulder dress that's not doing your eyes justice. It's every color you have once known, once loved.

It's like, it's you that's not doing them justice.

As you stared into the mirror, your eyes flitting from one detail to the next—the slightly uneven tuck of fabric, the exposed skin of your collarbone—it felt wrong.

The little things were missing—his hands fixing the clasp of your necklace, his voice telling you not to overthink it, that you looked beautiful. That it didn’t matter what you wore, because it was you who wore it.

But he wasn’t here.

With a sigh, you adjusted the necklace you had chosen yourself, a simple silver chain that rested delicately against your collarbone. The mirror wasn’t forgiving, but you looked anyway, searching for something familiar in your own reflection. You smoothed your hands over the fabric, told yourself this was just another party, and dodged the doubts of this being a mistake.

The knock at your door came too soon, sharp and punctual, like everything Jungkook had become.

You felt your stomach clench, nerves twisting with something else you couldn’t name. Smoothing your dress one last time, you crossed the small space of your apartment, pausing just before the door.

When you opened it, Jungkook was standing right before you.

He had stood on the edge of cliffs where oceans met skies too, in countless countries at that, walked through streets that droned with history. Scrawled through the wonders of the world—the kind that made poets immortalize them in verse—but nothing—nothing—would ever measure up to this.

To you.

You, standing in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the hall light, your hair falling in waves that he had memorized long ago.

His chest tightened, the memory of another doorway bleeding into the moment as gaily as if it had just happened. He had been in the room meant for waiting, where your parents had sat moments before, your mother sniffling into a tissue, your father pacing in his polished shoes. Now it had been his turn.

The thought alone of being the second person to see you before you walked away from him for good had made his tie that he had been trying to get the hang off felt too stressed around his neck, his palms clammy despite the air conditioning. He rubbed them on his pants, glancing at the small clock on the mantle every few seconds. The minutes dragged, each one seemed longer than the other.

What would you look like?

The thought ran circles in his mind, only for a creak of the door to startle him back.

Footsteps had echoed in the quiet, minimizing the distance until he could practically feel the nervous energy of a bride bounce against his. "Okay. You can turn around now." He had heard you speak, had seen the skittish smile on your face before he even turned around.

And when he did, he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

The dress hugged you like it had been designed with only you in mind, its soft fabric flowing as if in defiance of gravity. Your veil cascaded behind you, catching the light, and your smile was small, almost shy, as you looked up at him, waiting for his reaction.

“Well?” you prompted, turning slightly, your hands brushing the fabric at your sides. “What do you think?”

What did he think? He thought the universe was wicked for allowing him to witness this and still expect him to let you go.

He had swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady when he finally said, “You look—” His tongue had faltered over every adjective that came to mind. Beautiful wasn’t enough. Breathtaking felt like a cliché. “Perfect.”

You—Beautiful, Devastatingly, so.

You—who weren’t his to look at this way.

He feels his breath catch, his hands clenching at his sides to keep himself from reaching for you.

Because while that version of you had been a dream, this version—worn, weathered, but still so unmistakably you—was real. And the reality of you had always been what he wanted most.

Fuck. He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t have agreed to pick you up, shouldn’t have stepped into this space, should have kept the distance he had spent years bridging.

But he has always found himself hopeless and running back to wherever you were concerned, hopeless in a way that had him studying for a test he didn’t even have to keep you company or show up.. here. Content to be near you in whatever capacity he could. He told himself it was enough. That it would be enough to watch you from the sidelines, to sit across from you at family dinners.

It wasn’t.

Because Jungkook wasn't a virtuous man. He never had been.

Virtue belonged to his brother—the one who could weave dreams out of thin air, who saw the world in colors Jungkook had never learned to name. His brother—Minho—who had been the light, the warmth that people, he gravitated toward. He had admired Minho, even envied him, resented him in ways he never admitted aloud and kept it in shadows.

When Minho died, the shadow became a man. And that man had spent years running.

Running into work, into unfamiliar cities, into the kind of purpose that left no room for thought. No room for the times when everything was right, when he tasted family and friendship for the first time ever, no room for the last time he tasted it when you walked down the aisle to his brother looking at him like he was the sun and how it burned, how he had burned with nails biting into his palms.

And only men with no integrity burn. Men who are cowards, restless, afraid of thier own greed try to run, in hopes that the distance would save them.

But distance didn’t save men like Jungkook.

Because here he was again, standing before you, the fire still smoldering.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice pulling him back, creating a doubt in his belief.

“Hi,” he replied, his own tounge feeling heavy in his mouth.

“You’re early,” you said, your tone carefully light.

He cleared his throat, his hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks in an attempt to keep them to themselves. “Traffic was lighter than I expected. Are you ready to leave?"

You nodded and he stepped back, revealing his sleek Mercedes benz parked just right in front. He let you walk before him, watching how your movements were hesitant, as if the ground beneath your feet wasn’t entirely steady. He wanted to ask you if you were okay. He wanted to tell you it was okay if you weren't.

He settled for opening the car door for you.

“Thanks for this,” you said, your gaze fixed on the passing streetlights. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do.”

His grip tightened against the leather of the steering wheel with a force that made his knuckles ache. There was a rancorous way that you spoke to him, carefully restrained, that he couldn't even blame you for.

"It's not." He gritted out. "It's not a problem."

He had earned every inch of this gap between you, had spent years building it brick by brick, mile by mile. He's all to blame for. For carving the space between you with every ignored call, every excuse he made to avoid family dinners where you’d inevitably be.

For the leaving the wreckage in his wake—yours, his, theirs.

It wasn’t fair to hate the consequences of his own choices.

But hell, if he didn't outright loathed feeling like he was staring at a wall of frosted glass when he looked at you—where he could see the outline of you, but the details were blurred, distant. Like he had lost the privilge of knowing you from one glance, lost the privilge of having you speak up to him whenever you wanted, call him out, intoxicate him with your laughter that lightened up a room he wasn't even aware was dark. Found it fucking unbearable.

So much that he felt relief washing over him when the venue of the gathering came in view. A grand mansion, framed by manicured gardens and sprawling oaks that seemed to whisper old secrets to one another. It had a timeless elegance that made you wonder how many lives it had seen pass through its doors.

Small gathering, she said. You scoffed internally at rich people and their definition of small.

“Nice place,” you murmured as you walked beside him, your steps careful on the stone path after the car was eased into a parking spot.

“It’s the Kim's family home,” Jungkook said. You nodded, though the name didn’t spark much recognition. The Kims had been mentioned here and there at family dinners—names dropped in passing between sips of wine and shared laughter. You had barely paid attention then, too busy suppressing laughs at the jokes that Minho whispered near.

The front doors were open, the faint scent of fresh flowers and expensive cologne wafting out to greet you. Inside, the space was as opulent as expected—high ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, polished floors that gleamed under the soft light, and clusters of well-dressed guests milling about with drinks in hand.

A tall man stood near the entrance, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline making him impossible to miss. Beside him, another man stood with a softer air, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he leaned into the first man’s side.

The taller of the two men turned, his expression lighting up as he spotted Jungkook. “There he is,” He said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly.

"Hyung." Jungkook softened, clasping hands in a firm shake before pulling each other into a brief hug, the kind that spoke of collaboration and respect.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse as you wondered whether to step back and leave him to his conversation or stay and risk being out of place.Would it be rude if you chose the former?

You were saved from your uncertainty when the two of them pulled away from Jungkook and took you in, a gleam of recognition passing through their face. Recognition, shock, then pity. You know how it went.

“You must be Y/N,” the taller one said, his gaze shifting to you with a warm smile.

You blinked, clearly caught off guard by the direct attention. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Kim Namjoon ” he said, offering his hand. “And this is Seokjin, my partner.” You smiled, nodding in acknowledgment before taking the hand of the charming one in the beige suit. “It’s nice to meet you, both. This is a beautiful venue.” You assume that they're the hosts of the party. The Kims that this house belonged to.

“Thank my father for that,” Namjoon said with a chuckle. “Sixty years old and still insists on hosting the most extravagant parties. He’d never let me live it down if I didn’t pull out all the stops.”

“Extravagant is an understatement,” Seokjin chimed in, his tone playful as he glanced at Namjoon. “I’m pretty sure half the flowers in the city ended up here.”

You smiled again, but it faltered when Seokjin's expression changed in a beat.

“We’ve heard a lot about you too,” he said gently, his gaze dipping briefly to Jungkook before meeting yours again.

You tilted your head, curiosity flashing across your face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Namjoon assured you. “Your family is well-regarded, and we-we're sorry about Minho. He was brilliant in every sense of the world. We can't even imagin—"

“Thank you,” you said softly, trying really hard to not let the tightening of your throat strain your voice. “He was.”

Jungkook watched as your smile faltered, just slightly, at the mention of Minho. He decided to steer the conversation away but you recovered quickly, offering a polite nod and beat him to it.

There was a brief, loaded pause before you glanced at Jungkook. “I should find mom. She asked me to join her earlier.”

"Yeah, right.” Jungkook said, his voice steady despite the way his chest tightened again when he looked at you.

You walked by Jungkook, brushing close enough that your shoulder brushed against his chest, the faintest hint of your vanilla perfume that was so maddeningly you lingered in the air. He tensed, his breath catching before he could stop it. His fingers twitched at his sides, an almost imperceptible motion, but it was enough.

Subtle as he tried to be, he caught himself leaning slightly, his chest rising with a quiet inhale as though he could take the ghost of your scent and keep it for himself.

"Not as subtle as you think." Seokjin snickered by his boyfriend's side who also raised an eyebrow, his expression knowing and somewhat giving away his discomfort. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Shit.

Jungkook straightened, his jaw clenching as he avoided their eyes, fixing the collar of his shirt hoping they won't catch on the heat creeping up on his neck too. “Don’t.” he said quietly, his tone low and edged with warning.

"Maybe you don't sniff her like a dog in public? Maybe you have some decorum?" Seokjin judged, proud and loud.

"I have plenty, hyung." The younger male side eyed the older one, his eyes narrowed and the tips of his ears already crimson red like he was a boy caught watching porn for the very first time.

Namjoon sighed, though there was a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Let him be, honey.”

But the look he gave Jungkook was far from dismissive. It was the kind of look that saw too much, that peeled back layers Jungkook wasn’t ready to confront. Gods, he needed new friends.

He turned his attention back to the crowd where you disappeared.

The soft hum of conversations and the faint clinking of glasses followed you as you weaved through the grand hall, your eyes scanning for your mother-in-law’s familiar figure. The air in the mansion was heavier than it had been when you arrived, the brush of silk against silk, the way every movement seemed calculated, observed, and weighed.

You navigated through the crowd like a ghost in a gallery, your steps measured and slow, eyes flicking to the floor more than once to avoid the speculative stares. With rich circles came dirty gossip—whispered words disguised as laughter, false smiles that hid daggers. You’d learned to let them roll off your back, like rain on stone.

The Jeon matriarch had mentioned being near the back, closer to where the banquet tables were set. You followed the direction she’d gestured toward earlier, passing servers who moved seamlessly with trays of sparkling champagne.

Halfway through the journey, your steps faltered as your gaze landed on the centerpiece of one table—a chocolate fountain. Warm, rich, and cascading like liquid satin, it stood surrounded by an array of treats. Strawberries gleamed like rubies in the low light, their surfaces polished and inviting.

You hesitated, glanced around as if expecting someone to berate you for indulging in something so ordinary, but eventually, you plucked a strawberry and dipped it into the cascading chocolate.

You let the sweetness settle on your tongue, closing your eyes for a brief moment. For the first time all evening, you found this place somewhat tolerable.

Free food always making things better.

“Excuse me, miss.” a small voice piped up beside you, tugging on the flowy end of your dress.

A boy, no older than six or seven, stood by your side, his wide eyes flicking between you and the fountain. He looked as if he had stepped out of a luxury children’s catalog, his little suit tailored perfectly, his bow tie slightly askew. “Can you grab one for me? I’m not allowed to reach it by myself.” he asked, pointing at the fountain. His voice was polite, but there was a hopeful edge to it, as if he wasn’t used to asking for things twice.

“Of course, love.” you said, your lips curving into a small smile. You picked another strawberry, dipping it with care before crouching slightly to hand it to him. "There you go."

“Thank you!” he chirped, grinning immediate and radiant, the kind that softened the edges of a hard day.

"What's your name?" You asked him, crouching down to his level.

“Do-yun!” came a sharp voice, the kind that turned your stomach before your brain even processed it.

Who you assumed was the boy's mother stepped forward, her elegance severe, her lips painted in a red that matched the strawberries. She took her son’s hand but not before her eyes raked over you, head to toe, with an expression that left no room for interpretation.

"What did I tell you about bothering strangers?” she scolded do-yun who stared at the skewer in his hand apologetically.

“He wasn’t bothering me,” you said gently, straightening up and having the woman’s eyes flicker to you again, assessing.

“He just wanted a treat.”

Her eyes flicked to the chocolate fountain, then back to you, her lips pressing into a tight smile. “how kind of you.”

There was no warmth in her tone, no hint of gratitude. Just a faintly dismissive air. And with that, she turned, her child in tow, leaving you with the faint scent of something floral and the taste of bitterness on your tongue.

You'd learned better than to expect warmth from people bound by history.

You'd learned not to mind it. To overlook it. To not pay attention to them at all.

"That's her, isn't she?"

“Such a shame, losing her husband so young.”

“Yes, but you know, they weren’t exactly power players, were they? He was an artist, wasn’t he?”

The words hung in the air like cigarette smoke, acrid and inescapable.

A laugh, soft and cruel. “I suppose she’s lucky the Jeons still keep her close. Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.”

You stopped in your tracks. The sharp sting of their voices cut through the party’s hum, louder than the music, louder than your own heartbeat.

You could feel your palms start to get sweaty, eyes suddenly unable to meet anyone's.

Breathe. You reminded yourself.

One: Find your breath.

Two: Focus on something neutral—the fountain, the floor, the chandelier above.

Three: Remind yourself: They don’t know you. Their words are weightless.

But weightless wasn’t the right word.

“Though, you’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly… widow-appropriate, is it?”

You tried to focus on your numbers but you lost it.

You turned, your fists clenched, your lips thinned, the polite demeanor cracking away from your face under the weight of your frustration.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Was there something you wanted to say to my face?”

The women froze, their eyes widening in surprise. One of them, a younger woman with a nervous smile, tried to backpedal. “Oh, no, we didn’t mean—”

“Because if you have an issue with me or my dress, feel free to say it outright,” you continued, your voice clear despite the way your heart hammered in your chest. “I’d hate for you to waste any more time whispering behind my back.”

The group exchanged glances, communicating in a language of their own, you couldn’t care less about. Atleast not in this moment.

“We didn’t mean to offend,” one of them muttered, her tone brittle.

“Of course you didn’t,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could I possibly take offense to strangers dissecting my life as if it’s some dinner party entertainment?”

Stupid old hags with no life of their own!

You kept that to yourself.

Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and stormed away.

The chandeliers above blurred as tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

You weren’t looking for anything specific—just distance, just air that wasn’t thick with judgment and whispers. A bathroom, maybe, though you weren’t going to ask for directions not when your voice felt like it would crack the moment you opened your mouth.

People brushed past you, their scents of expensive perfumes swirling in the air, their muted voices blending into a hum you couldn’t quite focus on. One or two bumped into your shoulder, but you didn’t apologize, didn’t bother looking back.

You just needed to get away—you just needed out of here.

And then, as if the universe wasn’t finished testing you, a firm hand of another one of a frame you jerked into, closed around your wrist, halting your momentum.

You looked up, brows scrunched, eyes glossy and mouth parting, ready to snap but then you were met with a amicable pair of dark eyes.

A crease of his own wrinkling his forehead as he looked down at you. "Is something wrong?" He asked and you almost wanted to laugh mockingly.

Instead, you did what you initially wanted to do. Your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face. “Let me go.”

He hesitated for a moment, tounge poking his cheek, grip on your hand loosening but not releasing entirely. "What's wrong, y/n?"

“I said, let me go,” you repeated, your voice firm, frangible at the edges before you pulled your hand away from him and pushed past to walk away without another word.

The next random hallway you stumbled into was quieter, emptier, and for that, you were grateful, stretched ahead like an endless corridor of polished wood and muted gold accents. The noise of the party faded into the background, muffled by the thick walls and heavy doors.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to roam around mindlessly any further. This should be good enough, you told yourself and leaned against one of the walls, your forehead pressing against the cool surface as you tried to breathe through the wave of vehemence emotions that crashed through you.

One: Inhale.

Two: Exhale.

Three: Forget the words they said. Forget them.

But they echoed, persistent and savage, circling in your mind like vultures.

Poor thing, all alone now. Must be awful.

You’d think she’d be a bit more modest. That dress isn’t exactly widow-appropriate, is it?

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, your hands clutching at your dress as if the fabric could somehow hold you together. But nothing could, nothing had. You had tried and tried and tried.. and fuck you didn't wanted to do it anymore.

Turning around, your head tipped back against the wall, the ceiling swimming in and out of focus as your vision blurred.

You shouldn’t have come here.

You should have stayed home, buried yourself in the comfort of your quiet apartment where no one whispered behind your back or looked at you with pity thinly disguised as deference.

Why did they care? Why did it matter to them how you dressed, how you existed, how you grieved?

It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. Crying wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t change anything.

Your hands gripped your clutch tightly, the edges digging into your palms, and for a moment, you considered throwing it—hurling it across the hall just to feel something break.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because even here, in this quiet, empty hallway, you felt the silent expectation that you hold yourself together, that you keep smiling, keep nodding, keep existing in a way that made other people comfortable.

You hated this. You hated being you. You hated being the one who was left behind. And God you hated being alone. No Minho to make a quiet joke about the ridiculousness of it all and pull you toward something fun and irreverent.

Just you.

It will be always be just you. You've never admitted that to yourself but now that you did, you feel such panic rise in your chest that you don't hear him at first. Not until his voice broke through the haze.

“Y/N.”

It was soft, tentative, but it still cut through the silence like a blade.

You flinched, your head snapping toward the source of the voice. Jungkook stood a few feet away, his dark eyes searching yours, his expression shadowed with concern.

He had followed you.

“I told you to leave me alone,” you managed, your voice trembling as you turned away, willing him to disappear.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, his footsteps growing louder as he moved closer with a cautiousness that made you feel like a wounded animal. “Talk to me.” He added, the pleading in his voice almost running free.

"I mean it, Jungkook.. go away." You tried putting distance between the both of you again but far too quick for your slowed senses, he was now standing right in front of you, hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do with him while also knowing.

"And I told you, I'm not leaving." His tone had coarsened and your dam had broke.

“Why now?” you cried, stepping closer to him, your fists balling at your sides. “Why do you want to stay now? You’ve spent years acting like a stranger, Jungkook. Years acting like I didn’t exist. And now—”

You shoved at his chest, your fists pounding weakly against him, but he didn’t move.

“Now you want to act like you care?” you yelled, your voice cracking as you hit him again. “Now you want to be here? Why?”

Jungkook stood still, his arms at his sides, his chest solid and unyielding beneath your fists. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, didn’t even try to stop you. He just let you hit him, let you pour out everything.His silence infuriated you, and yet it steadied you in a way you couldn’t explain.

"Why do you care now?" you repeated, your voice cracking, trembling like your hands as they hit his chest incessantly. Each word felt like it scraped raw against your throat. "Where were you, Jungkook? When everything fell apart, when I—when I needed someone. Where were you?"

“I don’t need you now!” you snapped, your tears falling freely now. “I don’t need you to come here and act like you care, like you’ve always cared, because we both know that’s not true."

“Because you left!" your voice cracked, the words laced with betrayal. The hurt from the breach of faith weakening you and your punches on his chest until they finally stilled, your hands trembling still as they curled into the fabric of his shirt. Jungkook caught your wrists, his hold firm but gentle, and for a moment, you fought him, your breaths coming in sharp and ragged. But when he didn’t let go, when he didn’t flinch or step back, the fight drained out of you.

Your knees buckled, and his arms came around you slowly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid you might push him away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were too tired now. Empty hands that had been holding onto something for as long as you could remember were too tired, have forgotten the feeling of what it felt like to be held instead.

You allowed to let yourself feel that. You allowed yourself to feel someone else other than the woman you couldn’t even recognize in a mirror as you sagged against him, your head pressing against his shoulder as your tears soaked into his shirt, body shaking and shivering from the quiet sobs that you let out.

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, angel." You heard him say those words like a mantra against your hair, arms tightening around you, nestling you close against his chest.

For a moment, you heard pain there, raw and unfiltered, pain that felt similiar to your own in ways you hadn’t expected. You clutched his shirt tighter. You didn't wanted to be alone and Jungkook felt and smelled of times when you weren't. Earthy and Warm. Like that one time when he pulled you in to him after the death of milo- your first dog, and didn’t even mind your snort.

You had clung to those memories but it felt better clinging to him. A small, desperate part of you wanting to drag him closer, to cling to what little you had left of the past. The rest of you wanted to push him away, to keep screaming at him for daring to come back after all this time, after all this distance.

The sobs subsided slowly, leaving behind the kind of stillness that felt fragile, as if it might shatter with the wrong word or movement. Jungkook didn’t push you away, didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulled you closer, as though he feared you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your gaze searching his face. His eyes shadowed, a stupid perfect strand of his stupid perfect hair falling on his forehead with tension prominent in his jaw and you wondered if there was a time there wasn't.

You wondered if it would make you any more vulnerable that you are right now if you say the words that sit on the top of your tounge, sting in the tears that linger in the corner of your eyes.

“I missed you,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They felt dangerous, like exposing a wound that had barely begun to scab over.

His eyes darkened, a low sound rumbling in his chest—something between a growl and a sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I missed you too, angel."

The rawness in his tone made your chest clench, a part of you craving more, while another part shrieked at you to stop this before it went any further, gather whatever semblance has left of you and walk away, play his cards against him.

But you have never been too good with cards or walking away.

“Then why did you leave?” you croaked. “Why did you stay away for so long?”

His gaze dropped to the space between you before meeting your eyes again, his own breathing now getting uneven. You could feel it beneath you. Rising. And Rising. And Rising.

"I didn’t knew how to look at you and not feel like I'm.. betraying him." His voice trembles as he drews in breath and you're so close you feel the heat of it brush against your temple. "And I can not, not look at you. That became a problem."

Your body stiffened at the confession, the world around you shrinking until it was just the two of you, his voice echoing in your ears.

Your first instinct was disbelief.

This can't mean what you think it does.

This can’t mean what you think it does!

The words replayed in your mind, over and over, refusing to settle. Each repetition twisted something deeper, something buried in the hollow space that had once been you.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, needing space, needing air.

He didn’t move. His gaze followed you, his expression resolute, like he was determined to lay everything bare now that the first truth had slipped out.

But you didn’t even wanted to acknowledge it as something, let alone, a truth. “That’s not—” Your voice cracked, and you forced yourself to start again. "Are you drunk, Jungkook?" You found the thought so repulsing, you could only think of ways to brush this up, put all the blame on the champagne.

From the way his eyes narrowed and brow ridged, you could tell that it was not the champagne.

“Y/N.” he says with a warning. “I’m not fucking drunk.”

“Well, you sound like you are,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. “Because that—what you just said—sounds like something someone says when they’re not thinking clearly. You're not making any sense, Jungkook!"

“It makes sense,” he was starting to get frustated now. “It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to me.”

And you were starting to get scared. You needed him to stop talking. Anything and everything he said made you physically want to recoil. You took another step back, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you could shield yourself from the weight of unsaid words that are no longer so.

“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking, hands tempted to cover your ears like a child. His confession felt like a pin pulled from a grenade, and now the blast was unfurling within you. “Don’t do this. It's not fair. It's-It's not fair to him. Or me. Or you."

I know. He admits quietly to himself because he doesn't think anyone knows better than the man who was holding the jagged ends of a once delicate thread. And he hates himself for it because hating you was as unrealistic as the existence of a greater being to him. He had tried. Tried turning to salvation. Tried to despise you for being the one thing that has turned him the best and worst person he can be but he just can't. He prefers hating himself better.

He wants this punishment, that is you. He wants to whisper I'm sorry- I'm sorry for leaving- I'm sorry for coming back in every crook and nook of your body for the rest of his life so you'd feel his expression of regret that could only be a product of love so consuming embedding into you.

Because it's truth. It's his truth, has been for years and years, before he even knew what are the consequences of being a honest person. Now that he is seeing you in front of him—you with a revolting look, a stray tear rolling down your eyes that is nowhere near as angry as it had been before, he understands that it's not a consequence he can take.

He dares to step forward again and even if takes a whole lot of power in him not to pull you into him again, he doesn't and only raises a hand and catches the tear with his thumb.

“You don’t get to do this to me.” you repeat, your voice low and trembling.

And so does his. "I know."

Jungkook didn’t know what he expected you to say, what he hoped for. Forgiveness? Understanding? He wasn’t sure he deserved either.

Yet when you don't pull away, look back at him with the same daring he had stepped forward with, a silence understanding passes between the space that is separating you from him. And he's done being separated from you.

He tilted his head down, his breath stirring your hair when he inhaled deeply, his nose tracing a path down until it rubbed against yours—softly, deliberately—as if giving you time to move away. You didn't and his eyes fell on your inviting mouth again.

Fuck it.

Jungkook surged forward, his hands cupping your face, tipping your face up to him as his lips crashed against yours. The way he kissed you was nothing like the way he had touched you. It was rough, desperate with the way tounge and teeth clashed, filled with years of pent up desire and regret and emotions too tangled to name.

He kissed you like the nights he’d spent staring at the ceiling in places too far from home, wondering if you’d be happier without him there to complicate things, wondering if things had been any different if he said something before. Will you have looked at him like the way you looked at his brother? Would that choice have saved you from years and years of tragedy? Would that have saved him from the weight of his guilt, his love—love that had been a silent, unwelcome presence in his life for so long that it felt like another organ, vital and inescapable?

When he felt you grip him again and kiss him back. Nothing else mattered. The world stopped spinning and he didn't wanted to run anymore.

His hands found your waist, gripping tightly. A low groan slipping from his mouth to yours at the feeling of how you melted against him when he deepened the kiss, tounge proding and exploring all that your sweet mouth had to offer. Gods, he was drunk now.

"Shit." He shuddered as the taste of you finally started to settle in, pulling you closer and closer, then pushing you back until your back met the wall of the hallway.

You should be scared, anxious and pushing him back. The mere thought of someone walking in on you kissing him, your supposed family. Should make you want to end this because you could only imagine the stake they'd pin you on. They'd be not wrong to.

This is traitorous—what you're doing, what you're allowing yourself. But so is a shameful part of you that had always reached for him. Something that whispered to you, so soft it felt like it came from inside your own chest.

It's not so bad. His lips feel good.

But oh, it is. It makes you sick from just thinking how bad it is. Anger, confusion, guilt—oh, the guilt—swirl together and make you so sick.

"W-We shouldn’t.." You gasp against him as your unpracticed lips suck on his in a contradiction.

"No, we shouldn't." He kisses you harder, his mouth only leaving yours to trail a train of kisses along the column of your accessible throat to him, making you whimper out loud that he takes as an sign to nibble and bite.

Your hands find their way to his shoulder and his to your hips. "Legs around me." He licks the length of your neck, narrowing your world down to the feeling of his provoking wet tounge on your skin, his calloused fingers squeezing your hips. It felt all too real now. And despite you being balant enough to start this in the first place, you're not sure if you're still feeling bold. What you are feeling is this sinful, unexplainable craving seeping into your bones, curling around your ribs, making it hard to breath and think. Or maybe it's him.

Whatever it is, you get yourself to pause his eager hands and hungry mouth and speak, your breath coming in short, hot puffs. "Jungkook.. I don't think-" He straightens up and the vulnerability in his voice and eyes is gone as he squeezes your hips tighter.

"Finally gave me that perfect mouth of yours and now you want to walk away? Do you like tormenting me, angel? Do you like knowing that I'd fuck my fist to only the thought of you when you do?" He growls against your ear and you feel yourself flush so hard you're sure he even feels the heat coming off you in ripples.

"Please, baby." He pleads unapologetically, fingers tugging you closer even when all of you is pressed against all of him. "I want you." So bad it hurts.

Gone is the man who had once been so armored, seemed so unreachable and untouchable. And left is Jeon Jungkook, who looks like he will crumble to the ground if you pull away now.

You wouldn't want that. But the words came anyway, right from where shame twisted in your stomach, tangling with the guilt that clawed at your throat. "Do you still want me even if I'm nothing like the woman I used to be?" It came out breakable and in segments, and the second they left your lips, you weren’t sure what to except as a answer.

For a moment, all you could hear was the ragged rhythm of your combined breathing.

You swallowed hard, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze. The intensity in his dark eyes was almost unbearable, raw and unrelenting as they searched yours.

"Don't ever say that again." he bit out, every syllable heavy. "I want you always. I want you with my every breath. There's always been only you for me, understand?" He added with a brief grind of his hardened arousal against your front, making you mewl.

The words, though, hit you like a physical forcek, breaking through the walls you’d built around yourself, the ones you’d convinced yourself were impenetrable.

Before you could respond, he moved.

His mouth fell onto yours again and with practiced ease, his hands slid to the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. "Now. Legs around me, baby." he murmured in the kiss, and though your mind was a whirlwind of what seemed like every single thought you've ever had, your body obeyed.

You could barely figure out to where he was taking you, too engrossed in the kiss that you steered towards a softer, mellow one, fingers tangling in the hair that has grown a little bit on the nape of his neck. Feeling like you both were two audacious college students trying to find a space in a messy party where you both won't be interrupted.

When he halted in his steps, you assumed that he found it as he kicked it open with a firm nudge of his boot, the room beyond dim and quiet but he barely give you time to register anything else, his movements urgent and frantic as he carried you over to the bed in the middle after swiftly locking you both away. You bounced on the silk mattress as he set you down, though his intentions were grave, his actions or the way he held you was gentle, tounge swiping over his glistening lips like chasing the taste of you that made you want to give him once more.

Audacious, you were.

Your eyes on his face, shadows played along the planes, softening the hard edges of his jaw, but his gaze burned. Dark and piercing, it held you in place as if daring you to look away.

You didn’t.

Your eyes followed the sluggish movements of his hands as he reached up, his fingers deftly working the knot of his tie. The fabric slid free, whispering against the buttons of his dress shirt before he cast it aside, forgotten on the nearby chair.

Next came his jacket. He shrugged it off with practiced ease, the broad span of his shoulders rolling beneath the fabric. Your breath hitched as he discarded it, leaving him in the crisp white shirt that clung to his frame, the outline of him barely hidden.

And then his hands moved again, this time to his wrist.

You watched, mesmerized, as he undid the strap of his watch, the silver buckle catching the faint light. He pulled it free and set it down on the nightstand, the movement so fluid it felt almost rehearsed.

It wasn’t until he turned his wrist slightly that you noticed it—the worn thread of a bracelet wrapped around his wrist, faded from time and use but unmistakable.

The one you’d tied around his wrist when you were kids in an action of promise to stay friends for years to come.

But he still wore it.

He still wore it.

Your fingers twitched against the bedspread, the urge to reach out and touch him almost overwhelming.

And as if understanding your anticipation, he soon followed you down, your breath catching as he hovered above you. You waited for him to kiss you again because god help you, you liked a little too much but he only pressed a chaste one, smirking subtly at the pout that subconsciously formed on your lips that soon parted in a gasp when he started to suck on your neck again, this time with the intention to claim the spot with the scrape of his teeth.

He hummed against your skin, the sound deep and satisfied, before he drew your flesh into his mouth again, harder this time. The sharp pull sent a jolt of pleasure-pain coursing through you, thighs clenching together.

"My angel." he said softly, yet nothing was soft about the way he pulled down on the straps of your dress. The fabric slipped, baring the smooth skin of your shoulder, and he pressed his lips there, warm and firm, before trailing lower, his mouth following the path he’d just uncovered. "My undoing."

The red fabric gathered at your arms as he pushed it further, exposing the tops of your collarbones and the swell of your chest. His gaze flicked up to meet yours then, dark and questioning, seeking permission even though his hands were steady, his intention clear.

You nodded, perhaps with too much enthusiasm and earned a chuckle from him that you were sure was the reason for the wetness pooling between your legs.

You had missed that sound. You had missed him.

And he was hell bent on making up for lost time as he dived face first into your chest, humming again when he took in your pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling his tounge around the roundness of you.

"Oh shit." Your back arched, hands finding their way to his hair again. Pulling and tugging. Urging him on until his hand was fondling the other, abandoned tit. Squeezing under his rough palms that made the heat lowering your stomach worse—all of it felt too much, too soon. And yet, it wasn’t enough.

It had been so long.

Too long since someone had touched you like this, with a reverence that made you feel seen, whole, wanted.

You told yourself it was natural, that anyone in your position would respond this way. That it wasn’t about him—it couldn’t be. But your body betrayed you before your mind could even catch up. Your legs wrapped around his waist once more as you ground yourself against him. Against the print of his bulging length you could feel pulsing against you.

"Fuck yeah.." You cursed low, head falling back on the pillows and Jungkook looked up, his own cock twitching at the sight of you, at the feel of you. Of everything he has ever wanted. Of everything he thought he would never have. But here you were straight from his flithest wet dream that would have him taking more cold showers that he could keep count of.

A goddamn miracle for him, this wasn't a dream.

"This here needs some attention too, hmm?" He rasped, hands slipping down from the curve of your waist, to bunch up your dress to your hips. Wasting no time in finding the wet mess you made of your panties. "Look at this." He grunted, hand cupping your clothed mound. "So wet."

You exhaled out like you'd been freed from shackles that felt too heavy and a whimper followed right after when he disposed you of them, exposing your deprived cunt to the cold air that had you clenching around nothing. "And so fucking responsive." He breathed against your bare sex after moving his head down.

You hadn’t expected that. You breath was bated, cheeks were flushed and heart was pounding at the view alone of his face between your thighs.

Then again, he was all about surprising you today.

Though, it didn't make it any less overwhelming.

The way his hands gripped your thighs, firm yet careful, as if he were both anchoring you and holding himself back. His fingers dug into your skin just enough to leave the faintest imprint, a reminder of where he had been, where he was. Your legs draped over his shoulders, trembling with a mix of anticipation and disbelief, as though your body was still catching up to the reality of this moment.

Never in your wildest dreams, it would have come to this. Come to Jungkook licking a greedy strip up from your folds.

"Jungkook—oh God!" You gasped and he groaned, feeling all of his restraint and the plan to savor this, to savor you, slip away from his tightening hands. One taste of you and he wanted to grasp every drop of like it would be his last.

And so he did.

Burying his face in your wanting pussy like a man with purpose, he lapped. His mouth wrapped around your clit, tounge swiping and licking with a reverence because you were something sacred, something he had put on a pedestal so high, others in his life barely mattered.

"Oh- mhm. Feels so good!" You moan out, mind in a haze of pure fog and he takes it as his cue to plunge his digit inside your dripping core. You're sure you've got no mind now. Grunts of his own leaving him at the thought of your heat wrapping around his aching cock instead.

He felt no shame in that. No shame in what he was doing right now. Because then you moved, your body arching toward him as if to erase every doubt. Your fingers found their way to his hair, tugging as selfishly as he fed on you, flatenning his tounge on your slit to take all he can get, to give you all he can.

A shaky exhale brushing against your folds. The sound was low, guttural, and filled with more longing than he knew how to contain. "Does it, baby? Sweet pussy's feeling good?" His fingers—knuckles deep now—worked you faster, curling and testing ways to get you closer to the edge.

This was more desire that he knew he was possible of as his hips started to rut on their own, seeking friction in a way that was both instinctual and helpless. Brain flat lining. Face drowned in the essence of you. Desperate, as you pulled on his hair. Pathetic, as he chased his own high from just the taste of you, from just how you enveloped his curving fingers. Ecastic, when you finally reached your breaking point from how he alternated between broad strokes and targeted flicks, making you come all over his mouth that kindles his face, that he swallow all because he refuses to let anything go to waste.

"Ah fuck—Oh lord!" You fingers tear in his scalp and hips bucked against his face, eyes rolling back until they whitened.

Oh.

It was in this moment, with your thighs braced against his shoulders and his name spilling from her lips, that Jungkook knew.

He would never be the same again.

That he too would be coming in his pants like a high school boy.

It wasn’t enough—nothing would ever be enough—but it was all he had, and it drove him to the edge faster than he would’ve liked to admit. The tension inside him snapped before he could stop it, his body tensing and toes curling because he found everything else secondary to the sheer joy of watching you fall apart beneath him.

"Oh shit, y/n. Shit. Shit. Shit." He whimpers against your cunt, his hips finally slowing down their mindless movement. His forehead pressed against your thigh as he caught his breath. His chest heaved, his heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his entire body felt like it was vibrating, the aftershocks of his release making his muscles twitch.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to your clit before leaning back up to feel another wave of release threatening to overcome him when he sees your content expression, hands loosening their grip in his raven hair, half lidded eyes meeting his own before they trail down. "Y-You.." You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t have spoken even if you tried.

A lazy smirk made it's way to his lips that caught the light before he licked whatever remnant what was left of you on his fingers.

"I'm a starved man, angel. Cut me some slack." He panted, pinching your bud in emphasis and moved back up before you could even process it, the warmth of his breath retreating, replaced by the cooler air of the room as he straightened. The absence of his lips against you left you gasping, your chest heaving, your pulse thundering in your ears or maybe it was you still riding your orgasm or maybe it was the knowledge that he came in his pants from just eating you out.

Then he was there again, his hands sliding from your thighs to the mattress on either side of you, bracketing you in like a secret he refused to let escape.

"Hi." He breathed against your forehead.

You felt a shy smile twitch on your lips. "Hi." You reply just as breathlessly.

He presses another kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "I'm gonna fuck you now, yeah?" You couldn’t reconcile it.

How could he say things that made your cheeks flush, your body respond in ways you couldn’t control, while his lips brushed against your temple with a tenderness that felt like an apology?

How could he make you feel like you were unraveling and being held together all at once?

You wanted to know. "Mhm. Please." You mewl, hands softly going through the beautiful mess that you made of his hair.

"Please, what?" He demanded, lips on your cheek.

"Please fuck me." You whine and he bumped his nose against your face, chest rumbling from a sound so feverish that you can't help but grind against him again. Coaxing his cock back into hardness with your bare cunt against him, from the realization that you shared the insatiable urges with him.

It got his hand trembling when they reached down to unbind his belt, pushing the fabric down his hips to reveal predicament he's made of his boxers that were bounding his hard, leaking cock but hell if he had it in himself to care.

He had been bidding his time for far too long. Waited enough—longer than any man should have to wait for something that felt this inevitable, this right, this his.

Ridding himself of the last piece of clothing on him, other than the white dress shirt that flexed against his coiled muscles, he took himself In a fist, groaning when he pumped himself in one slow stroke. Eyes never leaving your wide ones like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed, intimidated, or both.

Your breath hitched audibly, and your chest rose and fell as your eyes darted from his face to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, but you couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away, couldn’t stop the thought that immediately took hold.

"You're too big." Your throat dry, and your fingers fisted the sheet beneath you, trying not too think too much about how thick he would feel down your throat. The sounds he'd make when you would lick him just right.

"And you're gonna take every inch." He said it like a statement, a prominent vein popping in his neck when he finally let go of the locked gaze and focused instead on compressing the tip of his angry, veiny cock to your slick folds.

"Won't you, angel?" He asks with a confident smirk passed your way for a second before his breath wavered again, brows scrunched together and if it wasn't for his tip nudging inside you, you'd thought him endearing.

But once his tip is actually is in, you're left with no thought. Rendered speechless, eyes falling shut when he starts to jab inch by inch.

"Dear lord—" You gasp out loud. The sheet beneath you not providing much semblance so you switch to his shoulders. And you swear, he feel him shake when he is finally all in. Closes his eyes and relishes in your heat stretching around. "Fucking hell." The sensation was overwhelming—heat and softness so consuming it felt like his mind short-circuited, every thought dissolving into static.

But you feel that its your pussy that feels like it's going to split apart any moment now that's stopping him from moving. And partly it is. "You're so..tight." He hisses out and squeezes your hips with great roughness.

"Been long since you've been fucked, eh?" He muses, dark hungry eyes devouring yours when he makes an attempt to move inside you like he was testing your limits. Your mind reels, caught between the sharpness of the initial sensation and the overwhelming desire that followed.

He felt impossibly big, like your body wasn’t prepared for the sheer intensity of him, and for a fleeting moment, doubt crept into your thoughts.

It’s been so long.

The thought came unbidden. Your body had grown used to quiet nights and cold sheets, to the impersonal hum of a vibrator and the absence of warmth.

"Been so long." You confirm, nails clawing at his shoulders, mimicking the roughness that only spurs him on. His lashes fluttered shut, his forehead drops to your shoulder and with a whine of disagreement from you, he pulls back fully just to (to your satisfaction) bury himself back to the hilt.

An unadulterated moan from you broke the silence, a sound so sweet it made him want to come right there and then again. But he'd much rather have you convulse first. Priorities.

His jaw clenched, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he started to move his hips against yours, slow and deliberate, like he needed to feel every inch of your.

Your legs tensed around his hips, pulling him closer. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the way your body reacted to him, your mind a dizzy blur of heat and need and overwhelming sensation.

He pulled back again, the drag of him leaving you feeling empty, only to return with the same slow, measured thrust.

“That’s right,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven, barely coherent through the sounds your free spilling moans and the fact that his face was buried in the crook of your shoulder. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.” His voice unrefined at the edges, raw with honesty and disbelief, like he couldn’t believe you were really here, with him, like this.

Your hands slid down his back, clinging to the flexing muscles beneath your palms. You suddenly didn't like that his shirt was still on. Wanting to map out his bare skin with every graze of your nails. But with each thrust, pleasure sparked at the base of your spine and spread outward, your thoughts scattered like autumn leaves.

"Yeah- Oh mphm! Just like that!" He flourished in your cries of encouragement, his grip on your hips tightening, his fingers digging into your skin as he was afraid he'd lose control too soon.

And you wanted nothing more. "F-Faster! Please go faster!" His pace was unhurried but devastating, every pull and thrust deliberate, designed to drag you to the edge and keep you there, teetering. You couldn’t take that anymore.

And Jungkook couldn’t take keeping you unsatisfied. His lips found the corner of your mouth, brushing against it in a fleeting kiss before moving lower, his teeth grazing your jaw. His hands moved to your thighs, urging them higher, wrapping them around his waist as he drove into you with more force, more intent.

“taking me so well, was made for this cock.” Were made for me. he praised, his voice sounding like a backdrop to the obscene sounds his hips snapping against yours as your own body moved with his, meeting him with the same intensity, the same desperate need. "Yeah." He grunted, punctuating his words with a squeeze to your boob. "Fuck me back. Use me. Feel me."

All you could possibly do was feel him.

He felt like fire and electricity all at once, a heat that spread from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

“Jungkook…” you whispered again, your voice catching on the syllables when his head tipped forward, his forehead pressing against yours, his damp hair brushing your skin.

He whimpered in response, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through you, and he pistoned his cock harder, pulling a cry from your lips that you couldn’t hold back.

"I-I missed you." You can feel tears gather in your eyes again. You don't even know why. Why you're repeating what you've already admitted. Why the words feel more vulnerable now. All you know that you missed him and the coil is tightening in your stomach.

Jungkook, too feels like he will break down any moment when he stares down at you. But he’s got a impending orgasm to deliver.

He kisses your eyelids, is tempted to lick the tears that slowly make their way down to your chin but doesn't. He's not sure he'll be able to handle the taste of your despair without feeling like he has to chastise himself for ever being the reason for it.

"I know. I know." His cock thrusts with renewed vigor. "I missed you too. I missed you." He says through his gritted teeth, feeling how your walls fluttered around him.

"Gonna cum now?" He knows what your answer will be. There's a smug underline tone in his rasps that gives him away. How he takes pride in knowing that he's the one to make you release all this tension; once on his mouth; then on his cock that is pulsing with an reoccurring ache.

You can only manage to nod, lips tightly tucked between your teeth, hands scratching and marking on his once crisp shirt that is now crumpled from the fate of your hands.

"Gonna soak my cock, huh? Go ahead, baby. Go ahead and come with me." He demands, his hand slipping between you to rub tight circles against your puffy clit that is just enough to tip you over at last.

"Koo.. ah..oh god!" The name you've always called him with a fondness falls unintentionally from your lips when your walls tighten for the last time and you release all over his cock that is now stuttering with it's every thrust.

"Oh fuck. Call me that again." He all but snarls. Cock turns firmer inside your heat that hugs him. And balls screw up.

"Koo.." You whine and that's all he needs before thick ropes of white hot cum is spilling inside you, filling you to the brim. "Mhm, take it all. There's my girl. Pussy looks so good stuffed with my cum." He grinds the best his spent body can into yours that still welcomes him and fuck if that doesn't make him never want to leave.

And he doesn't, for a moment, when he collapses onto you. Just not enough to crush you under his weight. Just enough to latch his lips where ever he can find and whisper words of affection. "Could'nt fucking breathe without you." He's yet to get enough of you. This life won't suffice, he thinks. Then finally pulls out his softening cock from your slick hole with a hiss.

You too feel the loss the of the connection that had pulsed faintly between you, leaving you achingly empty.

He moved with the same carefulness, reaching for the tissues on the bedside table. The room was quiet save for your mingled breaths as he knelt beside you, his touch impossibly tender as he wiped at the inside of your thighs. You shivered under the cool press of the tissue against your skin, the sensation making you acutely aware of the aftermath—the way your body still quivered, the way your breaths still came uneven.

You stared at the ceiling while he did so, the edges of your perception blurred as you tried to silence the tingles that still hummed across the length of your legs. A reminder of how throughly he had disentangle you, how throughly his very essence had penetrated into you.

You were ruined by him.

There was no going back from this. You knew that.

What scared you was the realization that you didn’t want to.

You just didn't know how to admit that out loud where everyone and he could hear you.

Your eyes seeked out for him as if that alone could answer all your questions. He returned back against you without a question. Hands finely adjusted the strap of your dress and drew you closer to him with a soft voice, hoarse from the strain of everything he’d given you. "Come here, angel." Bundled you up in his arms and then only did he breathe out.

Your breath stayed differing. “Why do you call me that?” Your voice was curious but tentative. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you.”

You felt his lips curve up against your temple. "You were wearing this really pretty white dress the first time I met you." he began, his voice quiet, almost wistful. “Had these frills on the sleeves. I thought you looked like an angel."

You tried to piece together the memory. “That was so long ago."

It might be understood that it takes months to fall in love but Jungkook had been falling all his life.

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evergumi · 3 months ago

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megumi loves showering with you, but it's not even in a sexual way. it was just the way you massaged your slender fingers into his raven locks so lovingly, the scent of your sweet-smelling shampoo filling his nostrils as your fingertips scraped his scalp that made him want to shed tears; the way he finds comfort in the warm water cascading around the two of you, steam rising and enveloping the small space like a gentle hug.

soft music plays from outside the shower, overlapping the constant sound of the water running. the gentle notes of glue song by beabadoobee fill the air, your soft hums mixing with the words as you wash his hair, creating a soothing melody and drowning out the world outside. the way you tenderly rinse out the lather, eyes occasionally meeting with that playful spark, makes him feel secure, almost cherished as he tries to fight back the small twitch of his lips.

"close your eyes," you say softly. "let me wash it out." the warm water from the showerhead runs through his hair, and the feeling of your hands in his hair makes him rest a gentle hand on your shoulder. the soft melody of the song playing adds to the calm atmosphere. as you finish rinsing out the shampoo, megumi smiles at you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“my turn,” he murmurs as he turns you around, giving your arm a gentle caress as he squeezes a generous amount of shampoo onto his calloused palm, combing through your dark locks with his other hand as you giggle. the pale pink liquid forms suds in your hair, and he gently massages it into your head as you sing along to the music, a smile on your face. bringing the showerhead to your head as you did for him and turning it on, he cups your cheek and tells you to close your eyes. he runs his rough fingertips through your silky hair, watching in awe as the soap suds clear out. “your hair…” he mumbles. “this is why it smells so good…”

you chuckle softly, squeezing your eyes shut as shampooey water runs over your eyes.

“you say that every time.”

“that’s because it smells too good not to say anything, y/n.”

he cups your cheeks, murmuring softly to relax your eyes as you close them so that he can squeeze out the water, just in case it hurt them; he uses the pads of his thumbs to gently press against your eyelids, trying to hide the slight twitch of his lips as you scrunch your nose.

the moments stretch into a quiet intimacy as water drips rhythmically around you, each drop a soft reminder of the bond you share. he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed as he relishes the feeling of being cared for. sometimes, you share stories, laughter intertwining with the sound of water, and his heart swells at the joy of these simple, yet profound moments. it's a retreat from everything else, a sanctuary built on trust and warmth, where the chaos of life fades away, leaving only the sweet solace of companionship. and in those fleeting moments, he realizes that it’s not just a shower—it’s a little piece of heaven, a small escape that he longs for, more and more each day.

“guess what i’m drawing on your back,” you giggle. “draw what you feel on the fog.”

tracing your slender finger over his back, megumi frowns in concentration as he uses his calloused fingertip to draw what he feels on his back onto the fogged-up glass door, making you laugh yet again.

“what is that, gumi?”

“i don’t know. what is that, y/n?”

“the doggies, nutmeg.”

“don’t call me that.”

your laughter bounces softly off the bathroom walls, and megumi lets out a quiet grumble. after a moment of silence, he clears his throat and turns to trace his own finger along the glass door again, this time more deliberate.

you tilt your head curiously as you watch him. “what’re you drawing now?”

he doesn’t answer, focused on the small shapes forming beneath his fingertip. when he steps aside, you see it—a little family of stick figures, one noticeably smaller than the other two, with scribbly “dogs” beside them.

“megumi,” you whisper softly, feeling your heart squeeze.

he shrugs, his tone casual but his expression soft. “just thinking it’d be nice, you know. you, me, the dogs… and maybe a little girl.”

your chest tightens with warmth as you stare at the little drawing. you can almost hear the giggles of a child blending into the sound of the water, a soft addition to these peaceful moments.

megumi doesn’t say anything more, but the way his hand lingers over yours and the small upward tug of his lips tells you enough. and in that moment, he can imagine these showers, but with a small, giggling girl in the mix, her laughter filling the space with a kind of joy he never knew he needed.

a/n ⋆ megumi would def be a girl dad and im gonna say this till the day i die guys i need him to carry my child hes too wholesome my adorable husband :((((

thank you for reading, ily ! lmk if you wanna be tagged and remember, reqs are always open loves !

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wroetolando · 28 days ago

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𝙰𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝, 𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where lando grows from a childhood friend to a famous f1 driver

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: 7 years - lukas graham

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: short mention of grief and loss

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Seven Years Old

“Once I was seven years old, my mama told me, go make yourself some friends or you’ll be lonely.”

The first time you met Lando Norris, he was covered in dirt.

He had just fallen off his bike—again—but instead of crying, he simply picked himself up, brushing off his scraped knees. You, always the quiet observer, reached into your pocket and pulled out a band-aid, sticking it onto his leg without a word.

Lando blinked at you, then grinned, showing off a missing tooth. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shrugged, your eyes still averted, focused on your hands as you fiddled with the end of the band-aid.

“That’s okay,” he said, grinning even wider. “You’re my best friend now.”

You didn’t argue.

Lando wasn’t like the other kids in your neighborhood. He wasn’t loud or brash, but he was relentless, always in motion, constantly seeking something. His energy was contagious, and even though you preferred the quiet of your own thoughts, something about him drew you in.

Every afternoon, Lando would knock on your door, bike helmet in hand, asking if you wanted to join him for another adventure. You would always go, and before you knew it, you were inseparable.

He wasn’t just a friend; he was your constant.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Eleven Years Old

“I only see my goals, I don’t believe in failure, ’cause I know the smallest voices they can make it major.”

By eleven, Lando had made up his mind—he was going to be a race car driver.

“I’ll be in F1 one day,” he told you confidently, his hands gripping the handlebars of his bike like it was a steering wheel.

You kicked a rock near your feet. “And what if you don’t?”

He gasped dramatically, as if you had just insulted his entire existence. “How dare you?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “I’m just saying, it’s not easy.”

“I don’t care,” he huffed. “I’m going to make it. You’ll see.”

You rolled your eyes but could see the fire in his eyes. He wasn’t joking. He was determined. And you admired him for it.

But deep down, a part of you feared what would happen when he actually made it.

You were happy in your own world, grounded in the simplicity of home and friends. But Lando? He was destined for bigger things. You could see it, even then.

Would he forget you when he was famous? Would the friendship fade like so many others? Or would it remain—unbreakable and constant, just like it had always been?

But Lando was steadfast, and every time you had those thoughts, he would look at you and reassure you with a simple, “I’m not going anywhere.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Eighteen Years Old

“I always had that dream like my daddy before me, so I started writing songs, I started writing stories.”

Lando made it to Formula 1 at eighteen.

You were sitting on your couch, watching him line up on the grid for his debut race. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and your heart pounded harder with every passing second. You could almost feel the rush of the engine in your chest, like a heartbeat.

Lando was about to live his dream, something he had worked for his whole life.

And you? You were still here. Back home. The quiet life you had grown accustomed to.

It should have been enough—seeing him succeed, watching him become the person he had always wanted to be.

But there was a quiet ache in your chest. The boy who had been your best friend was now racing among the best in the world. And you had to admit, part of you didn’t know where you fit into his new world.

He had made it. You were still trying to figure things out.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty Years Old

“Once I was twenty years old my story got told, before the morning sun when life was lonely.”

Lando was famous now. Everyone knew his name, his face, his victories.

But despite the cameras and the flashing lights, despite the fans screaming for him, he called you late at night—just like always.

“I miss you,” he admitted one evening, his voice quieter than usual.

You swallowed hard. “You’re the one who left.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

He was still your Lando—the same boy who had scraped his knees and promised you forever. But now he was racing in F1, the world at his feet.

There were moments when it felt like you were living in two completely different worlds. His was filled with fame and endless opportunities, while yours was stuck in place. The feelings of longing were difficult to ignore.

Silence stretched between you.

Then, in a move that surprised even himself, Lando showed up at your door the next day.

When you opened it, he was standing there—hood pulled over his head, hands buried in his pockets, eyes tired but searching.

“I don’t want to do this without you,” he confessed. “I don’t care how crazy my life gets. I just… I need you in it.”

Your breath hitched.

And before you could stop yourself, you reached for him, pulling him inside—pulling him home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty-Three Years Old

“I got my boys with me, at least those in favor, and if we don’t meet before I leave I hope I’ll see you later.”

The Formula 1 world was now Lando’s world.

Carlos, Daniel, Oscar, and Max were his teammates, his competitors, his family. They were a constant presence in his life, and the camaraderie they shared made the loneliness of the race track feel a little less heavy.

But even then, there were moments when you could see the fatigue in his eyes—moments when he would glance at you, like he needed to ground himself again.

It was after one particularly difficult race that he showed up at your door.

The night was quiet, the usual noise of race cars and city streets a distant hum. But there he stood, knocking softly on your door, his hoodie pulled over his head, his eyes tired.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stepping into your home as if it was the only place he could truly breathe.

You didn’t ask any questions, didn’t push for an explanation. You just opened your arms and let him in.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he confessed as he sat on the couch, his head resting against the back of it.

You sat beside him, placing your hand on his. “You’re doing your best.”

“But it’s not enough,” he murmured.

“You’re enough.”

It wasn’t just about racing. It was about the uncertainty, the weight of always having to be something more, and sometimes feeling like he was losing himself in the process.

But you were there, as you had always been. And that was what mattered most.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Twenty-Five Years Old

“Soon we’ll be 30 years old, our songs have been sold, we’ve traveled around the world and we’re still roaming.”

Lando proposed to you in Monaco.

It wasn’t some extravagant gesture—no cameras, no grand speeches. Just the two of you, standing on a quiet balcony overlooking the harbor, the city lights reflecting in his eyes.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he told you, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care where life takes me. As long as you’re there, that’s enough.”

Your heart pounded as he dropped to one knee, a small velvet box in his hands.

“So… will you marry me?”

You laughed, already crying as you nodded. “Almost, always.”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head as he slid the ring onto your finger.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Thirty Years Old

“My woman brought children for me, so I can sing them all my songs and I can tell them stories”

Life had changed.

You were married now, your last name matching his. The walls of your home were filled with laughter—tiny footsteps running through hallways, giggles echoing in the rooms.

Lando was still racing, still chasing podiums, still traveling the world. But now, he always had something to come home to.

Your kids—his greatest trophies.

“My boys are still with me,” he mused one night, watching a race replay with his son on his lap. “Carlos, Oscar, Max… They’re still out there, still fighting for glory.”

His voice turned softer.

“And Daniel?” you asked, knowing exactly where his mind had wandered.

Lando swallowed hard, eyes distant. There was a hint of sadness in his smile, a flicker of a memory.

“Some I had to leave behind.”

Daniel had been Lando’s closest friend for years. But life had a way of taking people in different directions. Daniel’s departure from F1 had hit hard, and Lando’s emotions were still raw, even after all these years.

He was grateful for the memories, the times they had shared. But the empty space left by Daniel’s absence was undeniable.

The silence that followed was heavy, but you didn’t press him. You simply nestled closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

Some people, no matter how much you love them, aren’t meant to stay forever.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Sixty Years Old

“Soon I’ll be sixty years old, will I think the world is cold, or will I have a lot of children who can warm me?”

Lando was retired now. His body had slowed, his hair had silvered, but his heart—his heart was still the same.

Your children were grown, building lives of their own. The house was quieter, but it was never empty.

Yet, as sixty-one loomed closer, Lando grew restless.

“I don’t want to go yet,” he admitted one evening, sitting beside you on the porch. “My dad was sixty-one when he passed. What if…”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You’re not him, Lando.”

He exhaled shakily. “I’m scared.”

You turned to him, pressing a kiss to his weathered knuckles. “You have nothing to be scared of,” you whispered. “You’ve lived. You’ve loved. And no matter what happens next… you’re not alone.”

Lando looked at you then, his blue eyes still filled with the same love they held when he was seven years old.

“Almost, always?” he murmured.

You smiled, squeezing his hand.

“Always.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

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orimuraa · 1 month ago

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── ⋆⋅ ⩩ The sweetest love out there - Lee Heeseung 𝜗𝜚 the cutest pair - regina song

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆ever since you were young, you were always admiring heeseung. he was your older brother's best friend, meaning, he took care of you like you were his own sister. but deep down, behind on all those fake smiles, you knew there was something more to your feelings. so when you find out that you’re attending the same college as heeseung, he's more than thrilled to see you there, but now he has a girlfriend?

falling in love with your brother's best friend never ends well, but maybe you could change that ⨾

۶ৎ brother's best friend!heeseung x fem!reader┆angst, fluff┆heeseung is 3 years older than reader┆jake is reader's brother┆crying, cursing, petnames, kissing, everyone is emotionally constipated

featuring: enhypen hyung line, ricky from zb1, winter from aespa, sullyoon from nmixx

wc. 3k

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: umm...big work...heh... >.< please share feedback and reblog if you enjoyed !!! mwah~

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

from the ripe age of 5, you knew that you were in love. in love with the sweet boy who always waited for you because your little legs walked slower than everyone else's, the caring boy who would bandage up your scraped knees every time you fell, and the loving boy who would always be the first to congratulate you on your accomplishments before your own brother or parents could.

lee heeseung was the boy you were in love with. your brother's best friend.

your brother was sim jaeyun or jake, and he was 3 years older than you, meaning that heeseung was too. heeseung's mom was best friends with you and jake's mom and your families were also neighbors!

so, when jake would have his friends over, you couldn't stop your little heart from beating faster at the sight of heeseung.

every gentle moment you had with him whether it was when he brought over your favorite snacks, helped babysit you with jake, or even null you to sleep whenever you had trouble falling asleep, made your love for him grow.

you were 8 when you realized that it wasn't just a sisterly love you had for him like you had for jake. no, it was real love. the type that your parents had and the type that you saw on tv shows that heeseung would cover your eyes for.

you loved him. but you doubted he loved you in any shape of form besides his brotherly love for you.

———

the day you turned 13, officially entering your teen years, heeseung wasn’t there.

he had gone out partying with some high school friends and you assumed he would rather be there than celebrating with you.

you were heartbroken. the boy you had loved for 8 years couldn’t even bother showing up to one of your life milestones.

you cried the entire party in the corner and jake just sat next to you, rubbing circles on your back.

jake had no idea what had gotten you so upset but he had assumed it had to do something with his best friend not being there.

at some time around 10pm, there was an urgent knock on the door right as you were getting ready to go to bed, already concluding that heeseung forgot entirely about you.

as you curled up in your bed, the covers protecting you from any more sadness, you heard jake’s voice and the sound of the door opening.

“dude, what are you doing here?” jake whisper shouted.

“fuck, dude, i- where’s y/n?” heeseung. heeseung was here.

“she’s already asleep,” you heard jake answer. you wanted to scream that you weren’t but something told you to just stay in your bed.

“shit, i fucked up didn’t i? was she upset?” heeseung sighed, sounding a bit cautious.

“pshh, that’s an understatement. she was absolutely devastated. she cried the whole day and nobody knew why,” jake tsked, a bit of irritation laced into his voice.

“can…can i see her?” heeseung asked, hesitation clear in his voice.

and at that, you threw the comforter over your head and turned you back against the door. a part of you didn’t want anything to do with heeseung for now. but deep down, there was also a part of you that really wanted to see him.

you weren’t exactly sure why you were so upset, but you just wanted heeseung to be there.

jay and sunghoon showed up and celebrated with you, so why couldn’t heeseung?

you heard soft footsteps approaching and you immediately knew who it was.

“y/n?” his voice was soft as it called out for you, almost as if you were made of porcelain and if he spoke any louder, it would break you.

you turned hesitantly, letting your feelings get in the way of your initial anger.

there, heeseung was kneeling beside your bed, his bambi eyes full of regret and guilt.

“hi ynnie..” he smiled softly, brushing your bangs out of your face gently.

“i’m so sorry princess, i’m so sorry,” he whispered resting his head on your mattress.

“did you forget?” your voice came out so quiet that you could barely even hear the words coming out of your mouth.

“no, shit, i- i didn’t forget..i just…” heeseung stuttered.

“i promise i won’t ever forget again. and i’m so sorry i hurt you on your big day ynnie, i never meant to and i just got carried away..” he sighed.

no more words needed to be exchanged. you knew that heeseung was being sincere and how could you not forgive him?

and from that day on, you seemed to love him just a little more.

———

the day heeseung left for college had you devastated. yes, jake was also leaving and so was jay and sunghoon, but heeseung leaving would mean that you would never have a chance with heeseung.

your feelings grew stronger and stronger and that made heeseung’s departure even harder than it was supposed to to be.

the love you have had your whole life was leaving. your brother figures who stuck with you your whole life were leaving.

as jake and heeseung packed up there bags into the car, you couldn’t help but stare mindlessly at heeseung one last time.

sure, jake and his friends were only moving to seoul, but living all the way in daegu added quite a bit of distance between you and the boys.

“hey..i’m not gonna go too far, okay? we’ll all be back for the holidays and summer and before you know it, you’ll be joining us too,” heeseung said, cheering you up slightly.

“don’t cry, m’kay? i can’t bear to leave you crying like this,” heeseung laughed lightly, wiping away a tear on your cheek with his thumb.

you sucked in a breath before throwing your arms around his neck, trying to hold back your tears.

“i’m gonna be so lonely when you all leave,” you hiccup into his shoulder, breathing in his cologne one last time.

“noo, you’ll have minjeong here with you and i’m sure you’ll make plenty of other friends, better than all of us stinky boys,” he smiles, scrunching up his nose.

“i’ll see you around the holidays ynnie,” he says, ruffling your hair before walking back to the car where jake was waiting.

that was 3 years ago. only jake came back for the holidays as the other boys had bought a shared house in seoul and you guess they never wanted to really come back.

jake told you all the updates and how college life was. but he decided that he wouldn’t mention heeseung’s name because he didn’t want to make you sad.

but now, 3 years later, you were finally heading off to seoul university yourself, along with your best friends ricky and minjeong.

it had been a while since you last saw or thought about heeseung to be honest.

you had pushed your feelings to the back of your mind after the summer he never came home. you knew that he had probably gotten a girlfriend and a better life by now so what was the point of still pining for him?

jake helped you move into your apartment that you were gonna share with ricky and minjeong a couple weeks before college started.

you wanted to get a feel for the town and the campus so you and your friends made a plan to come down to seoul early and hang out before all the stress of school work.

but what you weren’t expecting was to see lee fucking heeseung at your door.

———

“ynnie! someone’s at the door could you go get it? i’m trynna cook dinner!” you heard minjeong yell from the kitchen.

“yep! thanks minnie!” you answer back before skipping to the door.

you expected some of your packages but you did not expect lee heeseung at your door.

“h-heseung??” you stutter, taking a couple steps back in shock.

he had grown into his features way more and he no longer had that justin bieber styled hair. instead, his hair was nicely parted and his ears were pierced, making him so much finer than you remember.

“hi y/n…”he smiled sheepishly, knowing exactly why he should be guilty.

it’s funny how promises work, because they never last. heeseung once promised you that he would never forget about you. but here you were, standing in your college apartment with lee heeseung in your door way 3 years too late.

“you never fucking came back,” you muttered, tears threatening to fall. “you said you would be back with jake every holiday. where were you then, huh?” you jabbed, each word stabbing heeseung in the heart.

he said nothing. he just hung his head low, knowing that you had the right to be mad at him for leaving you behind.

“i know, i know nothing will fix that but i promise you that it was for a good reason. i just…i just couldn’t come back…it was just too hard..” heeseung said, partially lying. in truth, he stayed away because the minute he left you, he knew that he had more than just normal feelings towards you.

he wanted to stay away. to leave those feelings in the dust and never let anyone know. and now, he couldn’t bear to tell you that that was the reason of him never coming back.

“i missed you every summer, every holiday heeseung,” you said, silent tears rolling down your cheeks.

“i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry for it all,” he mumbled, pulling you into an embrace.

“so much has changed..you’ve changed,” you cried, pulling away to look at him, a bitter laugh leaving your lips.

“so have you,” he smiled. he didn’t expect to see you all grown up now. you were a beautiful young lady now and not the adorable little kid he used to look out for. no longer his best friend’s baby sister.

———

when school started, you always saw heeseung in the hallways, and you always saw him with this girl. her name was sullyoon and she was so pretty.

it made your heart ache every time you saw her laughing with heeseung, but you never saw heeseung laugh back. he always had this spaced out look on his face, almost like he was never actually paying attention to her.

it wasn’t until you heard from a classmate that you learned that sullyoon was heeseung’s girlfriend. you assumed she was but given how long you had loved him, you just didn’t want to believe it.

heeseung was avoiding you for whatever reason and he would always turn the opposite way whenever he saw you in the hallways.

but seeing heeseung in your daily life wasn’t helping your feelings. they were increasing by the day and you knew it was wrong because he had a girlfriend but you just couldn’t help it.

you tried distracting yourself by hanging out with ricky and minjeong more and going out to see jake more, but everything was starting to remind you of heeseung.

———

you were having just about enough of heeseung’s behavior. he hadn’t talked to you in weeks and you were starting to get pissed off.

“what’s wrong with heeseung?? he keeps avoiding me,” you frown, sipping your drink.

“he’s been fine around me. i think he’s having trouble with his girlfriend, sullyoon. you know about her right?” jake says, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

“yeah..i know her,” you mumble, the topic leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.

“maybe try approaching him in a way he can’t escape from? try screaming at him or something i don’t know,” jake suggests. god he gave the worst advice.

but maybe it wasn’t so bad?

one bright afternoon, you had spotted heeseung and sullyoon walking in a hallway after school ended and you decided to just go for it.

“LEE HEESEUNG! STOP FUCKING AVOIDING ME AND LET ME TALK TO YOU!!!” you screamed down the hallway. both his and her heads spun around to look at you and at that moment, you were so grateful no one else was in the hallway at that moment.

you were too busy staring down heeseung that you didn’t notice the realization in sullyoon’s face. she knew. she knew now.

heeseung came walking up to you, obviously confused as to why you screamed at him.

“what do you need y/n?” he asked, his tone almost as if nothing was wrong.

“lee heeseung why are you avoiding me?” you pester, your eyebrows scrunched together.

“i-i’m not avoiding you, what?” heeseung says, tilting his head to the side.

“heeseung. you run away whenever you see me in the hallway! how is that not avoiding me?!” you push.

“i’m not. i’m sorry if it seems like that,” he sighs. “i really gotta go, i’ll see you around, okay?”

“yeah sure, whatever..” you reply, knowing that it wouldn’t be the truth.

———

months later, you've just turned 19 and you, ricky, and minjeong were going out to karaoke to celebrate.

"i've got the sprite! and the chips!!" minjeong exclaimed, holding up two plastic convenience store bags. it made you smile slightly, laughing at minjeong's funny antics.

to be honest, you've been staring at your phone, waiting for a certain birthday wish from a certain someone. it suddenly felt like your 13th birthday all over again.

jake had come over in the morning to take you out to a nice brunch place and it was the first time you had seen your older brother in quite some time.

he had gotten busier with his major and that left little time for you and him to hang out anymore. you didn't mind too much because you knew how hard he was working, but it still felt lonely sometimes without jake's goofy presence.

right as you were locking up the front door to your apartment, someone showed up. and of course, it had to be heeseung.

he was out of breath and you could only assume it was because he ran all the way here. but why? had he come to apologize for forgetting your birthday again? or was he here to make another promise. a fake promise.

"can...can i speak to her?" he huffed, out of breath. he pointed to you and ricky and minjeong both shared a look with you before you sighed and nodded.

"we'll be in the car babes! take as much time as you need!" minjeong smiles, heading to the car.

"she's lying, i'm not waiting that long," ricky adds, earning a hit from minjeong. you just chuckle before realizing that heeseung was here to talk to you.

"hey heeseung..it's been some time.." you smile awkwardly, not really sure what to say.

"y/n, look, i know i fucked up way too many times to be forgiven, but please listen to me," he pleads, a desperate look in those bambi eyes. it reminds you too much of the night he knelt by your bed, guilt evident in his eyes. it reminded you of that night and you hated the way your heart fluttered.

"fine, but make it quick, i really don't have all day," you agree, letting out a small sigh.

"ok, i'm not really sure how to word this in the best way..but, i think i'm in love with you sim y/n. and i think i've been in love with you since the day jake introduced me to you. i was too scared of these feelings that i tried to push them away and fuck, that didn't work at all. when you first came here, you were no longer jake's baby sister, shit, you were so pretty and it scared me. it took sullyoon sitting me down and talking to me about how i truly felt for me to finally realize all of this. i understand if you hate me after all you've done and i know i made it seem like all i wanted was someone new, but i just want you." heeseung breathes, all of his words suddenly overwhelming you at once.

heeseung loved you. lee. heeseung. fucking. loved. you. back. oh god, you were gonna cry.

"heeseung...i've pined for you and only for you for 19 years. i never thought that you would like me too.." you manage to say, trying to stop yourself from crying and ruining your makeup before celebrating your birthday.

"princess..i- can i kiss you? please?" you nod slowly, smiling at heeseung before he leans in and presses his lips on yours.

it's a feeling that you have been waiting for for years and you can definitely say that it was so worth it. heeseung was gentle but also eager against your lips like he was savoring you.

"oh fucking finally!" you hear ricky say, sass evident in his tone, and making you pull away from heeseung with a slight jump. classic ricky, always ruining the mood.

"jesus! ricky get back in the car you bitch! you ruined their moment!!" you heard minjeong whisper scream at him, making you laugh.

"glad to see minjeong's still here with you," heeseung smiles. "let me take you out on a date?"

"yes please," you exhale, pinching yourself to make sure this was real.

"now, go have fun celebrating, i don't wanna crash the party," he winks, kissing your lips one last time before running back, leaving you smiling like the simp you are.

"you two really are the cutest pair, huh?" minjeong chuckles as you get into the car.

"only took 19 years." you say, still feeling heeseung's sweet kiss against your lips.

19 years of searching for love, and you've now found the sweetest one out there. lee heeseung.

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries, @k-films, @k-nets

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication

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hazbinhotei · 1 month ago

Text

curing a hangover.

read part one here

warnings/tags: reader is hungover, alastor being a little shit, cunnilingus, P-in-V penetration, minor olfactophilia and dacryphilia if you look hard enough

word count: 6292

summary: The aftermath of one drunken night leaves you reeling—and Alastor surprisingly eager to help you recover in the most intimate way imaginable.

alastor x f!reader. my first ever smut fic, so please be gentle with me, my darlings. i did not expect this fic to end up so long but i really just had such a hard time diving straight into smut without some more interactions between reader and alastor—i love me some character building! i've always been a MDNI account, but especially in this instance—minors kindly go away!

It wasn’t just the hangover.

Though to be fair, the hangover was its own personal Hell—screaming behind your eyes like a banshee with a megaphone, and your stomach doing acrobatics that defied several laws of physics. Your mouth tasted like someone had poured sand into a blender with regret and served it lukewarm. Your soul felt wrinkled.

Even the walls of the hotel seemed to wince when you staggered into the kitchen, hoodie up, sunglasses on, and death in your eyes.

(The sunglasses indoors was definitely an active choice, a mental wave of a white flag as you hoped and prayed no one in this damned hotel would bring up the fact that you were so publicly caught snogging the Radio Demon less than 24 hours ago. At least, not bring it up while the tempest in your head demanded you rip apart the first demon who dared to piss you off this morning.)

No one dared speak to you. Husk took one look and slid the coffee pot across the counter like a peace offering before vanishing away down the hall. Niffty, bless her overly cheery heart, started to chirp a greeting—saw your face—and made a hard left turn, muttering something about reorganizing the mold drawer. Even Angel Dust tiptoed around you. Angel. A man who routinely did lines of coke on the lobby dining table at 2AM. He gave you a once-over and simply nodded in solemn solidarity.

But of course—it wasn’t just the hangover.

Of course.

The one person immune to your carefully cultivated aura of “speak and perish” was him.

Smug. Pristine. Radiant. Like he hadn't spent last night flirting with alcohol poisoning just to egotistically one-up you in a drinking game that he proposed you two play. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in sight. Wearing that damn bowtie like he’d earned it.

He didn’t just walk into the kitchen. No—he waltzed in, humming a cheery little tune and radiating danger in four-part harmony. You ignored him, continuing to stir your coffee, hoping he would show you some pity to at least not bother you for the first few hours of the day. But of course he wouldn’t. He was Alastor, of course.

You felt him before you saw him. That chilling presence sliding in behind you, brushing too close, violating several unspoken rules about personal space and hangover protocol. You felt your bloodshot eyes twitch, whether that be from the hangover or the Sinner standing right behind you, you weren’t sure. Inhaling slowly, you continued to look at the caramel-colored beverage in front of you, once more praying to any deity out there that perhaps you were just imagining his presence.

"Good morning, darling!" he purred, like your skull wasn't splitting open. "Sleep well?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. Not when your entire existence was currently held together with willpower and lukewarm coffee. You weren’t planning to reply at all until he cleared his throat—clearly waiting.

You swore the mug cracked in your hand. “…I had a dream that I died. Peacefully. In my sleep. You ruined it.”

He chuckled, that low, musical hum that scraped up your spine and took residence in your brain like a catchy song you couldn’t get rid of. "Such vivid dreams. I do hope I was in them."

Despite your irritation, your stomach fluttered at his soft tone, the vocal static accompaniment absent as sincerity intertwined with his usual mirth. You turned slowly, craning your neck to look at him through your sunglasses. Pursing your lips, you watched him through the tinted lenses. “You know, I think I like this color palette of you more.”

Alastor’s eyes seemed to narrow when you lifted your chin up defiantly, a deep rumble of satisfaction emitting from his chest. “Ah, but chère, now I can’t see those lovely eyes of yours!”

He leaned down to remove the sunglasses, his long fingers brushing against your temple a bit too gently for your liking. You were about to protest before Alastor ripped the glasses off your face, your frown twisting to hiss like a vampire as you shut your eyes tightly in a failed attempt to shield yourself from the light. “Alastor! What the fuck!”

He only laughed at your pain, dropping the sunglasses on the counter behind you and covering your upper face with his large palms. You continued to shut your eyes after the light behind your eyelids disappeared, not daring to open them and face the sadistic asshole in front of you. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Open your eyes, chère.” You shivered at the sudden proximity of his voice, his breath tickling your right ear as you involuntarily swallowed. You weren’t sure why you necessarily listened to Alastor, but as your eyes hesitantly fluttered open, you realized you weren’t in the headache-inducing bright lights of the hotel kitchen. No, you were suddenly greeted by plush red cotton sheets, pupils adjusting to the dim glow of soft green lights littering the walls.

You glanced around, realizing quickly you were in a hotel room. Not any hotel room—Alastor’s. You jolted up from the bed, wincing as you moved a little too fast for your hangover’s liking. “Alastor, why exactly am I in your bed?”

Your eyes landed on Alastor standing by his desk, coat discarded on the loveseat next to him, fingers starting to undo his bowtie. You practically short-circuited at the scene, your cheeks turning a bright red as you blinked in surprise. “Al, what is going on?”

“Why, I’m here to cure your hangover, dearest,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused, trying to make sense of the current situation you were in—which was not giving you much to work with. Your brows furrowed. “And exactly how do you plan on helping?”

He hummed softly, placing his bowtie on the table as he approached your spot on the bed. “By getting in bed with you.”

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing up air as you gave him an incredulous look. “What?!”

“Oh please, nothing will come of this encounter if you don’t wish for anything to happen. I’m simply trying to help in any way I can.” He sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you as he waved his hand over the other, a tall glass of water appearing in it.

You were too surprised by the turn of events to comprehend his statement, throat suddenly dry by the glorious cup of water practically dangling in front of you. He sighed once more, rolling his eyes as he handed you the glass. “Drink up.”

You snatched the cup with both hands and downed it, gulping so fast it nearly splashed back up your nose. Your eyes closed as you sigh in relief, your body an ounce better than it was before as you passed him the glass. Though you still had a raging headache, your eyes weren’t throbbing from any bright lights nor were you unknowingly suffering from dehydration now.

“Would you like another one?” Alastor hums softly, watching your pacified expression. You shake your head, opening your eyes to look at Alastor. He was watching you with surprising patience, his smile small but genuine. You pause a moment to observe him, him merely doing the same as you meet his glowing stare. Those damn eyes—blood-red, always gleaming with mischief. But now, as he stared at you with uncharacteristic softness, you couldn’t help but get flashbacks from the way he watched you the entire time last night.

You inhaled through your nose, groaning as your moment of peace is suddenly interrupted by the remembrance of last night’s affairs. "...Are we going to bring it up or not?"

Alastor took a second to think, brow raising in confusion when he didn’t understand what you were talking about. "Bring what up, dear?"

You stared, huffing at him in exasperation. "The kiss, Alastor. Are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?"

His smile froze, ears twitching faintly—as if caught off by the thought of it as well. Then, just as quickly, he lit up like you’d handed him a fresh corpse wrapped in a bow and sealed with a kiss.

“Oh, that!” he chirped. “Heavens, no. I’d never forget something so…” He paused, his eyes dragging slowly—lazily—down your face. “…tantalizing!”

A sharp inhale slipped through your nostrils. You visibly recoiled, your face now a dangerous shade of crimson. “Tantalizing?!” you sputtered.

His smile turned downright wicked, lips curling upward. He leaned forward to set the empty glass on the bedside table, the movement smooth, casual. But your eyes betrayed you—snagging mid-motion, drawn down to the curve of his back, the subtle shift of fabric over lean muscle.

And then you saw it.

Somehow—somehow—you had missed it before. Blame the hangover. Blame the shock. Blame the fact that your brain was probably still rebooting from the whole appearing-in-Alastor’s-bed thing. But now that your gaze had landed on it, there was no un-seeing it.

The harness.

A jet-black leather harness wrapped around his broad chest, completely visible now that he was sans his usual red coat. Despite just drinking water, your throat suddenly felt extremely dry. You tore your staring upward like a Sinner yanking their hand from a Bible.

Too late.

He was already watching you. And oh, he was delighted.

His smile widened by degrees. His eyelids dipped into a half-lidded stare, slow and heavy with implication. There was no point pretending. Between your flushed cheeks and the way your eyes had lingered a millisecond too long, you may as well have been holding a neon sign that read: I JUST OGLED THE RADIO DEMON.

He savored your expression. A content hum rumbled in his chest, not quite a purr—but close.

“I do wonder, though,” he mused, voice dropping to a velvety murmur, “was it only the liquor?” His head tilted again, that playful glint never leaving his gaze. “Or...”—He leaned in slightly, just enough to send your pulse scattering—“would you still taste as sweet sober?”

Your eyes widened by the shift in his attitude, clearly feeling confident from your little staring mishap. Swallowing, you folded your arms, trying not to give into his very tempting flirting. “Alastor,” you warned, your tone brittle, “I’m five seconds away from tearing that smug expression off your face.”

“If that’ll help your hangover, by all means.”

You paused, confused if his words were another jest or genuine. “What?”

“I told you,” he said, gesturing innocently, “I’m here to cure your hangover. Whichever way you find fit.”

You blinked at him. Hard. The silence stretched. Finally, you squinted, hugging your crossed arms harder against your body with a slow, suspicious edge. “You’re messing with me.”

His brows raised in mock innocence. “Moi? Never. In fact…” he paused, his tone shifting just slightly—less cheek, more earnest, like the static had dialed down a notch. “I realize I’ve put you in quite the precarious situation. One that now, unfortunately, involves the rest of the hotel bearing witness. And for that”—He gave a faint, ironic bow of his head—“I do apologize.”

The cogs in your head churned in overtime to try and understand the current situation.

You somehow were sitting in the middle of the Radio Demon’s bed, being pampered by that very demon himself, because he wanted to apologize? The very concept was laughable, and you especially found this whole thing unnecessary when it was simply a drunken mistake.

(Not to mention that you enjoyed every second of being in Alastor’s lap. How were you ever going to forget that intoxicating smell of cedarwood and death?)

You forced away your drifting thoughts, looking at him with a raised brow. “You’re doing all this to apologize? Really? All you did was kiss me.”

Alastor’s lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to grin wider. It was a losing battle.

“Correction, dear,” he said, voice dripping with faux innocence. “You kissed me first.”

Your jaw dropped at how he completely ignored your question, instead focusing on your word choice. You scoffed, once again scandalized. “While wasted! That doesn’t count!”

“Ah,” he mused, tapping his chin as though pondering the secrets of the universe. “Then perhaps we should try again.”

You stiffened, throat catching at how he spoke so easily. His voice still held that familiar playful edge—but beneath it, something was shifting. The air thickened. His grin didn't widen this time. Instead, it softened, just a touch. Like he was testing the waters.

His eyes flicked across your face—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. When he spoke next, the room felt smaller somehow. Quieter. You could hear the gentle hum of the fire in the hearth, blending seamlessly with the low radio static emitting off Alastor, the mattress creaking as he leaned a fraction closer.

“Why, I don’t do this often, you know,” he murmured, the static in his voice dimmed as he almost gave you a bashful look.

Your brows furrowed.

“And I realize,” he continued slowly, almost cautiously, “our unfortunate interruption last night may have left… desires unfinished for you.”

His eyes searched yours, expression unreadable. But his voice—oh, his voice—held the kind of vulnerability that cracked through your defenses like light under a locked door.

“I’m here to help.”

You blinked at him, stunned. The words didn’t even register at first—not fully. Not until they echoed in your chest a second time.

“…Wow,” you managed, trying to keep your tone light, deflecting with a slight teasing huff. “How noble, Alastor.” You bit your lip at how Alastor’s gaze studied every detail of your expression like a hunter, his lips thinning as if he was waiting for more from you—a challenge wrapped in silk.

You swallowed down your nerves, catching on the way his intertwined fingers twitched in his lap. “...Did it leave unfinished desires… for you?”

He stilled, his eyelids dropping as he took in a deep inhale at your words. And when he looked at you again, there was no mask. His smile had turned into something so hesitant—so faint that it barely registered in your mind as a smile at all, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. A long, soft silence filled the room as he looked at you with such intensity, you forgot how to breathe.

“I’d be lying,” he said, voice suddenly deep and sure, “if I said I am not undoubtedly yours, ma chère.”

The world stopped. Your breath caught. The heat that had been simmering under your skin now rushed to the surface, electric and dizzying. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangled. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

The man sitting in front of you was one of Hell’s most feared Overlords, a man who had crumbled the strongest of demons. And yet, he was also a man who had just confessed his feelings for you, just hours after french kissing you in a drunken stupor. Sure, Alastor had always seemed to be kinder to you than to anyone else in the hotel, but you had always just brushed that off to be mere acceptance of your presence—not a fondness for it.

Alastor simply waited patiently for your reply, legs crossed politely over the edge of the bed as he twisted his body to face you. His ears were flat against his head, his thumb tapping against his skin in a small display of nerves. And Satan help you, your heart surged at the sight like a moth to a flame.

“I—” you started, voice breathy. But as your brain failed to come up with a response, you didn’t try to say anything else.

You just leaned in, cupping his cheeks with your palms as you placed a gentle kiss on his lips. The gesture was familiar. But this time—unlike the inebriated mess of a kiss you’d given him last night—you had the decency to pull back. The radio static in the room swelled, the old radio on one of Alastor’s shelves crackling to life, playing a charming jazz melody.

“Dare I presume that’s your way of telling me you share the same sentiments toward me, darling?” Alastor chuckled, pulling his hands away from his lap to lean in closer to you.

Before you could react, Alastor had leaned in close once more, stealing another kiss from your lips. You couldn’t help but giggle in response, “Yes, you ass.” You gave him a light kiss on the cheek, your eyes twinkling with joy. “I’d hope you’d think I’m better than to just snog any demon in the lobby, drunk or not.”

Alastor’s grin turned sly, humming in satisfaction at your words. You gasped as he pushed you down onto the bed, your body bouncing gently as you found yourself now facing upwards. Your mind blanked at the sight of Alastor popping off his shoes, rolling off the leather harness with practiced ease. He climbed onto the bed alongside you, draping a casual arm around your body as he laid beside you.

“Oh, I knew your kiss seemed too passionate for me to be just a passing fancy,” Alastor teased, “Good news is that I’ve found a lasting obsession with having your lips on mine.”

He didn’t wait for you to react as he leaned in to kiss you once more, this time harder. You sighed into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you closer. His hand found the side of your waist, firm but not forceful, fingers splaying like he was grounding himself in the moment. His lips were warm, steady, moving against yours with a relaxed confidence that stood in sharp contrast to the rushed, sloppy kisses from the night before.

And oh, the effect it had on you.

You shifted instinctively, hand coming up to bury your fingers into the trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. He hummed at the contact, the sound reverberating against your lips—low and pleased, a static buzz of delight that thrummed in your chest.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, nose brushing yours, and for a fleeting second you forgot what air was. His lips parted slightly, inviting you to meet him halfway, and when your tongues brushed, your breath hitched. That was all he needed to hear.

“Mmm… positively divine,” Alastor murmured as he pulled away just enough to catch your dazed expression. His smile was lazy now, lopsided and glowing with something deeper than amusement. “You make the air taste sweeter, chérie.”

“Flatter me more, why don’t you,” you teased breathlessly, though your voice came out more of a whimper than anything else. He chuckled, deep and velvety, as he leaned in again—no room left for anything between you now but fabric and heat.

This time, it was slower.

Less fire, more honey. His kisses dragged along your lips like he had all the time in Hell to savor you—and damn, it felt like he would. He brushed his nose along your cheekbone, feathered kisses down to your jaw, then up again as you curled into his touch, the edge of your thigh sliding along his leg. His velveteen hand traced gentle circles at your hip, occasionally slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie just far enough to let you feel the scalding contact of skin against skin. But he never pushed. Never rushed.

Instead, he lingered like a melody stuck on a loop, exploring the shape of your lips with his own, pressing kisses that grew longer, needier, then softer again. He was addicted, drunk on your taste, his usual collected composure starting to become carnally hungry as he continued his kisses.

“You’re… you’re really not gonna stop, huh?” you asked, giggling between kisses as you tried to catch your breath.

Alastor nipped at your lower lip, grinning devilishly. “Darling,” he whispered, his voice dipping into a fond growl, “not unless you ask me to. But I do hope you won’t, because I am utterly enchanted.”

Again and again, he kissed you, each one a little different than the last—some chaste, some daring, all brimming with a dangerous kind of tenderness that made your body warm up. And in between those kisses, he whispered little nothings: praises, teases, threats of affection so sweet they made your toes curl.

By the time he finally pulled away, just barely, your lips were swollen, your face flushed, and your heart? Utterly, stupidly his.

“Stars above,” you mumbled, dazed and breathless. “You really do like kissing me.”

He laughed, brushing his nose against yours once more, eyes sparkling. “You’d be surprised how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

You were going to fire back something clever—something cocky, maybe flirty—but the words fizzled out the moment his hand slipped beneath your hoodie.

Fingertips ghosted over your waist, your body shivering at how soft his hands were. The contrast of his sharp claws against your delicate skin made your spine tense, a soft gasp slipping from your parted lips—and Alastor felt it. He smirked against your mouth, already chasing another kiss before you could even process the last one. He shifted beside you, rolling slowly until he was caging you in from above with his large frame.

Teeth grazed your bottom lip, not rough—teasing. His tongue slipped past your lips, curling against yours with surprising precision, like he was memorizing the shape of your hunger. You moaned before you could stop yourself, thighs instinctively shifting beneath him. He groaned in response, low and guttural, barely restrained, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest like thunder waiting to crack open the sky.

“Dearest,” he purred, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your chin, then your throat, then just above your collarbone. “Those little noises of yours are going to drive me mad very easily.” He pulled away for a second, looking down at you as his red locks surrounded your peripheral vision—it was just you and him in this moment.

“Is… is this something you want?”

You felt his hand rub circles into your stomach soothingly, his eyes searching yours to make sure every bit of your being wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You can’t help but laugh at the uncharacteristic sweetness of it all, shaking your head gently beneath him. “Who would have thought the Radio Demon was so respectful in bed?”

“Why, I am a Southern gentleman after all, sweetheart!” He drawled, his smile widening at your teasing remark. “But tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop immediately. No matter how hard it’ll be to—quell my hunger.” He finished his sentence with a sharp nip at your neck, making you involuntarily squeak at the pinch.

You hummed, intertwining your hands into his hair. “Thank you for the concerns, but I promise this is everything I want.”

He groaned at the way you scratched his scalp, his ears twitching from the feeling. You smirked at the starry look he gave you, his lips once more meeting yours. Your eyelids shut as you mewled into the kiss, Alastor’s hands returning to underneath your hoodie with more need. Your breath started to shorten as his hands hesitantly reached higher and higher, your chest rising and lowering faster.

His hands cupped your breasts, your thighs instinctively pushing together as you felt your head spin from the contact. You had to withdraw from the kiss, gasping for air as Alastor watched you with half-lidded eyes. He leaned down to kiss your neck instead, his fangs nibbling softly as he fondled your chest with such tenderness. You gasped when his thumbs rubbed against your nipples, and you felt Alastor grin against your skin as they peaked under his touch.

Every caress of his sent a jolt of fire straight to your core, the heat between your legs growing. You were sure you were starting to seep through your panties, the room a thousand degrees hotter with how Alastor was groping your body.

“You feel like sin,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I could get drunk off the heat of you alone.”

Before you could reply, Alastor removed his hands from your breasts, leaning back on his knees to pull you forward in a searing kiss. You were temporarily winded from the sudden movement, sitting up as you desperately tried to match his pace. His hands gripped the hem of your hoodie, lifting it up over your head as goosebumps littered your skin from the sudden exposure. He discarded the material somewhere off the bed, pushing you down once more as his hungry mouth met the skin of your chest.

You moaned out his name, your hands carding through his locks again as his tongue swirled around your left nipple. His thumb stimulated your right nipple in similar fashion, your eyes glazing over as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure.

His mouth detached from your mound, going lower and lower as he continued to fondle your breasts. Wet kisses were placed in a trail down your stomach, his mouth hesitating right at the top of your shorts. He glanced up at you, your core clenching at the way he locked eyes with you before pulling down your shorts and panties in one steady go.

Alastor wasted no time pulling your thighs apart, your cheeks suddenly warm at being completely exposed to him. He had you spread out like a decadent offering, laid bare before him, your body instinctively trying to fight the vulnerable position. You struggled in his grip, his strong hands holding the bottom of your thighs steady as you tried to push them together once more. Your stomach coiled in embarrassment when he took a deep breath in, his nostrils flaring at the scent of your arousal. “Alastor—”

Your complaint was lodged in your throat as your eyes landed on his expression. His pupils were blown wide, grin parted, as though the image of you—dripping, glistening with need—was something sacred. One of his hands moved to gently spread your lips, and his thumb ghosted over your clit with maddening care, pulling a soft gasp from your throat.

“My, my…” he breathed. “So wet already. And all for me.”

And then, without further warning—he devoured you.

His mouth latched onto you with terrifying precision, tongue flicking in fast, deliberate strokes against your clit while his hands gripped your thighs, keeping you pinned to the bed. The sensation was immediate—sharp, electric, almost as if a wire had been connected straight from your core to your spine. You cried out, hips bucking, but he held you, kept you right where he wanted you.

“Easy now,” he murmured against you, voice muffled but amused. “Let me take my time.”

You were soaked—and he seemed to love it, moaning softly as his tongue dipped down to taste everything. He licked up your arousal like it was nectar, slow and indulgent, before circling back to your clit and sucking, gently at first—then harder. The lewd sounds of Alastor’s mouth mixed with the faint love song crackling from the radio, your eyes rolling to the back of your head from the pleasure overwhelming your body.

Your back arched. Your hands tugged on hair behind his ears, desperate for more. He groaned when you pulled on him—deep and vibrating against your sensitive flesh. The sensation made you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“Th-that—Alastor—fuck—” You lifted one of your arms to cover your eyes, your face burning hot from the shameful sounds Alastor was eliciting from you.

A shadowy tendril wrapped around your wrist, pulling your forearm off of your eyes. He pulled away only briefly, his mouth slick with your juices, a feral grin splitting his lips.

“Oh darling,” he purred, voice thick, eyes gleaming. “Don’t shy away from me.”

Then he buried himself in you once more.

His tongue moved with devilish skill—flicking, circling, pressing in just the right rhythm, while his fingers slipped lower, teasing at your entrance before easing inside you. One. Then two. Slow, curling motions that had your entire body clenching around him. You felt Alastor finger you with precision, the faint reminder of his pointed nails against your walls made your head spin. He could tear you apart in an instant, and yet here he was, devoting himself to giving you nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He fucked you with his fingers and licked you like a man starved—like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. He’d groan when you moaned. Chuckle darkly when you cursed. Murmur “that’s it, my sweet, give in” when your hips started grinding against his mouth.

You were unraveling—gasping, writhing, begging for something you couldn’t name. The pressure was building exponentially, and you could barely form a thought beyond more more please don’t stop—

And he didn’t.

He knew. He felt the way your body tensed, the way your cries grew higher, the way your legs tried to close around his head—he pressed his free hand to your stomach, grounding you, keeping you open and his.

“Come for me, chère,” he whispered into your skin, voice thick and reverent. “Let me taste it.”

His words pushed you over the edge, snapping the invisible rubber band inside your stomach. You shattered with a cry, your orgasm hitting you like a storm, thighs trembling violently as your entire body curved off the bed. Alastor held you through it, lapping up every drop, groaning with delight as he worked you through the high with soft, slow licks until you were twitching, sensitive, your hands weakly trying to push him away.

“Al—Alastor, too much,” You whimpered pathetically, your hands softly pushing him away from your overstimulated core. He finally pulled back, chin dripping with a mix of his saliva and your wetness, eyes black and gleaming.

And he smiled.

That big, sharp, genuine smile.

“So sweet,” he sighed, voice dreamy as he kissed your trembling thigh. “I could gorge myself on you for hours and still crave more, dearest.”

You were too blissed out to answer—just a panting, whimpering mess beneath him.

He crawled up your body slowly, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your chest. And when he finally reached your lips again, he kissed you with the same mouth that had just ruined you—and you didn’t even hesitate to return it.

You could taste yourself on him.

Alastor cradled your face in his hand, brushing your sweaty hair back gently, his voice a soft murmur against your lips. “Still with me, ma douce?”

His voice vibrated against your lips, his hands coming up to his neck to quickly unbutton his shirt. His hands moved with practiced accuracy, your body still regaining strength from your orgasm. You glanced down at the strain in his slacks, your mouth watering at the sight of just how badly he needed relief. Withdrawing only enough to stand at the foot of the bed, he dragged his belt open with a snap that made your stomach flip.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?” he asked, even as he slid his trousers down his hips, freeing himself.

You nodded instantly, but your breath caught in your throat once your gaze landed on his member. He was long. Thick. Already dripping at the tip from how hard he was, how worked up you’d made him just from tasting you. His cock curved slightly upward, pulsing with anticipation as he crawled back over you, guiding himself to your entrance with one slow, grinding drag of his tip along your still-sensitive folds.

“Alastor, stop teasing.” You hissed as he continued brushing the head of his cock against your wet slit. A deep hum of amusement escaped his chest, his eyes fluttering shut as he relished the way your lips invited him in.

When he pushed in—it was slow. Torturously slow. Stretching you inch by inch, making your mouth fall open with a sound that bordered on a sob. You were still so aroused, your walls fluttering, clenching down on him as he eased deeper.

“Ohhh, fuck—” you gasped, legs trembling.

Alastor groaned—really groaned—his voice breaking for just a moment as your warmth enveloped him fully. You clenched around him as he hissed out your name like a prayer.

“You feel—divine,” he growled, his composure splintering as his hips finally pressed flush against yours. “Like you were made to take me.”

He stayed there for a moment buried to the hilt, before pulling back and thrusting in again with a force that made your body jolt up the bed. The rhythm started hard and deep—slow but intentional, like he was trying to imprint himself into every inch of you. There was no frantic rutting, no careless pace. Every thrust was a symphony of tension and release. Your moans came unbidden, rising with every grind of his hips, every brush of his pelvis against your overstimulated clit.

And Alastor loved it.

He drank up your reactions as if it were ambrosia, glowing red eyes fixed on your face, on the way you gasped and cried out, on the way your nails clawed at his back. Your sounds were music to his ears, your blissed out expression making his dick twitch. You looked thoroughly fucked, Alastor’s chest swelling with pride as he felt his antlers start to grow ever so slowly. You bucked beneath him, hips grinding up to meet his thrusts, and he groaned again—sharper this time. The sound shot straight through you, and your hands flew to his hair, yanking him down into another kiss that had your teeth clashing, your tongues tangling.

“This pussy—fuck,” he mewled into your mouth, “this perfect little pussy—clinging to me like she doesn’t want me to leave.”

His voice was fraying now, strained, unraveling at the edges. “Is that it, darling?” he rasped, still kissing you between words. “You want me to stay right here? Fill you until you can’t think?”

“Y-yes—please, don’t stop, Alastor—”

One hand suddenly snaked beneath your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder. The angle changed—oh God, the angle changed!—and you cried out, your back arching as he hit deeper, harder, grinding against that sweet, devastating spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“There,” he smirked, voice low and breathless. “There it is.”

He continued to pound into you until you were sobbing his name, clutching the sheets, tears brimming in your lashes from the sheer overwhelm of it. Alastor's smile turned feral as he saw your tears, his pace faltering as he kissed your tears as they fell.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispered, soft between the pounding thrusts. “So good for me. Taking me so well. You were meant for this. Meant for me.”

You whimpered at his praises, cumming again without warning—your body locking up, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave breaking against stone. Alastor groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, pulsing, twitching, milking him as he drove in deep one final time.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a growl—deep, guttural, almost animalistic—his cock twitching as he filled you, spilling inside you with a heat that made your thighs quiver. You felt him pulse inside you, bury himself deeper, hips twitching with the last few, slow thrusts.

Alastor collapsed beside you with a sigh that was more satisfied than smug for once, his arm immediately curling around your waist to tug you flush against him. His skin was slick with sweat, his breath still uneven, but his smile—that damned smile—was gentler now. Calmer. Like some longing ache inside him had finally eased.

The two of you lay there in silence for a moment, your body still twitching with the occasional aftershock as your breath steadied. Your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, warm and safe as your hands gently played with the soft fur of his chest. He sighed at the feeling, inhaling deeply as he relaxed.

Then, with absolutely zero shame in his tone, he spoke.

“So,” he drawled lazily, voice low and playful, “did I cure your hangover?”

You tensed, lifting your head just enough to blink at him, eyes wide and incredulous. You paused for a moment to focus on your head, realizing your headache was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, laughter flowed out of you, your head thrown back as you giggled at his question—of course he still remembered.

“You know what…” you breathed, grinning at him like he’d just said the funniest thing. “Surprisingly, you did.”

Alastor chuckled, eyes glittering with delight. He merely leaned down to kiss your forehead, brushing away the hair stuck to your forehead. Cuddling closer, you dropped your head once more to the crook of his neck, his fingers stroking lazy circles on your back, and the silence that followed was heavy with comfort. After a pause, you tilted your head to glance up at him again.

“...Did you get me drunk because you knew I’d kiss you?”

Alastor gasped dramatically at your questioning. Hand pressed to his chest, all mock offense and theatrical flourish. “Oh contraire, chérie!” he insisted. “I was trying to get us both drunk so I could confess my affections for you—never did I expect you to do something so scandalous.”

He paused, grin widening into its usual smirk. “But alas, it ended in my favor… so I must thank you for it.”

You groaned into his shoulder, rolling your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He laughed—a full, rich sound that rumbled against your cheek as he kissed the top of your head once more.

“Perhaps,” he whispered. “But I’m your idiot now.”

tag list: @railgunuzi @frompiscium @rose-in-blue @catticora @milkissesx + @lovingyeet @flannychan @ari-hatake24 [want to join/be removed from the tag list? check my pinned post!]

#i will forever support the headcanon that alastor wears a leather harness and has a fur chest #“he's a freaking deer let him have more deer characteristics!!!” i scream as they drag me into a padded room #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #smut #oneshot

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rcmclachlan · 8 days ago

Note

I'd love to hear Dana and Nico discussing Tommy's latest bout of insanity with a probie if you're up for it

"... appears the LAFD helicopter is now leading the Army on a chase..."

The very moment KTLA reporter Chris Wolf says 'chase', the entire hangar erupts into pained groans and shouts of disbelief mixed with fury, plus one enthusiastic whoop that is collectively ignored in favor of the massive white board that DeJong and Goodell rolled out of Captain Ribeiro's office about ten seconds after Kinard escaped with the AW139.

The board is a veritable rainbow of imagination, mostly because it's covered in sticky notes of various colors, and standing in front of it is the most unforgiving authority figure most of the crew have seen since grade school.

"All right, assholes, shut up!" Donato shouts, then consults the board. The hangar falls silent, waiting. "Right now Myers is in the lead with 118 shenanigans, government fuckery, and a high-octane chase, but since Nguyen also bet on 118 shenanigans and a chase that would specifically involve MH-6Ms, Myers, you may have to split the pot."

Myers grudgingly nods. Nguyen discreetly pumps her fist.

Meanwhile, their two-week old probie Mona—who was given the nickname "Idol" after Kelley accidentally pronounced her name as 'Mony' and got the song stuck in everyone's head for days, despite not being old enough to know who Billy Idol even is—takes in the tableau with wide eyes. "Is this, uh, legal?"

"In the state of California? Nah." Nico shrugs, then bites into an unpeeled grapefruit like an apple. "But here? It's fine. You stick around long enough and you'll make some serious cash. Goodell made almost five grand with the cruise ship thing."

Mona stares. "And Cap allows this?"

"Allows it? Who do you think made the first bet?" Nico points to where their illustrious captain is perusing the board with annoyance clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, muttering under his breath.

"Anytime Kinard pulls something like this, we wheel out the board," Dana says, coming to stand on Mona's other side, surveying the pandemonium.

"D-Did you place a bet?"

Nico snorts. "Dane's not allowed to bet anymore. She's dead on the money every time."

"Not every time," Dana demures.

"Okay, but no one could've seen the elephant tusk thing coming." At Mona's wild-eyed look, Nico clarifies, "poacher plane over Channel Island. Kinard brought it down."

With the way everyone's clustered around Donato and the board, holding various sticky pads in the air and waving them around, it looks like the stock market is crashing and everyone's about to dump their shares.

"Oh, speaking of." Dana scrapes at something under her thumbnail. "Did you change the sign?"

Nico says through a mouthful of rind, "I think Donato did."

"The sign?" Mona echoes faintly.

With a nail sharper than any of the steak knives in the communal kitchen, Dana points to the professionally made sign hanging next to the weight room door.

__ DAYS SINCE KINARD LAST TAUNTED GOD.

The '32' that had been sitting pretty at the front of it for the last month has been flipped back to '0'.

"T-This happens often enough for a sign?" Mona looks a little dizzy, and Dana wants to tell her that if she can't cope with a co-worker stealing municipal property and pissing off the government from time to time, she's probably not cut out for Los Angeles. But Captain Ribeiro suggested on Dana's last evaluation to keep her often-correct opinions to herself, if only to keep morale high, so she says nothing.

Nico does for her. "Ever since Kinard started seeing Buckley? Yeah."

"Buckley?"

"Human dalmatian and resident heroic dumbass at the 118," Dana explains. "He and Kinard have an on-again-off-again thing going on that threatens the populace on a bi-monthly basis. If they ever do manage to figure out their shit, it'll take out half the city."

Mona squints at the TV, where the AW139 goes into a perfect hammerhead before slipping past the Figueroa at Wilshire with the grace of a shadow, leaving the MH-6M floundering in mid-air, and everyone clustered around the board starts shouting and waving their sticky notes again.

"And this is.... on again?"

"At this point, no one knows or cares. Kinard has always been certifiable; he'd been looking for an excuse to get worse." Dana glances at the TV. The AW139 banks up, executes a textbook barrel roll, and then disappears out of the range of the KTLA's camera.

"Holy BLEEP, did you see that?!" Chris Wolf cries.

"It's a shame I never really got to talk to him much," Mona says, a little forlorn. "I would've loved to learn from him."

Nico turns a confused look on her. "You still can? He's not dead."

"I mean, he's gonna be arrested and fired, right?"

At that, Dana presses the backs of her fingers to her mouth to hide a chuckle. "Oh, Idol, you're sweet. Kinard'll gently bully that out of you when he's back on Tuesday."

#bucktommy #more from the TKBICU (Tommy Kinard Batshit Insane Cinematic Universe)#rc's harbor ocs #rc's 911 fics #911 spoilers #sort of #consequences? can you use the word in a sentence?

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hotteokyu · 4 months ago

Text

who are you, who am I

Synopsis ~ No words. No sight. No thoughts. You grew here in this cell, alone. You realize there’s a person on the other side of the cell wall when you hear his cries. You can’t speak. You can’t see. You can’t touch. But he becomes your closest friend. Closer than the silence of the cell. Until that silence is disturbed. And you need more than his soft voice. You need to escape. You need him.

Pairing ~ prisoner!yunho x prisoner!reader

Word count ~ 13.8k

Genre / warnings ~ explicit sexual content MINORS DNI, romance, prisoners, cells, handcuffed, muzzle, blindfolded, mention of forced pregnancy, cult-like implications, stripped for an audience, non-consensual touching at times, a bit disturbing, kind of a roller coaster, murder, blood, cursing, forbidden love, fight for love, yunho's an idol, yunho not referred to by name for most of it, petnames: puppy / princess / baby / etc., desperate touching, desperate love, masturbation, shower sex, oral sex (male recieving), kissing, grinding, rough sex, crying, comfort

a/n ~ tell me what you think ;p

There’s a person on the other side of the wall.

Tied up with thick cuffs, a tight muzzle around your mouth, dark cloth over your eyes. You see the wall with your hands as you roam your cell when master goes away.

The lonely, timeless days and nights are all the same, except now you have a friend.

He’s silly. When he wants to say hello, he taps the wall in a cute way, tap tip-tip tap tap.

He enjoys your company too, becoming comfortably silent as you hum him a song. Your lips can’t move because of the muzzle, so all you’ve ever confessed to him are your songs.

He sings for you too, and you love his voice. It’s low, and, if you press close enough to the wall, you can feel its vibrations.

You call him puppy in your head because whenever you want to play with him, you hear him eagerly scrambling to get to the wall, just like a little puppy.

You wonder what your puppy looks like. You wonder why master keeps him. You wonder if he wonders the same things about you.

But today is exciting. Today is a shower day. You’re not sure how often master lets you shower, but you haven’t gone out since you first noticed your new friend. You can hardly sleep, you’re so excited.

This could be your chance to see him.

The guard comes just as the black of your blindfold starts turning to a dark gray. He guides you with a padded arm out of your cell. You know the exact placement of every crevice in the cell relative to you. You stub your foot into the side of the entrance as he guides you out. You fall to the ground with a harsh slam. The concrete isn’t kind to your skin, and you feel your blood trickle onto the ground nicely.

The guard curses and grabs your scraped arm, pulling you to stand. He’s impatient, the tight schedule of the dungeon pulling his mind toward careless rushing.

He guides you again, whispering to himself in annoyance, and you stumble over his foot, almost crashing to the ground again.

“Fuck!” he growls. “Why do you need this stupid fucking blindfold anyway?!” He’s whispering but screaming in frustration, spitting into the air as his hand yanks the blindfold from your eyes.

And suddenly the light is blinding you for the first time in forever.

“Don’t tell anyone, bitch,” the guard spits, and you nod, blinking rapidly as he urges you to move again.

You go right, eyeing the next cell. Its glass is squeaky clean. He’s new, just like you thought. As you walk, slowly, stumbling in pain, you look closely into the cell, and, finally, you see him there.

Your puppy.

He’s big, hands tied up on his bed and black prisoner rags baggy on his figure. His muzzle matches yours, by what you’ve gathered from feeling it, desperately scratching to get it off. His head lays sleepily and sadly on the mattress, and his hair is a dark brown, nearly black, wavy as it falls into his eyes. And his eyes… aren’t covered like yours should be. They’re wide, and beautiful, and gazing right at you. Your puppy nearly jumps from his bed, his pupils trembling, but you slowly shake your head, and he freezes.

You love your puppy even more now, innocent and adorable as he begs you with his eyes to stay in his view. But the only thing you can give him is a squint of your eyes to show your attempt at a soft smile.

And then you turn the corner, and he’s gone.

You shut your eyes tight, facing straight forward as the guard guides you, though you know the route by heart. When you stop, it’s not at the showers, and when the guard suddenly hits the floor, you know he’s dead.

“My, look at you.” Master’s voice is chilling, but you’ve grown numb to it over time. He likes to talk, for you can do nothing but listen. “My favorite girl knows how to act,” he praises. The blindfold, lying uselessly around your neck, is yanked back over your eyes. “She knows that if she opens her eyes, she’ll be killed.” He pats your shoulder, stroking it lightly with his thumb, and you press your lips together tightly, the uncomfortable damp warmth of his skin making a quick gag approaching their seal. You feel his breath beside your ear, a thick string of drool between his teeth as he stretches his lips with his words. “I might have to reward her.”

The shower never felt so rewarding as it does after having that creature lay his hand on you. You can hear his slime slick from his skin to the floor as he moves. As the cold water spills over your shoulders, you sigh, feeling it all melt away as if it’s steaming.

The water slides down your bare body, one you’ve never seen, its form unfamiliar to you, as you haven’t known yourself since being a little girl. You feel the metal of the belt around your hips. You don’t know why they cover your genitals with this belt, but it makes cleaning very difficult.

But now, alone where no one but the stream can see you, you could grin if not for the muzzle restricting your lips. Your mind keeps straying to his face, one you’ve, since you first heard his gentle cry from the other side of that wall, dreamed of seeing. You were able to witness for a split second. And you’re addicted.

As soon as you’re put back in your cage and the clacks of the guard’s shoes leave the hallway, your puppy scrambles to the wall. He hums softly but eagerly, quietly so that no one knows, but loud enough for you to know it's desperate. He whines softly until you hum back. You can imagine him now, head resting against the wall, hair dragging softly along its surface as he stares into the concrete as if he might see you. He wants to see you again, you can feel it in the whimpers as he scrapes against the wall. You want to see him again, too. But that desire can’t overtake you. You’ve lived here, grown here in this dungeon. You know patience is the only way you can even have the privilege of thinking about getting what you want.

For now, you close your eyes and think of your beautiful puppy’s face. You drift to sleep like that, listening to his soft, even breaths.

When you awake, the blindfold is pitch black. The dungeon is silent except for your puppy’s breath. It isn’t even or calm. He must be having a bad dream. He’s panting, soft, muffled whimpers reaching your ears. You sit up, your brows furrowing. Something isn’t right. There’s a new sound, one you’ve never heard before, from his side of the wall. Something slow and wet rubbing together. Could it be that the poor puppy was so scared in his sleep that he had an accident?

“Mm?” you call out softly, and he gasps. The noise stops instantly, and he goes silent. You hum again, quietly, with pure concern, and he whimpers, almost guiltily.

No, it’s okay, puppy, you’re not in trouble.

But then the sound continues, and he lets out a shaky breath. You smell something sweet in the air, something warm and new. Your eyes grow wide as it all clicks suddenly. Looking down at your hands tied in front of you, your mind wanders quickly to what he might be doing just a few inches away from you. He’s panting now, his breaths vocal and soft and desperate. He’s trying to hold his voice back, his nose working hard but failing to breathe. You hear him squirm against the concrete, and you can imagine it vividly, having seen him with your own eyes. And he’s beautiful, pleasuring himself. His voice, higher than its usual low, soothing tone, needy and shameless. His body, thin yet large, clinging to the wall as he bends his tied arms uncomfortably just to make himself feel good. It’s wet. It’s so wet. He’s leaking all over himself, his precum lubing himself as he goes faster and faster.

Puppy has never acted like this before. Why is he suddenly so desperate? And why is just hearing him like this making you so dazed?

His breath grows heavier, his movements desperate, his rhythm lost until it suddenly stops, and his voice disappears, the wet slide of his hand going slow until it stops completely, and he’s able to catch his breath.

You sigh, leaning your head against the wall. He had all that fun without you and expects you to be patient with your plan? How are you not supposed to rush to see him?

You sleep on your bed for the rest of the night. He deserves to sleep alone after making everything so much more difficult for you. You could scream into your pillow. You need more than just hums and songs through the wall. You need to be with him.

Master comes to visit you more often these days. He never comes inside, and you’re grateful. He just talks to you, tells you about his problems. It’s good that he’s warming up to you, that you’re his favorite. You want something from him.

On the seventh time he comes to visit, you come up close to the glass and put your hand against it.

“What is it, girl?” he asks, coming closer. You can hear his breath near your face, but you force yourself to stay there. You slowly reach with your hands and grasp your muzzle, tilting your head with furrowed, pleading brows. Then, you touch the glass again, right where his breath sounds. He hums. “Now, what could my little girl possibly need her mouth for?” But, of course, you can’t tell him. You sit there, pleading with your grip on the glass, until he sighs. “I suppose she could keep me company.”

That night, when the blindfold starts to grow darker, the muzzle is unlatched from your jaw. Your face aches and trembles as you stretch your lips for the first time in years. It hurts, but it’s so amazing, finally having your jaw free. Finally, you can start your escape.

Master doesn’t come back for a while. He said he will be busy, but you should reteach yourself to speak properly for when he returns. You will. You’ll talk all night long, all day, all week, forever to your wall. For your master, of course.

Puppy knocks quietly on the wall, and you’re the one who scrambles to meet him there in excitement. He’ll be so happy. He’ll want to escape with you. He’ll help you, and you can get out of here. And you’ll be together.

Your breath trembles as you gaze at the black of the cloth, sitting on the cold floor in your tightly bound clothing, staring toward the wall. He’s silent. He must have heard everything. He listens well when you have visitors. He must know that he’ll finally be able to hear you speak to him.

“I…” Your voice is soft, only for his ears. “I’m Y/n.” He hums happily. Maybe he likes your name. “Do you know… you’re so pretty?” you ask, knowing he can’t answer. He’s quiet, and you can imagine the soft blush on his cheeks. “I’ve been alone for years. You’re my only friend. All I want is to see you again. You’re so pretty…” You lean your head against the wall, wishing it wasn’t there more than ever. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Mhm!” he immediately responds, and you can’t stop the wide smile that you can finally make without close restrictions.

“Is that why you were so worked up? The time you saw me?” He goes quiet, even his little excited breaths disappearing for a moment.

“Mhm…” He’s quiet, embarrassed.

Your face starts to heat up, as if you could feel his warm breath across your skin. “It’s not fair,” you whisper, “that you get to touch yourself when I can’t.” He huffs, a soft laugh echoing throughout the cells. “Is that funny?” you scoff, but he just continues his gentle laugh until you can’t help but smile too, tilting your head in disbelief.

You lay and talk to him for hours. Or forever. You can’t keep track of time, but the cloth grows grey, and you’re still talking. He’s so engaging, in all ways that he can be. You tell him stories of your life before coming here and even funny things you’ve encountered in the cell. You ask him how the world has changed, and he’s mostly responded no to your guesses.

“But who are you,” you sigh, laying on your back, staring at the ceiling through the thick mask over your eyes. “What’s your name? I want to know so bad.” He sighs. “How old are you? Why are you here? What was your life like?” But he can’t answer. “For now, you’ll just be my friend.”

“My girl, your voice is as pretty as ever. You’re almost fully developed, I can see. Soon, we’ll put you on display for the elders.” Master takes your hands in his, clasping them harshly, and you fight the urge to pull away. “Since the elders would love you even more with those lips of yours bound up, I’ll let you have them out until they see you.” You force a soft smile.

“Thank you,” you whisper, “Master.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” he coos. “Is that what you call me in that tiny head of yours?” You nod. “How obedient.”

“I want to be good for you.”

He sighs with a soft chuckle. “I knew you were special since you were just a little girl. Now, look at you.”

Fuck, you’re going to throw up. No, no, hold it in.

“Thank you for looking after me, Master,” you say, keeping the smile plastered on your lips.

He sighs before moving away from you. “Prepare her carefully over the next few days. Make her perfect. By Sunday, I want her in the tank.”

Your eyes grow wide in both horror and relief. This is it.

“Thank you, Master,” You say, and his hand taps your cheek.

“Enjoy your voice, girl. It’ll be gone again soon.”

“Puppy, don’t be scared,” you whisper through the wall. He’s breathing heavily, soft, suppressed sobs escaping his lips. “Shhh… It’ll be okay. I’ll protect you no matter what.”

“Mhm,” he whimpers. “Mhm. Mhm…” His voice is breaking. He’s crying, and yet you can’t reach out and wipe the tears from his cheeks. Your fists clench, bound together uselessly.

“I won’t go anywhere without you,” you whisper.

The footsteps echoing through the hall don’t belong to a guard or master. It’s someone new.

“I’ll come back for you no matter what.”

“L/n. Please come with me.” It’s a lady. She has a soft voice, but she raises it knowingly to something commanding yet comforting. She won’t hurt you. She’s simply following orders. No malice. No evil. You get up, staring at the wall as if you could see it or your puppy sitting with wide, tear filled eyes, desperately trying to be silent.

You follow her. No need for a guide. When she sits you down in a cushioned chair, she slowly removes the blindfold from your eyes. The room is dimly lit, as they understand you haven’t used your eyes in years. You keep them closed.

“Open your eyes,” she says, and you do. “Look straight ahead. Do not let them stray.” You do.

In front of you is a TV. You saw them in your home when you were younger before the day you were sold away. It’s a small box, showcasing an auditorium. You’ve only ever seen one of those once when you went to a theater with your mother. The audience on the TV is filled with old people, both men and women. They’re watching the stage, but you can’t see what exactly it is. The camera is on the stage, it seems.

“Have you seen their faces before?” the lady asks, and you stare harder at the screen. Glancing from face to face, you come to realize, you know only one. You nod. “Which one?”

“Right side. Third row. Seven seats in.”

She writes it down.

“Any others?”

“No.”

“And who is that lady then? Whom you recognize?”

She’s old, but, of course, anyone would recognize her if they were you. You dreamed about her face every night or whenever sleep would grace you. You dreamed about what you would do to her if you ever saw her again. Old, wrinkly, and ugly, but surely her…

“My mother.”

She writes it down.

“How many years have passed,” you ask curiously. You can’t take your eyes off of her. Senses unbound completely, your expression contorts into something small and furious, “since the day I came here.”

“Don’t scrunch your face,” she says, and you stop. “We’ve worked hard preserving your features. Don’t ruin it, or he’ll kill you for being useless.”

Your brow twitches at the new information. Preserving your features? That makes sense. In your muzzle and blindfold, you could hardly move your face, your smiles stiff and restrained, features moving but hardly without great pain.

“Will I get to meet her again?” you ask, and she writes silently, the scribbles of the pencil filling the room as you watch the old people on the screen, frustration filling you.

“You’ll know soon enough.” She senses your body heat rising quickly. “Be patient.”

Right, she’s right. Patience.

“She’ll be rewarded greatly for her sacrifice,” she says.

“Who are the elders? Them?” you question, but she doesn’t answer.

“Tomorrow, you’ll be groomed and then put in a new cell so you look perfect for Sunday.”

“What day is it today?” you ask, a sudden rush of concern hitting you. Do you only have a day to figure everything out?

“Return her to her cell.”

No. No, that’s not enough time. You thought you had more time. You can’t figure everything out in a day. If you’re taken away… you won’t get to escape. It’ll be over. You can’t do it. You can’t figure it out.

Rough hands cover your features with your muzzle and blindfold, and everything is once again locked away.

Your cell is silent until it’s not. The guard has left, but there’s a body looming over you. Your eyes are wide, your lips quivering. They smell familiar, and the trembling breath is something you know well, but it’s not possible. It isn’t until soft, trembling hands scratch at your blindfold that you see him. His forehead is pressed against yours, his body pushing you into the wall. His brows are pinched as he desperately gazes from one eye to the other. Puppy.

His whimpers would meet your lips if not for the muzzles surrounding our mouths. He’s surrounding you completely, much bigger, much stronger than you, but he doesn’t even realize it, trying to be closer and closer to you. Though your hands are bound, he wants to touch you, sitting between your legs as he brings your bodies as close as possible.

You’re confused, and concerned, and overwhelmed, but the happiness of seeing your puppy right here in front of you overshadows all of those feelings. Tears are dripping from his eyes, maybe from bliss or worry. It’s so beautiful.

You lean closer, letting your head fall to his shoulder. His whimpers meet your ear, his soft breaths matching your own.

You look around and immediately spot the hole in the corner of your cell. Fuck, if anyone finds that, you’re both dead. You’ll cover it with your bed. It makes you laugh, just how small the hole is compared to your big puppy. He must have been so desperate to see you, squeezing in any way he could.

And then your laugh fades, and a tear drips from your eye.

It’ll be okay.

You push him away gently, and even so he’s reluctant. It takes a soft, reassuring hum to get him to move away. His eyes are so pretty, big and bloodshot, just for you to gaze into. You slowly close your eyes, and he pulls the blindfold over them once again. Then he’s gone, the soft scrape of your bed against the concrete sealing him into his side of the wall.

It’ll be okay.

You’re stripped almost completely, the only things left being the cuffs around your wrists, the chastity belt, and the muzzle around your jaw. A body once bound tightly by clothing is now bare. Your youthful features are perfect in their eyes. They’ve done a phenomenal job preserving them. To you, they’re unfamiliar. Ugly. Not your own. The only thing familiar to you which you want at all is your puppy. The compliments they give you as you walk down the halls, eyes unbound but closed, are disgusting, if anything, but meaningless. You become deaf for the first time in years. Your only sense has always been your hearing, but now you forget that too. You are nothing for the long minutes walking mindlessly down the hall, hands tied to a man, tied to Master, tied to the audience that you will be presented to.

When you open your eyes again, the tank is here. It’s on the stage which was blocked on the TV. It’s full of clear liquid, but it must not be water. Its surface doesn’t dare move. It’s thick, almost solid. The final preservation.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Master has never raised his voice to such an extent before. It’s always been quiet and broken, just for your ears. Now, he speaks to hundreds, if not thousands of elders much like him. “Our latest graduate! Her visuals are phenomenal, voice like a siren, and obedient like the perfect woman!” The room erupts in a quick laughter. “We’ve grown her from a young girl to a beautiful adult, donated by one amongst you! Please take a close look! She’s a beauty!”

You’re urged forward, your feet stumbling momentarily until you’re brought under a blinding spotlight. You can’t see the audience anymore, only imagine the faces some of them would make as he described you. Tongues darting out, wrinkly, cracked lips wetted, smirks, trembles as they said something to the person beside them. The years locked in your cell, you could never even guess as to why you were locked away. You still have no idea what’s happening, but if you had known your eyes would adjust to this light and see those faces, staring at you, drooling at you, bare in front of them, you would have risked it all to run away. Fuck patience.

Now your master’s slimy, clammy hands are pushing you toward that tank. And you can say nothing. Do nothing but look. Hands and mouth bound, you can do nothing but look.

The liquid is thick. You’ve only ever touched water, so what could this possibly be? It’s sticky, drawing you inside slowly and carefully. To your legs. To your hips. Your body trembles, cold, terrified.

“This graduate is simply too perfect to sell,” Master explains to the audience, gently stroking your hair. You almost give in and push him away. “But, if we have one perfect girl, why not twenty more? Why not fifty?!” He laughs, and everyone follows along. “I’m sure you’ve read all about our new technology! It’s revolutionary! This fluid preserves her youthful features both externally and internally. Her eggs won’t die with age. She can produce to her full capability while frozen in the tank! Isn’t it wonderful?”

You can hear your heart over the oohs and aahs of the creatures in the crowd. It’s loud and fast yet not fast enough to support your churning mind. Should you kill yourself right now? That thought enters twice for every three thoughts of escape entering your mind. You really should. You should just kill yourself before your body enters this fluid completely.

It’s up to your chest, your arms frozen practically solid already. You’re gone. You’re done. You can’t even end your life. This is your ending.

It’s to your neck. Your heartbeat is gone from your ears, from your chest, but it continues on. It’s odd. It’s frozen, but you move slowly into it. It stops all functions, but all of your senses are enhanced within its cold envelope. It seeps into the muzzle, filling what little space is creviced in its metal to your lips to your jaw. You can’t breathe, but somehow the fluid breathes for you, air entering and exiting your lungs at a steady rhythm. Your ears. You can’t hear any longer, as if you could before. As if everything hadn’t gone numb the second you learned the truth. The second you saw the tank. The audience. Your eyes are too late to close as they’re submerged in the fluid. They won’t close. They won’t flutter. They look out into the audience, wide and unrestricted. Finally, you can see. Forever you’ll see. This is what you’ll see. The top of your head is overtaken by the fluid, and the tank closes. Everything is silent. Everything is numb. Everything is fucking over.

And you have to watch it all happen.

Master comes around the front of the tank holding a tube of sorts. He opens a little door on the front of the tank and reaches into the fluid. Nothing spills out. It stays obediently still. He reaches the tube toward your chastity belt, but freezes, his eyes darting to the tank. Through the tank. He looks terrified, eyes bulging from their sockets. He drops the tube, desperately tugging at his arm to free it from the fluid. He turns to run, but a hand grabs his hair and slams him to the ground. You would start sobbing at the sight. Puppy, livid, veins bulging from his arms to his neck to his face. He raises his arms high, and when he slams them down, an axe splits Master’s head from his neck. The blood sprays over the glass of the tank, covering it completely. You hear a muffled slam and then the entirety of the glass shatters all at once. It collapses around you, but the fluid stays all the same. You see him, panting, painted red, glaring at you as he grips the axe, now snapped in two.

When he finally drops it, his brows soften, his veins pulsing but calming as he reaches out. His hands rush through the fluid, faster than they should be able to. He grabs you, and he pulls you to him until only the remnants of the fluid touch your skin, and you’re held tightly in his arms. You fall limp, the coating of the fluid preventing you from being able to move much. Even if you could, you might’ve just let your puppy take you away, leaning your cheek against his chest. The hallway, as he runs from the stage, is covered in blood from the floor to the ceiling. You close your eyes, feeling his hold on you tighten the further he travels and the bloodier the stench and the sight becomes. Until you hear something you haven’t heard in years.

Birds.

Trees.

Wind.

Him.

You let your eyes look up into the sky. It’s so blue. Who knew something could be so blue?

You recognize the glass box, the phone, the city. It’s timeless, unchanging from what you remember. It’s familiar. How nice. Puppy sets you down, and you lean weakly against the glass. He strips his shirt from his skin and quickly fumbles it over your head. What was tight on him is huge on you, covering you from your shoulders to your thighs. His chest is bare, but he doesn’t care.

He works quickly on your cuffs. They’re practically unbreakable. Night after night, you would desperately rub them and scratch them and bang them however you could, but they were unbreakable. He snapped them in two, the metal falling to your lap uselessly. Your hands tremble as they reach out… uncuffed. His eyes look from one to the other as your hands cup his cheeks, fingers wrapping around the latch to his muzzle. It’s much like yours, only bigger. With a few motions, it too was gone, and you could see his pretty features completely. He was adorable, soft, newly abused lips perfect and plump, trembling as he paws at your own muzzle. He must not know how to take it off. His lips form a gentle scowl in frustration as he grips and pulls at it. You let him struggle for a while, smiling softly. How nice this feels… to be wanted so desperately. To be loved so thoroughly.

“Y/n,” he whimpers, and your eyes twitch, tears just touching the surface at the simple sound, so low, so pretty from his voice. “Help me, please,” he whispers.

You cover his hands with your own, and he leans his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed as you slowly unlatch your muzzle. You set it aside and run your fingers through his hair, pulling his head just a bit closer. His breath trembles against your lips, so comforting as you start to shiver in the cool breeze.

“What’s your name?” you whisper, and his eyes flutter open.

“Yunho,” he answers, gazing at your lips as they form a gentle smile.

“Yunho,” you repeat. “Yunho. Yunho is pretty too. So pretty.”

“You lied to me, Y/n,” he whispers, and your smile fades. He’s hurt. “You said you would come back no matter what, but you didn’t.” His jaw clenches, and your lip trembles as you slowly slide your hands from his hair.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, Yunho, I-”

He grabs your hands and keeps them there, stopping their retreat. He shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, Y/n, I came for you. I wanted to promise you that I would and- and I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t say anything, but now I can. I would have followed you even if you never came back.” He nods, gazing into your wide, tear-filled eyes. “Just don’t go, please. Please, don’t go. Stay here, a-nd we’ll get help, and we’ll be o-okay.”

You nod immediately, and his hands slowly slip from yours, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

He looks away, a deep blush on his blood-splattered cheeks. “Thank you,” he mumbles, a small, relieved smile shyly spreading on his lips.

The change piled on the phone, a kind gesture by the locals, trembles as he picks them up one by one. He takes a shaky breath as he finally brings the phone to his ear. It clicks softly as the other person picks up. “Hyung…”

You wait in an alleyway. It’s dark, the only light flickering above your heads. You’re tucked close together, your face nuzzled into the side of his neck. It’s freezing, but you have nothing but the heat of your bodies to keep you warm. His friend is coming quickly, but it’s been an hour at least. You’re both shivering, breathing the same air, holding each other close. Until the alley lights up, and a car screeches to a halt a bit away. You both glance up, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yunho!” a man shouts, stumbling out of the car. He rushes over to you as Yunho slowly helps you to your feet.

“Yunho, I’m gonna kill you!” another man, a lighter voice, screams as he jumps out of the other side.

They both run, tears streaming down their cheeks as they collide with their friend. Yunho stumbles against the wall. The tinier one holds him so tightly, placing kisses all over his face as he sobs. The taller one’s eyes are wide, wiping the blood from Yunho’s cheeks, bombarding him with questions.

Yunho holds you close against him, unforgotten, even as they don’t even notice you at first.

“Get in the car quickly,” the taller one urges, pushing the both of you gently toward the vehicle. “What’s your name, sweety?” he asks, voice low and comforting to your frozen ears.

“Y/n,” you say, voice trembling.

“I’m Seonghwa,” he says softly. “This is Wooyoung.” He asks you no questions, and you’re so grateful. You just want to be warm.

The car is so toasty, the seats a heater themselves as you sit in its sanctuary. You want to melt into them, hardly registering as Wooyoung buckles you in before quickly getting into the front seat. You close your eyes, sighing in relief. Finally, out of the cold, out of danger, with your puppy. Everything is alright.

“Yunho,” Seonghwa’s deep voice softly begins, “what happened?”

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, taking a slow breath. “I woke up in a cell,” he says, and your heart aches. So they take everyone in their sleep. “They put a muzzle on me a-nd cuffed my hands.” He bites his lip. “And they gave me shots every day.”

“What the fuck?!” Wooyoung shouts, turning back in horror. “They fucking drugged you?! What were they for?! Who the fuck are they?!”

“I don’t know,” Yunho groans. “But my body feels so weird now.” You watch as he swallows hard. “I get aggressive and weirdly strong sometimes… How long was I gone?”

It’s silent for a long moment “About four months,” Seonghwa says. He grips the steering wheel hard, his knuckles growing white. “ATEEZ is on hiatus. Your disappearance became public after the first month.”

“ATEEZ…?” you mumble to yourself.

“It’s on the news daily. They haven’t closed the case,” Wooyoung says. “Though they’re close to. Fuck, I’m so glad you’re okay. We’ll go to the police and call everyone over.”

Yunho has such a relieved, happy smile on his face, lightening his features so nicely. He’s leaning his head on the seat, his hand gently touching yours as the car silently drives through the city streets.

“How did you and Y/n meet?” Seonghwa asks curiously.

“She was in the cell next to mine. We couldn’t talk or anything, but we, like, sang or.. hummed to each other… and stuff…” His voice trails off as he looks out the window with a deep blush trailing from the tip of his nose to his ears.

“Wow!” Wooyoung’s exasperated sound turns to a loud laugh. “You’re truly an idol, Jeong Yunho!”

You gasp, and his face turns deeper into the window. “You’re an idol?”

He nods.

You’re about to freak out, but Wooyoung changes the topic quickly.

“By the way, Y/n, what uh.. are you covered in? Like, what is all that?”

You look down at your bare arms and almost gag at the dried, sticky goo all over your skin. You forgot all about it.

“I wish I knew,” you mumble.

“Hyung, can you take us to the dorms first? So we can get clothes and showers please,” Yunho asks, and Seonghwa nods through the mirror, smiling sweetly.

“Should I call a manager?” Seonghwa asks as Yunho guides you through the apartment. “Does she need he-?”

“No,” he interrupts, and you all wince, pausing at the bite in the word. His expression is scrunched, stern, mean, but it softens quickly. “No, we’ll be okay, Hyung, thank you.”

“We’ll pick you up in the mor-!”

The door was closed before you could even register being dragged gently into a room. Yunho’s breath is a bit uneven. Is he feeling sick? Maybe overwhelmed? He’s looking around the room a bit frantically. Everything is nice and clean, you note. Maybe his friends… or members took care of the room while he was gone. Yunho brings you to his bed and sits you down with a reassuring smile, but it twitches softly.

“Yunho,” you mumble, and he pauses to gaze into your confused eyes. “Are you okay?”

He nods. “I’m okay,” he says softly. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

He starts to walk away, but you reach out and take hold of his fingers, and he stops. “Where are you going?” you ask, gazing shyly at him. He lets a giddy smile stretch his lips.

“I’m going to start the shower,” he says, and you hesitantly let go of him. “You can wash first, but wait here while I get it ready.”

“Will…” you swallow hard, staring down at your sticky hands with flushed cheeks. “Will you go with me?” His eyes are hooded, gazing at you as you tug at his shirt draped over you. “I need help getting it all off of me, and…” You lift the shirt just enough for the metal of the belt to peak out.

“Of course, I’ll go with you,” he breathes, staring at what you’ve exposed with a heavy breath. He gently tilts your chin, his thin eyes gazing at your plump lips as he runs his thumb over them gently. He bends down, his warm breath meeting yours. He presses a soft kiss to your lips before pulling away suddenly and bringing you to your feet. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

The water fills the bathroom with a soft steam, but he makes sure you feel it so it’s not too hot. You’ve never had a warm shower before. You’ve never showered with another person, let alone your favorite person. You already know it’ll be your new favorite thing.

Yunho strips behind you as you’re testing the water with your hand. You hear his clothes drop to the floor, but you don’t turn around, until his fingers are tugging lightly at the shirt on your shoulders.

“Do you want to keep this on for now, Y/n?” he asks, and you shiver at the low sound of his voice as he says your name. It’s sensual, weirdly erotic, even though it’s just your name. You shake your head. “You don’t have to take it off. We can clean you with it on.”

“No,” you mumble, turning around to face him. You keep your gaze high, watching his gentle eyes with flushed cheeks. His ears are red, the tips so bright. “You can take it off.” His eyes twitch as they lower to the top. They seem to be growing less big, less shy, and a little darker.

His fingers slip under the shirt, grazing your skin. It’s soft in some places, sticky in others. You can’t wait to feel him against you once you're clean and untarnished from that place. You want him to rewrite everything with his hands. Make you forget. Make you his own.

He slides them higher, and you slowly lift your arms with his subtle command. The shirt falls to the floor, and he groans softly as he gazes at your chest, your nipples erect from the sudden chill.

He guides you quickly into the shower, and the warm stream feels like heaven on your shivering skin. You’re covered in little bumps as you try to drown every inch of your body in its warmth. Yunho watches as you sigh under the water, loving how it slips from your hair to your shoulders to your hands. Every part of you is beautiful. He wants to feel every inch, every crevice. He just needs that fucking metal torn from your hips first. But he can be patient. If he breaks it now, he won’t be able to control himself.

So, as he joins you under the stream, he distracts his thoughts with your happy little smile, indulging himself with his own. You’re soaked, and he can’t help but gently push your dripping hair from your forehead, revealing your squinted, pretty eyes, big and shining just for him.

“It’s gonna feel so good once you’re all soft and fluffy,” he says. The goo from the tank is softening and melting in the water. You let Yunho scrub you softly, your hair first, making it smooth and clean, your arms next. He’s focused, cleaning every speck thoroughly until your skin is perfect. Your legs are next, from your thighs to your feet, he kisses softly as he cleans, and it sends little jolts of flutters to your stomach… and to your core. You keep your eyes locked on his hair as it rubs against your clean skin slowly with his careful motions. He turns you around, and your eyes meet the tiled wall. He gently moves your hair as he cleans your back. It feels so nice, therapeutic, and it’s making you relaxed, as if he could take care of you forever, and you would entrust yourself completely to him.

“Here, love,” he whispers, handing you the loofah. “Do you want to clean your front?”

You blush as you gaze down at your breasts. They would fit so nicely in his hands, the soft scratch of the loofah teasing your nipples. Your eyes grow wide as you quickly shake away your thoughts.

“Would you feel more comfortable?”

You could melt at the warmth of his heart. He’s the sweetest thing you’ll ever know.

“No,” you breathe, slowly taking his hand and guiding it to your chest. “I need your help here too,” you whisper.

A soft chuckle meets your ear, and you shiver as his arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest. “Is that right?” he hums, gently caressing your skin just under your breasts.

He runs the loofah over your nipples, and you bite your lip at the soft scratch. You watch as his thumb gently rubs the soap into your chest, squishing the flesh just barely, teasing both you and him as he watches every twitch of your body. He cleans your stomach, his fingers swiping lightly at the edge of the belt, and you whine.

“Does my princess need help here too?” he asks, and your heart flutters at the name. You nod, biting your lip hard as you watch his long fingers drape over your stomach. They cover you completely, and you practically whimper at the sight alone. “Hmm?” he hums, and you nod again. “Come on, Y/n,” he whispers, his fingers sliding between your breasts to your throat, just gently, just barely wrapping around you there. You tremble, not in fear, but in bliss. They’re hot and smooth against you, dangerous yet perfectly safe as he presses a soft kiss to your jaw. “What does my princess need?”

“Here,” you gasp, grasping the belt. It doesn’t budge, the lock clattering against you as you hold it tightly. “Please, I need it off. I need you h-here, Yunho…”

“Good girl,” he groans, his hand leaving your throat and grabbing the lock. With a single tug, it's gone, thrown onto the floor, and the belt follows. You feel something hot spill down your thighs, and you can’t tell if it’s the water or the desperate state he has you in, but it doesn’t matter as his fingers dip into your folds, and you melt into his chest, your body trembling as he runs his finger through your heat with a warm breath at your ear. “It’s messy down here,” he hums, his voice low, a soft growl against your skin. “Were you thinking naughty thoughts?”

You don’t even try to deny it, nodding as your hands travel up your body, grinding your heat against his hand.

“No,” he scolds, taking away all pressure against you as he places your hands at your sides. “We can’t make more of a mess, Y/n,” he warns quietly, caressing your inner thigh with his teasing fingers. You can’t handle all of his teasing, though. You’re biting your lip, your cheeks hot and heat clenching around nothing.

“Yunho,” you whimper, “sh-shouldn’t you also clean your body?” His hold slowly loosens on you, and you turn around, gazing at the small smear of blood on his cheek, the scratch on his neck, and the little scratches of red throughout his body. “I’ll help you.”

You go to take the loofah, but he drops it to the floor, eyes locked on yours. “Use your hands.”

His skin is already so soft, so perfect, as you rub the soap along his body, from his neck, behind his pink ears, to his shoulders, broad and higher than your eyes. He’s so big, even bigger now as you clean every inch of his skin. Your fingers pass over his chest, and he sighs. You feel his heartbeat, fast like yours, and… you swallow hard as your arm bumps against his hardness, moving quickly along, but he tilts his head, lifting a brow curiously.

“That’s not very thorough,” he says, and you avoid his gaze as you finish scrubbing his arms, working hard with two hands.

“Sh-should I help you?” you ask, finally bringing your eyes to meet his. His eyes are hooded, staring at your body as you work so close to him. “Yunho?” He hears you now, bringing his eyes to yours. Your hand slowly travels, soap bubbling along his skin as you gently wrap your fingers around him. He twitches in your hand, his eyes snapping to your touch. “Look how messy it is,” you breathe, your voice trembling as you watch precum bead at the tip. He’s so big, just like the rest of him, your fingers almost touching around its pretty base. You stroke it once, and he bites back a moan as he stops your hand quickly.

“Y-”

“You’re right,” you sigh, removing your hand. The water washes away the soap, and it twitches without your touch, painfully hard now that he had a taste of your touch. “I should be more thorough.”

You drop to your knees, and he lets out a low growl as he shakes his head. His hand grips your hair quickly, a light sensation as the stream runs down your back.

“Look at you,” he huffs, “so eager to please.”

“I’m just returning the favor,” you mumble, tilting your head as you take his cock in your hand, “puppy.”

The first fat lick from the base to the tip has him shivering. You think back on the things the guards would talk about in the hallway, learning as you go what feels good for him. You don’t tell him how you learned it all. He might get too jealous, but he seems to love the feeling of your tongue.

His brows lift as he bites his lip in pleasure. He leans his head against the wall as you put the tip against your lips, offering a soft kiss, gazing up at him to watch each time he loses his control and grips your hair a little tighter, rolls his eyes back slightly, his hips twitching as you slowly take him in your mouth. He’s so heavy on your tongue, but the feeling is so nice. It’s comforting, watching him breathe heavily as your warmth surrounds him.

“Princess,” he groans, gently caressing your cheek as he holds you there, halfway on his cock. “This look suits you,” he breathes, “on your knees, stuffed with my cock. Does it taste good, baby?” You hum, and his head falls forward with a low groan. “Make sure i-it’s clean.” He bites his lip, hardly able to speak as he lets you move again, and the soft, warm velvet of your mouth runs along his length perfectly. It’s tight, so fucking tight. He can’t take his eyes off of you as your eyes unfocus, blissed out by the feeling of his cock stuffing your perfect mouth. Your lips are puffy, so cute around him. He can hardly contain his hips as he lets you go at your teasingly slow pace. He wants to fuck your mouth hard, but he absolutely won’t. Fuck, but he wants to.

“Can you go faster for me, Y/n?” he mumbles, slowly guiding you down his length. You gag as the tip hits your throat, your warmth constricting around him. It’s uncomfortable, but you want to please him, want to feel him twitching in you, moaning as you pleasure him. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Good job, baby, deeper. Fuck~” He lets out a long moan, blessing your ears as you relax your throat and force your nose to his stomach. “Baby, what a good girl. Fuck… ngh… so g-ood..mm... Keep going… shit..”

You go faster, but his grip tightens on your hair, controlling your movement as he starts to meet your mouth halfway. He’s slowly fucking your mouth, suppressing the need to thrust deeper and deeper, pushing you along his cock with each thrust. His voice is getting louder, his thrusts sloppier. He stops.

“P-princess,” he breathes, slowly pulling you away by your hair. You suck lightly on his tip as he leaves your lips, and he curses softly, wanting nothing more than to keep you stuffed full. He stops moving as he sees his precum spread over your lips, reaching out and dragging his thumb across them to clean it up. “You keep making a mess,” he mumbles, bringing his thumb to his lips and licking it clean, gazing at you as you grow hotter at the sight.

“Why did you make me stop?” you whine, placing your hands on the ground to keep them from touching him again. “You feel so good in me,” you breathe, licking your lips as you stare eagerly at his dripping cock. “And taste s-”

“Get up,” he growls, and you’re quick to scramble to your feet. “I just want to feel good together,” he admits, pushing you against the wall and stopping the water. The room goes silent, leaving only your heavy pants to be heard. “Once I saw you,” he mumbles, “walk by my cell, all I’ve wanted to do was see you like this. I know it’s so bad of me, but I want to make you feel good. I want to feel good with you.”

“Me too,” you whimper. “I was so jealous when you felt good without me.” He smiles wide, looking away guiltily.

His hands gently part your legs, lifting one and bringing his hips close to yours. You feel his cock rub lightly against your folds, and you let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You haven’t felt such a raw sensation before, his hardness rubbing against you. The slide is so lewd, sticky and loud, echoing throughout the bathroom. His hand holds his cock against your folds as he thrusts against you. It rubs against your clit, back and forth, sending a wave of pleasure through your body. You whimper, clutching his shoulders as he thrusts fast. His grunts are more like low growls with each thrust forward. It feels amazing, your voice hardly suppressed by the hard bite you have on your lip.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. “Making a mess when I just cleaned you up.” You whimper, rubbing your pussy against him hard as you feel the pleasure building. Your eyes are shaking, your lips leaving soft kisses against his shoulder, unsure of what else to do to distract yourself from losing your mind in pleasure. “Such a bad girl,” he growls, and you let out a soft sob as he pushes you hard against the wall, your head falling back. He kisses your chin as your head falls limp against the wall with a soft whimper leaving your lips. His teeth graze your skin, sinking down only lightly as his grunts grow to soft moans. He trails his kisses, sloppy and wet, to your neck. His hair tickles your skin, a soft contrast to the deep bite he marks into your neck.

“Fu-uck~!” you choke, your orgasm approaching fast. This isn’t right. No, no, it’s not enough. “Yunho, please,” you whimper as he kisses away the pain in your skin. “Please, fuck, please put it in.. ngh~”

He shakes his head. “Don’t say that,” he pants, biting his lip as he keeps his head buried in your neck. “Be good.”

“Please,” you sob, feeling frustrated tears build quickly. “I need you inside, Yunnie, please, fuck me~ I need it so bad.” He kisses your neck with soft growls leaving his lips with each slide against your pussy. “Please, ngh, please, puppy!”

“I d-don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he says softly, biting his lip as he grips your body tight to gain some control over his thoughts. “I’ll m-make love to you nice, but not r-right now. I’ll hurt you.”

Your mind flickers to the shots he talked about, how they make him feel. Tears fall from your eyes. They’re sad, frustrated, needy. You’re so overwhelmed. You need him to stuff you full. You need him to thrust hard and deep. Fuck, he’s so big. He’d rub so nicely against your walls. You want to feel him lose control. You know he won’t hurt you. Even if he does, you don’t care.

“Yunho, fuck me,” you pant, trying to steady your trembling voice. “I can take it. I just need it so bad. P-please, puppy, fuck me.”

He pulls his head away quickly, dropping your leg as he glares at you, his pupils blown, his eyes heavy and hooded. As he tilts his head you see the veins bulging through his skin, his grip on you trembling as he grits his teeth. “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, voice strained. You nod eagerly. “And you think you can take it?”

“Yes,” you whine, “I can take it. I promise, I’ll be good. Please~”

He grabs your arm, pulling you roughly out of the shower. You’re both dripping as he rushes to his bedroom, pushing you onto the bed. He climbs over you, glaring down at you as he spreads your legs wide, sitting between them. His cock is so fucking hard, twitching against your stomach, but he forces your eyes back on his with a rough hand on your chin.

“Every night I imagined what it would feel like deep inside you,” he growls, his hand pressing down on your stomach lightly. “What your face would look like, how your pussy would clench around me.” He scoffs. “You think that night was the only night?” Your eyes widen a little, a rush of slick wetting your folds as you listen to his every word. “Every. Fucking. Night.”

Fuck… You whimper, biting your lip hard at the thought.

“All I had was your voice, but now…” He licks his lips, looking from your twitching pussy to your flushed cheeks. He gently runs his thumb along your cheek. “You think you can take it?”

You nod quickly, but your mind is spinning so fucking fast. How dirty. Your puppy is so dirty… Making himself feel good, imagining you every night, while your hands were tied, and all you could do was imagine him, growing needy and desperate without any way to relieve yourself.

“Fuck me.”

He doesn’t move his cock, his fingers plunging deep into your core. You’re wide open, your pussy drooling for him. He groans, his lips twitching into a satisfied smile as he finally lines his cock up to your folds. Without warning, his eyes, so dark, so daring, locked with yours, he thrusts in. It only goes about halfway, but your back arches with a long, pathetic moan.

“That’s right,” he pants, pushing further. His hair is wavy and damp in front of his eyes, but they don't look away for a second. They’re desperate to see every little twitch of your features as you take his cock like a good fucking girl. “Is this what you want, Y/n? Can you take it?”

You nod, feeling hot tears stream down your face as he bottoms out.

“Hmm?” he hums, rolling his lips just slightly against your quivering hole. You sob, overwhelmed with pleasure as his pelvis grinds against your clit.

“Yes, yes, fuuuck, yes, Yunnie, please keep going!” you finally choke out, reaching for his neck and pulling him into a searing kiss. His hips stutter as he carefully starts to move. You suck on his tongue, drinking him as you move desperately against his lips, grinding your hips along with each hesitant thrust. “Faster,” you pant. “More, baby, come one.”

You pull hard on his hair as his hips slam against yours just once, forcing a moan from your lips. He groans into your mouth, loving your reaction. He moves faster, harder, thrusting into your heat until it's all he can feel. Your lips stop moving, just resting against each other as your eyes roll back, your vision blurry with how harshly your body is used by him. He grabs your hips and slams them against his thrusts, harder and faster, drowning in your moans and whines. He can’t get enough.

“Y/n,” he pants, kissing your cheek sloppily as he rolls his hips, rubbing hard against your clit with the new, slower angle. “Fuck, princess, bite me,” he whimpers. “Bite me.”

He presents you his neck, his moans muffled by the pillow. You’re too far gone to register his words for a while, deep in the drug that he’s feeding you with each delicious thrust. But your kisses to his neck come naturally, and his words register when you hear a pathetic whine from his lips. You graze your teeth against his skin, and his hips stutter, slowing before getting harder and faster, rough but without much rhythm.

You bite him hard, and he sobs into the pillow, grabbing your hips and digging his nails into your flesh. You’re loving every fucking sensation, his moans, right beside your blessed ears, his cock pistoning into you, his body draped over you, and his hands gripping your body like there’s nothing else he could ever dream of holding.

Your orgasm is approaching fast, and you can hardly grasp your mind, just drowning in Yunho. He lifts his head, his moans growing in pitch and volume.

“I’m so close,” he sobs, and you focus your eyes just enough to see his trembling lips, his flushed cheeks, and his eyes, streaming tears as he thrusts desperately.

It makes you cum instantly, your back arching as your walls clench around him hard, creaming on his cock without warning. Your eyes roll back hard, your vision turning white as he whimpers and sobs, releasing thick ropes of his cum deep inside. He rides out both of your highs, your moans and gasps harmonizing in the silent room. You force your eyes to stay open to watch his features blank out in complete bliss, cumming long and hard surrounded by your perfect, soaked pussy. His head falls forward as soon as he stops cumming, his cock twitching sensitively, keeping you stuffed full with his cum.

You hold his head to your neck as satisfied tears drip onto the pillow beneath you. His hair is almost dry by now, fluffy against your trembling fingers. He stays there for a long time, sniffling into your neck as you gently stroke his hair, something you’d wanted to do since seeing how pretty and fluffy it was in that cell.

He’s holding you so tight, his arms wrapped around you completely, his member still buried inside. He’s sobbing, and you close your eyes tight, holding him just as close, not saying a word until he can cry properly, like he deserves.

“You’re so warm,” he cries, and you smile against his head, a tear slipping down your own cheek. “How could they torture you for so long, and you’re still so warm? How could they do that to you?”

“You kept me warm,” you whisper, afraid your voice would break if it’s any louder. “You saved me in more ways than you think.”

He holds you closer, close enough to feel his heart beat, to have to affect your own, have them sink and calm and soothe together. He sighs against your neck, his breath shaky but tears slowing.

“I’ll keep you warm forever.”

“Seonghwa-Hyung will bring us to the police in the morning,” Yunho says as he checks his phone. You’re wearing his clothes, big and comfy, as you lounge on his blue, squishy bed. It feels just like him, fluffy and perfect for the shape of you. You could melt into it and sleep forever. You’ve never felt something so soft. Except for him, of course.

You look over to make him come snuggle with you, but he isn’t where your eyes left him. You frown. “Yunho?” He doesn’t answer. Maybe he went to the bathroom? Or maybe he went to talk with someone? You pout, laying back in bed. But something feels wrong. You sit up. “Yunho?” you call out again. Still no answer. You get up quickly and go to the door. Peaking out into the hallway, it’s dark and silent. No one’s there. This is freaky. Where could he have gone? You turn around, closing your eyes for a long moment. It’s okay. Maybe he went to get some water.

“Yunho?” you gasp, your eyes shooting open as you lunge forward. Your legs are wrapped tightly in a thick blanket, the room around you dark, quiet, cold, without him. He’s gone. He’s… The scent here is familiar. Something distant which you haven’t smelled in a long, long time.

The door creaks open, and a slither of light shines against the walls. “Y/n, baby, are you alright?” Mom. Her face is masked with gentle concern, but you can’t answer, staring in confusion, in silence. “Did you have a bad dream?” she asks, and you tilt your head. A bad dream?

“A dream…?” You gasp. What’s with your voice? You look around again. The walls are covered in posters, pink and purple and black and… colors surround you. The cell, so grey… the… what… the dream… What was it about? “I don’t remember,” you whisper.

“It’s okay, baby,” she coos, stepping into the room. Her dent on the bed makes you lean toward her, your head falling to her shoulder, that scent of her perfume, so familiar. “It was just a dream, whatever it was.”

You sigh, letting your body melt into her. Yeah, it was all just a dream. It just feels like you haven’t been in her arms forever.

For ten years, your life seems so… unfamiliar, as if every moment you spend growing… isn’t truly happening. Every spoken word echoes, every touch vibrates softly as if it isn’t supposed to happen, and you grow used to it, but you never shake that feeling that something is utterly wrong… something is missing. Or someone.

Because you dream almost every night the same dream, and you’ve never told anyone, but somehow, this dream feels more real than life ever does. It started that night when you were ten. And it never went away. You’re always brought back to the darkness. You don’t understand it. You can’t see, you can’t speak, but you’re anything but lonely. You have a friend.

He sings to you. Through this wall in the darkness. Who is he? Why is he here? Is he stuck in this dream, just like you? But you can never ask him.

“I’m telling you, it’s all real,” you whine, tugging on your friend’s sleeve as she types away at her computer.

“You’re crazy, Y/n,” she giggles. “Even if you’ve had the same dream for fifteen years, there’s no way it’s real. You're crazy.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m crazy? You’re fighting teenagers for a ticket, thinking an idol is gonna fall in love with you,” you laugh, but she eyes you with puckered lips, clearly offended.

“I could pull them,” she huffs.

“Uh huh.”

“Anyway, you’re coming with me,” she says, zoning back in on the computer.

You quirk a brow. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I’m paying for your ticket. In return, you have to drive me there.”

“Whaaaat?” you groan, letting your head fall dramatically to her bed, melting into it with a deep frown. “How far away is it? Can’t you just drive yourself?”

“It’s, like, two hours away.”

“Whaaaat…”

“Stop complaining,” she grumbles. “You’ll get a free- fuck, shhhh, it’s starting. Be silent.”

You furrow your brows, burying your head into her pillow with a long, deep sigh. Whatever. It’s not like you have anything better to do.

You’ve heard of ATEEZ, but you’ve never actually ventured into their music. Standing outside the venue with a squirming, dolled-up bestie, you’re not really looking forward to it. She scored barricade seats, right up on these idols. It's going to be so embarrassing. You should have just agreed to drive her without getting a ticket. But… you’ll make the most of it and have fun with her.

To say you get a weird feeling when you walk inside, though, is an understatement. You get immediate chills, pausing in your tracks as you look around. Something isn’t right. Or it is. Whatever it is, it’s weird, and you want to get out of there. The show hasn’t even started.

Your seats truly are right up at the stage. You’d be able to see every detail of the performance from here… every drop of sweat, every twitch of a lip, every step in the dance.

“I’ll be back. Bathroom,” you whisper, getting up from your seat.

“Hurry…” she whines. “Soundcheck starts soon. I have to introduce you to my man.” You roll your eyes before walking slowly toward the ladies room. You’ll be back in time.

But the uneasy feeling from earlier is growing stronger, and it’s making you nauseous. You thought it would be a quick trip to the ladies’ room, but you’re bent in two, sitting on the toilet seat, fully clothed, sweating and panting as you try to catch your breath. What the fuck is going on? Your mind is spinning around and around, only stopping when it gives you a moment’s witness of that familiar darkness. You hear the crowd erupt. The group must be on stage. They must be singing, greeting the crowd. You hear them, but you can’t hear anything as your ears tune in on his voice in that darkness, his hums which were your only company as you dreamed each night. Why are you suddenly hearing him? He’s just from your fucking dream. You grab your ears, groaning as you try to focus on the crowd, on the singing.

There’s a knock on your stall door, and you open it hesitantly. Knowing by the little black Mary Janes that it’s your girl.

“Y/n,” she gasps, “Are you okay?” She kneels in front of you, gently stroking your cheek, and you can finally calm down, taking slow breaths. You realize the crowd is quiet, and the singing is over.

“Sorry,” you sigh, “I missed soundcheck. Had a huge-”

She playfully slaps your cheek, standing up with a groan. “Gross,” she giggles.

The uneasy feeling is gone for the next few hours as you relax and eat with her until the show starts. All is well, all is good. And you have a lot of fun in the end.

The lights dim, and the music starts, and you quickly regain that weird feeling. The members are wearing cloaks. You can’t see their faces, only watch as the cloth flows with their movement. It’s freaky. It’s cool. Even as they perform a few songs, you don’t see their features clearly until they begin their little solo dances. That’s when you really feel weird. Your heart is racing in anticipation. For what? Maybe you’re so invested into the show, but when three members dance around, collapsing at different sides of the stage, you’re met with big, wide, horrified eyes, and you realize exactly why.

Your knees grow weak, your pupils trembling. He’s staring right at you; he knows too. Everything returns to you. Every moment, every word, every touch.

You’re both frozen there, just a few feet away. His hand trembles as he reaches out… for you. He reaches out, maybe he can grasp you. Maybe he can touch you. Maybe he can hold you close because why were you suddenly taken from him? Why were you suddenly sent back, separated?

His arms are grabbed, and he’s pulled away, aggressively taken away from you. You shout his name, but it’s drowned by the crowd, by the music.

A tear slips down your cheek. How could you forget everything? How could you… You think back on the last fifteen years, how you awoke that morning, just a child again, oblivious, memory wiped, living knowing something wasn’t right, something was missing. And there it is. Yunho.

You sit down, bringing your head to your lap as tears fall from your eyes. Never have you betrayed yourself so horribly, betrayed him so unfairly. How could you leave him like that when you had promised him you would always return, that you would never leave him?

You don’t watch the rest of the show. You can’t lift your eyes from your lap. You can’t.

You remember everything.

“Y/n, it’s really okay if you’re not up to it,” she insists, rubbing your arms gently as you eye the crowd moving toward the last event. “You’re not feeling well.”

“No,” you mumble. “I need to go.”

She huffs a laugh. “Were you so entranced by their performance? Did they woo you?” She snickers as if she told a joke, but you don’t get it. Rolling her eyes, she urges you forward. “Let’s go get a good spot then.”

You’ve calmed down by now. You realize it wasn’t a dream at all. It was all real, and, by the look on his face, without a doubt, he remembers too. You need to see him again. Even if… now he wants nothing to do with you, you need to see him again.

You’re close to the front but hidden by other fans for the most part. They don’t come out for a while, and you’re a little nervous. You’re a lot nervous, playing with the fabric on your girl’s top. She doesn’t mind, too deep in her thoughts, probably delusional, romantic.

And then they come out. And your eyes search frantically for them, but there’s a lot of people blocking your view. It’s frustrating, but you have to be patient. The members go around and stop by your section, smiling, taking pictures, signing, talking. It’s cute, how they interact with their fans.

You recognize two of them. Seonghwa looks just like he did back then, or, maybe this is around the same time as back then. Wooyoung is snappy and loud, like each person he talks to is another close friend. You recognize them, know them. It’s weird… to see more of that dream appear in front of you.

And him. Yunho appears, looking anxiously around as he signs and talks and smiles. He’s not paying attention to any of it, but you can tell he is. You smile, finally able to see him through the small crowd. He’s just like you remember. As his eyes find yours again, they give you that look, like you’re the only thing they’ve ever been looking for, just like in his cell, in the auditorium, and on the stage.

He nearly stumbles as he comes closer, eyes never leaving yours. He doesn’t look scared like he did on the stage, and neither do you. There’s a deep understanding in your gazes now.

Your friend’s squealing beside you, shaking your arm as he stops just a few feet away. He looks around, head low. He knows there are cameras lining the crowd. All eyes are on him. He can’t say anything, and neither can you. You want to reach out, want to touch him, see if he’s real.

“Tiny~” He smiles wide, eyes squinting cutely, but you can see a soft layer of tears hiding there. “Do you want a selfie?” He points to your phone, held tightly in your hand. You hesitantly nod, and he motions you closer. The crowd parts a bit, and you can walk forward. He takes your phone, his fingers grazing yours, and you could melt at how warm he is, how soft he is. You can smell him as he motions you closer and closer. His cheek bumps gently against yours as he holds the camera up. “Smile, Y/n,” he whispers, and your cheeks tint a deep pink as you see yourself in the camera, listen to his words, hear your name, and feel him around you. His hand curls at your opposite cheek, like a heart, and your face completes it.

He takes at least four pictures, all the same, but he stays there for so long, he doesn’t want to leave. As he pulls away, so slowly, and he hands you your phone, you feel a piece of paper slip into your palm. His eyes stay gazing into yours for only a moment longer before the manager beside him urges him to move on, and he’s pulled away.

You don’t look down at the paper. You don’t make it known. Not even to your friend, who’s tugging on your sleeve and fangirling over the whole thing, practically begging to see the photos. You carefully put the paper in your pocket with a hidden, shy smile.

“Stay. I arranged a driver for your friend.” How do you explain something like that to her?

But before you can even go to tell her, she’s nowhere to be seen. Your phone vibrates and lights up with a message from her.

“I’m gonna stay in town for the night. I want to try out the cat cafe!!! You can head back alone.”

You stare at the message for a long moment. How convenient.

You’re interrupted by a clearing of someone’s throat. Startled, you lock eyes with one of the managers and nearly squeak an apology. This is so embarrassing. How do you explain that Yunho is…

“Come with me,” he says quietly, and you eye him skeptically. “Yunho is backstage.”

He starts to walk, and your shoulders lose some tension without his glare. It’s replaced with a growing excitement. You bite your lip as you’re guided to the back. It’s busy, and you feel so strange, like you’re not supposed to be here, but you know soon, you can finally see him again. For real, alone, where you can finally talk, and touch, and see, and everything constantly stripped from you.

You sigh as he comes into your sight. The door closes behind you, the room silent except for his quick footsteps. Your back hits the door as he pushes his body against you, his lips on yours instantly. You whimper, feeling his fingers run through your hair, stroking you with pure love and relief. His lips are soft but urgent as they move against yours, he breathes your name between fast kisses, and your eyes roll shut, falling deep into the feeling of him.

“What happened?” he pants against your lips, gazing into your eyes, forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. “Where did you go?” His voice breaks, and it squeezes at your heart as your lips tremble into a frown. “Why does no one remember?” he asks, gently caressing your cheek as he holds you just a little closer. “Why were you gone?”

But he kisses you again, lifting your chin to keep your lips on his. He’s panting against you, his hands sliding down your neck as he feels your delicate body, your soft skin, your light shivers. They rest on your waist, gentle yet big against you, his fingers sliding just slightly under your top.

“Please,” he mumbles. “Don’t leave me again.” His jaw clenches as he stares into your eyes, his words growing darker as he becomes used to you back in his arms. “Come home with me.”

Yunho’s room is warmer than you remember. Or maybe your desperate breaths as he pins you against the wall are filling the room with a desperate heat quickly. You can tell he’s exhausted from the concert mentally and physically, but he needs to be close to you right now.

You walk him to the bed and lay him down. He doesn’t object much, trusting you with himself completely. You climb onto his lap and lean against his chest. He sighs with the warm weight of you, letting you stay there for a long moment.

“I dreamed about you,” you whisper, working on the strings of his pants lazily. “Every night.”

“Me too,” he sighs. “I dreamed about the cell, but I thought I was going crazy.”

You giggle. “Me too.”

You pull down his sweatpants, leaving him in his briefs. Then, you strip off your own pants. You work on his shirt next. He lets you do as you please, nodding off but keeping his eyes wide just to keep you in his sight.

“Do you remember everything?” you ask, glancing away as you’re met with his bare chest. You slip off your own shirt, and he looks away too, his ears growing red, just like you remember.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Except… I don’t remember what happened after I found you in the tank… until we were outside and safe,” he says.

Your eyes grow wide a little. “Really?” you mumble, and he nods.

“How did we get out?” he asks, and you avoid his curious gaze.

“You broke me out… and we ran away,” you say, which is mostly the truth. He accepts it, smiling as he thinks back at the look on your face as you finally saw the sky for the first time in years.

You plop down beside him, and he curls into you as you pull the covers over you both.

“How do we know something like that won’t happen again?” he asks, bringing you close to his chest.

You’re silent for a moment. “Even if it does, we’ll find each other no matter what. Even when I couldn’t remember… I knew you were missing. I can’t live without you,” you say, gazing at him as he smiles.

“Even so, let’s promise,” he whispers, digging out his hand from the covers to hold out his pinky. “Promise that we’ll never disappear again.”

You grin, latching your pinky with his, giggling together as you snuggle close and fall asleep.

For years, you stay by each other’s side. You move into an apartment and change jobs to live in Seoul. You never speak to your mother again. You love your life by his side, perfect and sweet, even if his fans are a bit crazy about your relationship. You don’t mind. Everything is perfect.

Best of all, you keep your promise to each other… for six years.

You don’t feel uneasy… nor warned… nor any different that night as you go to sleep in his arms.

And suddenly you can’t move. You can’t speak. You can’t hear.

Your vision is foggy, your limbs bound in place, floating in a thick fluid. The tank.

Oh, fuck, the tank.

The glass is clear, built around you. It was never shattered. You were never saved.

The room is silent. The audience… they’re bones. Bones, melting into the seats. They’re gone, dead. For years, they've been dead. For decades, maybe, and you’ve been here. It was all a lie. You’ve been here. You…

You hear a faint cry. It’s distant, a truly saddening cry… of a child.

Your heart sinks. It slows amidst the sudden chaos of your mind. How long have you been here in this tank? How many… children… have you had? That is… the true use of the tank.

Your eyes can hardly move, and it hurts so bad, but you need to look toward the sobs. There’s more. More cries, more children.

But you don’t see them when your eyes finally move to your left. Instead you see another tank. Floating, much like you, is Yunho. Your eyes meet, and your heart stops.

You were never free. You were never free. You were never free.

You were here the whole time, with him, locked in this tank, forced to reproduce. You were never free. And now even your dreams are gone. You have to stay and watch as you live… like this… for how long? How long will it be until you die? Because you just want to die right now. Before you forget everything… You want to die when you can see his eyes and remember it all.

You want to die. You want to fucking die.

What’s the point? You can’t even kill yourself. You want to die. What’s the fucking point?! What’s the point?! What’s the point?! Die! Why can’t you just die! They can’t give you something and take it away again! And again! They’re fucking with you! They can’t take him away from you again! You'd rather just die! Die! Qhy can’t you just kill yourself?! No fucking way you’re going to live if you can’t have him! You’ll just fucking die!

Tears are streaming from your eyes… Warm arms are wrapped around you as you sob. Your fists clench his shirt, nails digging into his skin. You feel his hitching breath against your nose, his tears wetting your lashes and mixing with your own.

“No,” he sobs, curling into you as he opens his eyes. “No, it’s okay.” His breath is trembling, unsure, but you nod anyway. Fuck, you were so scared. You were so scared. “It’s not real,” he whispers, his lips quivering as his hands grip your body so tight.

“It’s not real,” you repeat, and he nods quickly. “W-we promised we wouldn’t disappear again,” you whisper, and he nods again. “S-so it can’t be real. It’s okay.”

Your ears are ringing, heart pounding, but it’s all soothing as you hold him close. If you hold him close enough this time, maybe he won’t disappear. You whisper again and again to each other nonsense, comforting nonsense, just to stay awake as tears softly dampen the pillow beneath your heads. Just to survive the night, you won’t fall asleep, won’t let his eyes leave yours.

This is real.

You won’t disappear because this is real.

It’s real.

a/n ~ thank you so much for reading ♡

mwaᯓᡣ𐭩

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