#the boys x yn

[sp7-mr]

[nobitchs-world]

My ancestors looking down at me as I talk about how much I love white men

[adiraargent]

In a world full of boys, he's a gentleman <3

Synopsis: the Slytherin boys and the 'gentleman' things they do Warnings: None :) Characters: Mattheo Riddle, Theodore Nott, Tom Riddle, Blaise Zabini, Jasper Rowle

This is Part 1 :)

Mattheo Riddle: opening doors for you

"Hey there, my love," Mattheo greeted, flashing a grin as he held the door open for you. You rolled your eyes playfully at the endearment, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you looked up at your boyfriend.

"Always the gentleman, huh?" you teased, stepping through the door of the Slytherin common room as he held open with a light chuckle.

"Hey, gotta treat my girl right," he replied, trailing behind and falling into step beside you. He nudged you gently with his elbow, his laid-back demeanor effortlessly charming.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head. His lips lingered for a moment, and you couldn't help but blush at the tenderness of the gesture. "You're my everything," he whispered, his voice filled with genuine adoration.

Whether they were heading to class, grabbing a bite to eat, or just strolling through the castle halls, Mattheo made it a point to hold doors open for you. It wasn't a grand gesture, just a simple act of courtesy, but it spoke volumes about his thoughtfulness.

"You spoil me too much, you know that?" you remarked with a grin, as Mattheo held the door of his dorm for you.

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Can't help it. You deserve the world," he shrugged, following you inside. He wrapped his arms around your waist, playfully throwing you on the bed before snuggling up next to you, holding you tightly against his chest.

Their laughter filled the air as they chatted about anything and everything, discussing everything from stupid things their friends had done recently to their favourite movies. Mattheo listened intently, his eyes lighting up as they shared their stories.

Theodore Nott: Holds your face with both hands when kissing you

"Hey," Theodore greeted softly, his fingers trailing gently along your jawline before cupping your face tenderly, drawing you into a sweet kiss. His touch was always gentle, his palms cradling your cheeks as if you were the most precious thing in his world.

"Hi," you whispered against his lips, smiling as he leaned in to press another soft kiss, his touch grounding and comforting.

"Did you have a good day?" Theodore asked, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as he held your face in his hands.

"Mmm, it was alright. Nothing compared to this though," you replied, your voice softening as he leaned in for another kiss, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

He pulled back slightly, his hands still cupping your face, his eyes filled with warmth as he gazed at you. "You always make everything better."

"You too," you said, feeling a surge of affection as his touch lingered, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along your skin.

"Can I just kiss you forever?" he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his touch never leaving your face.

"That sounds like a plan," you chuckled, enjoying the feeling of his hands on your cheeks, grounding you in the moment.

As he leaned in for another kiss, his hands framed your face once more, holding you gently but firmly, his touch sending a rush of warmth through you. Each kiss felt like a silent declaration of his love and care, his hands a constant reassurance that you were cherished.

"Promise me something," he said softly, his gaze intense as he held your face in his hands, his touch so tender it made your heart flutter.

"Anything," you replied, feeling a rush of emotion at the sincerity in his eyes.

"Promise you'll never forget how much you mean to me," he whispered, his hands trembling ever so slightly against your skin.

"I promise," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, overwhelmed by the depth of his feelings.

Theodore smiled, his touch becoming even more gentle, as if he was memorizing every contour of your face. "I love you," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a feather-light kiss.

"I love you too," you replied, feeling a surge of emotion as his hands cradled your face.

Tom Riddle: Subtle things to make sure you don't get hurt

In the midst of a quiet classroom, Tom and you sat side by side, the ambiance filled with the hushed tones of a lecture. You were unconsciously fiddling with your quill as your tired eyes lingered on the teacher, doing your best to listen to whatever he was saying.

A small sigh slipt from your lips as your dropped your quill, the small object rolling under your desk. As you leaned down to retrieve your quill, Tom subtly shifted, his hand discreetly finding its place at the edge of the desk, ensuring you wouldn't hit your head upon rising.

"Thanks love," you whispered, meeting his eyes for a fleeting moment, noticing the faint blush that graced his cheeks as he quickly looked away.

"Wouldn't want you getting hurt," he murmured, his voice barely audible, trying to cloak his concern with an air of indifference as his eyes went back to the teacher.

"I appreciate it," you replied softly, a small smile playing on your lips, acknowledging his unspoken worry.

Throughout the class, the subtle ways Tom looked out for you were apparent. Whether adjusting his posture to prevent you from bumping elbows or discreetly sliding a book closer to your reach, his actions spoke louder than his reserved words.

As the lesson progressed, you dropped a parchment, and before you could react, Tom swiftly picked it up without a word, his gaze briefly meeting yours with a hint of concern before retreating into his usual stoic demeanor.

"Thanks," you said, your voice warm with gratitude, feeling the corners of his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile before he composed himself.

"Merlin you're an idiot," he mumbled under his breath, a small smile twitching on the corner of his lips. He loved you, and he did his best to show it. To some, these may just seem like small gestures, but to you, these acts meant everything.

Blaise Zabini: Looking after you while you are sick

"Blaise, I think I'm dying," you groaned, your voice muffled by the mountain of blankets you'd buried yourself under. The room echoed with your misery, and you could practically feel Blaise's amused gaze on you.

"Quite the melodrama you've got going on there," he chuckled, entering the room with a tray in hand.

You peeked out from under the blankets, giving him a weak glare. "This is not melodrama. I'm genuinely dying. I might need to write my will."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last I checked, you're broke. And if you're going to die, at least wait until you've cleaned up the mess in the bathroom."

You shot him a scowl before returning to your cocoon of misery. "I'll have you know that this is a serious illness. I even got Pansy to get me a book from the library so I can read about my symptoms."

He set the tray on the bedside table, glancing at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. "And let me guess, according to Dr. know it all, you have a rare tropical disease only found in the depths of the Amazon rainforest?"

"No, it says I have a severe case of man flu," you deadpanned, voice muffled by the blankets.

Blaise burst into laughter. "Man flu? Really?"

You shot him a glare from under the covers.

He shook his head, still chuckling. "Ok, ok. I come bearing gifts to nurse you back to health."

He lifted the tray to reveal a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of hot tea. Your eyes lit up, and you managed to sit up, sniffling pathetically.

"Ah, the healing powers of chicken soup," he declared dramatically, handing you the bowl.

You took it gratefully, inhaling the comforting aroma. "You're the best, you know that?"

"I try," he said with a wink, settling onto the bed beside you. "Now, eat up. We can't have you wasting away on my watch."

As you sipped the soup, Blaise watched you with a soft smile. "Feeling a bit better already?"

You nodded, the warmth of the soup soothing both your throat and your mood. "Maybe I won't die today after all."

He chuckled, running a hand through your hair. "Good to know. I was planning on having a quiet night in, not attending a funeral."

You swatted him playfully, earning a smirk from Blaise. "You're lucky I'm too weak to defend myself properly."

"Consider it a mercy on my part," he teased, taking a sip of his own tea.

As the night wore on, Blaise stayed by your side, occasionally offering more soup, fetching tissues, and regaling you with stories to keep your mind off your misery.

"You're surprisingly good at this whole nurse thing," you admitted, snuggling into the blankets.

He grinned, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Well, when the patient is you, it's almost enjoyable."

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile played on your lips. "I must be really sick for you to admit that."

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you. "Maybe you're just bringing out my softer side."

You sighed dramatically. "I never signed up for a softer Blaise Zabini."

"Too late now," he replied with a smirk, holding you a little tighter. "You're stuck with me, even if I have to nurse you back to health every now and then."

You leaned into his embrace, feeling grateful for the care and comfort he provided. "I suppose I can live with that."

And as you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in blankets and the warmth of Blaise's presence, you couldn't help but feel that maybe being sick wasn't so bad after all, especially when you had someone like him to take care of you.

(This is my favourite for sure)

Jasper Rowle: Doing your shoelaces

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a soft golden glow into the room as you and Jasper sat comfortably on a bench in Hogsmede just of to the side of Zonko's, enjoying a leisurely stroll that had turned into a serene moment of shared silence.

"Oops," you pouted, looking down at your untied shoelaces, a small sigh falling from your lips as you went to go and tie your laces.

"I've got it darlin'," Jasper said with a gentle smile, bending down on one knee before her.

"Jasper, you really don't have to," you protested, a faint blush gracing your cheeks at the unexpected gesture.

He shook his head with a grin, his fingers deftly working on your shoelaces. "I've got it, can't have my girl tripping on her own shoelaces, can I?"

You chuckled softly, unable to hide your affectionate smile as you watched him tie the laces with care. "You're too good to me, you know that?"

He glanced up at her with a warm smile. "'Just don't want you getting hurt."

As he finished, he ran his thumb over your knee softly a few times before standing up and placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head, causing your heart to flutter. The simple act filled you with warmth and adoration.

"Thank you," you murmured, touched by his gesture.

"Anytime, my love."

Their fingers intertwined as they resumed their stroll through Hogsmede, the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of baked goods, more than likely from a stall near by. The world seemed to slow down around them as they walked hand in hand, enjoying each other's company.

Hi all! This is my first post, hope you enjoyed it :) I take requests for many different fandoms and characters <3

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[emmyrosee]

Rintaro and you try to keep your cute affections consistent after Akito.

Being young parents in love, it’s a much easier task on paper, the screaming toddler and said child clinging to your every limb definitely puts the slightest damper on things.

You try to sneak kisses in the hallway, passing each other during dinner, as you both go about your mornings, but it’s just beyond difficult when it comes to a tiny terror running amuck.

One who also seems to get jealous when he’s not included in affections regarding you. No peaceful hugs, no cuddling, and certainly no kisses when your son is around, who quickly toddles his way between you both to get that attention from you, then from Rin.

He loves being the center of attention, the center of your attentions, and while it is more than endearing to you, you can tell it is hitting Rintaro in areas he didn't know were possessive until he has to share you with a tiny, feral child.

And now, standing over a bowl of fruit, when you feel two arms snake around your waist, you melt into the touch, relishing in the attention for as long as you can.

“Hey momma,” he murmurs against your hair. “Going for my run, you need anything before I go?”

“Just my goodbye kiss,” you hum, and he grins as he leans down to press a kiss to your lips, and for a moment, you wrap your arms around his neck and forget about the rest of the world. Rin always has that effect on you, it’s amazing, and-

“Dadda no!” Akito whines, toddling over quickly.

Rintaro pulls back and furrows his brows in betrayal, “what do you mean no?”

“No k’mumma!” He commands, jamming himself between the two of you, a tiny palm pressing Rin's thigh to try and push him away from you. You bring your hands up to cover your mouth as to try and hide your laughter while Rintaro pouts his two year old. “My mumma,” he echos, wrapping his arms around your leg.

“Awww honey,” you coo, crouching down to curl Akito into your arms, kissing his chubby cheeks. “My akito boy.” He giggles at the attention, arms wrapping around you. You scoop him up, smiling as he curls against your chest.

“I’m not playing this game,” Rintaro grumbles. He leans down to kiss your head, only for a chubby hand to shove him away. “Akito.“

“My mumma.”

“I do not like this.”

“Hey. You were the favorite for a long time. It’s my turn,” you tease, planting a quick kiss to Rintaro’s cheek, “I’ll give you affection once you get back, he'll be eating breakfast by then, so I'll see what I can schedule you in for.” You send him a wink, and he pouts at your not-so-seriousness.

“You’d better,” he huffs. He looks at his son and sighs dramatically before trying to plant a kiss to his head, but he coos as Akito tips his head to get a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute, kid.”

[karoochui]

Arc 2 shenanigans. Idk!! Im just kinda tossing around ideas

[aajjks]

Only you, Forever me (m)

warnings: yàndèrè thèmès, mástrúbátíón, 18+ thèmès, únhèàlthy fèèlíngs, tóxíc fríend, dàrk thèmès, èxtrèmè jèàlóúsy, mànípùlàtíón, nèw OC!

note. MY LATEST OCCCCCCC!!!? we all need a toxic best friend in life especially a fictional one because the real ones just suck so here he is… I THINK YOU’RE GONNA LIKE HIM TALK TO HIM!!!!!? HEHE

Yandere male best friend who is really possessive of your friendship.

Yandere male best friend who will sabotage every single one of your other friendships just so you will be, and he will be your only friend.

Yandere male best friend who has a possessive streak and he’s really possessive of you as his best friend. You’re his favorite friend.

Yandere male best friend who is really social in contrast to you and he has a large circle of friends, but he’s always hanging out with you.

Like, as said before, he’s really attached to you, yandere male best friend who is borderline obsessed with spending time with you.

Yandere male best friend who has a few issues and he comes from a very rich background, he’s a spoiled and catered to. He expects everyone to fall to his feet and bend to his will.

Yandere male best friend who loves gossiping with you and he will tell you everything that is going on in your campus and in his family

Yandere male best friend who is really protective of you and you’re the only female friend he has, he just loves your company so much. He loved it so much that he will come over to your house at 3 AM.

Whenever he has a fight with his parents, and whenever they don’t give him what he wants, he comes to you when he will rant to you FOR HOURS.

Yandere male best friend who is frankly really handsome, gorgeous even, those green eyes of his are mesmerizing and he knows it

Yandere male best friend who doesn’t like to get into relationships, he fucks around, gets his dick wet and then he’s back to you. Bút his latest fuck buddy notices his infatuation with you.

Yandere male best friend who is a really bratty person, his parents will do anything for him and he knows that. He’s a carbon copy of his mother’s personality.

Yandere male best friend who gives you a lot of gifts and gets you the most expensive stuff like it’s nothing, yandere male best friend who helps you with your rent because you’re broke and he doesn’t mind

Yandere male best friends who just wants you to stay over at his house 24/7 because you make him feel so different and he really likes that feeling

Yandere male best friend who is always walking with you and being with you that everyone thinks that you’re dating him, and he loves that.

Yandere male best friend who cries easily when he doesn’t get his way, especially he manipulates you like it’s breathing

He knows that you’re him and that you have a really soft spot for him

Yandere male best friend who sabotage all of your potential relationships and crushes.

Yandere male best friend who expects you to be available for him 24/7

Yandere male best friend who is completely infatuated with you, you’re on his mind and he’s thinking about you every single passing moment

Yandere male best friend will always be your best friend he will never let anyone take his place,

Yandere male best friend who gets constant boners whenever you bite your lip, or just look at him with your intense gaze.

Yandere male best friend who has to excuse himself and spend hours in the campus bathroom to jerk off furiously, he wants you to suck his cock like you want to suck his soul.

“nhhh fuckkkk yn….. shit… you get me so hot… I wish I had your mouth on me instead of my own damn hand.”

Yandere male best friend who never misses a single day of school so he can spend more and more time with you and sometimes..

Yandere male best friend who just wants to fuck you for hours. Who wants to bury his face in your wet cunt and your huge tits.

Because you don’t care about your dressing when you’re with him, you probably feel comfortable enough with him to not wear a bra, but he notices everything.

And Goodness, it’s fucking torture.

“I need you so fuckin bad but I can never tell you.”

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime

wc: 3.0k

summary: ​​hajime thinks that it's been a long time coming for him to wake up with this realization.

contains: implied f!reader, lingerie, use of slut (teasingly/jokingly, not to reader), lots of suggestive stuff (touching, implied sex), so much love!!, hajime is also a wee bit sentimental here, established relationship

a/n: not a lot of plot, just a lot of love! haven’t written hajime in a while, but he’s on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, it’s you, and forever right now. 

part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas) + the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—good health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine he’s built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running. 

He firmly believes that if you want to live the life you want, you have to start with yourself. A simple choice, the first step. 

And Hajime’s chosen the mornings, an old conscious effort to wake up at 6:00 on the dot now transformed into a natural rise to the softness of daylight. 

You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentine’s Day. 

Sunlight trickles between his curtains, ripples of translucent white highlighting the tip of your nose. He sees you through a sleep haze, olive eyes blinking awake like the leaves on your bedside, ready to tickle your cheek and wave when you turn the other way. 

It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you don’t know it. 

You’re warm under the palm of his hand, bare flesh a soft place to rest between him and your hip bone. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the faint thump of your heartbeat, almost in tandem with the small puffs of air hitting his chin. 

He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment. 

A good life. 

Evidence of last night is strewn across the room—the red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt he’d worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.

The memory replays vividly—bites to his neck down to his collarbone, a pull of his hair and his lower lip caught between yours. You handle Hajime roughly because you know he can take it, know that it gets him going the more you want him. 

But with you, he takes his time—runs his fingers over every area he’s grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently. 

Then, he savors it—you.

The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy. 

A perk of celebrating Valentine’s Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to you—a team effort to make the day as special as it can be. 

He shifts, hand sliding up to rest on your waist. The movement causes you to stir, digging your cheek deeper into your pillow as you scrunch your brows—a sign of you coming to wake. 

Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all his—flowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in. 

How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise? 

The bed dips on your side, no doubt you reaching for the bedside to check the time. Even with his eyes shut, he has your mornings memorized. A whispered ‘shit’ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady. 

You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. There’s a momentary pause that makes him worry you’ve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do. 

(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, he’s learned.)

It makes him nervous the longer you linger, the tips of your fingers sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips, running over it once, twice. Then you sigh, inching closer before gently nudging his nose with yours.

The small peck you land on his lips almost makes him break, but he holds it in, letting you sneak away (albeit badly) for whatever it is you’re planning for today. 

(The bed dips too deeply, comforter rustling as you untangle yourself from it. You stub your toe on the edge of your bedside table and attempt to muffle an ‘ouch��, even though he can hear you—pretty clearly actually. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from chuckling.)

If it were up to him, Hajime would just keep you here, no sneaking around or stubbed toes, no surprise or anything—just you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets. 

.

Just as he’d promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that). 

The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirt—the sheets beside him crinkled in the shape of your haste to get up from it. He yawns, running a hand through his hair to fix up the mess you made of it last night. 

As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neck—side-to-side, up-and-down—then with his back, twisting left and right. Next, he changes, puts on a pair of gray sweatpants that you claim must be a staple in his wardrobe (you say he looks like he could fuck you up, its hem hanging dangerously low to reveal the grooves of that deep v-line leading to his pelvis).

After pushing aside the curtains for sunlight to stream through, he cleans the room, picking up the mess of clothes on the floor and making the bed; you usually do this, because you’re particular with the pillow placements, but he’ll take over for now. 

This should buy you enough time, right? An extra 10 minutes for your planned surprise.

He takes a breath, doing one last scan of the room before stepping out. 

As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate. 

Each step he takes is consciously softened as he carries his weight, carefully making his way to the sight of you, back towards him in nothing but his t-shirt hanging temptingly high to barely conceal black lace. You seem focused, entirely preoccupied with the kitchen stove.

A familiar feeling settles into his stomach, warm and soothing, one he’s been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up. 

For Hajime, the best way to start the day is with the morning light and you.

He sneaks up behind your back, peeking over your shoulder at the chocolate pancakes you seem to be slowly ladling into the pan. And just when you’ve formed a figure he can only assume is a heart, he takes a step closer, hands resting on your hips as he scrunches up the fabric between his fingers.

“Morning,” he whispers, chin resting on your shoulder as his lips brush the side of your neck, soft and ticklish; you shiver, just a little bit. 

The greeting comes out rough, husky, and you lean into him, your hand coming to rest over his, hiking up your (his) shirt to reveal a slight peek at the black lace hugging the curves of your buttcheek. 

“Morning.” you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side. 

“How’s your head?” he moves to peck your temple. Hajime knows you get the worst hangovers no matter how little you have to drink, and last night was by no means little.

You groan, turning off the stove, letting the residual heat cook the pancake through. 

“Terr–” 

As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajime’s bare skin in front of you. Your eyes go wide, zeroing in on the full chest beneath your palms, the cuts of his shoulders, and his arms. Oh—

“Slut.” your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile. 

Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back. 

“Put on a shirt, you know I can’t focus like this.” 

He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time. 

“I would,” remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, “but someone stole it.” 

You giggle, arms coming up to wind around his neck, fingers playing with the shorter strands of his hair. Then, you tiptoe, white fuzzy slippers slotting itself between his matching green ones as you tilt your head up for a kiss. 

As it is, Hajime’s liking how this surprise is going. 

He leans in, eyes falling shut as he presses against you. His hand cradles your jaw, callused skin tickling you ever so slightly as he guides your head to turn the other way. Hajime can hardly stop whenever you get him started like this, your lower lip already caught between his teeth. 

But you nip it, right as his other hand crawls underneath your shirt, pulling away as he tries to chase for more. The frown on his face is hard to miss. 

“Gonna get dressed,” you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.

“Isn’t this already too dressed?” he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear. 

“Don’t be a flirt,” you scrunch your nose, “I feel gross.” 

He squeezes your hip, “I’m gross too.” 

You give him a look. 

He gives you one back. 

If Hajime had the words, he’d tell you you’re the furthest thing from gross, making him breakfast in his clothes and that pretty black number you know drives him up-the-wall crazy.

This is the stuff of his dreams. 

But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well he’s weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away. 

“I’ll make you eggs!” he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom. 

Your breakfast spread for him is set up on the counter, the chocolate heart pancake on the pan the last needed addition to complete everything. It’s sweet, how you prepared a full-on chocolate feast for him: hot chocolate with chocolate heart pancakes, and butter also in the shape of a heart. The tulips he’d gotten you rest prettily inside the vase he remembers from your first anniversary pottery date.

He feels especially sentimental today taking everything in, noticing how the mug that holds your half-finished coffee matches the one that holds his hot chocolate. 

In the little over two years that you’ve been together, you’ve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like you’ve always just been here—that it feels right how all your chips fill up the entire bottom shelf of his pantry because you love snacking on them whenever, wherever.

He cracks in two eggs. 

The throw on his couch matches the pillows all because of you, and bottles of your daily vitamins sit perfectly beside all his supplements in the spice-rack turned morning-essentials-rack (one of your so-called organization hacks). 

The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crisp—just how you like it (lately, it’s how he’s been liking it too). 

When you step out of the bedroom, Hajime’s begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits. 

(Today, it’s strawberries—one of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.) 

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—

He prides himself on his routine and the stability of his day-to-day: the mornings, with you raiding his closet and stealing his clothes; the late afternoons, when he picks you up from work and you crash his place because it’s begun to feel so much more like home. 

The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. It’s too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesn’t mind the warmth when you’re pressed up skin-to-skin. 

And when he sees you in his sweatshirt—the one paired with the sweatpants he’s wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face. 

This is good. 

—his life that you now also fit into. 

“Sorry you had to prep the rest,” you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, “thank you.” 

Without even a word, there’s a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already. 

You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, “I love you.” 

He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.

Shyness still hits him when you’re so vocal like this, but Hajime has known he’s loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but you’d insisted it was an experience he shouldn’t miss, so he agreed—packed an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case. 

But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when you’d beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face. 

“Love you too,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, “happy Valentine’s Day, babe.” 

Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isn’t until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip you’re set to leave for tomorrow.

So, this is nice. You both have time.  

You’re talking about all sorts of things—some work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; there’s the whole itinerary for your business trip too—meeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on. 

But as he’s chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just can’t, for the life of him, stop thinking. 

The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more he’s realizing that this is the longest time you’ll be apart.

And he wonders, what’s that gonna be like? 

Most of your clothes will be gone from his dresser, his bathroom counter half-empty without all your skincare. No overheating at night without your arm wrapped firmly around his spine. Just one mug during breakfast, not two, and only a single pair of green fuzzy slippers pacing around the rooms. 

It’ll be a little like how it was before you.

And he hates how that’s even a possibility.  

He takes a sip from his mug.

“So, Oikawa’s taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?” you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter. 

He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate. 

“Hajime.” you hide your smile. 

He snaps out of it, “Hm?” 

“So you’re okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?” 

His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it. 

“That fucker asked you out?” 

You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, “Just seeing if you were listening.” 

A pause, then a squeeze. 

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?” 

He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. There’s something about this—breakfasts in his kitchen, with you wearing his clothes and the morning light streaming in. You share a joke or two (or five), a few teasing touches here and there, the mood relaxed and just overwhelmingly nice. 

Hajime is so authentically himself when he’s with you that he doesn’t want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you do—

Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when he’s let loose; he’s made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too. 

The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and they’ll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during ‘boys’ nights’ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you. 

This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows you’re the key to all of it. 

—so, Hajime chooses you, much like he’s chosen the mornings. 

“Move in with me,” he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity. 

The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you don’t get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold and—

“When you get back.” he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, “What do you think?” 

All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal he’s been working his ass off to reach, but somehow, with his hand in yours, this feels easy. Comfortable in all the good ways because loving you has always been just that. 

“Sex last night was that good, huh?” 

And this—there’s never been a problem with this too. 

He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach. 

“Just realizing that mornings don’t feel the same without you,” he admits, pulling you closer. You hop off the stool and inch closer, standing between his legs as he rests his hands on your lower back.  

“Flirt.” you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist. 

You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze. 

“Okay, muscle boy,” your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, “better do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.” 

.

And he does—

When you get back, he’s contacted his landlord to get you on the lease. Your clothes are all in his (or now your?) apartment, some still in boxes but the essentials already organized in the closet now split to house both of your things. 

There’re pieces of you everywhere now, not just touches like a person half-there. A lot of the big furniture is still at your place, but that’s really just because he wants to leave that part up to you. 

—after all, it’s your home now too.

thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do 🥹 lights down low used to be a normal soft song for me before, now it belongs to him bc of u + @soumies @mysugu bc this is kinda really so self-shippy and every time i think of seiwa i think of you both 🥺 + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway 🥺

a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him 🥹 but i hope this comes close 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[katsukiizmoon]

I have actual tears in my eyes thinking about deep sex with music in the background with Katsuki???? Oh my fucking god can you imagine— shut the fuck up—??? 18+ with f!reader

Katsuki’s tongue slides against yours, firm hand gripping at your waist to keep you steady. Your legs tremble and a hiccup leaves you, breaking this kiss with a pant when he bottoms out again.

His forehead knocks against yours, eyes squeezing shut, his mouth dropping in a low “o” and he pulls back. His cock pulls leaving just the head in, then he slams forward. Your hands find themselves grabbing tenaciously at his large arms.

You blink, swallowing down a watery sound, when you look up. The breath is knocked out if you, he’s buried to the hilt, forehead sticky with sweat.

Cherry red, thin eyes study your pretty face. He looks down, then, between your bodies. Your tummy quivers, pussy squelching as he strokes deep and hard. His tongue flicks over his lips and he wills himself to focus.

That stupid fucking remix of crazy in love starts in the background and he punctuates the beat with a thrust. Your head throws back, nails digging and dragging into his shoulders now, while his cock drags against your wet walls.

Something about it makes your nose and lips tingle, makes you a little too high. And he eats it up, letting out a long and drawn out groan. The hair at the back of his neck is damp from sweat and there’s sparkly lip gloss on the corner of his mouth.

Time stops existing, his heavy body presses harder against yours and he makes it a point to kiss you. Languid, like he’s savoring the taste of your spit and trying to memorize the texture of your lips. A string of spit falls against your chin when he pulls back with a gasp.

“Yeah, yeah— look at you, pretty.” Katsuki gasps, eyes momentarily rolling back.

The music all but forgotten, merely minuscule compared to the absolute god of a man pounding into you with perfect rhythm. He looks so pretty, flushed in the face and fucking into you like he’s got all the time in the world. The grip of his hand heats up a little, he finds himself holding you a little harder, a little closer.

[angellesword]

Love Is Not Black and White, It's Purple (Like Your Eyes) | JJK (oneshot)

Summary: You and Jungkook are not soulmates. The fact that you have been married for ten years but still see in black and white proves that.

It is never an issue for you two until…

"Jungkook, my eyes… they're purple."

Jungkook's heart stops.

You can see colors now. It only means one thing:

You have met your real soulmate, and it's not Jungkook.

Genre & Content Warning: soulmate au, housemate au, mention of murder, past child abuse, domestic violence, fluff, crack treated seriously, attempt at humor, marriage au, established relationship, kissing, blind!jimin, fashion designer!taehyung, alcohol, cursing, HAPPY ENDING. (tags are just for formalities, but tbh this fic isn't heavy at all)

Pairing: Detective!Jungkook x Fashion Designer! Female Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

****

Out of all the suicide methods in history, Jungkook thinks that if he were to try one, it would still not be as effective as listening to you talk.

"Jungkook, my eyes...they're purple."

Really. You don't need a plastic bag, a rope, or a pillow to suffocate Jungkook. With your harsh words, Jungkook could feel the air leaving his lungs.

He can't breathe. The terrible realization asphyxiates him: you--his best friend--his wife, can now see colors. For a moment, Jungkook doesn't know what to make out of the fact that he's now alone in this monochromatic world—a place where people see in black and white until they look into their soulmates' eyes.

Jungkook has looked and drowned in your calamitous eyes before, but he never saw hues.

"Jungkook...?" 

Distantly, Jungkook hears you utter his name, but all he can grasp is you will abandon him. Jungkook is rarely wrong. He's a detective, after all. One word, and he can deduce the situation, making this whole ordeal more painful.

"That's..." Jungkook intends to hide his hurt, but he feels his voice getting choked up. He has no choice but to pause.

However, you are thrilled to hear what he has to say, so Jungkook forces himself to continue.

"...great. You, that's great. So great!" Perhaps repeating the same words can convince him that his statement is true. It's not. Jungkook's heart breaks when you beam at him.

Calm down. Jungkook tells himself. But he can't. Everything hurts. His heart, his soul, his words.

"So, tell me. Where's the divorce paper? Should I sign now?" Jungkook's words hurt like a knife. They cut your heart into pieces. 

"What the fuck are you talking about." Your face falls. "Shitty Jungkook, are you kidding me right now!? I'm not leaving you for someone I just met!"

Now, something about your reaction takes Jungkook's breath away. Maybe it's the anger that quickly turns into panic as you take in Jungkook's words. Or perhaps it's the apparent trembling of your lips as you desperately speak of your promise of forever. Either way, your fear-inducing expression somehow reassures Jungkook.

You and him are not over. Not yet, at least. 

"I'm just kidding~." Jungkook chuckles and clicks his tongue, "Of course, you're not leaving me. I'm the only one who can tolerate you, ya know?"

The joke doesn't lighten your expression at all.

"Jungkook, I'm not leaving you," you repeat. The assurance is softer this time, and despite the lack of color in your eyes, the detective can see determination in them.

Jungkook puffs out air. His heart aching a little less.

"I know, darling." Jungkook stops his jokes. He engulfs you in a warm embrace. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say that ever again." You wrap your arms around Jungkook's waist. "You're my best friend. I love you, alright?"

****

10 Years Ago; 2013

Unlike others, your relationship with Jungkook is reversed.

"Let's get married."

"The fuck?" You choke on your water the second Jungkook opens his mouth. "Are you high again, bastard!?"

You punch Jungkook mildly. The latter moves away, exaggeratedly cradling his jaw. "Ow! Why are you always so violent? Can't you hear me out first? I'm being serious here!"

"Serious?" You laugh incredulously. "You just asked me to get married!"

"Exactly!" Jungkook ignores the painful thug in his heart. "It's for our benefit. Didn't you say you want to live in PM Village?"

Apartments in PM Village are too damn expensive. You and Jungkook recently finished college; your individual income is not enough to cover the monthly amortization of a house, but it's different if your incomes are combined.

"You're crazy. We can't marry because of a fucking house, Jungkook!" You are still not convinced.

"Why not?" But Jungkook intends to change your mind. "We're both single, and divorce won't be difficult in the future. We can just tell the court we've found our real soulmates. Besides,"

The newbie detective drags his words, knowing that he'll be able to convince you in the end, anyway. "You're gonna be rich soon. You don't have any living family members anymore. Do you really wanna give away all your money to the government when you die?"

"Why? Is giving my money to you any better!?"

"I can at least maintain your wine cellar," Jungkook shrugs. "And just think about the tax benefits! Don’t you hate Hoseok-hyung for siphoning your money?”

You open your mouth to speak, but damn. Jungkook’s last statement has convinced you already. Nose flaring, you say, "Fine!"

It's like music to Jungkook's ears. "I need your full confirmation."

Jungkook really wants you to say it. You fold your arms across your chest, "Fine, Bastard! I agree with your absurd proposition. Let's get fucking married."

At the age of twenty-two, you and Jungkook tied the knot. Ten years later, most of Jungkook's predictions have come true: you two have settled in PM Village—a warm home with a wine cellar awaits you after a tiring day. You have also become so rich that you often have issues with Jung Hoseok, your country's tax agency commissioner. Thank fuck there are good lawyers out there to clear your tax cases. 

You clearly have everything life can offer. If you want, you can divorce Jungkook now, but ten years later, you are still very much committed to your best friend.

*****

Present; 2023

You insist on telling Jungkook who your soulmate is. Admittedly, you can tell that Jungkook finds the whole storytelling unnecessary. You are married, but it's not as if you two are in love with each other or something. Nope. Jungkook only sees you as an annoying woman with whom he cohabitates.

"So, has Technology asked you on a date yet?" Jungkook asks without looking at you. He's busy filing his nails, acting as if shaping his nails into perfect ovals is more important than conversing with you.

"First of all, his name is Taehyung. Not Technology, you asshole. And no, he hasn't asked me out." You exhale. "I mean, not yet. It's not a big deal, honestly. We just met yesterday." 

Translation: give my soulmate some time.

"Right." Jungkook mocks and yawns, finally glancing at you. "You know, if I meet my soulmate, I’ll immediately ask them out. I can’t waste time.”

"Oh, shut up." You roll your eyes. "We both know you just can't wait to sleep with them."

"He-He. You caught me~." Jungkook half-smiles before returning to the previous topic very smoothly, "So you're saying that if Techno—Taehyung asks you on a date, you'll say yes?"

"Will you mind if I do?" You sound nervous.

The sole purpose of this conversation is for you to test the waters with Jungkook. You both went on dates in the past after ensuring that the other was comfortable with the set-up. You are married, after all. It won't bode well with the both of you if cheating rumors erupt, especially in your respective workplaces.

Admittedly, it has been long since you two last went on dates. You were both busy with your jobs. Besides, isn't it exhausting getting to know strangers? Jungkook doesn't want to waste his breath on nosy people asking why he chose to be a detective, and you would rather ditch your date than deal with them bargaining for discounts once they find out you’re a prominent fashion designer.

Going out with strangers has become a nightmare instead of a fun way to meet your real soulmate. Because of this, you and Jungkook decided to just take each other out whenever you wanted. It's not exactly a romantic date. Sure, there's darling as a pet name, kisses under the moonlight, and wrestling who'll pay. But that's about it. You don't dare to do more.

Your partnership is of greater importance than sex and in-the-moment confessions. You don't want to regret it comes morning.

"Why would I mind?" Jungkook finally answers, feigning happiness. "I'll personally thank your soulmate for taking you out, honestly. I'm tired of you forcing me to take you out on dates. It's about time I meet new people, too."

"Right." You swallow your disappointment and the faint ache in your chest. "Who wants to go out with a shitty bastard like you, anyway? Go meet others! It's not like I care!"

Another fake smile blooms on Jungkook's face.

"Whatever you say."

*****

Kim Taehyung is the name of your soulmate, and the man Jungwon has been investigating for the past three days.

"Jungkook sunbaenim, here's all the information I can find about Kim Taehyung." Jungwon stifles a yawn as he approaches his mentor's table. He almost winces upon seeing Jungkook's monitor.

The older detective has many tabs on his computer, all related to Kim Taehyung.

"You're still investigating him?" Jungwon can't mask his surprise. "Jungkook sunbaenim, just what did Kim Taehyung do!?"

"He's a thief, Jungwon-ah." Jungkook accepts the files from his mentee without sparing him a glance

Jungwon dramatically gasps, his sleepiness fading away because of the scandalous information.

"Really? What did he steal?"

"A precious little thing." Jungkook is viewing Kim Taehyung's baby photos. No one knows how he found them. "Look, he's not that cute, right?"

Jungwon doesn't answer, lost in thought. What could Kim Taehyung have stolen? His Jungkook sunbaenim said a precious little thing. Could it be a diamond ring? Or...

"Tanzanite?" Jungwon shrieks. "Did he steal tanzanite, Jungkook sunbaenim!?"

"Huh?" Jungkook turns to his mentee with a furrowed brow. He suddenly remembers what he said to Jungwon, and being a good actor whose words consist of 10% truth and 90% lies, Jungkook can save himself by saying, "Yeah. He stole tanzanite —authorities said it was very expensive. Come, Jungwon-ah. Let's catch this thief."

****

You aren't lying when you say you won't divorce Jungkook because you 'met' your soulmate. No, your partnership is beyond colors. However, it also doesn't mean you’ll relinquish your connection with your soulmate.

The deal is this: You and Jungkook will stay together until you know your soulmates better. After that, you two can decide what to do next. In short, a simple meeting doesn't guarantee you would want to spend your entire life with your soulmates. You both have heard many stories before that not even real soulmates find romantic love with each other—some remain platonic soulmates, while others go as far as killing each other.

You and Taehyung's case seems to fall to the normal expectation of society: meet as strangers, get to know each other until you become friends, then fall in love and get married.

Unlike Jungkook pulling you in a reverse direction, Taehyung intends to drive you on the right path.

"Jungkook sunbaenim, aren't we breaking the protocol?" Jungwon covers his face with a newspaper, whispering softly in case the suspect hears him. They are currently inside a small coffee shop near Aurora Fashion Lane. Based on Jungwon's investigation, Kim Taehyung works as a designer for the company in the same building as this coffee shop. In fact, Taehyung is slowly becoming a regular customer here.

"Shouldn't we call for backup?" 

Jungkook ignores the younger detective. He squints his eyes hard, focusing on the table near the counter. Jungwon discreetly looks in the direction Jungkook has his eyes on. A woman with a similar haircut as yours is sitting there.

"Jungkook sunbaenim, isn't that your wife—"

"Ssshh, Jungwon-ah. Shut up for a moment. I can't hear them." Jungkook regrets not choosing a table near you and your date. Damn it. You probably won't realize he's here—not when your attention is focused on stupid Technology!

"Stay here. I'll be back." The older detective stands up abruptly. Right. If he pretends to look at the menu before ordering something, he can hear whatever you and Taehyung are talking about:

"Exactly. They should've added another layer of lace. It pairs well with jacquard." Jungkook hears you say.

What the heck are they talking about? The detective muses.

"Ah, unfortunately, the customer hates laces. Apparently, her father made her wear laces that itch." Taehyung responds.

"Poor Elise. I understand why she prefers satin dresses."

Are they talking about work? Jungkook thinks to himself again. He only snaps back to reality when the cashier smiles, asking if he's ready to order.

Jungkook orders drinks for him and Jungwon before moving closer to the soulmates' table. You and Taehyung have stopped talking, though. Confused, Jungkook tilts his head to check what's happening, but someone seizes his wrist.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jungkook hears a classic greeting, yet he still freezes. Only one person gets angry seeing him.

"Oh, hi, you~. I didn't see you there." The detective beams while prying his hand away from your iron-like grip. "What a coincidence!"

"Coincidence, my ass!" You grit your teeth, "Tell me the truth. Why are you here?"

Jungkook tongues the inside of his cheek, thinking of a way to translate, 'You were smiling through your phone yesterday while texting your stupid soulmate. I didn't want to invade your privacy, so I hacked his messages instead,' into something that won't ignite your anger.

In the end, Jungkook manages to simply say, "Why? Can't a detective have his coffee?"

"Jungkook." you utter sternly, "This coffee shop is an hour and a half from your workplace. You also don't drink coffee."

As if on cue, the barista says Jungkook's drinks are ready. The detective picks up his drink and sips it. "What was that? I can't hear you over my delicious caramel macchiato with whipped cream and seven pumps of caramel sauce, topped with small marshmallows, chocolate chips, and sprinkles!"

"For fuck's sake!" You let out a torrent of abuse, your face morphing into disgust. Seeing color intensifies your emotions. The colorful toppings in Jungkook's drink make you want to vomit. "Get your ass out of here, you tasteless bastard!"

Jungkook doesn't budge. He shoots you an innocent look, "Why are you shooing me away? Am I disturbing you and your date? Where is he, by the way?"

Taehyung went to the comfort room, but this was not the point. You hiss, "I'm not on a date. Taehyung and I are discussing work over coffee. How the heck did you even know we're here?"

Another question Jungkook doesn't have a ready answer. Fortunately for him, Taehyung is back. Your furious expression melts at once. Your fake personality makes Jungkook gag.

"Hey, should we head back?" Taehyung's voice is deep. This is the first thing Jungkook notices.

"Yeah, let's go." You smile at your soulmate.

Another thing Jungkook notices is how handsy Taehyung is. He touches the small of your back, leading you to the exit. Jungkook's expression darkens, and Jungwon, watching the whole exchange like a hawk, suddenly decides to act.

"Stop, you thief! Leave my mentor's wife alone!" Jungwon has the handcuffs ready. He's rushing in Taehyung's direction. Jungkook's eyes widen, only relying on his fast reflexes to stop his mentee.

He trips Jungwon, causing the younger detective to fall to the ground.

"Jungkook, you bastard--!!"

All hell breaks loose after that scream coming out of you.

****

'Disaster' is the only word to describe Jungkook's attempt to stalk his wife. He didn't plan for things to escalate to the level where he had to trip Jungwon to stop him from arresting an innocent citizen like Taehyung. You got so mad that the older detective had to apologize, making an excuse that they were detectives on a mission gone wrong. Jungkook remembers smiling apologetically at Taehyung, telling him to cut Jungwon some slack because he is a newbie detective.

You knew everything leaving Jungkook's mouth was bullshit, yet you played along with Jungkook's excuse. You clearly don’t want the issue to escalate further. Thankfully, Taehyung is an understanding man, telling Jungwon to be careful next time. You aren't as forgiving as your soulmate, though. You called Jungkook over the phone, yelling you'd kill him if he went home tonight.

Jungkook has no choice but to seek shelter at Namjoon’s house.

"Let me guess," Namjoon sighs upon seeing Jungkook at his doorstep. "You've angered your wife again, didn't you?"

"Namjoon-hyung! That's a mean guess. Can't I visit my friend?"

Namjoon remains expressionless. "You only go here whenever you and your wife fight. Your wife will think I betrayed her if I let you in."

Jungkook hmphed. "My wife already has beef with your soulmate and, by extension, with you too. So just let me in, will you?"

Namjoon releases a breath when Jungkook pushes the door open and rushes in. He is right, anyway. You have beef with his soulmate. Namjoon always receives texts from you complaining about Hoseok and how ruthless he is as a government employee.

"Would you like something to drink—" Namjoon cuts himself off upon seeing Jungkook helping himself with a bottle of soju.

The detective takes large gulps. He finishes half of the bottle in less than two minutes. Jungkook hiccups and clumsily wipes his mouth, "My wife found her soulmate. She can see colors now."

Namjoon stops in his tracks.

Jungkook laughs, mocking himself. "His eyes are purple, hyung."

"Jungkook..." Namjoon sounds apologetic.

"What's with your expression?" Jungkook’s lips twist. "You look sorry. Don't be. I'm—"

Happy for her? Jungkook shakes his head. It seems like that's not the case. Namjoon thinks so, too. He sits in front of the detective.

"You're what, Jungkook-ah?" The older man opens a beer bottle for himself, "What do you feel for your wife? What does she make you feel?"

Silence creeps into the room.

Jungkook's shoulders drop. Memories from the past play in his head as he closes his eyes.

Twenty-one years ago, 2002:

11-year-old Jungkook is freezing cold.

He is out in the snow, trying to take a sneak peek at children his age playing on the school grounds. Unlike him, the students are covered with expensive coats, mittens, and a hat. Jungkook's mother is a janitress at a private elementary school in Busan. Sadly, she can't afford to send her son to this school, so Jungkook can only watch the other kids in envy.

The children here have winter camps and activities to support their growth. Today, Jungkook watches as the students make mittens. Some children give the handmade gloves to their family, friends, or teachers.

Only one girl saves her mittens for a lone stranger.

"Here," Jungkook is taken aback when a girl his age suddenly approaches him. She’s shorter than Jungkook, but her determined eyes make people think she has much to offer. 

"I said here!" Jungkook remains unmoving, so the girl pushes the mittens to his chest. "I can't see it yet, but my mum said the gloves are gray like my eyes! I made them myself."

The little girl looks proud; a huge grin is on her lips.

Jungkook blinks dumbly at her, "Why...." He takes in a deep breath, clutching the warm gloves to his chest. "Why are you giving me these gloves?"

The little girl looks confused; she even lets out a small huh. Jungkook thinks the girl didn't hear him, so he repeats his words.

You are that little girl. You shrug your shoulders. "Because I want to. You look cold. I don't want to see you cold."

"But," Jungkook's lips tremble. He is having a hard time accepting the gift. "I have nothing to trade you with."

"Who cares?" You sit beside him. "I don't want anything. I just want to be friends."

Present; 2023:

Until now, Jungkook has no idea why you wish to be friends with someone like him. Clearly, you were a world apart. It was winter then. Maybe it was a Winter miracle—if this is even a thing.

But Jungkook is sure of one thing:

"She makes me feel warm, Namjoon-hyung." The detective finally answers his friend's question earlier. "My wife makes me warm, loved, and hopeful."

****

You receive a text message from Namjoon asking you to pick up a hammered Jungkook.

"Hey, you're leaving already?" Taehyung sees you leaving the office.

You rub the back of your neck and smile softly at Taehyung, "Yes. I have to pick up my husband."

"Ah." Taehyung nods, "Jungkook, isn't it? The detective from earlier?"

"Mn. I'm really sorry about what happened."

"It's nothing," Taehyung assures. It will probably take him a long time to forget his encounter with those two strange detectives, but it's not so bad. They apologized and said it was an honest mistake. He motions toward the door, "You brought your car, right? Let’s go down together.”

“You’re going home too?”

“Not yet.” Taehyung opens the office door for his soulmate. “Just gonna get coffee.”

Taehyung’s obsession with caffeine doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Taehyung joined your team only this week but has probably gone to the coffee shop downstairs more than your team did.

You brush it off. It’s none of your business. What matters to you is what Jungkook drinks. After bidding Taehyung goodbye, you immediately rush to Namjoon’s house. He is absolutely right. Jungkook is wasted.

"Why did you let this asshole drink so much!?" You bare your teeth at Namjoon. "You know how he is, Namjoon! Did he even eat before chugging down soju? Soju! You made him drink soju!? Namjoon, you golden-eyed clumsy bastard! Your eye color looks like horse piss!"

You are getting creative with your insults now that you can see colors. Namjoon shakes his head. He likes you better when you still see in black and white; at least then, you don’t go around terrorizing people and their eye color.

"I'm sorry. He forced himself into my home." Namjoon throws Jungkook under the bus. He'd rather get a playfully upset Jungkook than a screaming girl like you.

You know better than to put all the blame on Namjoon, though. You know Jungkook drank himself stupid because he can't handle it when you are genuinely mad at him.

You swallow your fury, "You know what? Just…have a good night, Namjoon-oppa. I'm sorry for shouting and the trouble. I'll make it up to you some other time."

You drag Jungkook to your car.

The detective is no fun when drunk. He just passes out. You can't even get blackmail material out of this hell.

"Fucking finally." You cover your husband with a blanket after cleaning him up and changing his clothes into new ones.

"Bastard." You sneer but still end up softly kissing Jungkook's forehead.

Ah. The things you do for love.

****

Jungkook wakes up with a stomachache and a sweaty forehead. He dramatically whines, cradling his stomach like he has been shot there.

Thankfully, you show up at once. You are carrying a tray with a full meal.

"My stomach hurts." He complains, earning an eye roll from you.

"Of course it does. You fucking drank alcohol on an empty stomach. You also had that stupid drink at the coffee shop. Just what the hell are you thinking?"

You sit on the bed. You first brush your husband's fringe with your fingers, then cup his cheeks and casually wipe the side of his mouth.

"Here, eat something."

Jungkook doesn't need to tell you to feed him. You bring a spoonful of food to his mouth, gently urging him to eat.

The detective moans. Your food tastes like heaven, even better than those Michelin restaurants. "My wife is such a great cook. Thank you~~"

"Whatever. Just don't moan, bastard." You can feel your cheeks turning hot. You easily get flustered with compliments.

Jungkook suddenly wonders if Taehyung has said something to make you blush, too.

"Oi, Jungkook. Don't tell me you don't have an appetite anymore. You barely ate!"

It's not like the detective doesn't want to eat anymore. His mood only plummets when he thinks about your soulmate.

Jungkook utters your name softly and asks, "Are you happy?"

"What kind of question is that?" You scrunch your nose, but you still answer. "Of course I'm happy." I have you in my life.

"No. I mean, are you happy you can see colors now?"

"I'm happier." You are surprised at how quickly you answered. Maybe because it's never hard for you to tell the truth. But still...you don't want to sound insensitive. You know your husband has yet to see colors.

You try again, "I mean...seeing colors makes my job easier, and I’m not just saying this because I'm getting promoted soon." People in their world have a greater chance of success once they see colors. 

"I guess I appreciate my job even more. It makes me feel alive, if you will. Things seem "livelier..."

You look into Jungkook's brown eyes. You can see them sparkling. For the first time in twenty-plus years you have known Jungkook, this is the only time you have seen how pink his lips are.

You can feel your heart thumping.

Looking at Jungkook with colors makes you feel "More." You whisper, "I feel things more with colors, Jungkook."

More love.

More joy.

And more clarity about what you really feel about your best friend.

"That's good, then." Jungkook rests his head on your shoulders. "I'm glad you're happy."

He really is. If he can go back to last night, Jungkook won't hesitate to tell Namjoon that, even though it hurts him, he's glad you met the one fated to you.

*****

Months pass, and things get even better for you. You got promoted twice and now handle one of your company's major customers. Your wallet gets fatter—so shouting at Namjoon to tell Hoseok to calm down doesn’t work anymore. Your free time is almost non-existent, though. It makes Jungkook sigh.

“Hey, Jungkook. You’re free to go.” Jungkook’s mood soars when his partner at work approaches him.

“Seokjin-hyung!” Jungkook’s jaw drops to the floor. “Did I hear you right? Are you seriously allowing me to get off work an hour earlier!?”

Seokjin is a hardworking detective who does not joke around since he knows his job affects the public's general welfare. Still, he also knows that you and Jungkook are celebrating your anniversary as a married couple for ten years.

“Just go, Jungkook-ah.” Seokjin pushes him. “Just leave before I change my mind. And for heaven’s sake, get your wife anything but flowers. No one wants to see you sneezing all day. Keep your snots away--!!”

Jungkook walks faster, not wanting to hear his work partner complain. So what if he sneezes all day? So what if he’s allergic to flowers? You love flowers, so he’ll get you bouquets.

Humming, Jungkook makes his way to the flower shop. The snowflakes fall lightly. It’s winter. Jungkook met you in the winter of 2002. You also got married in winter, the year 2013. Other people don’t like this season, especially Hoseok, who watched Namjoon suffer a fall accident because of slippery ground three years ago. Thank goodness Namjoon is okay now.

Jungkook buys flowers and your favorite wine. He’s almost home when a ghost from the past blocks his way.

“Oh, if it isn’t the beloved scoundrel of my bitch of a soulmate.”

Jungkook stiffens, eyes turning dark as he takes in the lone figure of his father.

“Jeon Sungmin.” Jungkook’s tone is scathing.

“The one and only.” Sungmin juts his chin. “Did you miss me, son?”

“Don’t call me that.” Jungkook clenches his fist. Unadulterated anger fills his heart. He’s trying hard not to punch this pathetic man. “In case you forgot, I still have a restraining order against you. I can even arrest you myself.”

Sungmin lets out a sardonic laugh. It’s loud—the kind of laughter that makes Jungkook’s skin itch. He can’t see colors but could’ve sworn he sees blood. Maybe he just wants to claim blood.

“Don’t act so tough on me, boy. In case you forgot, you just stood like a dumb bastard when I killed your bitch of a mom.”

“Stop.” Jungkook chokes, feeling a lump forming in his throat. He can’t breathe. Memories have come to haunt him.

“Scared, aren’t we?” Sungmin drags his limping feet to Jungkook. Twenty years in prison broke his body but not his soul. Even with only his tattered clothes and one functioning eye, Sungmin can still bring terror to his son.

“You should be. You’re nothing but a pathetic scourge.” Sungmin pulls Jungkook’s collar, slamming him into a cold wall. “Now be of use and give me money.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. His eyes droop, wanting to puke as he feels his father stealing his wallet. He hears screams inside his head, the pleas of his mother. Jungkook-ah, run. Please. You have to save yourself. 

Jungkook remains rooted in his spot back then, just hollowly looking at the blood on the floor. He watched as Sungmin smashed the baseball bat into his mother’s head.

More screams. Sungmin didn’t stop the beating until the police officers came.

Twenty years later, Jungkook is still the same. He still can’t stand up for himself. He watches his father take his wine and wallet, leaving like nothing happened.

Jungkook doesn’t know how he manages to walk back home. He stays outside, ruined flowers in his lap. He cannot get in as his keys are inside his stolen wallet.

Jungkook could only wait for a purple-eyed girl whose eyes he thought were gray.

****

Like Jungkook, you get off work early as well. Your secretary runs after you, saying that you can’t leave yet. However, you dismissed the secretary and passed the work on to Yeonjun instead. You hate that you are not home yet. You are actually supposed to take the day off to plan your anniversary date with your husband better.

It’s your 10th anniversary, after all. You are thinking of cooking Jungkook’s favorite food and giving him a…body massage. Many things are running into your mind—you can’t wait to try them all with your husband. Too bad work is holding you back.

“Sunbaenim, what do you think about this color combination? Is the shade of blue too dark for this winter’s theme?” Yeji excitedly shows off her design.

You rub your neck roughly, stopping yourself from throwing profanities. Calm down. Yeji is a hardworking designer who only wants the best for the team.

“I’m thinking of using an aqua frost instead. One shoulder sleeve should do the trick if—”

Oh my God. ‘Someone, please kill me now.’ You scream internally.

“Yeji,” you press your lips into a thin line. “I actually can’t entertain you right now. Would you mind checking in with Taehyung instead?”

Yeji’s shoulders drop. “Ah, Taehyung-sunbaenim isn’t here at the moment.”

“What do you mean he’s not here?” You feel your head pulsating. “Where is he?”

Everyone is so busy. Taehyung can’t possibly skip work, right?

“He’s at the coffee shop downstairs.”

That son of a--!!

You stand up abruptly. Taehyung’s coffee break ended an hour ago! How can he still be at the coffee shop!? You are seething in anger. You know Taehyung is your soulmate, but you can’t just connect to him. The first few months are okay. However, you soon realize how incompatible you and Taehyung are. Your connection starts with colors, and it also ends there. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I’m going to call him.” You exit, ignoring Yeji’s call. Honestly, what you said is half lie and half-truth. You just really, really want to leave the office. It’s a pure happenstance to bump into Taehyung in the elevator.

“Hey.” He calls your name. Remnants of joy are still visible on Taehyung’s face. Two coffee holders are in his hands—he got the whole team some drinks. “I got coffee. Where’re you going?”

“Home.” You press the elevator button. “It’s my husband and I’s anniversary.”

“Ah.” Taehyung nods in understanding. He never once shows any sign of disappointment over his soulmate spending time with another person. “Didn’t you say Detective Jeon likes eating sweets? Jimin-hyung baked a chocolate cake today. Will you accept it as my anniversary gift for you two?”

You pause. It’s like your brain short-circuits upon noticing Taehyung’s expression when he utters Jimin’s name.

Jimin—the barista and baker at the coffee shop where Taehyung frequents.

“Taehyung,” your heart stutters. “D-Do you remember your first day in the office?”

“Of course.” Taehyung offers a small smile. “It’s hard to forget that day, don’t you think? We both saw colors for the first time.”

You blink at him, not saying anything.

Taehyung avoids eye contact, thinking he’s not smart enough to understand what you implied. He tries to remember every detail of that day.

“I think I came to the office ten minutes earlier. I got everyone coffee. Come to think of it, Jimin-hyung actually saved me that day. He knows everyone’s order—Hey, are you alright?”

“You…” You gasp. “You met with Jimin before seeing me at the office, right?”

“Yes?” Taehyung’s hands are getting clammy for grasping the coffee holders. It doesn’t help that you are acting weird, making him more anxious.

“Taehyung, I think there’s been a glitch.”

Yeji goes after you a few minutes later. Both of you and Jimin are taking too long. Luckily, she instantly spots you at the elevator door. You look agitated, while Taehyung seems dumbfounded.

“Sunbaenim!” Yeji tries to stop you two, but you and Taehyung have already gotten inside the lift.

“Yeji, there you are.” Taehyung passes the coffee holders to Yeji. “Drink this with the others. We’ll be taking another break. See you later.”

“Wait—!!”

The elevator door closes.

Yeji whines, “I still have to show you my designs….”

****

You rush home, excited to see your husband. However, your excitement quickly turns into horror when you spot Jungkook sitting on your porch.

“Jungkook!?” Your eyes dilate. Jungkook is staring into nothingness. You are familiar with this kind of expression, the kind where you are forced to swallow your insults because you know. 

You know something terrible happened to your husband.

You quickly open the door and pull Jungkook to his feet. The detective is still unresponsive, letting you drag him into the bathroom. You did all the work; you immediately opened the heater and got warm clothes.

“Kook,” you call softly, cradling Jungkook’s hands to blow on them. “ Can you lift your arms for me? Let’s get you changed, alright?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer but does what he’s told. You are shaking as you help your husband change. You want to give the detective warm water and candies, but Jungkook still looks shaken. You can only gently drag him to bed. You lay down beside Jungkook, hugging him close to your chest.

You didn’t ask any questions, allowing Jungkook to breathe first.

“I--” Jungkook hiccups, sounding broken. He weakly grips the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here, Darling.” You kiss your husband’s forehead. You hug him even tighter, wishing to melt your body and bones and offer all your warmth and love to Jungkook.

Jungkook calls your name, his voice almost sounding like a wounded animal.

You caress your partner’s cheeks. They’re wet. It takes everything in you to pick up the pieces of your broken heart. No. You can’t fall apart now. Jungkook needs you.

“Mn. I’m here. You can tell me what you want.”

“N-No.” Jungkook whimpers, “I don’t want anything. I—I don’t deserve anything.”

“Jungkook.” You break the hug and force Jungkook to sit up on the bed. He’s warm enough. He’ll live.

The detective cast his gaze down, though—an indication he doesn’t want to hear whatever you have to say.

It pisses you off.

“Jungkook. Look at me.” You demand sternly. But Jungkook shakes his head.

“No, you’re mad at me.”

“Heck yeah, I’m mad. I’m so mad I can punch your face right now.” You have been patient with him, believing he’s vulnerable and in need of space. But your heart is only soft for a sad Jungkook, not for a Jungkook who blabs stupid things.

Jungkook balls his hands into fists, “You don’t understand. It’s so noisy in here.” He points at his head, “They won’t shut up. I’m—he….”

Jungkook gasps for air. You panic. You rub Jungkook’s back.

“Jungkook,” the saddest thing in this world is not seeing colors; it’s watching your beloved deal with the pain while you sit there pathetically, unable to take even a fraction of his hurt.

What good is a soulmate when all it can bring is color? Why can’t you take away Jungkook’s pain?

“He’s back, my father is out of jail.” Jungkook grips the bedsheet, “He’s come back for me. He hurt her before. He always takes away the people I love.”

Trauma is a part of Jungkook; napping silently and with one wrong shake, it’ll wake up and wreak havoc.

“You should run. Leave me. I don’t have a use to you, anyway—”

“Hush,” you can’t bear to listen anymore. You pull Jungkook to your chest, but the detective struggles.

“Please. You have to listen to me! Just leave! We’re not soulmates. I don’t understand why you’re still here!" Jungkook pushes your chest, but you catch his hands, burying Jungkook’s face into your neck.

“Oh, ma moitié.” The French endearment sounds easy coming out of your mouth. Jungkook melts at once. He sobs against your skin.

Ma moitié translates to my other half.

Jungkook wants to curse this unfair world. That’s right. How can you and him not be each other’s other half? It’s difficult to fight for you when fate is against you two. Sometimes Jungkook feels like no one has the right to tear you apart, mainly because you two paint each other's life—not with colors but with love. You and Jungkook are soulmates by heart. Many people call you twin black. The monochromatic world doesn't rob the two of you of happiness, love, and care. It takes one Jeon Jungkook to know that you like drinking cold water, not just 'cold water.' It has to be a certain degree of coldness:

If the water sits in the refrigerator for two hours, that's not cold enough. If it's water coming from a semi-solid ice cube, then that's too cold. 

You are fussy, but you give your effort to Jungkook similarly. Whenever you pick Jungkook up from work, you never fail to put your expensive leather jacket on the passenger seat, so Jungkook wouldn't have to deal with a burning hot seat. You don’t mind being stuck in the traffic and driving for hours to pick him up at work every day.

“Why can’t you be mine?” Jungkook doesn’t have the energy to push you away. His hatred is directed toward fate, himself, and his deranged father. Why are they against you and him being together?

“But I’m already yours, Kook.” You lick Jungkook’s tears and kiss his eyes. “Everything about me belongs to you. This,”

You guide Jungkook’s hands to your eyes, lips, and neck, then lower Jungkook’s hands to your heart. You let the detective feel your beating heart.

“You hear that, Kook?” Your eyes well up with tears. “That’s my heart telling you something.”

Goosebumps prick at Jungkook’s skin.

You do not break eye contact. “I love you, Jungkook.”

You have said those words countless times before, but it doesn’t fail to take Jungkook’s breath away—especially now that the I love you is said so softly…so romantically.

“You’re my soulmate, Jungkook.”

Jungkook flinches, shaking his head rapidly.

“T-That can’t be. You…you see colors. I don’t. We’re—we’re….”

Why are you lying? Why are you giving Jungkook false hope? It’s cruel.

But you are insistent.

“Jungkook,” you kiss him. “Stop thinking for a while, yeah? Focus on me. Focus on my heart. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jungkook answers against your lips. He never responded before, simply allowing and relishing the taste of your sweet lips.

“I love you so much,” Jungkook repeats, groaning and biting your lips until it draws blood. Jungkook had never allowed himself to possess before, scared that he would end up ruining what he loved. But today is different. You are addicting. Claiming he loves you gives him so much power--

He pushes you to bed, pressing himself on top of you.

Jungkook kisses you. “I love you. I love you. I really, really love you.”

 --so much happiness.

“I love you.”

--so much color.

Jungkook stops kissing you; his head spins.

--so much color.

Color.

The monochromatic world is slowly changing.

Color.

More colors.

Jungkook’s eyes grow wide.

He looks at you under him.

He gasps and calls your name. Your name sounds like a prayer coming out of Jungkook’s mouth.

“Your eyes…they’re purple.”

You chuckle under him. You wipe Jungkook’s tears.

“Took you long enough to realize, Kook.”

Jungkook laughs hysterically. He stares into your eyes again, ensuring he’s not dreaming or going crazing.

Your eyes are really purple—not gray.

At this very moment, Jungkook realizes something: out of all the suicide methods in history, Jungkook thinks that if he were to try one, it still wouldn’t work because seeing the purple in your eyes will bring him back to life.

Really. No amount of oxygen can compare to the image of you lying on your bed, purple eyes glistening as you whisper sweet nothings to your soulmate. With that, Jungkook feels he can finally breathe.

****

Meanwhile, on Aurora Fashion Lane, Taehyung runs toward the coffee shop. The conversation he had with you at the elevator rings inside his mind.

There has been a glitch.

That’s right. Taehyung remembers that day like the back of his hand.

It’s 6:23am. He went to a coffee shop looking so composed, but he’s actually very nervous. However, the presence of the barista calms him down.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Jimin, the barista, asks. A soft smile adores his pretty face.

Taehyung feels his heart skipping a beat. He licks his lips, “You can tell?”

“You smell different.”

“Really.” Taehyung feels blood rushing to his face.

Jimin laughs. “Don’t be conscious. I said you smell different, not bad. I can tell because I’m blind. My other senses are heightened because of it.”

“Ah.” Taehyung is fascinated. Jimin prepares coffee like a pro. He won’t know Jimin can’t see if he didn’t say it.

“This one is for your head designer; she likes her coffee with some liquor. I sneak some little candies onto her tray so she can bring them home to Detective Jeon, her husband.” Jimin pushes a coffee cup to Taehyung.

“This one is for Yeji. She prefers iced coffee even when it’s freezing cold. This one is for Ji-Eun. She likes tea and not coffee. Yeonjun never changes his order. It’s always two shots of espresso. Jake drinks anything, as long as it’s not too bitter. And this,”

Jimin smiles, “Is for you. A bulgogi sandwich and iced latte. The sandwich is not spicy, so you don’t need to worry. Have a good day.”

Taehyung feels like floating in the air when he goes to work. He first sees you at the door, looking so pensive early in the morning.

You are thinking about your husband. His birthday is coming soon. You want to give him something precious.

A wristwatch? Nah. That’s too simple.

A perfume? Nope. You prefer it when he smells like you.

What about a picnic date near the sea? You can arrange for a firework display and…

Confess.

You flinch at your own thought.

Confess.

You want to confess to Jungkook because---

--you love him.

“Good morning.” Taehyung greets.

You are startled. You snap your head up to meet Taehyung’s face.

All of a sudden, a splash of colors welcomes you.

You see colors, and so does Taehyung.

“So yeah, I think there’s been a glitch.” Taehyung tries to explain to an expressionless Jimin. He swallows when the barista doesn’t answer.

Taehyung releases a deep sigh. Right. He probably sounds crazy right now. It’s not cool to suddenly barge at someone’s work and announce that you think the barista is your soulmate.

Taehyung scolds himself. He’s about to apologize and tell Jimin to ignore what he said when—

“I know,” Jimin responds.

Taehyung blinks up at him dumbly.

Jimin’s lips twist, “Didn’t I tell you I’m blind?”

What’s his blindness got to do with anything? Taehyung still likes him.

“Taehyung, I’m blind.” He repeats. “I’ve been blind since I was born. When I dream, I don’t dream visually, but.”

There’s a sudden pause. Jimin looks lost in thought.

He continues after a while, “The night before I met you, I dreamt of you. I saw a man who told me I was his soulmate. You two have the same voice, and here…” Jimin brings out his sketch pad and finally shows it to Taehyung.

“I draw the face of the man in my dream. Does it look like you?”

Taehyung gasps dramatically because, my gosh. Jimin has perfectly drawn his face!

“This is really me…I’m your soulmate, Jimin.” Taehyung stutters a breath. His heart beats fast.

Jimin chuckles softly, and then he touches Taehyung’s eyes. “Yes, you told me in my dream, too. I’m just waiting for you to realize it in real life.”

The thing about soulmates is it’s complex. Researchers even claim there are different universes, all of which have the concept of soulmates. Some hear the thoughts of their soulmates in their heads. Some are immortals and will only die if they do the act with their soulmates. And then comes their world, a monochromatic place where you’ll see colors once you look at your soulmate’s eyes.

But it’s not that simple. Sometimes, you have to free yourself from your own judgment first. Sometimes, you must be honest first; sometimes, you just have to wait.

****

Accept this fic while I take my time writing my ongoing JJK series here.

This is originally a soukoku fic I've written before. If you prefer that version, click here. I've converted it into a JJK x reader because it was requested by an anon here. If there are obvious mistakes in pronouns and such, please tell me because as said, this is originally a fic for a different fandom and it used to be a mxm pairing. I may have missed some thing while editing it.

I've written the same concept of soulmate ft. JJK years ago. It's a series which you can read here.

I appreciate comments the most! If you have suggestions about addtional tw, please don't hesitate to message me. Thank you ~~

[dwonfilm]

Teaching tech. | Soldier Boy x Reader

Summary: Butcher tasked you with the job of teaching a freshly thawed Ben, aka Soldier Boy, how to use technology. First off you started with teaching him about the iPhone.

Warnings: bit of Solider Boy being Soldier Boy but otherwise, mostly fluff.

“Dammit!” [Y/N] heard Ben’s voice from the other room and she sighed. Next was a smash and that made her rush back into the bedroom. Immediately Ben’s eyes lifted up to see her coming in and he scoffed. “I didn’t break the cocksucking thing this time.” He stated plainly. “Good,” she answered. “I don’t have the money to buy you a fourth phone.” She moved to sit on the bed next to where he was currently sitting. “This shit ain’t a phone, it’s a thin ass rock with futuristic shit inside. Phones have a base and a receiver or they were these massive bricks with buttons—not whatever the fuck a touch screen is-“ Ben ranted, but [Y/N] just laughed. “Yeah, they were those things once but this is 2022. Life’s changed a lot and eventually you’re gonna need to learn all these things.” She spoke, picking up the phone that was on the bed between them, swiping up to unlock it. Bits of her [Y/H/C] hair covered her face while her attention focused on the screen. Ben just watched, a grumpy expression on his facial features. “How’d you get stuck doing this anyway? Where’s the Cum Guzzler or the Cheerio?” She laughed, Ben’s nicknames for people were always pretty humorous. “Hughie is scared of you and Butcher can barely explain anything in the entire history of life’s existence.” Ben gently laughed at her answer. Fingers moved across the screen, making selections that she didn’t think were necessary to explain to him at the moment. “So, the bean pole’s afraid of me huh?” He asked, not really expecting an answer. However it did bring up another question. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” His tone seemed indifferent but there was a hint of something more inside his eyes. Something she was oblivious to since her own were focused on the screen of the phone in her hands. Though, she slowly gazed up from it for a moment. “Honestly,” she began with a pause directly after. It was as if she was attempting to think about how to answer him. “I was at first, a little bit, but I just try to sympathize.” He scoffed almost immediately. “You sympathize with a piece of shit like me? No wonder it’s so easy to get you women in the sack. Jesus Chris-“ She turned her head and shot a glare at him. “You can sympathize with people without wanting to fuck them, for starters.” She rolled her eyes, moving her gaze back to the phone in her hands. “No one’s perfect, not that it’s excusing.. well everything. Despite all that, no one here has any real room to judge too harshly.” Ben quirked a brow at that. “That so? Don’t tell me a pretty lil’ thing like you has baggage!” Part of him was sort of mocking her, though he was getting curious. “Moving on, I made the email for you and set up an account for you to use the phone.” She began to explain, looking over to him but finding a confused expression on his face. “E-what?” He asked plainly, green eyes gazing into her own. “Right, I forgot you have no grasp on the basics.” She turned towards him now.

“Email is pretty easy, it’s like sending letters to people—only digitally and in a much faster time period. It used to take y’know, days, weeks for those to be delivered. Now it just takes seconds—also instead of a home address you just need their email address. Does that make sense at least somewhat?” Her voice was gentle, not sarcastic or cruel. [Y/E/C] eyes meeting his green ones as he was silent for a moment. “Yeah, I guess.. I mean it seems straightforward enough—though doing that stupid shit is gonna be harder than understanding what the fuck it is.” He answered. “Well, yeah, but we’ll get there.” [Y/N] offered a half smile at him. “No one’s asking you to be Steve Jobs after a day,” she tried to encourage him but his face was blank yet again. “Who the fuck is that?” He asked, to which she sighed gently. “…never mind, it’s not important. What I meant is that none of us are expecting you to know how to use it all within the blink of an eye.” She replied before moving her gaze back to the phone. He peered over at the phone while knitting his brows together. None of it made any sense to him. Now the screen was black again, before the stupid symbol popped up. “..the fuck is it doing now?” He asked, moving his glance to her face. “It’s updating the software,” she spoke before shifting it to an analogy he’d understand. “..which is like maintenance on a car kind of—it makes sure everything’s working and also is.. replacing the parts in a sense. Fixing things that weren’t working and replacing them with things that will work and hopefully work better.” It took a second, but the analogy did help. “Makes sense I guess.” He spoke, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes watched for a moment before he became bored, so, he did what he usually did and turned his attention to whoever was occupying the space with him. “So tell me, how’d a gorgeous gal like you get tangled up with a fucker like Butcher anyhow?” She laughed softly but she didn’t look up at him this time. Mostly to hide the fact that she was blushing just a little. [Y/N] knew that she shouldn’t be feeling this way, by all accounts this man was still Soldier Boy. He wasn’t a good person, but the more she spent time with him the more she realized he was letting her see the man behind the persona and maybe.. maybe there was more than what he’s done in the past. After all she was preaching sympathy just moments prior. “Flattery will not get you out of the tech lesson, but since it’s updating you’ve got a little wiggle room.” She took a gentle breath before beginning to tell a very condensed version of events. “Becca, Butcher’s wife, she was my mom’s best friend. When my mom got killed in a car wreck, Becca sort of.. became my maternal figure.” Ben nodded, feeling some of the strings attached to his heart pulling. “I’m sorry about that, doll.” It was the least he could say. “Where the hell was your dad?” He asked, not knowing subtly if it were to bite him on the ass. She sighed gently. “Couldn’t tell you, never met him.” Ben could sympathize with that in a way, his own father being a piece of shit and all. “Sorry ‘bout that too.” He spoke, keeping his gaze on her own. She simply nodded before the phone’s screen lit up in the bright colors again, signifying that the software update had been completed. Picking the phone up, [Y/N] swiped up to begin the process of actually setting things up. “Okay, back to this-“ she spoke but was immediately cut off by Ben’s loud groaning. “Fuck sakes, is this really necessary?” He grumbled, which caused the woman next to him to roll her eyes. “You already know the answer to that.” Again he grumbled, acting like a mix between a grumpy old man and a stubborn child. “If this was forty years ago and some fine piece of ass was trying to tell me I had to do somethin’..” She turned and her [Y/E/C] eyes met his face with a pointed glare. There was a momentary pause as Ben contemplated whether or not to continue.

However, he was mischievous by nature and so he opted to continue on with his train of thought. “..I’d have grabbed her by her pretty little chin and talked her into getting on her knees so I could show her a better way to use that mouth.” [Y/N] again rolled her eyes. “Anyway,” she brushed it off and moved on immediately though Ben was wearing a little smirk. “Picturing it, aren’t ya’?” He asked, clearly attempting to make the woman flustered. She turned her gaze back towards him with a blank expression upon her face. “Picturing me, punching you in the face? Absolutely I am.” She answered, which had Ben’s smirk fall completely. “You new age women, chicks in my day would’ve been creaming their panties at the chance to get with Soldier Boy.” Ben grumbled, irritation showing on his face. It was amusing to [Y/N] that he thought he’d get her to crumble so easily. Pushing herself up into a better position she’d lean the phone towards the Supe. “Alright, so I made two emails—one has the Soldier Boy name on it, just in case there’s.. I don’t know people that have business offers or something. Granted, that’s if we all live and you don’t get thrown into jail or whatever they do to other Supes and the other is for, well, more personal shit. That’s the one I was telling you about when I mentioned it initially, the one that’s tied into everything on the phone. I downloaded some stuff but now you need to try it.” She handed the phone over to Ben, praying he wasn’t gonna break this one. It was clear that he was trying to hold it gently, which would’ve made her giggle out loud—however the man was in an overly sensitive state and she wasn’t going to push that. “Alright, so tap the icon that says ‘App Store’ and wait for it to open.” [Y/N]’s voice was gentle and Ben nodded, putting his finger over the square with that name underneath it. However he left it there and so the apps began to all shake. “What the fuck is happening?!” He exclaimed, to which she gently moved her hand and pressed the button labeled ‘done’. Now the apps went back to being still and she sighed. Gently she grabbed his index finger and lightly pulled it towards the screen again, Ben wanted to grumble but he was too distracted by how her fingers felt against his own. Where his skin was rough, battle tested and calloused.. hers was soft, maybe a scar here and there but nothing compared to his and the contrast? It was more enjoyable than he’d ever admit out loud. [Y/N] pulled his finger down toward the screen and gently tapped it against the screen to open the app. “You just gotta tap, see.” She spoke, letting go of his finger. “Huh.” He replied, but it wasn’t very loud. “Now typing on these things is probably gonna annoy you, it annoys us all and we’re used to the technology. Just.. try to not freak out and break it yeah? Shit is easy for you to snap, given y’know..” After she said that, she couldn’t help but to chuckle. When she did Ben felt himself smirking just a little. There was a split second where their eyes met and lingered, before she spoke up again. “Alright, so if you just click on this one it’ll take you to the place where you can download them. I think most things that are necessary for now are already there but I wanted you to know how to do it, so.. you like sports right?” She asked, tone kept gentle. “Uh, yeah, obviously little less on the up and up these days.” He replied, to which she nodded. “Alright well type in ‘MLB’ right there in that search bar, click it first though.” [Y/N] explained and for a moment Ben just stared at her, as if she had three heads. Eventually though he moved his gaze to the phone and tapped the screen over the search bar, which brought up the keyboard. “So.. these fucking things are called apps?” He asked, typing the three letters slowly into the bar and then she pointed to the blue button labeled ‘search’, which he tapped before looking up at her again.

“Yeah, they have one for just about everything these days.” She replied, pointing to the button that said ‘get’. Ben tapped it and the symbol to signify it was downloading appeared. Once it had finished, she smiled slightly before reaching underneath his arm for a second. “So, to close an app, you just swipe up like this.” Gently she placed her thumb on the screen and swiped upward to bring the phone back to the Home Screen. “Now, that closes it for the moment. Swiping up in a short motion brings up all the open ones like this-“ she explained, demonstrating. “Once they’re up like this you can swipe up again and fully close them.” She closed all of the currently open apps to demonstrate to him how to do it. “You really think I’m gonna remember all this shit?” He asked, almost glaring when he looked in her direction. It was a lot of information to take in, so she took a gentle breath and locked the phone. “Okay, fair, let’s take a break then.” [Y/N] placed Ben’s phone on the bed between them and slowly pulled out her own. He couldn’t help it, curiosity took hold and he glanced over. “You can put pictures on that thing?” He asked, noticing her Lock Screen photo of a drawing of the moon. Quirking a brow for a moment, she then figured out what he meant. “Oh, yeah! You can. Did you wanna do that on your phone?” Her voice was sweet as their eyes met yet again, bringing back the slight tension that continued to linger between them. “Fuck it, shit looks better than whatever the fuck it comes with.” He replied after a moment or so of silence. “Do you have anything specific you want?” She reached up with her free hand and tucked some of her [Y/H/C] hair behind her ear. Ben’s expression was pensive for a moment or so as he tried to think of anything he’d like to have as a background on the phone. “I dunno, just find something badass—none o’ that girly shit.” She shook her head before thinking herself, trying to figure out something she could use. “I’m gonna go take a leak.” He spoke up, pushing his frame up and off of the bed before grumbling about something and making his way over to the bathroom door. Once he’d closed it, she thought for another second before smiling to herself. Lifting the phone up at a decent angle, she quickly opened the camera app and primped herself slightly—snapping a couple of pictures of herself right after. Flicking through the few she found the one she liked the most and made it his Lock Screen wallpaper. Thumbs darted across the screen and within another two minutes or so, spent entirely on Google, she’d found a nice photo of Ben’s shield. It worked well for a Home Screen.

It wasn’t long after that [Y/N] heard the toilet flush and the sink turn on, seconds passing before the door was pulled open and Ben re-entered the bedroom. Lifting her gaze up to meet him, his green eyes held something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. She gently laid his phone onto the mattress and kept her attention on him while he sat back down onto the bed. “Are we doing more of this shit? ‘Cause I think my fuckin’ brain might implode.” His voice was deep, housing a distinct rasp to it. [Y/N] couldn’t help but to chuckle at the old man antics he was displaying before answering the question. “No, I think we’ll save some lessons for another day. After all, there’s much more than just the phone you’re gonna need to learn.” After she’d spoken, he groaned for what felt like the millionth time. “It’s amazing how you bounce between acting like a senior citizen and acting like a teenage boy.” Her voice held a humorous tone as she again chuckled, it was Ben’s turn to now offer her a pointed glare but there was definitely a layer of amusement behind it. Just as he was about to offer up a retort, the bedroom door was pushed open and Butcher popped his head in. “Oi [Y/N], need ya’ to come help Frenchie with a little project.” His accent was thick and his eyes held a wild expression that was pretty standard for the man. [Y/N] sighed and slowly pushed herself up from the mattress, but turned towards Ben with a gentle smile. “If you have any questions just.. come find me.” He nodded, because his brain wasn’t sure how to react to the little smile on her lips. Sure there was a lot of unholy and downright vulgar thoughts swimming around in his noggin about her, there had been since he laid eyes on her—however there was something more that lingered and that was causing a short circuit in his mind. She turned back to the Brit and groaned. “This better not be anything messy because the last time-“ she was cut off by Butcher’s laugh. “It ain’t, I swear.” [Y/N] rolled her eyes as the two left the room, closing the door behind them. After a couple of minutes Ben remembered [Y/N] lecturing him about locking the goddamned phone, but she had left it unlocked. Pushing the button he heard the clicking noise, but tapped onto the screen to make sure he hadn’t accidentally turned it off somehow—and that’s when he saw it. There underneath the time and the other bullshit, was a picture of her and her smiling face. Since he was by himself, he didn’t have his guard up and his lips curled upward into a smile. “Pretty lil’ lady.” He spoke out loud, his heart feeling something he’d not felt in quite some time.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hi guys! I am soooooo sorry about how long this took. Between writer’s block and my fear of it sucking, I was just struggling for a while. This is my first attempt at writing for Ben so if it’s bad, I’m sorry! He’s a more complex character to nail in writing and hopefully I’ll get better at it over time. Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

• —– ٠ tag list: @roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester @stillhere197 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @aylacavebear @ladysparkles78 @globetrotter28 @jc-winchester ✤ ٠ —– • ·

[sp7-mr]

[nobitchs-world]

Me after explaining the multiverse of different people and characters where I have different ocs in my head to my sisters

[adiraargent]

Like you love me - Mattheo Riddle

warnings: fluff, kissing summary: you catch your boyfriend looking at you from across the room...

Mattheo Riddle leaned against the wall, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched you across the room. You were engrossed in a conversation, your laughter ringing through the air. He couldn't help but admire the way your eyes sparkled when you smiled, the way your expressions animated every story you told. As he lost himself in observing you, you suddenly caught his gaze and made your way toward him.

"Don't look at me like that," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes as you joined him by the wall.

"How am I looking at you?" Mattheo replied, arching an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

"Like you love me," you said with a mischievous grin, a hint of amusement coloring your tone.

Mattheo's expression softened, the corners of his lips curling up into a genuine smile. "Maybe I do," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, almost lost in the ambient noise around you.

Your breath hitched at his words, the air suddenly charged with an unspoken tension. His gaze held yours, a silent invitation lingering between you both. Without a word, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle yet filled with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

In that moment, everything else seemed to fade away, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. The music, the chatter, the bustling atmosphere—it all became background noise, insignificant compared to the electricity crackling in the air.

"Maybe?" you echoed softly, your heart pounding against your chest, anticipation building with every passing second.

Mattheo leaned in closer, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. And then, with a whisper-soft touch, his lips met yours in a tender, hesitant kiss. It was a delicate dance of emotions, a silent confession spoken through the meeting of lips.

Time seemed to stand still as you melted into each other's embrace, the world around you fading into a blissful blur. In that fleeting moment, nothing else mattered except the undeniable truth that hung between you both—a love that had silently woven itself into the fabric of your connection.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes met again, now filled with an unspoken understanding, a shared acknowledgment of something beautiful that had just been awakened between you.

"Maybe," Mattheo repeated, his voice now tinged with a certainty that mirrored the newfound depth in his gaze, "I definitely do."

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

[emmyrosee]

I would like to share that Sukuna is the typa guy to bite you affectionately

Like as in take a whole chuck of your cheek type of biting 😭

OH HE SO IS, AND HE ALSO DOES IT UNPROVOKED THE LITTLE MONSTER.

There’s times when you know you’re going to get bitten, just. Because. And it’s not always hard, per se. Like, when you’re fresh out of the shower and you smell extra good, skin warm from the water, he stalks up to you and rests his beefy hands on your hips and buries his face in your neck, taking deep inhales of your scent.

“Pervert,” you giggle, and he digs his nails into the meat of your hips in retaliation.

“You smell divine,” he murmurs, nose tracing up the side of your neck, to the spot behind your ear. It’s one of the things you always found interesting about sukuna, how when you’re basically turned into a human version of freshly washed blanket, he’s completely at your mercy and extremely pliant.

Then, as you open your mouth to speak, he turns his head and sinks his teeth into the flesh of your cheek, canines stinging your flesh as the bite grows harder. “Sukuna,” you grumble in warning, already knowing there’s going to be more than a bite mark that you’ll have to blame on his dog for. He snarls but pulls back, pressing a kiss to the spot as if to soothe it. “Thank you.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t like my bites. I thought you liked the affection shit.”

“I do,” you assure, resting your head against him. “But you leave marks. Bite gentle.” You angle your head up to look at him, “but I do love your bites. Because they’re from you.”

“Eugh.”

“I just wish you’d be more gentle with them, stinkerbutt.”

“Genuinely hate when you talk to me.”

Other times, Sukuna is just… feral.

You could be doing anything on the planet- brushing your teeth, chopping carrots, folding laundry, and he just sneaks up behind you and grabs your chin in his beefy hand, and for a half a second you’re like “omg he’s so cute-“ and then he absolutely chomps your lips, teeth coming down hard enough to draw blood from the bottom lip if he’s not careful with his cuteness aggression.

“Owww,” you whine, dropping your laundry and coming up to grab his shoulders, trying to reel your head back from the bite. “Whyyyy?”

“I must mark my territory,” he says simply, thumb rolling over the now sore mark on your lip. "You'll thank me one day."

"Kuna, I'm very rarely without you, I wear your clothes and your colognes, your hair is everywhere, there isn't much more territory for you to mark."

He rolls his eyes into the back of his skull, and when you scoff at his dramatics, he leans over to gently press a kiss to the slightly still throbbing lip. You can't help but smile softly, "there. That enough to stop your bitchin' and moanin'?"

"For now," you hum, pressing another kiss to his lips