#the curtains are never just blue in this game

[missmadella]

Unspoken Currents (Kenma x Reader)

Summary: From the outside, it seemed simple enough—just a study session with Kenma, right? Books, papers, and pens scattered around. Nothing that would raise any eyebrows. But what you didn’t see was the tension, the way Kenma’s focus would drift from the textbook to me, how the silence between us wasn’t awkward, but heavy with something unspoken.

Words: 6435

Kenma’s room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft blue glow of his gaming monitor and the gentle afternoon sun filtering through half-closed curtains. His desk was cluttered with textbooks, notes, and a neglected open laptop — all untouched for the last forty minutes.

You weren’t even sure how it started this time. One moment you were both sitting on the floor going over math problems, Kenma absently twirling his pencil while mumbling through an equation. The next, he was leaning over you, hand brushing your knee, his eyes flicking down to your lips in that slow, unspoken way that always made your breath catch. You should’ve been solving formulas — but your backs were now against the edge of his bed, and Kenma’s lips were on yours, warm and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

His fingers tangled in the hem of your shirt, just a light touch — not enough to push boundaries, but enough to remind you that this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“You’re not even pretending to study anymore,” you whispered against his mouth, trying to sound playful, but your voice came out breathy.

“I opened a textbook,” he murmured back, barely pulling away. “That’s halfway there.”

You laughed softly, the sound quiet against the thick stillness of the room. His hand found yours and rested there between you, thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin. There was something sweet about the way he touched you — never rushed, never rough. Just soft, secretive affection. Like you were both afraid the room might hear too much.

“You think Kuroo’s figured it out yet?” you asked, glancing toward the window out of habit — like someone might be listening in. You didn’t know why it made you nervous. Maybe it was because this — whatever this was between you and Kenma — had never been meant to happen under the cover of “study sessions.”

Kenma shook his head slightly. “He thinks you’re helping me pass physics,” he said, deadpan.

“And you are?”

“Barely.”

You snorted, but the laughter melted into silence again as Kenma leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes, half-lidded and steady, searched yours like he was memorizing your face for later.

“I like it like this,” he said quietly. “No one else. Just you and me.”

Your heart kicked a little faster, not from the kissing or the secrecy — but from the way he said that. Like he didn’t need anything else. Like it didn’t matter that it was all hidden away.

You nodded. “Me too.”

And then he kissed you again — slower this time. Lazy, careful. Like you had all the time in the world… even if you only had until Kuroo started wondering why neither of you was answering your phones.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kenma’s kiss was slow — almost too slow — like he was afraid to move too fast and break whatever invisible thread was holding the two of you together.

Your hands had found the collar of his hoodie, fingers curling there like you needed something to hold onto, something to anchor you while everything else slipped away. His fingers had moved from your hand to your waist now, resting lightly, but with that familiar hesitation — like every time he touched you, he was still making sure it was real.

He kissed you again. Then again. His lips pressed to yours like he couldn’t stop, like pulling away wasn’t even an option anymore. You both should’ve pulled back. Should’ve remembered this was supposed to be a study session. But that excuse had stopped meaning anything the moment your mouths found each other again.

You smiled a little against his lips, breath catching when he tilted his head just slightly, deepening it. Your back hit the edge of his bed as you leaned back without thinking, pulling him with you. Kenma followed — knee on the floor, hand on your thigh for balance, the quiet sound of his breath between kisses barely louder than the soft rustle of clothes against carpet.

“How… how did this even happen?” you mumbled against his mouth, dazed. “We were supposed to be—”

“Studying?” he interrupted, barely lifting his lips from yours. His voice was quiet and raspy, the kind he only used when he was completely relaxed — or completely lost in you.

You nodded slowly, your eyes fluttering open just enough to look at him — to really see him. Hair slightly messy from where your fingers had tangled in it, hoodie collar askew, cheeks faintly pink.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes half-lidded and honest. “I didn’t think it would be like this. With you.”

You swallowed, heart tripping over itself as he kissed you again, slower this time. Not rushed. Not needy. Just there, fully present.

Kenma wasn’t usually like this — not verbal, not open. He was quiet by nature, unreadable unless you knew how to look past the surface. But here, in the low-lit hush of his room, with your lips still tingling from the last kiss and your breath tangled in his hoodie, he was open in a way he never was with anyone else.

“Me neither,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to stop.”

His hand moved, thumb brushing against your cheekbone, lingering like he was memorizing your skin. “Then don’t.”

And with that, he kissed you again, slower this time, like he could stay there forever. His fingers traced your jawline, gentle and reverent, like he was still surprised you were real — that this was real. Like maybe he’d been asking himself the same thing you were: how had something that started as a lie — a fake study session — turned into this? Into late afternoons spent with his mouth on yours, and the quiet ache of missing each other between every session?

Neither of you had an answer. But in that moment, you didn’t need one.

Because his lips were on yours again, and you both understood the truth in the silence:

You couldn’t get enough of each other. And neither of you wanted to stop.

___________________________________________________________________________

The room felt quieter now, like even the world outside had agreed to hush for a while — just long enough to give the two of you this.

Kenma hadn’t moved far from you — barely a breath apart — his forehead resting against yours, the weight of his body hovering, his fingers now tracing slow, thoughtful shapes along your hip through the fabric of your jeans. His touch was light, like he didn’t want to break whatever spell was hanging between you.

Neither of you said anything for a while. There was no need to.

You could feel his breath against your lips, warm and steady. You’d both kissed so much that your lips were tingling — but he still hadn’t let go. He still looked at you like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

“Your lips are red,” he murmured after a long silence, his voice soft and a little amused.

You laughed quietly, your fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “So are yours.”

He blinked at that, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him, then leaned in and kissed you again anyway — slow and indulgent. The kind of kiss that didn’t try to lead anywhere, didn’t need to. Just a lazy, lingering press of mouths, like he was letting himself enjoy every second of it. And you kissed him back like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

It wasn’t just physical anymore — not really. That part had come surprisingly easy after the first time, when everything had exploded in a rush of confused feelings and messy desire behind the excuse of “helping him study.”

But this? This quiet part? This was the part that crept in when no one was watching. When the kisses slowed down and his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth just to see you smile. When your head rested against his shoulder and he played with your fingers, never saying a word. When he pulled you a little closer even though you were already in his lap, and whispered things like, “Stay longer,” without really asking.

This was the part that scared you a little. Because you weren’t sure when it had stopped being just a hookup. You weren’t sure when you started noticing how tired he looked after practice, or how he always smelled like his shampoo — clean and a little like vanilla. Or when you started to care more about how he was doing than what excuse you’d use next time to see him.

Maybe he felt it too.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Kenma muttered, eyes still closed, like he could hear your thoughts in the quiet between kisses.

You smiled faintly. “Am I?”

He nodded slightly and opened his eyes again, looking at you in that soft, unguarded way that always left you breathless. “Don’t,” he said gently. “Not right now.”

And just like that, your overthinking melted away. Because he was right. There was nothing to figure out, not here — not while the room was still warm with stolen time, not while he was holding you like this.

So you kissed him again. Because that was the only thing that made sense.

And when he kissed you back — his hand curling into your shirt to pull you just a little closer, like he couldn’t stand the thought of even a few inches of space between you — you knew you weren’t alone in this.

Whatever it was, whatever it was becoming… it was real. Quiet. Hidden.

But real.

__________________________________________________________________________

You were half in his lap, one of your legs stretched out over the carpet, your head tucked against Kenma’s shoulder like you belonged there. His hand rested low on your back, thumb making lazy, soothing circles, while your fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve.

Neither of you had said anything in minutes. You didn’t need to. The silence had turned warm, sleepy, safe.

Until there was a knock at the door.

It was sharp. Too loud in the quiet of the room.

You both froze.

You could feel the tension roll through Kenma’s body instantly — the way his muscles tensed under your hand, how his breath hitched and caught in his throat. Your eyes met in the thick silence that followed, wide and alarmed.

Then came the voice.

“Yo, Kenma? You alive in there?” Kuroo.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Kenma swore under his breath — something short and quiet — and you scrambled off him, both of you moving too fast, tangled in limbs and panic. You grabbed your bag, flipping it open like you were mid-study session, heart pounding as Kenma rushed to sit up straighter, grabbing a random notebook from his floor like it would somehow mask the fact that he’d been kissing you breathless less than thirty seconds ago.

Another knock. “I brought snacks. Figured you might need motivation or, like, actual food.”

Kenma’s voice came out hoarse, and you winced at how obvious it sounded. “Just— give me a second.”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. Come in— wait, no. I mean— I’m… I’m busy.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, even as your pulse thrummed in your ears.

Kenma shot you a look — half-frantic, half-annoyed at himself — and you were pretty sure it mirrored your own expression.

Outside the door, there was a pause. Then Kuroo’s voice again, curious and too close for comfort. “Is she in there?”

You froze.

Kenma blinked, then leaned back a little and said, completely deadpan, “We’re doing physics.”

There was silence. You could feel Kuroo trying to decide whether or not to believe that.

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo finally said. “Well, make sure the only thing accelerating is your grades, alright?”

Your mouth dropped open. Kenma’s ears flushed red.

You smacked his arm lightly and mouthed what the hell at him, but he just gave you a helpless look like what was I supposed to say?

After a moment, Kuroo’s footsteps retreated, and the hallway quieted again.

Kenma let out a long breath, then flopped backward onto the floor, covering his face with one arm. You collapsed next to him, wide-eyed and trying not to burst into nervous laughter.

“Physics,” you whispered, grinning.

“It was the first thing I could think of,” he muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve.

You turned your head to look at him, your smile softening just a little. “That was way too close.”

Kenma peeked at you from under his arm, then reached out and tugged you closer again, just enough for your shoulders to bump. “We should probably stop,” he said.

You looked at him. “Do you want to?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then: “No.”

You leaned in and kissed him one more time, just a quick, stolen thing. “Me neither.”

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t get much more study time after the physics incident. After Kuroo left, the two of you were too shaken — and a little too giddy — to go back to equations. Instead, you lay side by side on the floor, hearts still racing, stealing quiet glances and whispers like you hadn’t just almost been caught in the middle of making out.

But the moment passed.

And the next day, everything felt… different.

Not between you and Kenma — not really. But in the hallway, when Kuroo passed you between classes, he gave you a look. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just… sharp. Like he’d noticed something off. Like maybe the pieces were starting to click.

Later that day, Kenma found you at your locker. Hoodie on, hood up, hair falling into his eyes. “He said something weird at lunch.”

“Kuroo?”

Kenma nodded. “He said I seemed ‘less stressed’ lately.” A pause. “Then asked if physics was that relaxing.”

You winced. “He knows.”

“He suspects,” Kenma corrected, voice calm but laced with tension. “He’s not dumb.”

You fell silent, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You weren’t ashamed of this — of him. But something about being found out made your chest twist. The privacy of it had been your little world. Quiet. Yours.

Kenma must’ve noticed your silence, because after a beat, he said softly, “Do you want to stop?”

Your eyes shot to his, surprised. “No.”

He looked down for a second, hands in his pockets, then leaned slightly against the locker next to yours, still facing you. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I don’t want anyone else having this. Not yet.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “What do you mean?”

Kenma shifted a little, clearly searching for words — something he didn’t always like doing. But this time, he tried. For you.

“I like that it’s just us. No one asking questions. No one watching us, or making it into something bigger than it is. I don’t want to have to explain it to anyone.” He paused. “I don’t want to share you yet.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

There was no dramatics in the way he said it. No over-the-top declarations. Just quiet honesty — the kind that hit deeper because it was so rare from him.

You nodded, smiling softly. “I feel the same.”

Kenma’s shoulders relaxed a little at that. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back to you. He leaned in — not to kiss you, not here — but just to let his hand brush yours for the briefest second before pulling away.

“We’ll be more careful,” he murmured. “Promise.”

But you both knew the tension was creeping in. That Kuroo wasn’t going to let this go.

Still, for now, you had this — the little moments. The secret touches. The shared looks in the hallway, the long afternoons in his room, the slow-burning way he always pulled you closer when he thought no one could see.

You had him. And that was enough.

For now.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was late. The kind of late where the world outside had gone still, and the quiet felt thicker than usual. The only sound in Kenma’s room was the hum of his PC in sleep mode and the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted beside you.

You were curled up in his bed — half under his blanket, half wrapped around him — both of you stretched out sideways across the mattress, your limbs tangled like neither of you had planned to move anytime soon.

The room smelled faintly like his shampoo and your vanilla chapstick, the scent of comfort and something soft you couldn’t quite name. The textbook you’d brought was still sitting at the edge of the desk, unopened. Again.

Kenma’s hand rested on your back, under your shirt — not for anything more than the warmth of skin-on-skin, the grounding weight of you being there. His thumb moved slowly, back and forth, just enough to keep you in the moment.

“You fall asleep, or just pretending?” he asked quietly, his voice low and a little raspy from how little he’d spoken tonight.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Just listening.”

“To what?”

“You breathing. The fan. Your heartbeat.”

There was a long pause, then the quiet shift of him exhaling against your hair. “That’s weird,” he murmured. But it didn’t sound like a complaint.

You smiled into his hoodie. “You like it.”

Kenma didn’t argue.

You tilted your head up to look at him. His face was relaxed, eyes soft and half-lidded as he looked down at you. No tension in his jaw, no guarded silence like he sometimes got in crowds. He looked safe. Like this was the only place he wanted to be.

“How long do you think we can keep this just ours?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out like a thought you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

Kenma was quiet for a moment, his fingers pausing against your back.

“Not forever,” he said eventually. “But I want it to be real before anyone else gets to talk about it.”

You blinked up at him. “Isn’t it already real?”

His eyes met yours — and this time, they didn’t drift away. “Yeah. But it’s starting to feel different.”

“Different how?”

Kenma shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then another to your cheek. Then — just barely — one to your lips, so slow and soft it felt like a whisper.

“Like I’d tell them if they asked,” he said against your mouth. “Even Kuroo.”

You kissed him again. A little longer this time.

Then you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, letting it answer the question you didn’t know how to ask:

Do you feel this too?

He did.

And tonight, in the warmth of his bed and the quiet of the world outside, you both let yourselves feel it — no rush, no labels, no eyes on you. Just two people wrapped in the soft, honest kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be hidden, even if it still was.

___________________________________________________________________________

It happened on a Thursday.

You’d come by after class, the way you always did lately — under the excuse of a study session that, by now, absolutely no one believed. Kenma had left the door cracked, expecting you. You barely knocked.

Inside, the air was the same as always — low light from his desk lamp, faint scent of instant ramen and whatever game he’d paused. He barely looked up from his switch when you sat on the bed beside him. But the second your fingers brushed his hoodie sleeve, he leaned into you.

Simple. Familiar. Yours.

You thought you had time before Kuroo came home.

You were wrong.

The front door creaked open downstairs — louder than usual — and you both froze. A voice followed, casual, knowing.

“I knew it.”

Kenma blinked. You stared at the door. Footsteps. Closer now. Too late to pretend.

Kuroo’s head popped around the corner of the doorframe like he already knew exactly what he was walking into. “So. Physics, huh?”

You groaned quietly and dropped your forehead into Kenma’s shoulder. Kenma didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

Kuroo raised a brow, arms crossed. “You could’ve told me, you know.”

Kenma finally looked up, eyes calm. Unbothered. “Why? So you could make fun of me?”

Kuroo blinked. “No. So I could stop sending her in here to study with you when you’re clearly already getting top grades in—”

“—don’t finish that sentence,” you muttered, pulling a pillow into your lap.

Kenma tilted his head just slightly, watching Kuroo’s reaction the way he watched difficult boss fights — patient, but focused. Then he said it. Plain. No apology.

“We’re together.”

Kuroo stilled.

For a second, you thought he’d tease. That he’d smirk or say something sarcastic or start a speech about how he called it months ago.

But he didn’t. Instead, he looked between the two of you — your flushed face, Kenma’s quiet protectiveness — and his expression shifted. Something softer. Older-brotherish.

“…Okay,” he said. “I’m not mad. Just — surprised you actually caught feelings.”

Kenma shrugged. “I didn’t mean to.”

Your heart skipped at that. He hadn’t meant to — but he had. And he wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Kuroo let out a long breath. “Well. Don’t be weird about it at practice.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“What do you want, a dramatic speech? I’m not your anime protagonist.” He turned to leave, muttering under his breath. “God. I feel like I walked in on my kids.”

When the door shut behind him, Kenma was quiet for a long beat.

Then he turned to you, lips twitching. “Told you he wouldn’t care.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t say that.”

“I thought it really loud,” he said, leaning in until your foreheads touched. “You just weren’t listening.”

You laughed, breathless with relief, and kissed him — not rushed, not secret — just soft and open and real.

No more hiding.

No more pretending it was just studying.

You were his now. Publicly.

And somehow, that made it feel even more real.

___________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect it to feel so different.

After Kuroo found out, it only took a day for the rest of the team to know — not because Kenma announced it or you posted about it, but because Kuroo is incapable of keeping anything to himself when he’s excited.

Which, apparently, he was.

“You’re dating Kenma?” Lev had asked in disbelief at lunch the next day, like you’d just said you were in a relationship with a ghost or a cat. “Like, actual Kenma?”

You just raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Lev. Actual Kenma.”

Lev blinked. “Huh. Wild.”

Yaku smacked him upside the head before he could say something worse, and that was that.

No one made a big deal out of it, but things changed in small, strange ways. During practice, Kuroo would shoot Kenma a knowing smirk if you happened to show up after class. Yamamoto looked like he was dying to ask for details but was too scared to make it weird. Even Coach Nekomata raised an eyebrow once during warmups and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Finally.”

But the biggest shift was with Kenma.

Now that it wasn’t a secret, he didn’t pull away when people looked. He didn’t hesitate when you walked into the gym or flinch if your hands brushed in the hallway. It wasn’t like he got more affectionate in public — he was still Kenma, after all — but there was this quiet confidence to it now. This steadiness.

He would wait for you after class.

He would hold your hand under the table if he knew no one was watching.

And when you were alone, it was like nothing had changed — except now the moments felt freer. Lighter. Like breathing fresh air after holding it in for too long.

That night, back in his room, you lay with him again — only this time, you didn’t need to jump apart at the sound of footsteps or make excuses if someone knocked on the door.

Kenma was half-asleep, hoodie pulled over his head, one arm lazily slung around your waist. You toyed with his fingers, smiling at how quiet the world had gone.

“You okay with this?” you asked softly, almost afraid to break the peace.

He didn’t open his eyes. Just squeezed your hand once. “Yeah.”

“You sure? No second thoughts now that everyone knows?”

He cracked one eye open, his voice low and certain. “I waited this long to say something. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t have said it at all.”

You smiled, heart full. “I really like you, you know.”

Kenma pulled you closer and buried his face in your neck.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why it scares me sometimes.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You didn’t need to.

You just held him tighter and let the quiet settle around you — not secret anymore, not hidden. Just yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

The game was nothing special — just a small local tournament. Kenma had agreed to sub in for another team after Nekomata gave his blessing, and you'd gone with him, mostly for moral support (and snacks).

It wasn’t a serious match. Not really. But you could tell he was still trying — even if he didn’t say it out loud. You watched from the bleachers, arms tucked in your hoodie, cheering quietly every time his fingers danced across a clean set or he caught a tricky serve with that unreadable focus of his.

When the final point landed and Kenma’s team won, the whole bench erupted in a quiet kind of pride. He didn’t smile big — Kenma never did — but he glanced up toward you in the crowd like he needed to make sure you had seen.

You had.

Later, when the sky had dimmed and the crowd had cleared, you found yourself walking beside him down the quiet street back to the station. His hoodie was slung over your shoulders now, and your fingers brushed with every step.

“You played really well,” you said, nudging his arm gently.

Kenma looked ahead. “Thanks.”

“You never give yourself enough credit.”

“You give me enough for both of us.”

You laughed softly — then fell quiet as you reached the bench near the corner, where you always waited when the train ran late. He sat first, then pulled you down gently beside him. Without a word, he laced his fingers through yours.

There were people around. Not many, but enough.

Still, he didn’t let go.

You glanced over at him — the soft curve of his mouth, the slight sheen of sweat still at his temple, the way his hair curled slightly from the humidity.

“You okay?” you asked.

He was quiet for a second. Then:

“…Yeah.”

And then, out of nowhere, his voice dropped even quieter.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

The words hung there. Not loud, not grand, not even looking at you — he was still staring ahead, as if the sky had asked him a question and that was just the answer.

But your breath caught.

He glanced at you then. Just barely. Just enough to make sure he hadn’t said it wrong.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he added, softer. “I just wanted you to know. I think I always did.”

You stared at him for a second. Not because you were unsure — but because you’d been waiting. For this. For him. To say it like this — quietly, honestly, without pressure or fear.

“I love you too,” you said.

No hesitation.

No nerves.

Just the truth.

Kenma’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand — once, twice — before he leaned his head on your shoulder.

No one stared. No one asked questions.

The world kept turning.

But something had shifted.

And from that moment on, everything — even the silence — felt full of something warm and unspoken.

Love.

Real, slow, steady love.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was one of those nights where everything felt like it slowed down. The hum of the city outside, the soft glow of the lamp by his bed, and the quiet that settled between the two of you, more comfortable than ever.

Kenma sat with his back against the headboard, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the edge of the bed, and his phone in hand — but you could tell his attention wasn’t really on it. It never was when you were near.

You leaned against him, your back pressed to his chest, the space between you closing as you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away — he just held your hand loosely, like he was waiting for you to say something.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but you found yourself letting out a soft sigh, your words barely above a whisper.

“I really love you, Kenma.”

His thumb traced the outline of your hand, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know.”

“Do you know how much?” You tilted your head back slightly, letting the words hang in the air for a second. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”

Kenma’s fingers tightened slightly around yours, his voice a little quieter now. “I don’t think I have either.”

You turned in his arms, your body pressed against his, his chest warm beneath you. His eyes met yours — that familiar soft look, that mix of intensity and quiet affection that he didn’t always show but always felt.

“I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke. "I don’t want to hide anymore. I want this... us... to be something real."

Kenma paused for a moment, as if considering your words, before slowly bringing his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks. His touch was gentle, but his gaze was intense, like he wanted to make sure you understood every bit of what he was about to say.

“I don’t want to hide either,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your forehead. “I want you here. With me. Always.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, making your breath hitch. You could feel the weight of everything you’d built together — how much it meant that he wasn’t just in this for the fun or the fleeting moments. He was in it for real, just like you were.

Before you could respond, Kenma’s lips were on yours — slow, tender, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. His hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a quiet urgency, like he couldn’t get enough of you, but also didn’t want to rush it.

You kissed him back, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as if you could press yourselves into one. His body felt warm and solid against yours, and you let yourself get lost in it — in him — in the love that didn’t need to be loud or dramatic to feel real.

Kenma broke away for a moment, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath shallow but steady.

“I love you,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, like the words had been waiting to be said for so long. “More than I thought I could love anyone.”

You smiled softly, your forehead resting against his, your hands now running through his messy hair.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart beating in time with his. “So much.”

Without another word, his lips were on yours again, the kiss a little deeper, a little more urgent this time. You could feel his hands trailing down your back, pulling you in closer, as if he was marking this moment — this time where you both knew, without a doubt, that you were in this together, completely.

The world outside didn’t matter. Kuroo’s teasing or the way the team would look at you when they found out. All that mattered was the quiet between the two of you, the weight of his hands on your skin, and the love that grew every time you touched.

For now, there were no barriers. No secrets. Just the two of you — kissing, touching, loving each other in the space you had carved out together.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless and smiling, Kenma tucked his head into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let you go.

“I really love you,” he mumbled against your skin.

And for the first time, you didn’t need to say it back right away. Because you both knew — in the way your hearts beat in sync, in the way his hands held you just a little tighter — that the words, no matter how often you said them, would never be enough to describe what you felt.

But that didn’t matter.

Because you had this.

And that was more than enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been a few years since you and Kenma had started living together. His career as a streamer had skyrocketed, bringing him an impressive following and the kind of wealth that allowed him to live in a house that could have been taken straight out of the pages of a magazine. Spacious, modern, and sleek — but still comfortably cozy in all the ways that mattered.

His streaming setup was the centerpiece of the living room, a wall of neon-lit monitors, game consoles, and a few scattered action figures — including a rare one from his favorite game series. The space had become a blend of work and home life. The air was a little quieter now, with Kenma’s streams being a regular part of the day. You’d learned to navigate the rhythm of his career, and he’d learned to balance it with his personal life — something neither of you had imagined would be so natural.

Tonight, the two of you were relaxed, sitting together on the couch, his legs stretched out while you leaned into his side. He was streaming, but the vibe had changed. It wasn’t just him in front of the camera anymore. You’d gotten used to sitting beside him, letting his fans see glimpses of you — the person he’d been so quiet about at first. Now, they’d gotten used to your presence in the background, and they didn’t even make a big deal out of it.

Kenma had always been private, but over time, you’d become his steady, unspoken foundation — the person who was always there, supporting him quietly from the sidelines, even when the world was watching.

The chat was buzzing as usual with messages, but tonight, a particular message caught Kenma’s eye.

[Chat]: “Hey Kenma, is [Y/N] home today?”

Kenma didn’t immediately respond, his gaze still locked on the game in front of him. But you could feel his slight tension — the way his fingers hesitated on the controller, the way he glanced over at you, his eyes flicking to the camera for just a split second.

He’d gotten used to the questions, but this one felt different. His followers had gotten curious about you over time, and it had become an inside joke in his chat about how mysterious you were. Kenma always deflected in his usual, low-key way, but there was something a little more... affectionate in his approach lately.

[Chat]: “Come on, Kenma, we wanna see [Y/N]!”

You looked up at him, a playful grin on your face. “Go ahead. Let them see me. You’re always ignoring them anyway.”

Kenma shot you a glance, his lips twitching. “You’re not the one getting bombarded with questions.”

You chuckled, your fingers trailing along his arm in a comforting way. “It’s fine. I don’t mind them. You can just tell them to stop being so nosy.”

Kenma paused the game, turned slightly toward the camera, and tilted his head. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, half-smiling as he addressed the chat. “She’s here. Happy?”

[Chat]: “Omg it’s really [Y/N]! We finally get to see them!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the flood of excited messages that immediately followed, but Kenma didn’t seem to mind. His eyes stayed soft, and you could tell he wasn’t bothered by the attention at all. In fact, you could see the small shift — the way he now casually acknowledged that you were a part of his world, both on and off the screen.

“You’re lucky I like you, Kenma,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.

Kenma glanced down at you, a hint of affection in his expression. “You’re lucky I don’t mind my fans being nosy.”

You gave him a small, contented smile, your hand settling over his. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just don’t forget to love me even when they’re asking about me every time you’re live.”

He squeezed your hand softly, his gaze softening. “I love you all the time. Not just when I’m streaming.”

The chat flooded with heart emojis and comments about how “cute” the two of you were. For a moment, you could almost feel the warmth of it. The knowledge that no matter what the world saw, you and Kenma had created a space for yourselves. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that was enough.

[Chat]: “Kenma, when are we getting a couple’s stream?”

Kenma raised an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Maybe never,” he said dryly, but there was no mistaking the affection in his voice. “But if you’re nice, I’ll let her hang out during more streams.”

You nudged him with your elbow, your face warm at the thought of it. “We’ll see,” you said playfully. “But I do have my limits.”

Kenma turned back to the game, his fingers resuming their steady rhythm on the controller. He glanced at you again, his voice low but filled with the kind of sincerity that always made your heart skip.

“Thanks for being here,” he said, almost as if it was something he needed to remind himself of.

You squeezed his hand. “Always.”

The stream continued, the chat flowing with messages of support and excitement. But for you and Kenma, it didn’t matter how many eyes were watching. You had each other. And as the night stretched on, you stayed close — comfortable in the silence, content in the love that didn’t need to be broadcasted for the world to see.

Because for the first time in a long time, Kenma didn’t just have a screen in front of him. He had you.

And that was all that mattered.

[ursaspecter]

Sometimes a scar is just a scar until someone points out it looks like they took a smashed bottle to the face. And then you realize the character with that scar had an alcoholic dad he doesn't like to talk about.

[eggbagelz]

Oh and speaking of urius

[bl4ckbox]

as a veteran of the media opinions website I have to respect the right to varying media opinions but one thing I will not compromise on is that diegetics as a serious form of literary analysis or critique is largely fucking stupid and just straight up wrong

[hamofjustice]

The more people I see present it this way, it really does seem like the primary thing her character is about, and I think that's really cool.

And I also suspect there are some other things going on under the surface with Nemona as well, that I wonder if we'll ever get to see more of, mostly having to do with her upbringing. I'm not going to give quite as much of a non-player-friendly screenshot-filled presentation on it (I already feel a little rude piggybacking on a post about neurodivergence, but it's so important to her character that it seems like an ideal launching point):

It seems to me that Nemona's classmates that don't like her (or at least Arven, for a while) think of her as an out-of-touch nepo baby who gets whatever she wants and/or a gifted kid who never has to try at things they all struggle with. She seems to be the focus of people her age's jealousy. Her peers seem to be generally depressed and angry they can never be like her (something Pokemon Masters confirms and doubles down on), even though they totally can, and as Geeta says, a Champion's role is supposed to be inspiring others to greatness.

Nemona, meanwhile, insists that she hates all the credit for what she's achieved as a trainer (and presumably also in school, as we're told she's both a straight-A student and the student council president) being attributed to being a natural-born "whiz" or "raised differently" (it really feels like they wanted to say "gifted kid" and "privileged" here, and I read it as such) and that while she did become a Champion pretty easily because she was having fun / "dove in deep" (hyperfixated on it) (and was surprised to learn that wasn't normal, but is still pretty sure the player will be able to relate to how it feels. interesting.) most things in life are not easy for her, and no one seems to notice the hard work she puts in. Nemona states outright that she isn't sure if becoming a Champion for her previous Treasure Hunt actually made her happy. But her new friend becoming one too just for her sure did. I think they should've gotten to hug each other but I'll happily accept them holding hands in the TV ad. Aaanyway...

We see on several occasions at the start and end of the base game that Nemona has more problems with her stamina than even Penny, needing to take multiple breathers on the way to the Academy despite her athletic looks (and shrugs it off as being "full of surprises" when this is commented on), but Pokemon Masters revealed later that this is actually something she's very unhappy with herself about and that she thinks she's letting her Pokemon down by not being as fit as they are, which is quite unfair to herself if she actually has some chronic condition. Which is what they seem to be implying here. I don't know if you want to consider that game canon of course, but all of her writing in it seems well-thought out enough that i accept it as such. She still complains about Mesagoza's stairs in Masters just like she does in SV, too, and considers not being good at catching Pokemon an "uncool side of herself" she's glad she can keep hidden on an island with no wild Pokemon... but wants to practice and get better at it anyway.

To get to the point! With that bonus exposition, I suspect a few things are going on with Nemona, in the background, and I don't expect them all to be true at once necessarily, but:

I think... Nemona does not get much support from her family at all, and she perhaps was even in denial when she said she was fine with them being hands-off with her because her unnamed sister is the company heir. I don't think she would want to get much support from them either, given her attitude about working for everything she has. I don't think she's a privileged person trying to say she isn't when she says she works hard, given the way she's depicted otherwise. She never goes into her house, she refuses to have your sentimental first champion battle behind her house despite understanding it would be a callback to your first battle, and she never talks about her family at all unless someone else brings it up, despite them being famous. She seems to think the player and Penny's parents sound nice, though.

I also wondered if the writers were trying to establish a pattern with her saying they're "hands off in a good way" and not being able to tell the difference between a happy family reunion and your 'Raidon cowering in traumatized fear of impending violence. Yeah. Something else to think about.

Players may notice Nemona's dorm room, the Zona Nemona, her home away from home, is stated to be "very tidy" and... contains almost no decoration or personalization, even compared to the blank-slate player character, who does take the time to decorate their dorm and original bedroom. It even lacks basic things like a rug under the bed like the other three dorms have. Basically all Nemona has out in her room to set herself apart from the others is her choice of bedspread, some badges and plaques marking her achievements, a strict schedule, and her excess of Pokemon's food and Balls reflecting that she has multiple teams.

(Well, okay, and what appears to be a wall mounted flat screen TV, maybe she does get some family money, maybe she just saved up for that at the expense of everything else. Either way, I know the designers thought about it, and I love seeing that in a Pokemon game. I love seeing all of this stuff in a Pokemon game, even if the main world map is kinda a little bit of a big empty field sometimes.)

I think, consciously or subconsciously, Nemona is trying to impress her family and get them to take her seriously, which takes on a darker tone if she really does have all these genetic issues. Or she wants to impress the adults in her life that I think function as her surrogate family, like Geeta and Clavell. (I also like to think Rika inspired her to dye the tips of her hair.) I also wonder if comments from Geeta about what a Champion should be like have been getting under Nemona's skin unintentionally. I wonder how much insecurity she's hiding behind a facade if she can shrug off being mocked about things she's legitimately bothered by. I wonder what she's normally like if Geeta says she's only this excited around us. I wonder if "needing a battle to clear her head" like she does when that one kid won't battle her is something she does a lot. Seems like it would cause a nasty feedback loop.

Anyway, the emptiness of her room when the other kids' rooms say so much about their owners feels itself like it's trying to say something. Like, while there is evidence that she only battles because she thinks it's fun and no other reason, I could also see Nemona being so busy overachieving and trying to appear like the perfect student and perfect champion (honestly two very intertwined things in this region) that she does not express herself in any other way where the people she's trying to impress can see it, and is afraid to leave her mess out, figuratively or literally. It could just be a lack of aesthetic interest, but... even her phone case is just plain black compared to Arven's Floette case and Penny's Eevee case despite being the daughter of the Rotom Phone company CEO. I just have to go "what did they mean by this" at stuff like that. Or at the "Sibling Love" painting in Nemona's house.

I think we could unearth some wild drama and a lot more of Nemona's story potential if we meet her family in the DLC or spinoffs.

But she's already a really detailed, developed, and apparently respectfully written character if you're paying attention and reading her behavior and the game's text in general in good faith, and not regurgitating memes.

And there's STILL so much more stuff about her we could talk about that other people have been talking about, even with this incomplete story. We've come a long way from Pokemon characters having five lines of dialogue. Please take the time to read it, everyone.

Nemona, Female Neurodivergence, and Good Representation

Spoilers for the plot of ScarVi ahead, but here’s my full analysis and breakdown of Nemona!

So, I know what you’re thinking, ‘Game Freak making an autistic female main character? You must be out of your mind. This is clearly projecting!’

I’d like to preface this gently by saying that this is obviously just my personal conclusion based on subtextual analysis, but also, I’d like to call attention to the fact that Japan isn’t like the west when it comes to neurodiverse representation, and there isn’t a lot of Japanese media that explicitly uses the word autism. It’s a little unrealistic to expect Game Freak to call it by name, especially considering they make games for children and topics such as neurodiversity are often viewed as a more ‘adult’ thing to discuss. You are free to disagree with me, but please be polite in the replies of this post, as I only wish to have a constructive conversation about a writing decision that has been made.

Anyway, on to the good stuff and I must apologise in advance for this post being long, but I wanted to be thorough!

I played through all of ScarVi and I’m actually very pleased with Nemona as a character. I feel like despite the game’s technical quality, there was a real effort made this time around to flesh out the named characters. Nemona is one of my favourite examples of this, because her arc isn’t solely about being autistic, but it’s clearly a large part of her character and affects her life in a lot of ways.

Nemona is a battle fanatic, and it’s very likely one of her special interests. It’s how she connects with other people such as the main character, and it’s something she devotes her entire being and effort to. She never says she does so in order to impress others, but rather because it’s something she heavily enjoys.

Right from the start, Nemona is a successful champion rank trainer and wants you to become a trainer who can rival her in skill, and feels like it would lead to a better friendship if you could do that. Nemona’s priorities always centre around battling, and doing as much of it as possible. She’s the one who asks Geeta for permission to bestow a Tera orb upon your player. She gives you tips about the battle courts at different gyms. She even raises a new team of Pokémon throughout the game just to have an excuse to battle you at your level and watch you improve.

Nemona even loves battling so much that she finds it a little strange when others aren’t as enthusiastic about battling as she is, below is a quote I found particularly interesting because it really does show that she can be socially oblivious at times when it comes to societal expectations about what is an appropriate place or time to have a Pokémon battle.

Accompanying this, multiple times throughout the game she exhibits impulsive or oblivious behaviour and asks you to have another battle with her straight after another battle you’ve just had, usually due to being excited. Sometimes other characters will need to remind her that your Pokémon require healing first, or that there are other things that need doing. She doesn’t always understand how things should be handled in a conventional manner, despite being an expert on the topic of battling! (Or, she gets too excited and can’t help herself.)

In post-game, there’s even a scene where she doesn’t seem to understand that another student is reluctant to battle her and makes an excuse to leave early because she’s so far from being a casual trainer that it intimidates him. This is, in my opinion, actually quite a sad scene. She genuinely continues to think that he will challenge her to a battle at a different time, not realising that her ‘unusual’ enthusiasm and skill has scared him away, and that he has no intention of returning. A situation I’m sure a lot of neurodiverse children would connect with because it so accurately depicts what it’s like when others don’t share your interests to the degree that you hoped they would. This scene also hints at Nemona’s trouble with reading the emotions and intentions of others.

Nemona’s final post-game scene (which please, I BEG of you to go watch, it’s so good) confirms this outright, and also gives one of the most relatable lines in media about what it’s like to be neurodivergent in any way, especially as somebody who is younger:

Something I like about Nemona is that despite being socially oblivious and pushy with her interests, she is still a very sympathetic and friendly character. Not only does she cheer you on throughout the game, but she doesn’t only do it for the sake of serving only her own interests! She’s genuinely caring about others around her too.

(Nemona, congratulating the player when they beat her at the end of her storyline after she goes full-out. She is thrilled that you beat her! I love this moment.)

Throughout the last chapter in the game, there’s a lot of great moments with Nemona that show how caring she is. I think the best moments however, are where she tries to understand and support a scared Miraidon, and where she tries to help Arven.

Initially, she is misunderstanding and expects that the second Miraidon will be friendly and that it will be a family reunion, but once she realises this is not the case, she immediately switches to trying to support your Miraidon in any way she can. Despite not understanding why Miraidon is so afraid of returning to the Crater and facing the other Miraidon, she can be observed multiple times attempting to encourage it during the final battle, and can be seen in the final cutscene of the game with her arm around it as the group walks back to the academy.

(Nemona, displaying an implied struggle with visually judging the emotions of others.)

Nemona is also the one who suggests after a very heavy story ending that everyone goes home, and that they take the scenic route back to town. She clearly doesn’t know what to say to Arven about what he’s just been through, but she attempts to make him feel a bit better regardless.

I think this makes for particularly good representation, because not only is she less feminine than previous female rivals with her more sporty style and interests (something very common with autistic women) it also shows depth. I’ve seen autistic characters before that fall into the stereotype of coming across as emotionally detached or cold, or far too over-reactive. But I think Nemona strikes a lovely balance of caring, emotional, and socially lacking.

Now, on to a smaller detail that I want to point out that I really like the inclusion of is that glove. I could talk about how Nemona displays memory issues at times or other smaller symptoms of autism, but I really want to talk about the glove. I made a post on this subject the moment Nemona’s design was revealed on the official website, but I like that the game content openly confirmed that Nemona has motor issues with her dominant hand.

(Nemona, needing to support her arm when about to throw a Pokéball, or when she is about to terastalise her Pokémon. The burst of energy from the tera orb must make things a bit more difficult for her. A lovely small detail in her battles.)

(Nemona, confirming that she has trouble with Pokéballs. Something her website entry also stated.)

Now I’ve saved this until last because this is, in my opinion, a smaller detail that they didn’t need to include to make Nemona read as neurodiverse, but I’m thrilled they did. Nemona is the only character who wears an arm brace, something I picked up on immediately in the trailers before the games released. No other trainers wear one for the terastalisation mechanic, unlike the Z-bands from Alola. And even though Pokémon battling is her bread and butter, she still struggles with certain aspects of it! Not only is this trouble with motor skills realistic, but it’s also a very accurate portrayal of motor dysfunction that a lot of neurodiverse people experience in their day to day lives.

To bring this all to a close, I think that even though it isn’t stated outright, I believe Nemona isn’t just representation of neurodiversity in women, but I think that she is also GREAT representation. She knows that she has problems, and tries her best regardless! She is kind, and caring, even though she has difficulties with reading the emotions of others and understanding social expectations. Her entire story may be about making friends with you through the medium of battling, but it’s also a story about how she’s struggled in the past to connect with others because of her love of that medium.

I truely do feel like she’s a lovely depiction to be in a children’s game, because she is a very positive depiction of something that a lot of kids go through, and in the end, she gets to be herself and she gets to be happy by being true to that self. She is never forced to change to make friends, and instead befriends you and the other characters simply by remaining as she is.

[ceilidho]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[kooklovee]

Married for 7 days - JJK

Matching rings and a joke—your boyfriend says you're married. What he didn’t expect is for you to play along the whole trip... And the more you pretend...the less it feels like a game.

Pairing - bf!Jungkook x gf!Reader

Genre - mostly fluff, smut 18+ (mdni)

Oneshot - 7.8k words

Warnings - fluffff, sunshine energy gf, Jungkook being effortlessly bf/husband material🤭💘, unprotected sex, nipple play, fingering, little handjob, creampie, marking

a/n - a quick backstory for this plot inspiration - my friend's friend went on a trip with her bf where they got matching rings n had a joke that they were married. AND EXCUSE ME?? this made such a good plot that I just couldn't resist not writing😭😭 n yeah wrote about Greece solely coz of the aesthetics (never been there tho) also also I wrote around 90% of this only listening to Blue by Yung Kai n it perfectly matches the vibe!!😭💗 ps- I feel angst writing is more of my thing bt I've tried writing fluff (a lot) for this sooo lmk if it's acceptable?🫠 n yup early update coz I cancelled out 2,3 more scenes I had in mind 🤷‍♀️ ok byeeee examss upcominggg

Masterlist kofi☕

---------------------------------------------------

Your fingers grip Jungkook’s sleeve, barely able to contain your excitement as you glance out the plane window. Blue. Endless blue. The vast stretch of the sea sparkles below, tiny white houses dotting the cliffs in the distance.

“Jungkook,” you whisper, voice full of wonder. “Look at that.”

He chuckles, his gaze soft and amused, “Baby, we’re still on the plane.”

“I know,” you sigh dramatically, turning back to him. “But still. Greece! Our first trip together! Just you and me for seven whole days.”

Jungkook smirks, teasing, “What if I'm gonna get sick of you?”

You scoff, nudging his shoulder. “You’re stuck with me now, Jeon.”

He exhales, grinning like he wouldn’t have it any other way. The past four years had been beautiful, but between work schedules, deadlines, and life, you barely got time to just be together.

But this time? it’s just you and him. Jungkook hums, fingers lazily tracing circles over your thigh. “I think I could get used to this.”

------------------ Day 1

The moment you step inside, your eyes take in the breathtaking suite. White-washed walls, soft linen curtains swaying from the sea breeze, a private infinity pool overlooking the ocean. Jungkook watches you, arms crossed, fondness written all over his face.

“This is so nice,” you gush, spinning to face him. “I don’t think I’ll ever wanna leave.”

Jungkook sets the luggage down, smirking. “Well, we have a week.”

Your smile grows. Something in your chest feels so warm. You turn to him, eyes gleaming. “What should we do first?”

Jungkook steps closer, voice low and playful. “Hmm. I can think of a few things.”

You shove his chest, laughing, “Yah Jeon, behave.” He chuckles, arms wrapping lazily around your waist, pulling you in. “No promises, baby.”

----

You practically bounce on your feet as you slip on your sandals, the soft sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains of your hotel room. “Okay, okay, I’m ready!” you chirp, spinning to face Jungkook, who is still leaning against the doorframe, watching you with pure amusement.

His arms are crossed, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Are you sure? Because you’ve been ‘ready’ for the last fifteen minutes.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag. “I am! Let’s goo”

Jungkook doesn’t move. Instead, he reaches out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into him, his nose brushing against yours.

His voice drops, teasing. “You’re really just trusting me with everything, huh?”

You nod immediately. “Of course. You’re the planner, I’m just here to have fun.” Jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, his fingers trailing lazily up your arm.

He leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips. It’s warm. Sweet. Dangerously distracting.

You blink up at him, refusing to fall for it. “Jeon Jungkook, if you don’t take me outside in the next ten seconds, I’m leaving you here.”

He laughs before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into him.

“Alright, alright,” dropping a quick kiss to your temple. “Let’s go.”

And with his fingers laced through yours, he leads you out, the two of you finally stepping into your first day in Greece.

The scent of fresh-baked bread, sweet honey pastries filling the air as you and Jungkook wander through the bustling market. Your fingers brush against the beautifully painted souvenirs, woven baskets, your eyes wide with excitement.

“Jungkook, look at these!” you gasp, holding up a tiny, hand-carved olive wood frog.

He chuckles, watching you with pure amusement. “You don’t even like frogs.”

You scowl. “Yeah, but look at his little face.”

Jungkook shakes his head, ruffling your hair before grabbing the frog figurine and paying for it without a second thought.

You blink. “I wasn’t actually gonna—”

“Too late,” he smirks, handing it to you. “Now it’s yours.”

Before you can respond, the scent of something sweet and buttery hits your nose, making you immediately turn toward a food stall.

You grin. “We have to try those.”

The vendor hands over a small plate, and before you can even grab a piece, Jungkook picks one up and holds it to your lips.

Your eyes narrow. “You’re feeding me now?”

“Open.”

You roll your eyes but let him feed you, the sweet layers melting on your tongue. A small hum of satisfaction escapes you before you glance at Jungkook.

“Good, huh?” he smirks.

Instead of answering, you take another piece, holding it up like you’re about to feed him.

Jungkook smirks, leaning in. “See? You like it when I—”

But before he can finish, you smirk and pop the piece into your own mouth instead. You burst out laughing, wiping a crumb from your lip. “Tastes good.”

Jungkook gapes at you, half-glaring, half-amused. “You little—”

Before he can finish, you grab his wrist and drag him toward the next stall, giggling.

“We have so much more to eat,” you sing-song.

Jungkook lets you pull him away, shaking his head with amusement.

The market fades behind you as you and Jungkook wander through the winding streets, hand in hand.

The air is warm, salt-kissed from the ocean breeze, and the soft sound of distant waves crashes below the cliffs. White-washed buildings, blue domes line the path, vibrant bougainvillea flowers spilling over terraces.

Jungkook squeezes your hand lightly. “Still trusting my planning skills?”

You grin. “So far, you’re doing great, boyfriend.”

He chuckles, his dimple peeking out, and just when you turn to admire the view—Click.

You blink. “Did you just take my picture?”

Jungkook doesn’t even try to hide it. He’s holding up his phone, looking way too pleased with himself.

“Yup.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “Lemme see.”

“Nope.” He smirks, slipping the phone into his pocket.

You gasp. “Jungkook!”

He laughs, stepping back just as you lunge for his phone.

“Oh, baby, don’t even try,” he teases, holding it high above his head, his other hand wrapping around your waist.

You huff, glaring up at him. “What if I looked bad?”

Jungkook stands confident. So annoyingly sure of himself.

“You looked perfect.”He says it so easily, like a fact, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. For a second, you forget what you were even mad about.

Jungkook grins, clearly noticing your reaction. “What? No comeback?”

You snap out of it and quickly grab your phone, flipping the camera. “Okay, if you’re gonna take pictures of me, I’m getting yours too.”

Jungkook doesn’t protest as you start clicking away, a mix of stolen shots and silly ones.

“Okay, now pose,” you instruct, biting your lip to stop your smile.

Jungkook scoffs but obeys, shoving his hands into his pockets, tilting his head slightly, looking effortlessly model-like.

You pause. “That’s unfair.”

“What?”

“You just naturally look good in every picture.”

He laughs, stepping closer. “Says you?”

Before you can argue, he pulls you in, flipping the camera to selfie mode. “Let’s take some together,” he murmurs.

And just like that, you spend the next ten minutes giggling, making faces, taking videos. Jungkook kisses your cheek in one, in another, he makes you laugh so hard your eyes disappear.

The pictures—some blurry, some too close, some candid. but when you look at them later, you realize they’re perfect in every way that matters.

----

The sun is lower in the sky now, everything's in warm shades of gold as you and Jungkook walk along the soft, white sand. Your sandals dangle from your fingers, the ocean breeze cooling your skin.

Jungkook is beside you, his hand lazily intertwined with yours, his other tucked into his pocket as he watches the tide roll in.

“Okay,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence. “This might be the prettiest place I’ve ever seen.”

Jungkook hums, glancing at you instead of the view. “Yeah. It really is.”

You turn to look at him—only to find him already looking at you.

Before you can overthink it, something catches your eye—a small wooden stall set up just a little ahead, tucked beneath the shade of a few palm trees.

“What’s that?” You tug on Jungkook’s hand, pulling him toward it.

The stall is lined with handmade jewelry, delicate silver and gold pieces glinting in the fading sunlight. Small sea-glass pendants, braided anklets, thin rings on display.

“Ohh, these are cute,” you murmur, running your fingers over the bands.

Jungkook watches as you casually slip one onto your finger, admiring how it looks before turning to him with a grin.

“Should we get matching ones?” you joke, wiggling your fingers.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Matching rings?”

“Yeah, why not?” you tease. “It’ll be like a little vacation memory.”

Jungkook hums, studying the rings for a moment before wordlessly picking one up. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, slipping it onto your finger himself.

Your breath catches. You glance at him, expecting a smirk, some teasing remark, but he’s quiet. Focused.

The ring fits perfectly.

Jungkook’s gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a second, neither of you say anything.

“Guess we’re married now,” he quips, breaking the silence with a cheeky grin.

You snort, shoving his shoulder. “You’re so dumb.”

But just as you’re about to make another joke, you pause. because Jungkook is still looking at the rings.

And before you can ask, he casually grabs another one—the exact same design and slips it onto his own finger.

He lifts his hand beside yours, comparing them. “Now we match,” he hums, completely unbothered, making your heart stumble.

----

You collapse onto the bed, sighing dramatically.

Jungkook chuckles, setting his phone down before joining you, his body warm and solid beside yours.

Jungkook lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers, the ring glinting under the dim lights.

“So,” he muses, voice low and playful. “How does it feel to be my wife for seven days?"

You snort, rolling over to face him. “Delusional.”

Jungkook laughs, eyes crinkling, before pulling you into his chest. “You love it.”

You hum, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “Maybe.”

His hand finds yours, fingers absentmindedly tracing over the band on your finger.

Neither of you take the rings off.

Neither of you even think about it.

------------------- Day 2

The warm afternoon sun bathes the streets as you and Jungkook browse a small outdoor market. Small shops, displays filled with handcrafted goods and souvenirs.

You stop at a small stall, admiring intricately painted ceramic plates. An older woman, the vendor, smiles at you.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says, her accent thick with warmth.

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes! My husband and I are visiting for the first time.”

Jungkook chokes on his water.

You hear him cough violently beside you, his hand gripping the bottle like it betrayed him.

The vendor laughs. “Ah, newlyweds?”

“Oh, yes,” you continue smoothly, holding Jungkook’s arm. “We’re having the best time. He planned everything so perfectly.”

You feel him staring at you—his entire existence malfunctioning in real-time.

The woman smiles warmly at Jungkook. “A good husband always takes care of his wife.”

Jungkook clears his throat.

“Oh—uh, yeah,” he mutters. “That’s… me.”

You beam, squeezing his arm. “He’s really amazing. Very thoughtful.”

Jungkook’s ears turn pink.

Once the woman turns away to wrap up your purchase, he leans down, voice low.

“Do you hear yourself?” he mutters.

You grin, still holding onto his arm “What? I’m just staying in character. You said we're married soo...we'll be a happy married couple throughout this trip.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, shaking his head but smiling.

“Oh my god.”

----

Jungkook immediately drops onto the bed, groaning as he stretches his arms above his head.

You plop down beside him, nudging his side. “Tired, husband?”

He groans louder, covering his face with his hands. “If you call me that one more time…”

You grin, rolling onto your stomach to face him. “What? That’s what you are.”

Jungkook peeks at you through his fingers, eyes narrowing. “You’re having too much fun with this.”

You hum, twisting your ring on your finger absentmindedly. “You should too. I mean, you’re already wearing the ring. You might as well act the part.”

Jungkook lifts his hand, inspecting the matching band on his finger. He’s silent for a moment, before—

“I should start calling you ‘wifey’ then, huh?”

Your eyes snap to his face, and—yup. He’s smirking.

“Don't you dare,” you mutter, sitting up immediately.

Jungkook grins wider, propping himself up on his elbows. “Wifey, can you get me some water?”

“I will pour it on your face.”

He laughs, absolutely loving this. “Wifey, should we get couple bathrobes too?”

You grab a pillow and smack him with it.

Jungkook wheezes, rolling away from your attack before bolting up from the bed.

“Okay, okay! I’m going for a swim,” he calls out, grabbing a towel.

You glare at him, crossing your arms. “You’re banned from speaking for the next hour.”

Jungkook grins. “That’s okay.”

With zero shame, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing every defined muscle and tattoo.

Jungkook walks out to the pool. Leaving you sitting there, absolutely speechless.

----

The water is cool against your skin, the evening air warm, as you float lazily in the pool. The view of the twinkling lights stretches out beyond the infinity edge.

Jungkook is across from you, leaning against the pool’s edge, his arms resting on the surface, watching you with that look.

The same one from earlier. like he’s amused. Maybe a little dangerous.

You try to ignore it, focusing on the soft ripples in the water.

A small wave splashes against your stomach. Your eyes snap up. Jungkook is still there, expression unreadable. But his fingers, barely submerged, are moving.

You narrow your eyes splashing a wave back without hesitation.

Jungkook gasps, dramatically wiping his face. “Oh, you wanna play?”

Before you can react, he swiftly moves, strong, closing the space between you in seconds.

Your breath catches as his hands find your waist, pulling you against him in the water.

“You’re really pushing your luck, wifey,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers pressing into firm, wet skin. “And what are you gonna do about it, husband?”

Jungkook grins, kissing you.

The water ripples around you as he pulls you even closer, one hand firm on your hip, the other tracing up your spine. His lips move slow, consuming, his breath mixing with yours.

You let out a small gasp, fingers curling in his hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing against yours, making you feel lightheaded.

He lifts you. Just enough for your legs to wrap around his waist, water dripping between you as his lips trail down your throat.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, heat pooling low, desire crashing into you like the waves beyond.

“Jungkook—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice rough, pressed against your skin. “Let me take care of my wife.”

-------------------- Day 3

The morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir slightly, but before you can move, a strong arm tightens around your waist.

A deep grumble vibrates against your back. “Where are you going?”

You smile sleepily. “Nowhere.”

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, his voice raspy with sleep. “Good. Stay.”

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare skin, warm, possessive. You hum, relaxing into his touch, “Why are you so tired?

Jungkook grunts. “Because my wife wore me out last night.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He chuckles, pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. “Mmm. You liked it.”

You turn to glare at him, but he’s already smirking.

“You’re annoying.”

“And you love it,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, his lips brushing your temple.

You pretend to protest, but honestly?

You could stay like this forever.

-------

The climb isn’t too long, but the slight incline has you huffing just a little.

“Jungkook, are we almost there?” you ask, pushing back a strand of hair as the warm breeze kisses your skin.

Jungkook, walking ahead effortlessly, doesn’t even look winded. He glances back at you with a smirk. “Tired already, wife?”

You narrow your eyes. “You dragged me up here. I should’ve just—”

You stop mid-sentence, sighing dramatically. Jungkook chuckles. Without another word, he crouches down in front of you, patting his back.

You blink. “What are you doing?”

He tilts his head. “What does it look like? Get on.”

Your lips twitch. “Are you sure? I’m not exactly—”

Jungkook turns slightly, raising a brow. “Did I stutter?”

You giggle, placing your hands on his shoulders before hopping onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Jungkook adjusts his grip on your thighs, lifting you with ease.

And just like that he carries you up the trail like you weigh nothing.

You press your cheek against his, grinning. “You’re really strong, huh?”

Jungkook hums. “You’re really lucky, huh?”

Laughing, you pepper soft kisses along his jaw, his cheek, his temple.

Jungkook exhales sharply. “Y/n.”

You blink innocently. “What?”

He grins, shaking his head. “You’re distracting me.”

You laugh against his skin. “What, can’t handle a few kisses?”

Jungkook’s grip on you tightens slightly, his voice dropping just a little lower.

“Keep testing me, wifey.”

You don’t get a chance to respond because before you know it, you’ve reached the top.

And when Jungkook finally sets you down, he doesn’t let go immediately.

Instead, he lifts his phone, angling the camera before pulling you close against his side.

“Say wifeyyy.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

You still say it. and when you peek at the screen—the view behind you is breathtaking. But the way Jungkook is looking at you in the frame?

His gaze holding something deep. Like he’s seeing something even more beautiful than the world around him.

---------------------- Day 4

Jungkook walks beside you, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, looking effortlessly cool until you drag him straight into a clothing store.

“You’re making me shop?” he groans.

You grin, already browsing. “Of course.”

Jungkook exhales, resigned. “Fine. But if I’m suffering, I get to rate your choices.”

And just like that, he ends up sitting on one of those plush chairs outside the fitting room, watching you like this is some kind of mission. You try on a few outfits, twirling in front of him.

Jungkook’s commentary is pure chaos.

“Too frilly.” “Too serious.”

“That one makes you look like a cute little menace—get it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. Eventually, you pick out two dresses, and a jacket for your boyfriend.

No.

Husband.

At the counter, you pull out your card, ready to pay—only for Jungkook to casually slide his in before you can react.

“Jungkook—”

“Got it.” He says it so effortlessly, like it’s nothing.

You stare at him. “I was paying.”

Jungkook shrugs, grabbing the bags. “Not when I’m here.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can—

The cashier smiles warmly. “You have a very thoughtful boyfriend.”

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend.”

The cashier’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh, I’m so sorry—”

You smile sweetly. “He’s my husband.”

The cashier relaxes, “Ohh! You two make a lovely couple.”

You squeeze Jungkook’s arm, pressing close. “Thank you! He’s the sweetest hubby, really.”

Jungkook just stands there. Blinking.

The cashier laughs. “You’re a lucky woman.”

You beam, looking up at Jungkook. “I know.”

The moment you step outside, he leans down, murmuring lowly.

“You did that on purpose.”

You grin. “And?”

Jungkook shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.

Your arms are full of shopping bags, and Jungkook is carrying even more.

“You have a problem,” he groans, adjusting the bags on his arms.

You grin, unfazed. “Correction: we have a problem.”

Jungkook exhales dramatically. “I need a refund on this marriage.”

You gasp, clutching your chest. “How dare you? After all we’ve been through?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch. “Come on, let’s find food before you convince me to adopt a souvenir shop.”

----

The night market buzzes with life. Fairy lights and lanterns glow overhead, casting a golden hue as soft music drifts through the lively streets.

You and Jungkook wander through the crowd, sharing bites of food, laughing as he tries to steal yours.

You pause by a musician playing a soft acoustic song, his voice melting into the warm night.

You turn to Jungkook immediately.

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You bat your lashes, pouting. “Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Jungkook,” you whine, nudging him relentlessly.

“No.”

Puppy eyes.

Jungkook groans, running a hand down his face. “Oh my god, stop looking at me like that.”

He swears under his breath before finally stepping forward. “You owe me,” he mutters.

The musician grins, strumming the guitar as Jungkook casually leans in and starts singing.

His voice melts into the night, smooth and effortless, blending perfectly with the melody. Conversations quiet, heads turn, people pause to listen.

You watch in awe, your heart tripping over itself.

Jungkook, who claimed he didn’t want to sing, looks completely in his element.

By the time the song ends, the small crowd cheers and claps. Jungkook glances at you, shaking his head with a knowing smirk.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

You beam, grabbing his hand. “And you’re amazing.”

Jungkook lets you pull him away, fingers intertwined, the warmth of the night wrapping around you both.

------------------- Day 5

The small cooking studio is bright and welcoming, filled with the scent of fresh, warm bread.

Jungkook snickers as you struggle with your apron. “Are you already losing?”

You glare. “Shut up.”

He grins, effortlessly tying his own. “You sure you don’t want to just let me cook?”

“Nope,” you're determined.

Jungkook just laughs, clearly amused.

The class begins, and predictably—you’re a disaster.

Your dough refuses to knead properly, your vegetables are questionably chopped.

Jungkook, of course, is thriving.

“I can’t believe I’m married to this,” he sighs dramatically, shaking his head.

You elbow him. “EXCUSE ME?”

He smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t worry, wifey. I’ll make sure we don’t starve.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little at the way he says it.

Midway through the class, Jungkook’s phone vibrates.

“Work,” he mutters, frowning. “I’ll be quick. Don’t burn the place down.”

You wave him off. “Go, go.”

With Jungkook distracted, Jay—the instructor, steps over your station to help.

“How’s it going over here?”

You laugh sheepishly, “Terrible. I think I’ve offended the cooking gods.”

Jay laughs. “You’re not that bad.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, yeah, this is pretty bad,” he grins.

“Try using less force,” he suggests, guiding your hands gently.

You try again, still failing miserably.

“Okay, maybe a little more force than that.”

You groan in frustration, but it only makes him grin.

“At least you’re enjoying yourself,” he says.

You laugh, shaking your head.

Jungkook returns just in time to see you laughing easily, comfortably with the instructor.

He steps back beside you, sliding an arm around your waist effortlessly.

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks.

You blink up at him. Sweetheart?

Jay nods. “We were just fixing the dough.”

Jungkook hums, but his hand stays on you.

For the rest of the lesson, he’s suddenly way too attentive. Helping you, adjusting your apron, calling you ‘wife’ three times in five minutes.

Oh, you know exactly what’s happening.

And honestly? You love it.

----

The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. The evening air carrying the salty scent of the ocean. Jungkook walks ahead, leading you toward a parked motorbike.

“Wait. You—”

Jungkook swings his leg over the seat effortlessly, grinning as he pats the space behind him. “Get on.”

Your eyes widen. “Jungkook. Where did you even get this?”

He smirks. “Rented it.”

You stare. “When?”

He shrugs, slipping his sunglasses on. “Had some free time.”

You cross your arms. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Jungkook chuckles, reaching for your wrist and pulling you closer. “It’s a surprise, baby. Now, come on.”

Jungkook pats the seat again, smirking. “Scared?”

You narrow your eyes. “Not even a little.”

Swinging your leg over, you settle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

Jungkook hums in approval, his hands resting on yours.

“Hold on tight.”

The bike roars to life, wheels kicking up dust as he speeds down the open road.

Wind rushes through your hair, the world blurring around you in a mixture of colors and motion.

You gasp, laughing as you tighten your hold on him. “Jungkook—!”

He laughs too, a sound so free, so full of joy, that it makes your chest tighten.

“Like it?” he shouts over the wind.

You press your cheek against his back, grinning against the fabric of his shirt. “I love it!”

Jungkook grins too. And then—he speeds up.

You squeal, tightening your grip. “Jungkook, slow down!”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I thought you weren’t scared?”

You huff, smacking his stomach lightly.

Jungkook laughs, slowing just a little.

He rides for a while, taking you through winding coastal roads, past cliffs overlooking the sea, the salty air mixing with the scent of his cologne.

He leads you both to a secluded viewpoint overlooking the ocean.

The view is breathtaking. Endless ocean stretching toward the horizon, the sun dipping lower, turning the water into molten gold.

You don’t even realize you’re still holding onto him.

Jungkook turns slightly, his voice lower now. “You can let go, you know.”

You nuzzle against his shoulder. “Don’t want to.”

His fingers gently brush against yours.

Then, a whisper, almost lost in the sound of the waves.

“Then don’t.”

------------------- Day 6

You wake up expecting another fun day of exploring, but something feels different. Jungkook is way too calm. No teasing smirks. No cryptic questions.

Just casual, relaxed Jungkook, who kisses your forehead and says, “Let’s just take it easy today.”

Huh?

You squint at him. This man has been planning every second of this trip and now he suddenly wants to ‘take it easy’?

But okay, fine.

You two spend the day strolling around, checking out small shops. and every time you try to read his expression, he just smiles.

Like he knows something you don’t.

By late afternoon, you can’t take it anymore. You stop in your tracks and grab his arm. “Jungkook, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, pretending to be clueless.

“You’re… too normal?”

He snorts. “And that’s suspicious?”

“VERY.”

Jungkook just laughs and pulls you into a hug. “Baby, relax. Just enjoy the day, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious as ever, but decide to let it go.

As you head back to the hotel, Jungkook casually says, “Oh, by the way, be ready by 7.”

Oh. Okay??

So here you are standing in front of the mirror, holding up two dresses.

Jungkook’s lack of details has you overthinking. What exactly are you dressing for? Something fancy? Something casual?

With a sigh, you call out, “Jungkook, help me pick.”

He walks over, eyes flicking between the two options. “Try them on.”

You huff. “Can’t you just choose?”

He smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “Nope. I wanna see.”

Rolling your eyes, you slip into the first dress—a soft, elegant choice. Pretty, but… safe.

You step out, twirling slightly. “This?”

Jungkook hums, tilting his head. “It’s nice.”

Nice?

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He bites back a grin. “Try the other one.”

You sigh but change into the second dress—a sleeveless, ankle-length beauty. fitted at the top, flowing softly down your waist, hugging you in all the right places.

You step out, smoothing the fabric "This one?”

His eyes drag over you, slower this time. His lips part slightly, but no words come out.

You raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

Jungkook swallows, his voice lower. “Yeah. That one.”

You smirk, turning back to the mirror. “Thought so.”

----

Jungkook leads you outside, where a sleek, black car is already waiting.

You blink, surprised. “Wait… you booked a private car?”

Jungkook grins, opening the door for you. “Of course. Only the best for my wife.”

You roll your eyes, getting in, biting back a small smile.

As the car glides through the city, Jungkook’s hand finds yours, thumb tracing small circles.

You glance at him. “Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You huff dramatically. “I hate you.”

Jungkook just smirks, leaning closer. “No, you don’t.”

It doesn't take long when the car pulls up to the venue. He opens the door for you.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, squeezing your fingers.

You step out, and your breath catches instantly. The place is breathtaking. Not extravagant, not overwhelming. Just perfect.

The entrance is lined with soft, golden lights. Delicate floral arrangements fill the space, their scent carried by the evening breeze. The tables are set with warm candlelight, elegant yet cozy decor, the entire atmosphere radiating love.

It’s exactly what you’d love.

You turn to him, eyes wide with awe. “Jungkook…”

He watches you, a small, proud smile tugging at his lips.

“You like it?” he asks softly.

Your chest tightens. “Like it? It’s.. beautiful.”

Jungkook grins, leading you inside.

But as you take it all in, you speak softly, “You shouldn’t have spent so much..”

Jungkook stops, turning to you. His brows furrow slightly, as if he doesn’t understand. With a small chuckle, he leans in, his voice gentle.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Do you really think I wouldn’t give you the world if I could?”

Your heart stumbles. A small smile making to your face.

Jungkook pulls out your chair, helping you settle before taking his seat across from you. The soft candlelight flickers between you, casting a golden glow over his features.

And the way he’s looking at you? Like you’re the most beautiful thing in the room.

You raise an eyebrow, smiling. “You’re staring.”

Jungkook shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah.”

Your heart stumbles.

The conversation flows easily—laughter, teasing, deep moments that make your chest tighten. And just when you think the night couldn’t get any more romantic, Jungkook stands, offering his hand.

“Dance with me?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Here?”

He nods toward the open space, where soft music plays in the background. “Why not?”

You hesitate for half a second before slipping your hand into his. Jungkook guides you effortlessly, his touch firm yet gentle. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, swaying to the soft melody.

Your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, your cheek pressing against his chest.

“I love you,” Jungkook murmurs.

Your heart melts.

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. “I love you, too.”

Jungkook’s smile softens before he leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips.

Everything else fades.

It’s just you, him, and the feeling of being completely and utterly loved.

----

The ride back to the hotel is comfortable, with Jungkook’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your palm as he holds your hand.

Once inside the room, you kick off your heels, sighing dramatically.

Jungkook chuckles. “Tired?”

You turn to him, smirking. “Emotionally, yes. My husband was incredibly romantic tonight. It was overwhelming.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears turn pink. “Shut up.”

You gasp. “Oh my god, are you blushing?”

He groans, grabbing your waist and pulling you into bed with him.

You yelp, laughing as you land against his chest.

His arms lock around you, holding you close. “Stop talking.”

You grin against his skin. “Never.”

Jungkook sighs dramatically, but his grip tightens.

You shift slightly, tilting your head up to look at him softly, “Seriously, though… tonight was perfect. Thank you.”

His gaze softens. “Anything for you, baby.”

Your heart melts as you snuggle deeper into his warmth.

Jungkook presses a lazy kiss to your forehead.

------------------- Day 7

From the moment you wake up, there’s a heaviness in your chest.

It’s the last day of your trip.

Tomorrow morning, you’ll be on a flight back home, and this dream-like escape with Jungkook will be just… a memory.

You sigh, leaning into his warmth. “I don’t want this to end.”

Jungkook presses a soft kiss to your temple. “We still have the whole day, baby.”

You both decide to just walk..with no specific destination in mind, hand in hand, strolling through the streets, weaving through flower stalls, sharing street food, laughing at nothing. The weather is perfect—bright, breezy, the sky painted in soft blues and wisps of white clouds.

Everywhere you turn, there are vibrant flowers in bloom, colors bursting against the golden buildings.

Jungkook squeezes your hand. “Happy?”

You look up at him, feeling the sun, the wind, the warmth of his palm against yours.

“Very.”

You don’t know how long you walk. Until, you turn a corner—

An open, breathtaking garden.

Sprawling fields of flowers in every shade imaginable. The gentle breeze carries their scent, petals dancing in the wind.

And the sunset—oh, the sunset. Burning gold, soft pinks, and deep purples, stretching endlessly into the horizon.

“...Wow.”

You step forward instinctively, tugging Jungkook’s hand, drawn to the beauty before you.

Your fingers graze the petals of a flower, eyes wide with childlike wonder.

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

Jungkook doesn’t respond.

Because he’s not looking at the flowers. He’s looking at you. The way your hair moves with the wind, strands catching the golden light. The way your lips part slightly in awe, the way your eyes shine with pure happiness.

His chest tightens, something deep and unshakable settling in his heart.

He clicks his camera. Capturing you. this moment, this feeling. The shutter sound makes you turn around, still grinning.

“Kook, this place is amazing, isn’t it?”

Jungkook steps forward, silently plucking a small flower from a nearby bush. gently tucking it behind your ear.

You laugh lightly at the gesture until you notice his expression.

He’s just… watching you.

So much love in his eyes, so much depth, like he’s seeing something more than just this moment. The laughter fades. He leans in without a word.

A soft kiss. Slow. So full of emotion that your heart aches. When he pulls away, you whisper against his lips, breathless. "What was that for?”

Jungkook’s gaze holds yours. He smiles, voice barely above a whisper.

“Just like that.”

----

As the sun lowers into the horizon you're back to the beach, golden hues, the waves lapping gently at the shore.

You and Jungkook sit side by side on the sand, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns in it.

His arm rests behind you, his presence warm and comforting. Neither of you speak much, there’s no need to. The silence is peaceful, filled only by the sound of the waves and the distant laughter of kids playing nearby.

Jungkook glances at you, softly smiling. “Feeling better?”

You hum, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Yeah. Today was perfect.”

He presses a kiss to your hair. “Good.”

You both sit there, soaking in the moment, something you never want to forget.

Your attention shifts to the group of kids laughing a little ways down the beach.

Something about their pure, carefree joy makes you smile.

You’re standing up, dusting the sand off your dress.

“I’ll be back.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Where are you—”

But you’re already walking toward the kids.

Jungkook stays seated, watching as you crouch down to talk to them, as they giggle, as you laugh with them.

Watching as your eyes shine with excitement, your hair catching the evening light, your smile so full of warmth it makes something deep inside him ache.

His chest feels… tight, full. Happy in a way that words can’t describe.

You fully immerse yourself in the game they’re playing, running around, helping them build something in the sand, laughing like a child yourself.

Jungkook can’t take his eyes off you.

After a while, you lean down, whispering something to one of the kids.

The said kid rushes toward him, stopping right in front of him with big, excited eyes.

“Your wife wants to know if you want to play with us!”

Jungkook blinks. And then chuckles, shaking his head, completely endeared.

“Wife, huh?” he muses, standing up and dusting off his pants.

The boy nods eagerly. “She said you have to say yes.”

Jungkook sighs dramatically. “Of course she did.”

But he’s already walking toward you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Didn’t even spare the kids, huh?” he teases, wrapping an arm around your waist playfully.

You grin up at him. “Nope.”

Jungkook shakes his head, but he’s smiling—smiling so, so much.

For the next hour, the two of you run through the sand, playing, laughing, losing yourselves in the moment.

Jungkook picks up a kid, spins them around, their giggles echoing through the air. You chase another, only to get caught yourself, falling onto the sand in a fit of laughter. And through it all, Jungkook watches you. His heart aching with love, with something deeper, something infinite.

Because this?

This is what happiness feels like.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet, peaceful, your hearts still full from the evening.

As soon as you step inside, you both head to the bathroom, washing off the sand. Jungkook runs a towel through his damp hair, watching as you step out first.

You make your way to the mirror, fingers reaching up to remove your earrings. Jungkook wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

Your eyes fall to his hand- the matching ring on his finger. Then to yours. You chuckle softly, turning in his embrace.

"Our fake marriage ends tonight,” you tease, holding up your hand.

Jungkook’s eyes flicker, something unreadable passing through them.

He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lifting your hand to his lips. “We still have a few hours left.”

His voice is low, filled with something that makes your breath catch.

He kisses you, like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel, the way this moment exists.

Jungkook’s hands trail down your back, feather-light, deliberate.

You feel the slow unzip of your dress. You shudder, anticipation curling in your stomach, making your breath hitch.

His lips stay on yours, teasing, soft, even as his fingers push the fabric off your shoulders. The silk slides down your arms, skimming your skin before pooling at your feet.

Jungkook leans back slightly, his darkened gaze sweeping over you. His tongue flicks over his lips, jaw tightening.

You feel warmth creep up your neck. “Jungkook…”

A small smirk tugs at his lips. “You’re shy?”

“Shut up,” you breathe.

He chuckles, shaking his head, but his hands are already lifting you effortlessly. You gasp softly as he carries you to the bed, his grip firm, steady.

Jungkook lays you down gently, hovering above you, his fingers gliding over your skin. His lips follow, trailing soft kisses from your collarbone, across your chest, moving lower. Jungkook takes his time. His mouth brushes against your skin, reverent.

His hands map every curve, every dip, every part of you that he wants to claim. You writhe beneath him, warmth spreading through your body, your fingers threading through his hair.

He looks up, his gaze locking with yours, something intense flickering in his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice husky, thick with emotion.

Heat coils in your stomach, your heart hammering.

Jungkook smirks softly. “Still shy?”

You bite your lip, refusing to answer, but he just chuckles. Jungkook’s fingers trail down your spine, teasing.

His lips find the sensitive spot on your neck, sucking lightly as his hands slide to your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease.

The fabric falls away, and his hot mouth lashes onto your breast, tongue swirling, sucking, teasing.

A gasp escapes you, your back arching into him. His hand already trailing lower, over your stomach, between your thighs. His fingers press over your soaked panties, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.

Your hips lift slightly, desperate for more. Jungkook smirks against your skin, pushing your panties aside before slipping his fingers through your folds.

His touch is gentle but firm, working you open, drawing soft, breathless moans from your lips.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging. “-kook…” His name falls from your lips, breathy, desperate.

That seems to snap something in him. He pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the loss. You reach for his t-shirt, tugging at it impatiently.

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He pulls it over his head, revealing golden skin, hard muscles, the sculpted lines of his chest.

Your hands immediately roam over his torso, feeling every ridge, every flex beneath your touch.

He kisses you again, claiming. As his lips move against yours, you lower your hand, palming him through his pants. Jungkook groans against your mouth, his hips twitching at your touch. Tugging at his waistband, you push his pants down, and he helps, kicking them off.

Your fingers wrap around his thick, heavy length, stroking slowly. Jungkook shudders, his head dropping into the crook of your neck. His hand moves between your legs again, teasing your entrance, feeling just how ready you are.

You grab him, lining him up at your entrance. Jungkook’s gaze meets yours, dark, burning. Your body stretches, molding to fit him perfectly as he pushes in.

A moan rips from your throat, but Jungkook swallows it, his lips pressing against yours. He moves slow, savoring every second, letting you feel everything.

One hand strokes your cheek, his thumb caressing your lower lip. You part your lips, taking his thumb into your mouth, sucking softly.

Jungkook’s eyes darken instantly, his jaw tightening. His pace quickens, thrusts deep and deliberate, every movement pushing you closer to the edge.

Your nails dig into his back, leaving marks that he welcomes.

“I—I'm close,” you whimper, body trembling beneath him.

Jungkook’s breath is ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. “Hold it,” he rasps, his voice raw.

Your body trembles beneath him, every nerve overwhelmed as Jungkook keeps his slow, deep thrusts steady. His breath is hot against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

Your fingers clutch his back, nails dragging over his skin, and he groans, hips stuttering for a moment. “Jungkook-,” you gasp, legs tightening around his waist.

You whimper, toes curling, mind blurring.

Jungkook leans down, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss, swallowing your moans. His thumb trails between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot, rubbing slow, teasing circles.

You arch into him, body tightening.

“Now,” he breathes, voice low, commanding. “Come with me, baby.”

He thrusts deep, hitting exactly where you need him. Your body shatters, waves of pleasure crashing over you, moans spilling from your lips as you fall apart beneath him.

Jungkook groans deeply, burying his face in your neck as his release follows, hips jerking, his body shaking with the force of it.

He holds you so tight, as if trying to keep this moment frozen in time. Both of you pant heavily, bodies tangled together, skin sticky with sweat.

Jungkook stays inside you, his weight warm, loving.

His arms wrap snugly around your waist, pressing slow, lazy kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach.

Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, trailing softly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Your heart is still racing. After a moment, he lifts his head, his dark eyes finding yours, heavy with something deep, something endless.

You smile, tired but content. “What?”

Jungkook just stares, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers trace soft, absentminded patterns over your skin, the other still intertwined with yours.

He speaks, softer than a whisper, almost like an afterthought, “Do you want to marry me again after this trip?”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes you. “What?”

Jungkook doesn’t waver. His hold tightens slightly, thumb brushing against your knuckles. A little more hesitant, but still so full of love,

“Do you want to marry me, Y/N?”

The weight of his words settles over you overwhelming and all-consuming.

Your lips part slightly, heart stuttering.

But then you realize something.

You stare at him for a moment, and then, to his surprise, a soft chuckle slips past your lips.

Jungkook’s brows furrow slightly, confused.

“Jungkook…” you murmur, biting your lip, eyes twinkling. “Did you really just propose to me in this situation?”

His ears turn red instantly. A soft groan escapes him as he buries his face in your shoulder.

“Just answer,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

Your chest tightens filled with warmth, so full of love you can barely contain it.

Cupping his face, you bite back a bigger smile, your voice soft-

“Don’t you already know the answer?”

Jungkook’s breath catches. He murmurs, softer this time.

“I want to hear it.”

You pull him down, your lips brushing against his as you whisper,

“Yes. I’ll marry you again, husband.”

His breath shudders—something raw, something so full of love it nearly breaks you.

He's kissing you.

Slow. Endless.

Like a promise, like a vow, like something unbreakable. His hands tighten around yours, fingers lacing together.

Your matching rings glinting under the dim light.

Blending together.

Like fate. Like love.

Like something that was meant to be all along.

---------------------------------------------------

[falesten-iw]

Being someone who fights for their family in a world that barely acknowledges Gaza’s suffering? That’s its own special kind of hell. Every time a loved one is injured, whether it’s your partner, your child, or even yourself, the doctors rush in. But don’t expect any miracles. The tools they bring aren’t fresh from pristine, state-of-the-art hospitals. They’re the leftovers of a world that has abandoned Gaza. Surgical plates aren’t delivered by some heroic supply chain. They’re pulled from the bodies of the dead, handed down like cursed heirlooms. Metal meant to heal now carries the weight of death, and infection waits to take what little hope remains.

Doctors are left with impossible decisions: amputate, scavenge through the dead for a plate to salvage, or wait for one that may never come. And the price? These plates cost more than most families in Gaza could ever afford. As resources vanish, everything becomes more expensive. It’s a cruel game with no winners, and we’re all stuck in it.

This is the reality for 26 members of my family, all just trying to stay alive. Two orphaned children. A loved one paralyzed by shrapnel that tore through her body. Her survival hinges on removing infected plates that shouldn’t even exist in her story. Every hour that passes steals more of her future while the world stands still. And yes, you’ve probably seen the video of her injuries shared before. In case you missed it: Link.

This isn’t just about my family. This is Gaza. It’s about a world that watches genocide unfold and calls it politics. A world that stands silent as families like mine scrape by with nothing but scraps, while doctors stitch together lives using whatever’s left behind. But here’s the thing, we won’t let this be the end. Hope is still a choice we make every single day, even when the world seems to have forgotten how to care.

Please help my family in Gaza get a chance to survive. Click the link. Donate if you can and reblog to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.

Donate on GoFundMe: Link

Donate on Paypal: Link

Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 100 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 200 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on.

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[bi-writes]

MOB who has to stay with Johnny at his house while Simon is away on a solo mission? Like as a preventive measure, Simon has them both together in case soemthing happens to him while he’s away?

mail-order bride

"i...simon, i just don't--"

"just do it," simon murmurs. you quiet immediately, a little caught off-guard. simon has never interrupted you; even when you're a babbling mess, simon lets you finish your garbled sentences. he waits until your voice quiets, until your mouth closes, before he ever speaks to you, but this time, his tone is firm, and there is no room for interpretation. when you meet his eyes, simon is more than serious. "i don't ask ya for anythin', swee'eart. but this..." he reaches out for you, and you step closer instinctively, and when he cups your face in both hands, you can't help but melt. he leans his forehead against yours, and you close your eyes when you see the very subtle tremble of his lips. "do this fer me. only thing i'll ever ask of ya. i swear it."

you take a deep breath to center yourself. one of his hands wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you just that much closer, and you wait until your lips brush against his before you answer him.

"i...i have to go?"

"few days. tha's it."

"well, i...well, okay."

it's quiet up north. the weather dampens the entire coastline, what you can see of it, and the air tastes like salt. it was in your mouth as soon as you stepped off the train, and it only got stronger the closer you got to the cottage.

as soon as you step out of the car, you're greeted by the most quaint little house on a hill. there's vines climbing up the sides of it, wrapping around wooden structures and carving out a perfectly quaint home tucked amongst scottish greenery. it's breathtaking here; it's so quiet, and the way that you're allowed to breathe up here is unlike anywhere else you've ever been.

the meows coming from your backpack are the only thing that bring you back to earth.

"just inside, lass," a low voice calls behind you. "supper's 'bout ready now."

when johnny closes the door behind you, you're mesmerized by the coziness inside. his house is filled with warmth. there's plaid curtains pulled back from a stained-glass window, allowing in soft colors of light. the couches in his living room have throw pillows and blankets of mismatched linen and velvet, and his walls are filled with pictures and hanging green plants. there's candles burning, and the television is still playing some reruns of old rugby games.

the wood detail is exquisite. the staircase has little carvings of scottish motifs and flowers, winding up another wall of photos. the pictures are old and new, all of laughing people with johnny's big smile or his bright blue eyes or wearing the same plaid pattern as the fabric that you saw hanging in the closet.

a green kettle. a cross above the mantle with a psalm printed on it. a sketch on the coffee table (a skull, with a stub of a charcoal pencil still laying over it). rosaries hanging over a wedding photo with johnny in the background, holding up bunny ears. a wooden bowl of oranges (and oranges only).

"said ye'd be 'ere fer some time, tha' ye like ta bake. got some things fer ye at the shops."

you set your backpack down, opening the clear window of it, and two little cats hop out immediately. johnny raises a brow as he makes eye contact immediately with the orange tabby, a wicked grin coming over his face.

"i remember ye, ye little shite."

"what?" you laugh, and johnny shakes his head.

"nothin'."

it's late when he notices you looking out the window. the cats are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, in deep sleep after johnny gave them each a salmon dinner (and you pretended not to notice seeing the extensive recipe sheet that only your husband could have made on his phone). your eyes are on the sky; you can see so much of it here, twinkly stars and all.

"'m sorry ye have ta be here," johnny says lowly, soft enough that you aren't startled. you don't look away from the window, leaning your chin on the edge of the couch as you wonder if simon is looking at the same star you can't seem to lose. it's brighter than the rest, and it flickers to a rhythm that feels oddly comforting.

"it's not your fault, johnny," you assure him softly, and you turn away from the window finally to find him seated on the carpet, scratching the orange cat behind the ears. "he wouldn't...he wouldn't take no for an answer. not...not this time."

you frown a little, smoothing your right hand over your left, and your heart drops a little in your chest when the sparkle of your wedding ring matches the sparkle of your star.

"i've been staying home alone all this time," you continue, shaking your head. "and all of the sudden...a-all of the sudden he doesn't trust me?"

"oh, love..." johnny sighs, clicking his tongue. "tha' is...'s nae wot it is, i swear it."

"i...it's not...it's not me, right?" you ask in a whisper, meeting his eyes finally. "simon and i...w-we're doing so well..."

the expression that passes over his face is a sad one. it unnerves you to see it; johnny is someone that just isn't meant to be sad. his house is filled with so much love and so much life, and you swear you don't even recognize him anymore because he's void of a smile altogether.

"ye seen the pictures?"

you know immediately what johnny is talking about. you saw them the very first night you stayed in your shared home. across your house, there are a few picture frames covered with fabric or face-down on whichever surface they rest on. when you glimpsed at them, you peeked behind the curtain of a life that simon has that you don't know. even now, you have never felt strong enough to ask him about them.

it isn't because you think simon won't tell you; you're afraid to ask. you're afraid of who they are, what they are to him, and why he's never told you their names or introduced them to you. they exist in a separate place, and you don't know why, and when you saw him holding that baby--

you shake your head finally.

"i...i can't."

johnny hums low, looking down. he smooths his hands down his jeans.

"neither can he."

you close your eyes, but not fast enough. there's a few tears that fall down the curve of your cheek.

"when...when did--?"

"will be another year in a few days."

your lip shakes, and you take in a stuttered breath. you did not believe it possible to love simon any more than you already do, but it aches, that place in your chest that is reserved just for him. it hurts, in the worst and most incredible way, and you never want him to know another day without hearing you tell him how much you love him.

when simon comes to get you, just a week later, you're sitting under a sycamore tree at sunset. it's never been more quiet inside of your head, and when he takes a seat beside you, you say nothing for a few minutes.

simon thinks maybe you're angry for a moment, but then your hand reaches over to take his, and then you're scooting closer, until you drape yourself over his arm and bury your face into the side of his neck.

"i'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and simon turns his head slightly.

"wot's tha', love?"

"i'm not going anywhere, simon," you say again, and when he looks at you finally, you squeeze his hand. "wherever...wherever you want me to go...i'll go. wherever you want me to stay, i-i'll stay there."

when he kisses you, it's soft, and it's slow, and he feels faraway and so close all at once. you put your hands around his neck, along the back of his head, anything to get him closer, to feel more of him, but it isn't enough.

it won't be enough. not until simon devours you whole. not until you bite into him and never let go. not until beginning of you and the end of him are indistinguishable.

not until i make the time before us obsolete and the time after us endless.

when you are home, simon watches from the hallway as you pick up a picture frame on the dresser. it's been facedown there since he moved in, and touching it has always felt like it burns him. he's frozen as you flip it face-up, standing it back up. when he sees himself, many years younger, smiling, happy, holding a chubby baby with bright eyes and blonde hair, he's surprised his insides don't burst immediately.

he never thought he would be able to look at them again. he never thought he'd be able to see their faces without seeing the warped versions of them, the mirrors of them that he never believed could be real. he always thought if he looked at them again, he'd go blind--that he'd carve out his own eyes just to forget what was left of them.

but nothing remains. they're memories, beautiful ones, and he'd forgotten that his nephew even had dimples.

the photos get lost amongst the rest. they blend in, like they were meant to be, tucked between the warm ones of your smile and the orange cat standing on simon's shoulders.

there is nothing more intoxicating than the woman that simon has chosen to love. you make the worst of his mind feel afraid; the thoughts that threaten to upend him, they are retreating, withering away from the things that he thinks about now that you remain. the tendrils of you are everywhere; you have latched onto him like nothing ever has, and he will never be rid of this feeling. of you.

simon will not fight reality any longer. he won't tell himself fate is nothing but proof that god is unforgiving. god isn't real, you are, and whatever came before you was the road he had to follow to get to you.

and simon didn't just follow; he fucking crawled. he dug his hands into the stone, bleeding fingernails and all, and he kept going even when his legs didn't work and his mind told him there was nothing there ahead of him. it was not resilience. it was not a man made of metal or steel or something heroic or a miracle.

simon is just a man, and he is weak, but as he comes up behind you and breathes you in, he realizes now that he has known you his entire life. you are tethered by something that he can't see. you are connected by something invisible.

when you tuck yourself into bed that night, the pictures are still upright, the ones on the wall still uncovered. you fall asleep before him, like always, and simon cradles your head to his chest as his eyes find the window.

a star sparkles. it's the last thing he sees before he falls asleep beside you.

[leriexoxo]

Across The Window

Felix x Reader (enemies to lovers)

Tags: Explicit sexual content (18+), Voyeurism, Mutual masturbation elements, Semi-public indecency (curtain window stuff), Accidental penetration, Power play / light degradation (verbal), Strong language, Dom-ish Felix, Light dubcon vibes from tension but fully consensual, unprotected sex, breeding.

Word count: 5.8k

Summary: You’ve hated Lee Felix since the day he moved in across the courtyard from you—loud music, cocky smirks, and a window that just so happens to face directly into yours. The loathing has been mutual. Until one night—one very late night—you wake up to get a glass of water and find his window open for once. And Felix is in bed. Laptop open. Hand around his cock.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Felix Lee lived directly across from you.

Not down the hall. Not upstairs or next door. Across the narrow alley that separated your apartment building from his, fourth floor to fourth floor, window to window.

You didn’t know him when you moved in.

But you learned fast.

The first time you noticed him, it was because he noticed you first—a sharp glance through the glass, eyebrows raised, like your very existence was offensive. Like you were the one invading his space, even though it was your first night and you were just trying to figure out the light switches.

After that, it became a thing.

You’d catch him watching whenever your lights were on and your curtains weren’t fully shut. Not creepy watching—just… lingering. Judgy. Disapproving. And when you caught him doing it, he didn’t look away.

He smirked.

Like he wanted you to know.

You flipped him off that night. He responded by slamming his curtains closed.

From there, it escalated.

Petty window wars.

Matching scowls.

Drawn blinds. Slammed shutters.

Occasional glimpses that left you just curious enough to keep checking—only to pretend you weren’t.

You didn’t speak. You’d never actually met. But the hatred was mutual and unspoken, hanging heavy between the glass like fog.

It didn’t help that he was attractive in the worst possible way.

Blonde hair, always messy. Pierced lip. He dressed like a delinquent and moved like he knew he was hot, and god, it made you hate him more.

Felix Lee was your most consistent irritation.

Until 3:07 a.m.

When you got up to get water.

And saw something you definitely weren’t supposed to see.

You hadn’t even fully woken up when you padded barefoot into the kitchen, hoodie sliding off one shoulder and eyes still crusty from sleep. The apartment was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of your fridge light as you grabbed the glass you kept on the counter. A sip, a sigh. Your body was already turning back toward your bedroom when something… off caught your eye.

Light. Across the alley.

His light.

You froze mid-step.

Felix never kept his curtains open at night. That was one of your only mutual rules in this silent, window-fueled cold war. If one of you was home, the curtains were shut. It was petty, unspoken truce. Or maybe a game.

But tonight?

His window was glowing.

Wide open, lit up like a stage.

Your heart jumped before your eyes even found him—because part of you knew something was off. Something wrong or strange or—

Holy shit.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

There he was.

Felix.

On his bed.

Pillows messy. Legs spread. Shirtless.

One hand splayed lazily over his chest, rising and falling with every breath. The other was wrapped around his cock, slow and steady and completely unbothered by the fact that his window was wide open and you could see everything.

The laptop beside him glowed faint blue, casting porn shadows across his wall—but your eyes weren’t on the screen.

They were on him.

His head tipped back, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes. His chest arched as his grip tightened, jaw clenching like he was chasing the edge of something deep. His thighs flexed beneath the dim light, muscles tense with the kind of effort you’d only ever imagined before.

You should’ve looked away.

You tried.

But your body didn’t listen.

Not when he looked that good.

Not when you could hear his muffled groans through the paper-thin gap in your window.

You’d seen Felix angry. You’d seen him smirking, annoyed, smug, wet from the rain, shirtless once or twice from a distance on a laundry day.

But this?

This was different.

Raw. Beautiful. Unfiltered.

And then—

As if summoned by your stare—

His eyes opened.

Right to you.

And he froze.

Your heart launched itself into your throat, panic flaring as you realized you were standing at your window, fully visible, hoodie half-falling, staring directly at him like some thirsty creep. But before you could move—

Felix’s gaze dropped.

To your lips.

Then lower.

And then… He didn’t stop.

Didn’t close the laptop.

Didn’t cover up.

Didn’t even blink.

He just kept going.

Eyes on you.

Like he wanted you to watch.

You should’ve looked away.

Any normal person would’ve.

But you weren’t normal around Felix.

He made you reckless. Stupid. Curious in ways you weren’t proud of.

And now?

He was watching you watch him.

The air felt thick between the glass, like it carried something hotter than heat, heavier than tension. Your hoodie slipped further down your shoulder, but you didn’t move to fix it. Your lips parted. Felix’s eyes tracked it—subtle, slow—and his hand never stopped moving.

If anything… it got bolder.

Longer strokes. Tighter grip. His head tilted just a little, lips curling into something dark, daring.

Like he was saying: Go ahead. Look. You want this, don’t you?

You didn’t even breathe.

You stood there, transfixed, thighs clenching as you watched the tension build in his body. Every muscle flexed. His jaw locked. And when his hips jerked and his lips parted on a soft, filthy moan—so quiet you barely heard it—you knew.

He was coming.

And you watched it happen.

Hot. Shameless. His gaze never once leaving yours.

It wasn’t until his hand finally slowed, resting limply over his stomach, that you moved.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath trembled.

And then—with the kind of delayed panic that hits after the damage is done—you grabbed your curtain and pulled it shut, heart in your throat.

This time, you didn’t stand there.

You ran to your bed, threw the blanket over your face, and cursed the way your body ached.

Because Felix had just cum for you.

And you liked it.

—

You didn’t sleep much.

Your bed had never felt smaller. Your skin had never felt hotter. And the worst part?

You couldn’t stop seeing it.

The way his chest moved when he came. The twitch of his fingers. That look on his face—half smug, half lost, all heat.

And those fucking eyes.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

So no, sleep wasn’t an option. Not when Felix Lee had jerked off with the window wide open and turned your brain to static.

By the time morning rolled around, you were feral. Restless. On edge.

And you knew exactly how to get it out.

You grabbed a thick sheet of white poster board from your closet—a leftover from your “I Hate Everyone” art phase—and a black Sharpie that bled like hell.

In huge block letters, you wrote:

“Are you INSANE or just a NARCISSIST?!”

Underlined it twice.

Taped it to your window.

And waited.

It took a few hours.

But eventually—after a few dramatic passes back and forth through your apartment—you saw it.

A fresh sheet of paper.

Handwritten. Slanted. Arrogant.

“If you have a problem, say it to my face.”

Your jaw dropped.

He did NOT just—

You stormed to the window for a closer look, just in time to see him walk into frame. Felix. Hoodie half-zipped, hair still wet from a shower, jaw tense like he was barely keeping a smile down.

He saw you reading the note.

Saw your reaction.

And smirked.

Then—without a word—he shut his curtain.

You stood there, stunned.

Heart thundering. Face hot. Hands clenched at your sides.

Your phone buzzed, but you ignored it. Your brain was already racing. That wasn’t just an invitation—that was a challenge.

And you’d never backed down from Felix Lee.

Maybe it was time to go to Building B.

It started with pacing.

One lap across your room. Then another. Then four more, fast enough that your socks started slipping on the floor.

You couldn’t let that little red sign go.

“If you have a problem, say it to my face.”

Who the hell did he think he was?

Felix Lee, the pretty little punk across the alley, with his smug smirks and his reckless ego and his dick in his hand like he owned the world. You hated him. You hated him.

And that hatred was currently pulsing between your thighs like an electric fence.

You grabbed your hoodie.

You didn’t even think about it.

Your brain was a thunderstorm of curses as you stomped down the stairwell and out of your building, hoodie flapping behind you like a battle flag. The spring air hit your face, as you crossed the narrow alley between your buildings and reached the entrance to his.

“Don’t chicken out,” you muttered to yourself.

Your legs carried you up the steps before your brain could catch up. Floor one. Floor two. Floor three. You weren’t going to yell. You weren’t going to scream. You were going to knock on his door and tell him, calmly and clearly, that he was the worst thing to ever happen to your life and you wished you’d never moved into this stupid building across from his stupid face—

You stopped in front of 4B.

Hand raised. Knuckles inches from the wood.

Your heart pounded.

Your brain screamed, what are you doing??

And then the door opened.

You hadn’t even knocked.

And there he was.

Felix.

Shirtless. Again.

Towel slung over his shoulder.

Hair still damp, curls clinging to his forehead.

His eyes raked over you once, slowly—down your body, then back up—and a lazy, dangerous smile pulled at his lips like he’d been waiting for this.

“Well,” Felix drawled, arms folding over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe, towel still hanging off one shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

Your mouth opened—then shut—because goddamn it, he was even hotter up close.

He smelled like citrus and clean sweat, fresh from a shower, his chest still glistening in places like he hadn’t bothered to dry off properly. And that towel? It barely covered the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.

You forced your eyes back to his face. Mistake. The cocky smirk there could ignite wars.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped.

Felix tilted his head. “A little.”

“You left your window open on purpose.”

“You looked.”

You took a step forward. “You were jerking off at three in the morning with the lights on like you were filming a damn OnlyFans—what the hell did you expect me to do?!”

His smirk widened. “Close your eyes? Maybe say thank you?”

You made a strangled sound of fury, hands clenching into fists. “You’re such a narcissistic, arrogant—”

“Cute when you’re angry,” he cut in, voice lower now, rougher.

Your pulse stuttered. He stepped aside just a little—door wide enough to let you in, body still blocking half the frame.

You hesitated.

He saw it.

“What, scared?” he said, voice dipping into something darker. “Big words from the girl who couldn’t look away last night.”

Your breath hitched.

Something in you snapped.

You shoved past him into his apartment.

Felix blinked, just once, before he shut the door behind you. Soft click. Thick silence.

The room smelled like him. Looked like him—messy, lived-in, warm. His laptop sat closed on the bed, probably hiding whatever filthy tab he’d left open.

He turned to face you, arms crossed again, eyes raking down your body with zero shame.

“Alright,” he said, casually, like you hadn’t just stormed into his home ready to rip his head off. “You’re here. Say what you need to say.”

You spun on him, heartbeat banging in your ears. “You don’t get to act like this is normal.”

“Never said it was normal.”

“Then why are you—why are you smiling at me right now?”

“Because you’re standing in my apartment,” he said, taking a step closer, “in that little hoodie that barely covers your ass, cheeks red, voice shaking… and you’re fucking hot when you’re mad.”

Your lips parted. Words didn’t come.

He stepped closer again.

“You didn’t look away last night,” he said softly.

You swallowed hard.

Maybe you hated him.

But maybe you hated how right he was even more.

The air between you crackled.

Felix was close enough now that you could feel the heat rolling off his bare skin. Every inch of him radiated this lazy, infuriating arrogance—like he knew exactly how far he could push before you snapped.

And he was aiming for the edge.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing, “you didn’t seem so bothered last night. You could’ve looked away. Closed the curtains. But you didn’t.”

You folded your arms, fingers digging into your sleeves, willing your voice to stay steady.

“That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

His eyes glittered. “Didn’t say you did. But you watched.”

You scoffed. “I was shocked.”

Felix took another step closer—his body barely an arm’s length from yours now. “You were curious.”

“I was horrified.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Your thighs were probably clenched.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, but your voice cracked just slightly.

He heard it.

He leaned in—not touching, not quite—close enough for his breath to ghost against your cheek.

“I think you liked it,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you liked seeing what you do to me. Even if you pretend to hate me.”

You could feel your pulse thudding in your throat. Your body screamed to react. Push him. Kiss him. Slap him. Something.

Instead, you straightened up. Turned your head. Met his gaze—unflinching, fire meeting fire.

And then you said it.

“You want me to watch again?”

“Fine.”

“Then show me.”

His smirk vanished like a light switch flipped.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his lips parted, and for the first time since this little game began—Felix Lee looked stunned.

“Yeah,” you said softly, lifting your chin. “Didn’t think so.”

You turned on your heel, heading for the door with your blood screaming in your veins, adrenaline sizzling like lightning in your fingertips.

But before your hand touched the doorknob, you heard it—

The quiet sound of breath.

And then:

“Don’t move.”

The words curled in the air behind you—low, sharp, bitten off like they’d escaped his mouth before he could cage them.

You froze.

Not because he said it.

But because part of you wanted to listen.

And that pissed you off more than anything.

So you didn’t move… but you didn’t stay still out of obedience.

You stayed still because you were calling his bluff.

You placed your hand on the doorknob. Deliberately.

“You gonna show me or not?” you said, voice calm, cool, razor-blade smooth. “Or is all that cocky attitude just for the window?”

Silence.

No footsteps. No breath.

Then, the faintest rustle. Like he shifted. Like you’d just kicked the legs out from under his control.

“I mean,” you continued, twisting the knob slightly, “I could always go home. Maybe next time I’ll have popcorn ready.”

Still nothing.

And then—

“I said don’t move.”

You turned your head just slightly, still not facing him. “Then make me.”

Another heartbeat of silence.

And suddenly he was there.

You felt it before you saw it—the shift of air, the heat of his body, the way your skin prickled like the storm had finally rolled in.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet.

But his voice was right behind your ear when he said, “You really wanna play this game?”

You smiled.

“You started it.”

You turned.

Slowly.

Like you had all the time in the world, like your heartbeat wasn’t a goddamn war drum in your chest.

And there he was.

Felix, standing barely a breath away, eyes dark as sin, mouth parted like he couldn’t quite believe you were still here, still pushing, still daring him.

Your gaze dragged down his chest—tan skin, droplets of water still clinging to his collarbone. The towel over his shoulder had shifted, forgotten. The waistband of his sweatpants teased a V-line so sharp it looked like it could cut glass.

You looked up into his eyes.

“I’m waiting,” you said.

His jaw flexed.

Then a hand—his hand—lifted, slow and deliberate, settling gently on your waist. Not possessive. Not rough. But confident. Heavy with intent.

You didn’t flinch.

You held his gaze and raised your chin. Challenging him.

“What do you want to see?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. Not cocky. Not smug. Just low. Hungry.

Your fingers gripped the edge of your hoodie, knuckles white. You could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric, feel the storm inside him rising to meet yours.

You let your lips part.

And then, softly—

Deadly.

Like a secret meant for sin.

“Everything.”

His hand rested on your waist—firm, unmoving, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to mark you.

You held his stare.

Said it again, breath softer this time. “Everything.”

And for a second, Felix didn’t move.

Then his hand slid away, slow, like he was peeling himself off you before he did something reckless.

He stepped back.

And smiled.

Not the cocky, smug kind from earlier.

This one was darker.

Tighter.

Like he’d just made a decision that would ruin you.

“Alright,” he said, voice dipped in something molten. “You want a show?”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted his head. “Then make me hard.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“If you want to see it—” he moved back toward the bed, sitting down, legs spread just enough to make your stomach flutter— “earn it. Get me hard. Then I’ll show you everything.”

You stared at him.

It was a bluff. You knew it was a bluff. He didn’t think you’d follow through—probably expected you to roll your eyes and storm off.

But that’s where he fucked up.

Because now it wasn’t about teasing. It wasn’t even about winning.

It was about breaking him.

You stepped forward slowly, watching his brows tick up in surprise. He didn’t move—just watched, waiting, lips twitching like he still thought he had the upper hand.

And then—

You dropped to your knees.

Right there, between his legs.

Without touching him.

Felix’s eyes widened. “What are you—”

“Shh,” you said, voice calm. “I’m thinking.”

He didn’t breathe.

You leaned in, slow, deliberate, so close your mouth hovered just inches above the outline in his pants—but never made contact.

Then you whispered, “Close your eyes.”

He blinked, throat bobbing. “Why?”

You smiled. “So you don’t cheat.”

For some reason, he did it.

And that’s when you leaned in even closer—lips ghosting over the waistband of his sweats. Still no touch. Just your breath. Your presence.

You whispered.

“You think I need to touch you to make you fall apart?”

His whole body twitched.

And when you pulled back just slightly to look up at him, his eyes cracked open and dropped to your face—and the noise he made?

Not a sound you’d ever forget.

Low. Raw. Desperate.

His cock was hard.

Already.

You stood up like nothing happened.

“Looks like you owe me a show,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your hoodie.

Felix stared at you like you were made of fire and bad decisions. Like you’d just rewritten the rules of your war.

And he was fucked.

Felix didn’t speak at first.

Still seated. Still rock hard. But now—eyes blown wide, pulse ticking in his throat, jaw tight like he was hanging onto the last frayed thread of his control.

You’d gotten to him. You knew you had.

You took a step back, slow. Smug. “Looks like you’ve got something to show me, Lee.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. The tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled—he looked like a wolf about to pounce.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his lips curled into something low and sharp. “Sit down.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You earned a show, right?” His gaze flicked to the chair by his desk. “Then sit. You want to watch, you watch properly.”

Your throat went dry.

But you moved, slow, and dropped into the chair—legs crossed, arms folded like you weren’t falling apart inside.

He stood.

And when he tugged the towel off his shoulder and let it fall, there was a second—just one—where you swore he was nervous.

But it passed.

His fingers slid under the waistband of his sweats, slow, taunting, and he dragged them low enough for you to see the start of the promise underneath—

Then you moved.

Not to stop him. Not even to leave.

Just slightly. Shifting in your seat.

But Felix’s eyes snapped to the motion, and something changed.

The tease dropped.

The room crackled.

And in the next second, he was in front of you.

His hands gripped the armrests of your chair, boxing you in, and his face was so close you could see the way his pupils swallowed his irises whole.

“You think you can pull that stunt,” he growled, voice low and tight, “and walk away like nothing happened?”

You opened your mouth. You weren’t trying to leave though.

But you didn’t get a chance to speak.

Because he leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching.

“I don’t strip for free, sweetheart,” he whispered, and then—

He grabbed you.

In one sharp, fluid movement, he lifted you out of the chair and tossed you onto his bed. Not rough—but fast enough that your breath left in a sharp little gasp.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, half-shocked, half-high.

Felix stood at the edge of the bed, panting, sweatpants dangerously low now.

“You want everything?” he asked.

And you—voice barely there, already trembling—said:

“Yes.”

The air felt thicker on his bed.

Heavy with sweat, tension, and the taste of something forbidden brewing between your thighs.

You sat up slightly, breath shallow, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to escape. Felix hadn’t touched you again—not yet—but the heat of him standing at the edge of the bed was a presence all its own.

His eyes locked on yours.

Then he lowered his sweats.

And fuck.

He was already so hard. Thick, flushed, the kind of cock that made your mouth go dry and your mind short-circuit. Your thighs clenched without permission.

Felix let out a breathless laugh. “You look surprised,” he said, wrapping a hand around himself. “You did this.”

You swallowed.

He started slow. Long strokes, fingers curling just enough, the tip wet and leaking as he dragged his hand up and down. He kept his eyes on you the whole time.

“You wanted a show?” he murmured. “Then watch.”

And you did.

Because how could you not?

He stood there—shoulders flexing, hips rolling with each stroke like he was fucking his own fist, his abs tightening every time his hand reached the base. The sounds—soft wet slicks, the hitched breath in his throat, the whispered curse when his thumb brushed the tip—it was too much.

Your hand gripped the sheets.

Your chest rose and fell, and when you bit your lip to keep a sound in, he saw it.

His jaw twitched.

“You like that?” he asked, voice hoarse. “You like watching me stroke my cock thinking about how good your mouth would feel on it?”

You whimpered.

He groaned—louder this time. “Fuck. Say something.”

You couldn’t.

You were frozen. Staring. Melting.

And that’s when it snapped.

He lunged.

One second, you were sitting up, the next, he was crawling onto the bed, towering over you, cock still in his hand as he shoved his knee between your legs and hovered over your body.

His lips ghosted your jaw, hot and trembling. “You wanna touch?”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes.”

“Then do it.”

You reached between you.

And when your hand wrapped around his cock—hot, heavy, real—Felix hissed through his teeth like the contact shattered him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed.

You started stroking. Not shy. Not hesitant. You gave it back to him just like you watched—slow, firm, precise.

He dropped his forehead to yours, lips barely grazing. “Just like that, baby.”

Then he grabbed your hand—keeping it there—and rolled his hips into your fist.

The moan he let out?

Filthy.

He pulled back, looked down at you, face flushed, chest heaving.

“You wanna see everything?” he asked.

You nodded, mouth parted, dizzy with want.

Felix smirked.

“Then don’t stop.”

Your hand stroked him slow and steady.

Confident now. Addicted to the way his breath caught in his throat, the way his thighs tensed under your touch. He was trembling—Felix, trembling—with his head tipped back, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t fucking believe how good it felt.

“You’re gonna come like this?” you asked, voice low, taunting. “Just from my hand?”

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips twitching into your grip. “You’re such a—”

He didn’t finish.

Couldn’t.

You gave him a twist on the downstroke, thumb teasing the head just right, and that was it—his whole body jerked like he’d been shocked.

“Fucking hell–”

He looked down at you, wrecked and wild, and that was the moment he snapped.

He yanked your wrist away and tossed your hand to the side, eyes blazing.

“No,” he growled.

And before you could breathe, he flipped you.

Fast. One hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, and suddenly your back hit the mattress and his body was everywhere.

He was on you.

Over you.

Breathing hard, flushed and leaking and furious.

“You think you get to do that,” he muttered, grinding down against your thigh, dragging his cock along the soft skin there, teasing you with it now, “drive me insane—then sit there all proud and fucking smug?”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Was I smug?”

His hand slid under your top, up your ribs, finding the curve of your breast and squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

“Smug as fuck.”

You smirked—couldn’t help it.

But it vanished when he leaned in, nose brushing your cheek, lips grazing your ear.

“You wanna make me come?” he whispered, grinding harder, slower, “Then lie there and let me fuck your thighs until I do.”

You gasped.

And Felix? Felix smiled.

Dark. Dangerous.

“My turn.”

“Felix—wait—”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Weak. Breathless. A protest in theory only, because you didn’t actually stop him when his fingers hooked into your waistband and dragged your shorts down—slow, torturous.

He paused, just for a second, eyes dark and unreadable as they flicked down between your thighs.

And then he saw.

Your soaked thong.

A dark patch clinging to your center.

His breath hitched.

“You’re already wet?” he asked, like he wasn’t expecting it—like it genuinely short-circuited something in his brain.

You swallowed. “You’re the one who started—”

“Don’t care.”

He yanked the shorts off completely, tossed them aside, and pushed you down again with a hand firm on your thigh. Then he settled between your legs, rough palms gripping just above your knees and spreading you.

Your breath caught.

And when he lined himself up—not with your entrance, but with the plush, slick space between your thighs—you whimpered.

“Wanna feel it,” he muttered. “Wanna feel you like this first.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow. Deliberate. Letting his cock slide between your thighs, trapped tight with your soaked panties still clinging to your cunt. His cockhead brushed the slick heat of your folds, dragging over your clit just enough to make your back arch.

You weren’t supposed to get off like this.

But the friction—his grip, his deep voice, the sheer heat of it all—your body betrayed you.

“Felix—fuck—” your hands gripped his arms, trying to ground yourself as the pleasure built, relentless and filthy.

“You like this?” he asked, thrusting harder, faster, his cock slick now from you. “Fucking hell—you’re dripping—”

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You came. Without warning.

Legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry, thighs squeezing tight around him as your cum slicked the space between you. Felix cursed—loud, desperate—his rhythm breaking.

And then it happened.

He slid forward.

Too fast. Too deep.

And right into you. Slipped right into your cunt.

He stilled.

You both froze.

The sound that left him—low, raw, like a fucking growl—was followed by a whisper of your name, choked and sinful.

“Shit. I didn’t mean to—”

But neither of you moved.

Because he was inside you now. Bare. Thick. Hot.

Your pussy clenched around him involuntarily.

His jaw clenched.

“I’ll pull out,” he managed, voice shaking. “Just—”

“Don’t.”

Your voice was wrecked.

Ruined.

Fucked.

His eyes snapped to yours.

You reached up, cupped the back of his neck, and pulled him closer.

“I don’t want you to.”

And with that, he started fucking you.

Desperate, slick, buried to the hilt and already seconds from breaking. The sound of skin slapping skin, the way you whimpered every time his hips snapped forward, how wet it was from your orgasm—

He didn’t last long.

With a guttural moan and a full-body shudder, Felix came inside you, deep, heavy, his cock twitching as he spilled everything into you, no barriers, no filter.

When he finally collapsed beside you, panting, flushed, and fucked-out, neither of you spoke.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Just the sound of your breaths, and the weight of everything you just became.

For a full minute, neither of you moved.

The room was drenched in silence. Sticky, humid, fucked-out silence. You were both staring at the ceiling like you’d just been struck by lightning. Not touching. Not speaking. Just… processing.

Felix’s chest rose and fell beside you, still rapid.

Your pulse was in your throat.

Your thighs were wet. Your panties were ruined. You could still feel him—his cum, the ghost of that final, frantic thrust. It should’ve been horrifying. You weren’t even sure what the hell you were now.

Then he breathed.

“…Sooo.”

You blinked.

He turned his head, slowly, and smirked like he just won a championship game.

“Still mad at me?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You came in me.”

“Correction.” He propped himself up on one elbow, totally shameless. “Slipped inside of you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“Because you made it that wet,” he added, gesturing vaguely to your thighs like he was proving a point.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, smile smug. “If anyone’s fault it was, it’s yours.”

You grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it.

He took the hit, laughing through it, already reaching to pull you back.

Felix’s laughter slowly died, and for a moment, there was nothing but the soft hum of the room settling, the air thick with the aftermath. He was lying back, eyes half-lidded, his chest still rising and falling quickly, but there was something different in the way he looked at you now. Like the animosity that usually swirled between you both had… loosened a little.

You rolled onto your side, your eyes narrowing as you stared at him. “So,” you said, teasing but with that edge of sarcasm you couldn’t shake, “I guess we’re like enemies with benefits now?”

Felix smirked, a lazy, smug expression creeping onto his face as he met your gaze. “Seems like it, yeah.”

You let out a slow, contemplative breath, staring at him with that familiar mix of annoyance and… something else you couldn’t quite define. “You’re still really annoying,” you muttered, but your voice wasn’t as harsh as it would’ve been before. Something about the situation had shifted.

Felix’s grin widened, and without missing a beat, he leaned closer to you. His breath was warm on your skin as he whispered, “Same to you.”

But there was no sting in the words. Instead, there was a softness to his tone, a kind of understanding you hadn’t expected.

And before you could stop yourself, you spoke again, the words slipping out with no filter. “You’re a really good lay, though.”

Felix chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough for his lips to hover over yours, his smirk never leaving. “I know,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

For a second, neither of you moved, the tension lingering like an electric charge in the air between you.

And then, you did it.

You pulled him in, just enough to make his lips crash against yours, rough and demanding. It was different from the last time—messier, more heated. The kiss was filled with a strange mix of passion and frustration, the kind of frustration that came from a desire you didn’t want to admit was there.

Felix groaned low against your mouth, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him kiss you deeper, the taste of him filling your senses, your body responding before you could even catch your breath.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, he gave you that smug, knowing look again. “Still mad at me?”

You wiped your lips with the back of your hand, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smirk tugging at your mouth. “Oh, I’m definitely still mad at you.”

Felix raised an eyebrow, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

You sighed dramatically, trying to hold onto some semblance of your old annoyance. But deep down, something had shifted. You weren’t even sure what it was anymore. “I swear, Felix,” you muttered, half irritated, half… something else entirely. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

Felix’s laugh was soft but self-assured. “Doesn’t mean we’re enemies either.”

You huffed, turning over to face the other direction, your back to him, but there was a warmth in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

Felix’s voice broke through the silence once again, teasing, but this time there was a softness to it. “So, what’s next? You gonna keep staring at me from across the windows, or we got more sessions planned?”

You rolled your eyes again, but the playful smile on your lips gave you away. “Maybe,” you said, leaning back slightly so you could look at him over your shoulder. “But don’t think you’re winning me over anytime soon.”

Felix raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Sure,” he said, like he was more than happy to play this game. “You just wait until the next time I slip in again.”

And just like that, everything felt… right. Or, at least, it made sense.

Enemies with benefits.

Maybe it didn’t have to be more complicated than that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Felix has really been wrecking me lately so here’s the nastiness my horny brain conjured up 😍 youre welcome!

Also guys I’d really appreciate it if you left more notes on my fics for encouragement, i love writing and i love it when people enjoy it so please leave a like for me and REBLOGG

[alloftheimagines]

haymitch abernathy | until sunrise

words: 1.7k warnings: MINORS DNI. off-page sexual and physical abuse, blood, suicidal ideation, alcohol, drugs, angst, hurt/comfort description: You’re the Capitol’s plaything. All he can do is clean you up after a particularly terrible night.  I just finished Sunrise on the Reaping and had to get out some Haymitch brainrot.

A knock on his door is never a good sign. When Haymitch is in the Capitol for the Games, he keeps to himself when he can, lost in the fog of drink where he can convince himself that nothing can touch him. 

But there’s one exception. You.

You’re the only reason he opens the door at all. A fresh victor of District 12, it’s been your turn to serve the Capitol over the last couple of years. Last Games, they still had that thing in your ear, keeping you drugged and controlled to establish you as the Capitol’s docile little darling. This year, you’ve spent every party either in a cage or satisfying potential sponsors behind closed doors. It makes him sick, so he drinks more and more and more, but it never makes it easier. 

Now, in the hallway, you’re more gaunt than ever. Barely there at all. There are cuts all over your skin, blood dribbling down your temple, your neck, even your damn legs. 

“I need…” you whisper, and the words are slurred. Unlike him, it isn’t a choice. Your clients like you better when you’re inebriated, not able to fight back. You’re theirs to do with what they want. 

You frown as though you’ve already forgotten what you need, but he knows. 

“Come in, sweetheart.”

When you step forward on buckling legs, he has to catch you, just barely holding you up. His white liquor breath mingles with your sour one as, somehow, this quest for stability becomes something more. He’s holding you tight while your head lolls against his shoulder, because it’s the least he can do and it isn’t nearly enough. He feels responsible. He helped you win those games. After years of following the rules, learning the hard way that rebellion got people killed, he’d seen a spark in you. A spark that could have destroyed the games if he was just smart enough to figure out how. 

Snow had seen the flame. Snuffed it out. It pains Haymitch to think it, but he would have been better off letting you starve without sponsors. Letting you die in the arena. This… This is his fault. He cared for something again, somebody, and now it’s killing you both. 

“What’d they do to you?” he whispers when he’s shut the door behind you. A stupid question, born from horror rather than a genuine need to know. With the bite marks, bruises, and slashes across your skin, he can imagine. The Capitol are almost as genetically mutated as Mutts these days, so many of them resembling animals with sharp-filed teeth among other hideous implants.

“Got one… with fangs n’claws,” you mutter. 

He looses a jagged breath, half-rage, half-despair, and guides you carefully over to his couch. The apartment is still in darkness, lights too bright for his ever-pounding head. Besides, the view of the Capitol illuminated under the stars yawns outside his window, a beast not quite slumbering. Never does. The city never stops; night just casts a blanket over their depravities, but there are holes in the velvet that keep the place lit dim.

Curtains aren’t allowed. He already asked. 

With you slumped on his pillows, he can get a better view of your state. Regrets looking immediately. Glittering dress the colour of grey doves has been torn by greedy hands. Where your skin isn’t bloody, it’s black, blue, green, your very own kaleidoscope of pain. It’ll be worse in the morning, but right now, you at least have the detachment the drugs grant you. Not like him, who feels every fucking mark on you. 

He rubs a hand over his unkempt stubble. Tries to figure out where the fuck he should start. If you were cognisant, he’d have led you straight to the shower, knows how unclean you feel after a night like this. But you’re not, and he’s not going to be another monster who strips you bare without you knowing. 

“Gonna clean you up best I can, okay?” he finally decides. “You rest now.”

Your mumble is unintelligible, but it still pierces another needle through his chest. How can the two of you keep going like this? How can you mentor more tributes, knowing that an arena death would be kinder than this slow torture?

Turns out his liquor comes in handy for more than just getting wasted. He grabs a cloth and his half-drained bottle from the kitchen along with a bowl of warm water, then returns to you, kneeling on the carpet at your feet. 

“I got you now,” he whispers, then starts on your sprawled legs. You whimper when he reaches the first gash, right below your knee. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. Know it stings.”

You bite your lip, fingers curling into the velvet arm of the couch as he keeps going. “Haymitch.” It’s a croaked whisper, barely audible at all, but he hears it like an alarm bell.

“I’m here,” is all he can reply as he wrings the blood from the cloth. Goes again. Where your dress is bunched towards your hips, he sees bite marks on your inner thighs and feels nauseous. He sucks in a sharp breath. Leans back to press his fist into his mouth so that he doesn’t yell, or sob, or do something. He’s had his time, his punishment. It’s your turn now, and all he can do is be there at the end of the night. He takes a swig of the liquor in his hand, but it just makes the burn in his throat worse. So bad he has to step away, just for a minute, to collect himself. 

He doesn’t know your lazy gaze is watching his back, waiting for him to return. The only person who keeps you safe in all this, or at least rides out the devastation with you. Without him, you wouldn’t be here. You don’t know if that makes him a blessing or a curse. 

“Gonna get you some water,” he decides. 

Don’t go, you think, but you don’t dare say it. Even now, you’re afraid the Capitol will see just how much you rely on him and take that from you, too. 

He comes back quickly, helps sit you up with a gentle hand on your shoulder as he tips the cool glass to your cracked lips. “That’s it,” he coaxes. “Thatta girl.”

Your face crumples as though it tastes foul, and he draws it back to dry the excess from your chin. “When’s… it gon’ end?” you ask.

“When we’re dead and buried,” he replies softly. “Till then, you try to stay with me, okay?”

Your hooded eyes glisten as you finally look at him. It isn’t easy, being this vulnerable. You’ve been used and abused all night by evil, depraved men. Men with weapons on their fingers, in their mouths, everywhere, not because they like to fight, but because they like to bleed people like you dry. You shouldn’t want to be anywhere near him now, but where else can you go?

He’s all you’ve got. Some nights, it just isn’t enough. “Don’t w’na do this anymore.”

“I know.”

“Could end it.”

“They wouldn’t let you. You know that.” His voice is gravel; pain. You hate you put it there with your dreams of death, but they feel closer now than ever. What if he didn’t tend to your wounds, didn’t keep your hydrated and fed and awake? What if he let you drift off the way he hadn’t been able to in the arena?

And he’s right. Even if he could let you go, the Capitol would find some way to get you back, whether they’d use your sickly corpse or find somebody to masquerade as you to keep up appearances. You’d just be making it worse, even if not for yourself. 

And he needs you. He’d never say it, but he does. The only other victor here, all you have is each other. Back in District 12, you sit in your grand house in the Victor Village for hours, listening to him shuffling on the other side of the wall. His presence always a frayed thread to grasp onto with both hands. You clean him up when he’s passed out on his doorstep, or sometimes, you get drunk together on your couch. Only then do your bodies intertwine the way you want, both of you too past consciousness to care whether somebody sees. You don’t know what he’d do without you. Choke on his own vomit, maybe. Drink until he drowned. You rely on each other — and it’s the most dangerous thing in the world. But also the only thing that keeps you going. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and his face is fading in and out of the blackness now as he tends to some of the scratches on your face and neck. 

“Haymitch,” you whisper again, because if anybody can save you, it’s him. 

“Right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.” He’s so gentle against your raw skin you barely feel it at all, only moaning when he reaches tender spots. Finally, it stops. 

“Couch or bed?” he asks just as you’re sinking into the dark. 

“Couch.” Beds are where terrible things happen. Beds are where this happened.

“Lie down then, sweet. That’s it.” He guides you down to the cushions of the couch, a hand brushing the matted hair off your cheeks. You can’t tell if it’s comfortable or not. Your body isn’t yours to decide that, these days. He drapes a blanket over you, and it eases your shuddering limbs. Had you been shaking like that the whole time? You barely noticed. 

“You’ll stay?” If you were capable of it, it would have been a plea. 

He gives you the same answer as ever: “Where else am I gonna go?” And then, when you don’t reply, he takes your hand and gets comfortable on the carpet. He’s never, not once, tried to do more than that after nights like this, knowing too much touch will bring it all back. “Gonna be right here till sunrise, okay? Always gonna be another sunrise.”

It should be a comfort, but it feels like a death sentence. Doing this all over again tomorrow… 

But he’s here. He’ll always be here. The only good thing this world has ever given you. 

[ak-vintage]

Stay Right Here

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You never had a problem getting out of bed in the morning until you started sharing one with Joel. A Secret Santa gift for my dear friend Britt @pedroswife69 <3

Word Count: 2.3K

Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, post-season 1/game 1 established relationship, SMUT (groping, fingering, P in V sex, praise, heavy emphasis on Joel’s broad, sexy, manly hands, Joel’s filthy mouth)

Thank you to @shchristine for the beta read and to @pr3ttynpiink for organizing! Shoutout to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist

You never had a problem getting out of bed in the morning until you started sharing one with Joel.

For as long as you can remember, you’ve been an early riser. Up before the sun most days, you’re showered, dressed, and fed before the sky can fade from inky black to rose gold to blue. It’s made you a great candidate for the breakfast shift at the dining hall and an eager volunteer in the barns and stables. You’ve become accustomed to tending to sheep and cattle or cracking eggs and frying bacon before most of the rest of Jackson have even blinked themselves awake, and really, it’s been no trouble. That was, of course, until you agreed to gather up your modest possessions and officially move across town.

Into Joel Miller’s house.

Now, as early-morning light filters through the thin curtains of his bedroom – your bedroom – you find yourself tucked snugly against his broad chest, his legs intertwined with yours, and one long, thick arm draped across your waist, keeping you close. He smells like sleep – warm and woodsy and painfully masculine, and though he holds you tightly, he shows no sign of waking. Even in his sleep, he can’t seem to get close enough to you. It would be inconvenient if you didn’t find it so endearing.

You twist in his arms, craning your neck awkwardly in an attempt to spot the little analog alarm clock Joel keeps on his bedside table. When you finally manage it, you balk at the time staring back at you in the dimness. You’re due in the kitchens in less than 30 minutes. If you rush, you’ll make it, but only just.

Your touch is delicate at first, gentle and soft as you try to extricate yourself from his grip without waking him. With a few wiggles and a scooch of your hips, you manage to work your legs free, but by the time you’re reaching for his arm to peel it off you, it has become like a clamp around your midsection, and you are being drawn back into him, back into his warm, bare chest as he grumbles, “Jus’ few more minutes, darlin’.”

With a shake of your head, you sigh, peering up at him through your lashes. His eyes are still closed, his weathered face relaxed, and you feel a pang of fondness tighten in your chest at the sight. He does this to you because he knows you can’t resist him when he’s like this – cozy and sweet and soft, every barrier collapsed and every façade shattered. You’re one of the few who gets to see the true face of Joel Miller, and the privilege is not lost on you.

Still, that does not change the fact that you have never once been late to a shift since arriving in Jackson, and you are not about to sacrifice your perfect record for a few extra minutes of cuddling. Moving quickly, you roll onto your other side and make for the edge of the bed.

But even wrapped in the warm cocoon of sleep, Joel is still faster and stronger than you. You make it only a handful of inches across the mattress before his vicelike grip is back, bracketing around your belly and hauling you – a bit less gently this time – back into his embrace once again. His face ends up buried in your hair, his front molded to the contours of your back, and you feel it along every nerve ending as he rasps, “Quit your squirmin’. M’sleepin’.”

Except Joel isn’t sleeping. Or, at least, there is one particular part of him that appears to be very much awake. You snort softly into your pillow. You should have known.

“Joel,” you hiss, wriggling against his grip. “I’m gonna be late!”

He does not dignify your protests with a response. Or, at least, not a verbal one. Instead, he simply shuffles so he is pressed even tighter against you as his broad-palmed, thick-fingered, heavy hand begins lazily stroking every inch of you he can reach.

He’s unhurried in his perusal of your body – from the dip of your waist to the flare of your hip, from the soft give of your stomach up to the plush fullness of your breasts. His caress is familiar, soothing and inflaming in equal measure, and your muscles melt so readily – eagerly even – under his attentions that it almost steals your breath away.

You are putty in his hands, and he knows it, so when he tucks his fingers under the neckline of your sleepshirt and tugs down the worn material, you make a fatal mistake, and Joel simply grins.

As his hot, dry palm skates over your rapidly-hardening nipples, as his grip swallows the pillowy softness of a breast and massages firmly, you let out the softest, breathiest sigh and arch into his touch. Your ribs surge forward, seeking more of that calloused, work-roughened hand, and in doing so, your hips curl back, and you unintentionally welcome the long, thick, throbbing press of his cock between the globes of your ass.

Joel groans into the back of your neck, the sound tripping down your spine in deep, rasping shivers as he noses your hair out of the way. The second enough skin is exposed, he latches on and drags the warm slickness of his tongue along it, drawing the vulnerable little patch of softness into his mouth and sucking. His rough fingers tighten around your nipple, plucking and teasing as he works your neck, and the sensation has your throat gasping, the arch of your spine deepening.

Low and ragged in your ear, Jackson’s top patrolman chuckles and grinds his hips into your ass. “That’s it, baby. You got a few minutes for this, don’tcha?”

“I – my breakfast shift, I have to – ” Your words are interrupted with a moan, the sound wrenched from your chest as the hand on your breast slips down to the apex of your thighs, pressing firmly and steadily against your mound through your cotton panties. His name is a whimper on the back of another deep, urgent breath, and you grit your teeth against the urge to wind your hips against the friction of his fingers.

“Shhh,” Joel soothes, mouthing at your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as it catches in the uneven whiskers of his beard. “Just relax, darlin’. The kitchen’ll keep for a bit. Lemme feel you a little.”

In the end, you find that you don’t have the strength to protest any more. His hands are everywhere – tucking under your neck from behind to settle across your throat, slipping into your panties, snaking under your shirt, tangling in your hair. You’re surrounded in him, swaddled in his thick, strong arms, trapped against his front, your body unable to choose between chasing the tease of his fingers against your slippery clit or grinding back against the enticing hardness of his cock.

He doesn’t let you choose, though. Instead, he strokes and plays and torments until you are ready to beg for mercy, and then he flips you onto your back and clambers on top of you. All finesse is gone as he shoves his pajama pants just far enough down to pull himself out, as he reaches down to tug the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, as he drags his soft, plush cockhead through your wetness. You can feel his desperation in the tension of his muscles, can see it in the deep frown tugging at his brow, can hear it in the curled-lip, gritted-teeth groan as he notches himself at your quivering entrance. It takes your breath away, makes you shudder and gasp as you stretch around the tip of him.

All the countless times you’ve taken him, and you’re not sure you will ever get used to that first breach of your body, that first trembling submission to the heft of him.

He fills you in one slow, inexorable thrust, and when your dripping pussy has swallowed every inch of him, when he finally seats his pubic bone against yours, firm and inescapable, he threads his fingers with yours and pins both of your hands above your head.

You can’t remember why you protested anymore, why you ever attempted to keep him at bay. He has driven every other thought from your mind and replaced it with himself. There is simply nothing else that matters.

He keeps you there as he takes you apart – thighs spread achingly wide, knees hitched up at his sides to take him deeper, ankles locked behind his back to keep him from retreating too far. Mouth on your neck, tongue on your tits. Teeth scraping across your jaw, tugging on your earlobe, sinking into the flesh cushioning your collarbone. Big, thick, rugged hands gripping yours, driving the backs of your fingers into the mattress. You are entirely at his mercy, and it makes your cunt drool for him.

“There ya go, baby, I know. Can feel how bad you need it,” Joel growls, making you shiver. “Gonna give you what you need. Just gotta take it.”

When he can feel that you are on the ragged edge of your climax, so close to soaring right over that edge you can almost taste it, he gathers both of your wrists in one hand and drops the other to your gaping, whining mouth. His thumb – huge, tasting of salt and musk and man – sinks between your lips and presses down on your tongue, and when you come, your cries are muffled in the suction of your mouth around the intrusion.

“There she is.” His words are syrupy-slow and sweet in your ear as you clench down around him, as you writhe and whimper as he fucks you through it. “That’s my good girl.”

Somehow, Joel manages to hold out for his own pleasure until you’ve come down from your high, until you’ve returned to your body and to the present moment. You are just lucid enough to watch him as he rears up on his haunches, withdraws his dripping cock from the clutch of your body, and uses one of those broad, heavy hands to jerk himself off over your belly. Your eyes can’t look away as he strokes himself, quick and firm, your gaze heavy-lidded and hungry as you watch.

“Come on,” you whisper. The words leave your mouth thoughtlessly, eyes glued to his flushed, angry cock as the tip weeps glistening pearls of precum. Fuck, he’s so breathtaking like this. “Come for me, Joel. Come all over me.”

It doesn’t take long with your encouragement. When he falls, it is with a ragged groan and a curse. You watch as thick, white ropes paint his scarred knuckles, and you can hardly stand to wait for him to stop before pulling that hand from his cock and dragging it to your waiting mouth. You clean his fingers with an eager tongue, lapping every drop from his skin as he catches his breath.

It isn’t until he collapses back onto the bed next to you, winded and sweating, that you happen to catch a glimpse of your bedside clock out of the corner of your eye. The sight is like a bucket of ice water in your veins.

“Shit,” you groan, rolling over to bury your face into your pillow in denial.

“S’matter?”

Your words come out muffled, smothered against the pillow as you hide from the accusing glare of the clockface. “I’m fucking late.”

Joel snorts a laugh. “Ah, well. Not the end of the world, darlin’.”

“I’m never late, Joel!”

You feel the mattress shift behind you as he rolls up onto his side, then the warm, heavy weight of his palm between your shoulder blades as he rubs your back comfortingly. “All the more reason why one time won’t hurt anything. Ain’t no reason you gotta be up at the ass-crack of dawn every damn day. Now…” He lands a quick swat to your butt, aiming for the bit of bare cheek left exposed by your twisted, dripping panties. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, and I’ll make you a cuppa coffee for the road. How’s that sound?”

At first, you say nothing, keeping your face pressed into the pillowcase and your eyes hidden from him. What you really want is to stay irritated. You want to hold onto your annoyance at the ease with which he distracts you, the speed with which your mind and body succumb to his advances. But at this point in your relationship, you know better than to try. Joel has a frustratingly boyish charm to him when he wants to, can be playful and impish when the mood strikes. And when he lets himself loosen up.

Today? With unplanned morning sex under his belt when the sun has barely risen? The man is downright giddy in this moment, and you know the second you see his face, any bitterness you may be attempting to cling onto will dissolve like sugar on your tongue, and you will be left with nothing but affection (and an absolutely spine-melting orgasm) in spite of your ruined schedule.

“Darlin’?” he murmurs, that soft, warm touch returning to your back. “You really mad at me?”

Releasing a sigh, you roll to face him, let him see the wry smile you can’t suppress as you take in his dark, earnest eyes. “No, Joel, I’m not mad. But – ” You jab a finger into his bare chest, the pointy blow landing right on his breastbone. “ – I want the good coffee. Not that instant crap. If I’m gonna be this late anyway, I can wait for the pour-over to brew.”

Joel’s weathered face splits into a grin, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as huffs a laugh. He chuffs you gently under your chin with the side of his knuckles, those beautiful hands ready to have you melting all over again, and you can already feel it – the warmth of it settling in your chest, softening your heart.

“Got yourself a deal.”

[rezitio]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊

gojo satoru, geto suguru, toji zenin, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, hiromi higuruma.

━━━━ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 - club, his favourite stripper. food play [alchol], pole dancing, clothed orgasm, grinding, some weird ah make out

Everyone agrees that Satoru is the life of the party. He’s certainly the life of yours. Whenever you see those icy blue eyes, just know you're getting paid tonight.

Holding eye contact with him while you work your magic on the pole. He has a girl dancing on him, but you both know she won’t satisfy him as well as you do.

He's glaring at you from the VIP section; he's telling you to show him what you can do. Show him what he’s going to be working with tonight.

And you do. Dropping down, then snaking yourself around the pole, climbing it again, and sliding down. You lock yourself on the pole. Suspended in the air, you puff your lips out, putting saliva over your mouth and dragging it around your lips.

Making it messy. Like how he likes it. You keep enticing him with your dance, feeding him and the hungry men below the stage. At the end, you slide down, facing the back of the stage. You undo your bra and throw it into the crowd of hungry dogs.

Not turning, you walk straight off the stage into the curtains that led backstage. You get a blanket to cover yourself and on cue, and the strip club manager tells you an important customer has booked a private session.

You knew this man would fold. You walk into the private room, letting the blanket drop to the floor. His eyes drop from your face to your bare breast, almost a frown on his face.

“Awh… You mad I didn't throw the bra to you?” You teased him. He didn’t like that. He gestured for you to come closer while putting the bottle down.

You played his game; you went on your knees, positioning yourself in between his bulge. Gojo was always playful; he never wanted to do things on a sober note. He brought the bottle from his lips to the top of your head, staring at your lips.

You complied. You opened your mouth, and he poured it down your throat. You swallowed, feeling the burn go down and your mind clearing. You climbed him, sharing the taste of the alcohol with each other. Your tongues connect, sharing the taste and licking it off each other's lips.

He brought the bottle to his lips again. He connected with your lips, sharing the alcohol with you. You did it until the last bit of the liquid had slid down each other's throats; by this time you were both out of breath.

You looked at each other for a minute. His eyes told you he wasn’t sober anymore. Tonight was going to be a long one. After a few seconds, your hips automatically started to move, rubbing yourself on him. He broke eye contact, hissing at the bulge fighting his pants. You felt his boxers getting wet; the wet patch kept getting bigger and bigger till eventually he let out a groan.

You knew that moan. He just orgasmed the way he turned to look at you; he wanted more. You could feel the oragsm fluid penetrate his boxers and seep onto your cheeks. Tonight was going to be a long night.

━━━━ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 - confessional booth. priest!Getou, church themes, prior encounters mentioned, toys [vibrator], degrading,

Father forgive you, for you have sinned.

Father, forgive the father, for he has done much worse.

Priest!Geto has his favorites. Among the rich mindless aristocrats that give him money whenever he tells them what they want to hear is this young girl.

Daughter of one of his richest aristocrats, she's supposed to be a good girl like the rest of her family. If only they knew.

“I did it again.” You confessed your head low. You feared raising it would meet the eyes of a disappointed god; really, your head bent under the haunting guilt of your father’s eyes. They would disown you if you knew what you were doing.

It was like music to Getou’s ears. Another confession of yours. A soft hum from him urging you to elaborate. The simple sound brought heat to your core. “But it’s just never enough—not like how you do it. I….I need you to do it again.”

After a long day of lies and eating curses exorcising demons this is all he needed. He needed to hear the innocent girl's voice behind closed doors, or both doors. He didn’t speak; he let her carry on, driving herself to madness, preparing herself for him.

“Can you touch me again? Please, when I do it, it feels good but not like how you do it. Can you guide me again? I need help… God-”

It was his time to shine. “Don’t mention the Lord’s name out of your whorish mouth.” You loved his words, especially when they were harsh. Your hands start to drift downward, pressing against your clothed pussy

“What would your parents say?” He spit, your finger touches your clit, you arch your back at clothed contact. “How naughty and needy you are, being so desperate that you would rub yourself on your priest shoe.”

You do it like he said in your last confession: touch yourself till your finger is wet and panties are soaked. “How eager you were sucking my dick; did it fill you that time? During the sermon, were you wet at my voice? I saw you were rubbing your thighs together. When you excused yourself, did you go play with yourself in the bathroom?”

You responded with a low and shaky “no.” It wasn’t your lie that shocked him. It was how he underestimated how naughty you really were. Already touching yourself to his voice. You’d grown quite naughty.

“Hands off slut.” You immediately stopped your movements. How Getou wanted to pound into that temptation of yours, but he had to wait, not tonight. He’d deal with your soft lips—wash them with his cum, your hardened nipples, your unruly hand, and the truly untameable cunt of yours—another day.

Tonight he was testing your limits. “The box beneath you, take it and its package.”

Your eyes scurry around the dim wooden booth. Finding and revealing the box, you took out the device. You’ve seen it before on your computer screen; you know they use it.

“I want you to turn it on and scream for me. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll come inside your booth.” He commands. He fumbles with his robe as his hands hurry to reach his own temptation.

━━━━ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍 - the bathroom of horse racings. cheating but the guy’s an arse anyways, deepthroat, kinda rough

Everything this man knows about you was against his own will.

It was obtained from Shiu’s random ramblings when he got too drunk and talked about all the drama he knew and from the loud conversations of your fleabag of a husband with his friends during horse races.

You hear what he says about you. I mean, you’re sitting right next to him. But you stay silent and innocent with a smile on your face, waving the flag of that winning horse owned by your husband. He bet you didn’t even know its name.

Toji would admit, your husband is a bigger dirtbag than he is. That's why when you excuse yourself to a man who waves his hand at you and wink at him with a provocative smile, he follows right on like a horse being pulled by its bit.

You two don’t waste time. You have to get back to your husband, and Toji has a bet to rig. Immediately you two walk into that cramped bathroom stall; your hands are already working on pulling down his pants.

You don't even rub the bulge through the cloth. You pull it straight down and deal with the real thing. His hands find their way to your hair roots. He knows how to hold it to get a moan from you. He knows just how to pull it tight enough for your head to move.

Pulling your head up to face him, those few seconds before he ravishes you. Those few seconds of his cold eyes meeting yours almost reminding you this is all your good for. Yet this is all you ever want to do.

There's no attraction or love in any of your eyes; just lusty eyes hungry for each other. He drags your head down, smashing his cock into you. He always does this in the beginning, trying to get a dominant head start; in the end, he's the one grabbing onto your head and pushing it away due to his overstimulation.

How you love making big men beg.

His hips thrust into your mouth rapidly; he's trying to make you gag. Trying to get himself a little ego boost. He wants to be told how big he is? Sure.

He sandwiches your head between the wall and his cock, pushing the whole length into your mouth and holding it in place while you struggle until you finally gag.

Gasping for air as he pulls out the string of saliva and pre-cum, still collecting the two body parts. Your eyes meet; he's amused, but now that you’re serious, you will make him beg you.

Your mouth wraps around his cock. Sucking the life out of it. Your hand working down on it as your lips move up, twisting around his cock. You pull out, keeping eye contact; hes almost undone, forcing a tiny laugh out of you as you smear his dick on your cheek while licking it down.

Reaching his sensitive spot, as soon as your tongue reaches his balls, you both pause. He realises what you are about to do, but before he can grab your hair, your mouth begins its work on the plump skin at his crotch.

He’s immediately responding. Your hand works on his cock while your mouth fondles his sack. Rest assured, you got him groaning and begging for a break. But you didn’t stop till he blew his load out twice.

━━━━ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 - living room. oral [F!], a failed quickie, squirt on face, nanami is HUNGRY, morning seggs,

Traditionally, Nanami would say something like the bedroom. But whether he recognizes it or not

This man fucks you on the couch more times you guys have even slept on the bed together.

And it's not only the couch—sometimes against the wall, sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the fucking island counter. Just that space directly near the door and in between the kitchen. In the morning, rushing to work or later coming home exhausted and horny. He has you bent, on his shoulders, wrapped around his hip, or even standing up.

He loves how convenient it is. How easy it is coming home to see you perfectly ready for him, mindlessly watching your show. Or as he's rushing out the door, you come in barely awake, and the goodbye kiss turns slowly into something else.

Just like today.

“Ken, you said you're late…” You moan his name out. The untied tie that was supposed to be hanging off his collar has now found a way to wrap itself around your hands, preventing you from destroying his freshly styled hair; you could do that after he came back.

It was just a quickie, he said. It would be over soon. An hour in and he's still going. His mouth latching onto your lips. Not the ones screaming his name.

The ones creaming it out. He was acting as if you guys didn't fuck the night before. He raised his head for breath, his fingers still torturing the hole. “One more squirt.”

You would say he looked a mess, but let's be honest, this man is always looking good. Although there's liquid dropping off his chin and it's smeared all over his lips like gloss. All though his eyes are squinted dangerously looking at you. A reflection of his desire.

Although his mouth was watering, eager for the reward of your cum, he still looked perfect. He was crumbling undone, yet this pillar was stubborn. He remained sturdy because he knew how close you were.

Your legs started shaking; your hole was clenched and gaping as his tongue reached your clit again; like a pop of confetti, it poured out all over his face. He eagerly cleaned it off your lips, then his lips and chin while looking at you, even licking his fingers too. You thought you were finally done, but his eyes started to cast a different glow.

A predatoral one, a hungry one. Just one more, he said for the hundredth time.

━━━━ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 - his garden. lowkey exhibitionism, true form sukuna, cunnilingins, hes really abusing the ability to spawn mouths…

Sukuna had a sanctuary of some sort. A safe place in his garden where he thinks under a tree older than him.

It's an open space but reserved untouched. Urame only goes there when it's urgent; anything else can wait till he's back. And Sukuna's wives and concubines who so proudly hang around and parade the garden like it's there’s do not even pass by it.

They would take a longer route if it came to that. It wasn't secluded or anything. Trust anyone who wanted to see what was happening under the tree could see.

Anyone who didn't care much for their life could go if they wanted to go. It was a huge bonsai tree. A novelty like the creature that sat under it.

A novelty like the sight many jealous wives had to witness at the corner of their eye—a simple concubine of all things on top of Sukuna under the sacred tree.

It felt like they were witnessing a blasphemous act. A sacred patch of land being tainted and scarred by a simple common concubine. Not even his oldest wife, nor his first wife, nor any living being except Sukuna—I doubt even an ant—has walked on that land. It exudes so much of his aura. It repels any walking organism.

Now such a quiet place is filled with loud lewd sounds of your moans and hungry slurping. Sukuna lays on his back, lost in thought. You? Your fighting for your thoughts as the fog of orgasms threatens to take you.

The ample amount of pleasure driving you mad. And it came in waves. The maw on his stomach tongue lapping at your clit, each flick activates a bundle of nerves. Then he begins to suckle again. Torturing your clit by encapsing it in a vacuum.

Your whole body is twitching in pleasure.

You don’t scream his name or address him directly—no, you wouldn’t even think of distracting him from his thoughts that could result in instant dullness, as in, you would be dead before you could even see his eyes dart towards you.

You try to get off, but his lower hands are holding you down. It was a battle of strength you obviously lost. Bringing yourself chest to chest with him in defeat, maybe you could cry out of extreme pleasure in his man boobs.

It was a trap.

His hands move to your torso now, so you couldn’t sit up right any longer. You didn’t even think of it; your mind is still releasing more and more endorphins. Then you begin to feel something wet, soft yet firm, playing with your nipples. Next thing, you know your tits are being sucked and played with.

You try to get yourself up, but his hand on your torso pushes you down. There was no escape; you led yourself into this, and you would sit through it like a good girl.

━━━━ 𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀 - his office. against the window, backshots, speed play, est relationship, spoiled princess, he's still a workacholic

Hirogami always stays long nights at the office. Always coming home late and leaving home early. He loves you; he loves work; why not combine the two?

At times he’d spread you on his desk; sometimes when he has a meeting at night, he'll have you under his desk. Sometimes he gets down and dirty fucking you on the floor; sometimes he’d wait, putting you on edge by warming himself inside you while he finishes the last bit of paperwork. It's something different every time.

You try and focus on the tiny people below; they were like little ants. Of course they couldn’t see you from up here. Not only was his office on the highest floor, the windows were tinted. But what was there to even see?

Tits smashed onto the glass? How your face looked when trying to control your moans, trying not to be loud? After all, his receptionist was still around, but he didn't care. His thrusts were loud, daring loud sounds from you.

You grab onto the hands digging into your hips. “Hiro~....” You moan out. He doesn’t stop; he knows you don't want him to. He knows you want him to keep going, maybe even faster, but he slows down.

Hitting deep rhythmic thrust. His eyes on yours, "Hm?” pound “I’m gonna need you to speak louder.” pound “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You groan, needing more, needing it faster. “Please- go….” he hits deep, releasing a loud moan, interrupting your begs. “You need what my love?” Before you can respond, he starts going fast. He stays at the perfect speed. “Oh~ yess,” you moan.

Then he goes faster, not allowing you to catch up; now you're begging him to go slower. And he does this back and forth playing with the speed, messing with your mind until you don't know what you’re even begging for.

Until the past, ‘perfect’ speed is now too slow but also too fast for you.

[keikikait]

ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴇ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

this is part three. for part two, click here!

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20's)

word count: 6.7k. i got carried away. i locked in all day to write this.

summary: a trip to get your new phone results in something new…until rafe finds out

warnings: SMUT WARNING 18+! HEAVY cunnilingus (pretty much all pussy eating), slight nipple play (f receiving), rafe is a munch argue with the wall, slight dom!reader (never written it before so soz if it’s awkward), leg humping, cumming in pants, some angst at the beginning/middle, smut at the end, jealous!rafe, some jj x reader, i haven't finished s4 so if i get shit wrong i'm sorry, not proofread

a note: i am so locked in on this series. that being said, this is most likely the final part. but don't worry, i have another rafe idea in mind!

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

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You only get a few hours of sleep before Rafe is stomping around your room, getting dressed to leave you yet again.

The sunlight pours in through your now open window, your curtains flowing softly in the wind. Your bed is so warm and soft that you don’t even want to get up, your duvet smelling faintly of Rafe’s cologne. You sit up, rubbing your eyes. “Rafe?”

He turns to look at you, his blue eyes softening when he looks at your sleepy face. He slips his arms through the holes of his shirt before pulling it over his head, smirking. “Yeah? You okay?”

“Where are you going?” You ask, yawning.

“I gotta go.” He says, straightening his shirt out. “I was supposed to meet with Sofia for breakfast today. Some new breakfast bistro opened up downtown.” Rafe sits down on the edge of your mattress, leaning over and kissing your forehead. “I’ll be back tonight, alright?”

You whine, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “No.”

Rafe sighs, grabbing your hand and gently pulling away your grip. “Sweetheart, don't do that.” He says, his voice stern. “I told you, I'm supposed to be with her for breakfast.”

“No!” You tug him onto the bed. “You love me, not her. You said so yourself.”

He falls onto the bed, cursing under his breath as he looks at you. He sighs, reaching out and taking your chin in his hand. “Don't do this, pretty girl. I'm supposed to be with her right now. Don't throw another tantrum like that. Not now. I don't want to be late. I'm not going to be late just because you are being a brat.”

You push his hand away, sitting up fully. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Rafe. I don’t want to tolerate your bullshit anymore.”

Rafe sighs again, frustrated. He grabs your chin again, more roughly this time. He moves closer to you, pinning you against the pillows. “You just promised me last night you wouldn't doubt my love for you again. I'm going to spank that bratty little ass of yours if you keep this bullshit up.”

“I’m not doubting you, I just…” You sigh, pushing against his grip. “I want to be your first choice. I want to be your only choice. I don’t want to be the other woman anymore.”

“You don't think I know that?” He snaps, his grip tightening. “I know that, sweetheart. You think I don’t know that? I know you don’t want to share, I know you want me to be only yours, I know all of that. But I don’t have a choice right now, alright? Why can’t you understand that?”

His grip stings your skin. You wince slightly, pushing against him. “Why can’t you just break up with her, Rafe?”

“Because I have to play the long game with her, baby. I don’t expect you to understand, but you gotta trust me. This will pay off in the long run, I swear. So stop being a brat about this, please.” He moves closer, shifting one hand to pinch your hip as a warning. “I don’t want to have to punish you for questioning me.”

You whine, squirming under his grip. “Rafe, please, just listen to me! I swear, you don’t need her, she’s just using you--”

Rafe’s phone starts ringing, vibrating on your bedside table. 

It’s Sofia.

Rafe looks over the nightstand, gritting his teeth when he sees her name. He sighs, grabbing his phone and holding it to his ear. “Hey, babe.” He says, his voice suddenly soft. He turns to look at you, a warning gaze telling you to keep your mouth shut.

The way he says babe makes your heart ache, tears welling in your eyes. You crawl towards the edge of the bed, wrapping your arms around his hips, and press your face into his stomach. You want him to stay with you.

He gently places a hand on your head, his fingers running through your hair as he talks to Sofia. “Yeah, I’m on my way right now, I’m just running late.” He says, his voice sweet as usual. There’s a pause as Sofia responds to him, his voice softening even more as he answers. “Of course I still want to come, babe. You know I do.”  He tugs your head back before moving his free hand to your chin, pinching it between his fingertips as he glances down at you.

Your bottom lip trembles as his thumb brushes over it. You kiss it, trying to nuzzle his hand.

Rafe’s silent as he listens to Sofia respond to him, his gaze growing dark as he glances at your face. He lets you nuzzle his hand, dragging his thumb across your teeth as he responds, his voice growing a bit deeper as he speaks. “Yeah, I’ll be there in half an hour, I promise, okay?” He sighs, holding your chin. “Alright. I love you too, babe. See you soon.”

I love you.

I love you?

Your eyebrows furrow and you immediately pull away, moving towards the head of the bed, trying to soften your cries as he hangs up the phone.

Rafe sighs, shutting his phone off and setting it back on the nightstand. He glances at you, watching as you scoot backwards towards the top of the bed. He frowns. “Hey. Come here.” His voice is so soft that you almost give in.

You shake your head over and over, bringing your knees to your chest. How stupid could you be? Why did you even believe him in the first place?

“Stop it.” He snaps, his voice suddenly serious. He grabs one of your ankles, pulling you down towards him. “I said, come here. Don’t make me say it again.” He pulls you down the rest of the way, pinning you against the headboard with his large, strong frame.

You try not to cry, biting the inside of your lip, squirming underneath him. “Just go. You’re going to be late.”

“Baby-” He sighs, his brow furrowing as he looks at you. “Why are you being such a brat? We talked about this last night, alright? I told you to trust me, so why can’t you trust me?” He gently takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him. “I swear, this attitude of yours really needs to stop. Don’t make me put you over my knee.”

The way he talks to you makes your skin crawl and your stomach churn. You squirm, trying to get him off of you. “Please let go, Rafe. I understand. Please just let go.”

He sighs again, frustrated. He sits back a bit, but he doesn’t move back entirely. He continues to hover above you, towering over your frame. “Sweet girl, please, stop this. I told you last night, I don’t want to have to punish you. I don’t want to fight you, but you have to let me work with her. I swear to you that I’m going to dump her as soon as I can, alright? You have to trust me.”

You sniffle, squirming underneath him. “Promise?”

“I promise.” He says, cupping your face and forcing you to look at him, his face just a few inches from yours. “I swear to you, I’m gonna dump her soon, alright? I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, sweetheart. I love you, alright? I swear.”

“I love you too.” You say. And you mean it. Does he?

He sighs, his brow softening. He leans in and kisses you, his lips gently gliding over yours. He pulls away after a moment, just to stare at you for a moment. He then glances at the clock on the nightstand over his shoulder, sighing again. “Okay, pretty girl, I really do need to get going now. I’m definitely gonna be late if I’m any more late. I’m sorry.” He moves back, releasing your chin.

“Be safe.” You call, standing up from your bed.

Rafe pauses, glancing back at you with a small smile, lingering by the door to your bedroom. “I will. Don’t throw any tantrums while I’m gone, alright?” He sighs, his expression growing soft. “I’ll call you when I’m headed back, baby. Love you.”

He exits your bedroom, and a few seconds later you hear your front door open and close.

You’re alone. Again.

It's only 8:30 AM, but the weight of the world already presses down on your shoulders. You groan, climbing back into your bed and burying your face in the pillow. You sniffle, wiping away the tears on your cheeks and your undereyes. Your mind races, and you know you should get up and get ready for the day. You should also eat something. The tasks loom like dark clouds on the horizon, threatening to overwhelm you. Instead, you close your eyes and go back to sleep, even just for a little bit.

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You forgot you smashed your phone.

After your morning shower and a rather large breakfast, trying to make up for the last two days. You search your living room for a while before finding it curled around the corner of the plaster wall. It’s smashed in half, the screen cracked all the way down to the charger port. Thankfully, you had a bit of forethought last night, ordering the phone to be for next day pickup rather than delivery.

You pick up the two halves of your phone, your finger accidentally running over the screen. Somehow, the phone still turns on, glitching for a moment. You carefully throw it into the trashcan before sweeping up the excess glass. You’ll have to go pick up your new phone today, as much as you don’t want to.

Maybe I’ll just go after lunch…, you think. You really don’t want to go out right now, especially not to the Apple Store in the mall, but then you remember that Rafe said he would call you tonight. You rub your eyes, letting out a loud groan before heading into your bedroom to change.

It takes you around an hour to get ready, picking out your outfit, fixing your hair, doing your makeup, getting yourself looking somewhat presentable and not like you just laid on your couch for two days. You end up picking a simple yet cute outfit, a white sweater tucked into a short dark blue skirt, black tights, and some heeled boots, and a small black leather shoulder bag. You check your reflection in your bedroom mirror, sighing to yourself. You looked good, really good. You could almost hear Rafe’s comments on your outfit; ‘You look great, sweetheart, but that means other men will think so, too.’ But maybe you did want them to think that way.

You hesitate a moment when you grab your keys. You’re still exhausted and really don’t want to go get your phone, but you need to get your phone, even for non Rafe-related reasons.

With a heavy sigh, you grab your keys and head out. 

After a short drive and a long peruse of the parking lot, you finally head inside the mall. You feel inclined to check Sofia’s Instagram, reaching for a phone that isn’t there. Making your way through the mall, you finally reach the Apple Store, which is mostly empty, and you’re quickly able to get in line for customer support. Luckily, it doesn’t take too long for you to get in, and soon enough, you’re talking with one of the employees, giving them the serial number of the phone you ordered. The woman behind the counter is all smiles, seemingly kind and cheery. She taps away at the computer on the counter top, typing in the number. She asks you routine questions before setting up your phone for you, sliding it across the table. 

“Thanks.” You say, standing up. “We’re all good on payment, right?”

The woman, Sherri, smiles and nods. “Everything’s all set, honey!” She says, cheerful. “Anything else we can do for you today?”

“I am all set.” You say, giving her a smile before hurriedly rushing out of the Apple Store. You mess around with your phone settings, looking down as you walk. 

“Ow. Hey—” You bump into someone as you step out of the Apple Store, glancing down at your phone instead of watching where you’re going. A familiar voice makes you stop dead in your tracks, and your head tilts slightly, a small smile on your face. 

“JJ, hey.” You say, putting your phone into your purse for safe keeping. 

JJ is grinning, as usual, his hands stuffed in his pockets and that charming smirk still on his face. “Hey, sugar.” He says, looking you up and down. “You look fancy today, you goin’ somewhere?”

“Just had to get a new phone,” You say, pulling it out to show him. “Smashed mine by accident.”

“Damn, that sucks, baby doll.” He says, leaning in a little closer to look at it. “You gotta be more careful with your stuff. A pretty thing like you needs to take care of herself.”

You blush, and your ears turn pink, too. You shouldn’t be feeling this way, especially with JJ. Even though Rafe had filled your head with tons of negative opinions on JJ, you had never had a problem with him. “Y-yeah, I know.” You’re having a hard time forming sentences, stuck on an endless loop of blushing and admiring the blond in front of you. 

“Mmm, such a cute blush. You’re a lil flustered.” He teases, leaning in closer, his eyes looking you up and down. He reaches out and grabs your hand to gently pull you closer, and you oblige, getting right up against him. “C’mon, baby doll, you got a crush on me now or somethin’?”

“Maybe.” You say softly, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

He chuckles, looking down at you. “Yeah, sweetheart? You got a thing for me?” His tone turns teasing, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.  His moves his hand up to cup your face, rubbing his thumb along your jawline. “What, boyfriend ain’t treatin’ your cute little ass right, or somethin’? That why you got a crush on me?”

“You know I don’t have a boyfriend, JJ.” You say, reaching out and rubbing the hem of his button-up shirt, your thumb swirling on one of the buttons. 

JJ grins at you, the smirk growing wider. “That right, pretty girl?” He asks, letting go of your chin and grabbing your hand, stopping you from swirling your thumb along his shirt. He grabs your hand instead, his touch rough. “If you don’t got a boyfriend, then that means you’re free game, darlin’.”

You intertwine your fingers, tugging him closer. “That I am.”

“Oh yeah?” JJ grins, being pulled closer to you. He grabs your wrist, turning and pulling you against his chest, his free hand resting comfortably on your hip. “That means I could kiss you, and you’d let me?” His voice is low, just above a whisper, as he looks down at you. He grins. “Maybe I’ll try it right now.”

“A kiss before our first date?” You ask, tilting your head a little. “How naughty of you, JJ.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. “I’m a naughty boy, sugar, everyone knows that.” He says, his eyes looking you up and down once again. “But you look just too damn cute in that girly little outfit of yours, I can’t resist you. You’re too damn pretty.” He smiles again. “But yeah, I guess I should take you on a proper date first, huh?”

You nod, tugging him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Are you free now?”

JJ laughs, his arms wrapping fully around your frame as you tug him closer. He rests his hands on your hips as you wrap your arms around his neck. He squeezes your hips with his fingers. “Free as a bird, baby doll. You wanna go right now?”

You nod, incredibly eager, willing to do anything to get your mind off of Rafe. You look up at him and bite your lip. “How about we try that new breakfast bistro downtown?”

“Whatever you say, sugar.” JJ says, his smirk growing wide as he notices the eager look on your face. “You seem like you’re kinda hungry for somethin’.” His hand moves to the small of your back, gently holding your frame close to his. “Breakfast bistro ain’t a bad place to start.”

“My car or yours?” You ask. 

He grins, grabbing your chin and tilting your face up to look at him. “You don’t mind ridin’ with me, do you, sweetheart?” 

You shake your head. 

He smiles back down at you, leaning in closer. His face is just a few inches away from yours, his eyes staring down into yours before glancing to your lips. “Good.” He whispers. “Cuz I don’t think we can both fit in your teeny, tiny car. Plus…riding on my bike means you can hold onto me.”

You glance at his lips before meeting his eyes. “I’m ready when you are, handsome. But remember,” You lean a little closer. “It’s just one date.”

He chuckles, his grip on your chin tightening just slightly before he leans in to give you a gentle kiss. “You’re cute as hell, you know that?” He asks, pulling away a moment later, grabbing your hand again. “C’mon, sugar, my bike’s parked out back.”

You eagerly follow him, your whole body feeling fuzzy.

The new bistro is called the Early Bird Cafe & Bistro. 

It’s totally not your fault it’s the same restaurant Rafe and Sofia are supposed to be at, just like it’s totally not your fault that you’re here with JJ at the same exact time. You spot Rafe right away, wearing that light blue sweater that drives you absolutely crazy, hugging his biceps and shoulders so well you wish you could sink your teeth into him. 

You slip the hostess $20, hoping she would let you get the empty table directly behind them. Sofia would have her back to you, but Rafe would get a front row seat. Your little bribe works, and she quickly leads you and JJ into the bistro and to the nearest empty table, right behind Rafe and Sofia’s table. You can feel Rafe’s eyes on you as you hurry into your seat, JJ sitting across from you, resting his hand on the table.

It’s perfect. You and Rafe can look each other dead in the eyes, while Sofia and JJ will have no idea. 

At first, you try to focus on JJ, listening to him talk as you look at the menu. You only peek at Rafe every few seconds, your eyes drawn to him, no matter how hard you try. He’s just sitting there, talking to Sofia as usual, but he keeps glancing at you, his eyes watching you intently. You order the cheapest thing on the menu, leaning across the table and holding JJ’s hand while he talks about his bike and how much it cost to fix it.

You prop your hand up on your palm, pushing your lips into a pout, and look up at JJ while he talks. You know Rafe is watching you.

JJ is absolutely loving your attention, oblivious to the fact that you’re doing all of this just to make Rafe watch. He laughs, raising an eyebrow at you when he sees the pout on your lips. “Oh, c’mon, you gonna give me that cute little pout? You tryna make me blush or somethin’, baby doll?” He reaches out and brushes his thumb along your lower lip. You kiss it, pressing your tongue against it.

He groans under his breath at the gesture, the smirk spreading wide on his face. “Oh, shit. You know, I love that mouth of yours.” He says, a hint of warning in his tone, his hand still holding your chin as his thumb continues to rub along your lower lip. You lick the tip of his thumb again, Rafe’s furious expression visible even out of the corner of your eye.

JJ’s lips twitch at the gesture, letting his thumb slide fully past your open lips, pushing into your mouth as he leans closer to you. “God dammit, you know how to tease a man, don’t you?” You kiss his thumb again before pulling back as the waitress rounds the corner, setting your food down.

Rafe is furious, chewing aggressively and holding his silverware so tight it might snap under the pressure. Sofia is rambling about something he doesn’t care about, completely unaware of his eyes remaining solely on you.

You keep your attention on JJ for the rest of your date. All things considered, he's actually a really sweet guy. Even after finishing your food, you continue to sit and chat, and you notice Rafe and Sofia doing the same. He was keeping an eye on you, occasionally glancing your way. The bistro starts to close down, so you and JJ start to head out. You fish through our purse for some more cash, but JJ’s already throwing it down, even including a small but reasonable tip.

“Thanks, JJ.” You say, slinging your purse over your shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart.” He says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “I’m treatin’ you, alright? You don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” 

And you don’t.

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JJ gives you a ride back to the mall so you can pick up your car. After sharing a few more kisses, your back pressed against the hood, he reluctantly pulls away. 

“I had fun, sweetheart, seriously.” He whispers, his thumb rubbing your lips again before resting his hands on your hips as he leans closer. He gives one final kiss, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment. “I’ll call you later, alright?” He mutters, kissing you one final time. 

You nod. “Ride safe, okay?”

He chuckles, kissing your nose before letting you go. “Of course.” He says, putting on his helmet. “I’ll call you later. You be safe, too.” He gives a last wink before getting onto his bike and riding off. You wave him off, watching him leave the parking lot. You ride home on cloud nine, your chest feeling light, almost euphoric. You felt happy and wanted for the first time in a while.

When you go to pull into your parking spot, you see Rafe's dirt bike parked right next to it. “Fuck.” You groan softly, grabbing your purse before getting out of the car, closing the door behind you.

As you walk towards your front door, unlocking it, you hear the soft sound of music inside. You push open the door, your eyes widening when you see Rafe sitting on the edge of the couch, sitting in the dark. The only thing that gives the room any light is the streetlamp outside, the soft glow filtering through your windows. He looks up at you as you come in, a cold, blank expression on his face.

“How did you get in here?” You ask, setting your bag down.

At first, he doesn’t respond to you, sitting completely still. He watches your every movement, his eyes narrowing as you set down your bag. He stands up, slowly approaching you. He grabs your face in an iron grip, squeezing your cheeks just a bit too hard as he tilts your head up so you’re forced to look at him. There’s nothing but barely restrained anger in his eyes. “You have some gall.” He says, his voice low. “Being there with him. Letting him kiss you. Letting him touch you.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” You say. “You do that a lot.”

“Shut up.” He says, his hand still on your face. His eyes are cold and furious. “I had to watch him touch you. Kiss you. Look at you. Hold you.” His grip on your face tightens slightly. “I had to sit there and watch it. It was all I could do not to drag him out into the alley and break his goddamn fingers. I should’ve been on that date with you. That should’ve been me.”

“I’m tired of being your second choice, Rafe.” You snap. “I want a boyfriend. I don’t want to sneak around. I don’t want to be the other woman anymore.”

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face.” His voice is soft yet threatening, his fingers tightening around your face even more. “You know it’s more complicated than that. You’re not my second choice, sweetheart, you’re just-.” He sighs, frustrated. “Damn it, sweetheart, you’re just…” He shakes his head. “You’re mine. You belong to me. End of story.”

“Then fucking prove it.” You say. “You want me? You want me to belong to you? Dump Sofia. Dump her right now.”

He’s furious. He grabs your arms, squeezing them hard. “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, I can’t yet.” He hisses, pulling you closer to him. “I can’t get rid of her until I’m ready, alright?”

“I’m not going to wait that long.” You say.

Your phone vibrates on the dining table, a phone call from JJ.

Rafe groans under his breath, his eyes darting to your phone just a few feet away. “Don’t.” He says, his grip on your arms tightening. “Don’t you pick that up.”

Your face falls slightly. “I’m not waiting around forever, Rafe. I’m not going to sit here and just hope that one day you’ll want me.”

He groans again, his grip on you bruising. “God damn it, I want you now.” He says, pulling you so close against him that you’re practically pushed flush against his chest. “I promise I’m going to break up with her, I promise, just give me some goddamn time.” His eyes are growing red and bloodshot.

You shake your head, your voice soft when you speak. “I can’t wait that long, Rafe. I won’t. You either have me now, or you don’t have me at all.”

Rafe scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “So what, you’re gonna run off to that dumbass, just because I can’t leave Sofia yet?” His grip tightens again. “Is that it, sweetheart? You’re just gonna toss me aside for some nobody?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” You say softly. 

He lets out a shaky breath, his arms wrapping around you. He buries his face into your neck, pulling you tight against his chest. “You’re supposed to trust me, pretty girl.” He mutters, his voice trembling. “You’re supposed to trust that I’m gonna pick you, that I’m gonna break up with her.”

“I don’t want some of you. I want all of you.” You say. “I don’t want to wait around until you decide to pick me.”

“You’ve got all of me, baby, I promise you.” He mutters into your neck, his arms squeezing you tighter. “I swear to you, you’ve got all of me, I just-.” God, he sounds so desperate, and his eyes are starting to well with tears. “Sweetheart, I need you to trust me, alright? I swear I’m gonna end it with her.”

You shake your head. “Rafe, I’m sorry. I can’t wait around for you anymore.”

He whines, pulling you back by your shoulders so he can look at you. He cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “God damn it, sweetheart, you’re killing me here. Don’t you understand? I need more time--”

His phone rings this time, lighting up from its spot on your dining table.

A call from Sofia.

You take a deep breath. You can do this. “You can either break up with her right now, or you can leave.”

He stares into your eyes, his face growing desperate. He can’t believe this is really happening. He’s going to lose you, he’s going to lose his mind, he’s going to lose the last good thing that ever happened to him. He doesn’t even know what to say.

The phone stops ringing.

You breathe out softly as it starts ringing again. “Choose, Rafe. Sofia or me. You can’t have both anymore. It’s not fair to me or her.”

He’s desperate, and panicked. He’s losing you. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he loses you. He whines again, the ring of the phone still echoing through your apartment. He doesn’t have time to think about it.

He slams his lips against yours, kissing you heatedly, passionately, desperately.

You pull away. “No, Rafe. Fucking pick something for once in your goddamned life.”

His hands are shaking as he grabs your shoulders. His breathing is shaky as he tries to pull you in for another kiss, but you won’t let him. He looks so desperate, his eyes full of panic as he stares into yours. His phone starts ringing again and finally, he slams his palm down against your dining table, the sound loud and harsh. “I-“ He pants, his voice strained. “I choose you, pretty girl. Alright?” He reaches over and picks up the phone, putting it up to his ear.

You’re honestly a little surprised. You were certain he was going to pick Sofia. You reach out and grab his free hand, rubbing your thumb against his palm. He’s still wearing that blue sweater.

He swallows, standing up straighter and gripping your hand. “Hey, So-.” He’s interrupted, Sofia’s muffled voice ringing through the phone. She sounds annoyed, maybe even a little angry. Rafe’s expression grows even more desperate as he listens to her talking, his fingers squeezing around yours almost painfully. 

Finally, Sofia stops talking. Rafe’s quiet for a long moment, swallowing hard again as he takes a long, deep breath. “Oh. Um, yeah, Sofia, about that-” He pauses again as she speaks through the phone. He swallows again, his eyes beginning to tear up as his voice breaks. “Actually, I think we should break up, I-.” More talking from Sofia, longer this time, sounding even more pissed. Rafe grimaces, biting his lip as his fingers squeeze yours even tighter.

You step forward, reaching out and wrapping your hand around his bicep, squeezing it softly, a silent sign of support.

Rafe’s eyes flick over to you, a little surprised you’re still willing to be this close to him, but he looks relieved, his eyes growing glassy and even more desperate as he stares into yours. He nods, his voice still trembling as he tries to respond to what Sofia is saying. “No, I mean it, Sofia… I’m serious, it’s over… because I- I’m actually- I’m seeing someone else.”

You squeeze his bicep again.

He closes his eyes, swallowing hard, his whole body tense and on edge. He’s never been in a situation like this before. Sofia says something else, her voice louder through the phone. Rafe sighs, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head, trying to keep his composure. “No, Sofia, I- I’m not doing this shit anymore. I’m in love with her, alright? I’ve been seeing her for months now, and I’m in love with her… and I can’t keep doing all this. I’m sorry.”

You hear Sofia screaming at him before she hangs up. Rafe tosses his phone onto the table. A soft squeak leaves your mouth when he suddenly hugs you, burying his face in your neck.

You hug him back, rubbing his back as he starts to cry. “Rafe, honey, it’s okay.”

He hugs you so damn tight. His shoulders are shaking, his breathing shallow and desperate. “Please, god…” He mutters, nuzzling his face into your neck. “Sweetheart, please don’t leave me. God dammit, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I put you through that, please don’t leave me. I need you, sweet girl. I need you.” His voice is soft and trembling into your ear as he whispers.

“I’m not leaving.” You say softly, rubbing his back. “I’ll call JJ tomorrow and let him down easy. I’m not going anywhere. You have me.”

Rafe squeezes you tighter. He’s scared, his breathing still shaky, his grip like iron. “Promise me.” He whispers, his lips brushing against the skin of your neck, pressing gentle kisses to your skin between each word. “Please, please promise me. Promise me you’re staying with me. Promise me you aren’t going anywhere, that you won’t leave me. Please.”

“I promise.” You say, over and over, as many times as he needs. You gently take his face in your hands, wiping away some of his tears.

He lets you wipe away his tears, the shaking in his shoulders lessening. He keeps his face close to yours, his arms still wrapped around you. He nuzzles his nose against yours gently, leaning his forehead against yours as he closes his eyes. “Thank you.” He mutters, his voice still trembling, barely audible. “Thank you, baby. You’re not leaving me. You’re still staying with me. You’re still mine.” His hand lifts to gently cup your cheek.

You kiss him, gently at first. He lets you lead the kiss. It’s gentle, and soft, and tender, he just wants to feel your lips on his, needs to feel them against his. But after a moment, his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer, wanting more, needing more. His lips move against yours more hungrily now. You eagerly match the hungry pace.

You shiver as his hands travel down from your waist to your lower back, then to your ass, grabbing and squeezing it. There’s a new desperation in his kiss, in his grip, in his whole being. It’s like you’ve finally gotten through to him, finally broken through the bullshit and made him realize just how much he needs you. He eagerly picks you up, and you let him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you into your bedroom.

The bed squeaks as he throws you down onto it. Rafe kneels at the end of it, grabbing your ankles and tugging you towards him. He’s quick to remove your tights and your skirt. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m gonna make it up to you. I’m gonna be a good boy.”

“You are a good boy.” You say gently as you lift your hips. He slides the tights all the way down, kissing up your legs.

Rafe groans, loving the way you call him ‘good boy.’ You can feel the smile that spreads across his lips as he kisses along your legs. He kisses his way up your thighs, stopping to bite at your skin, leaving behind bruises.  He reaches your hips, yanking down your panties and tossing them away. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. He looks up, meeting your eyes. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

You bite your lip. "Are you sure you want to do this?”

Rafe nods, moving his hands to grip your hips. “I'm sure. I want this.” His voice is firm, filled with determination. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before trailing his lips higher. He nuzzles against your cunt, inhaling deeply. “Fuck...you smell so good.”

He parts your folds with his fingers, revealing how wet you already are for him. He licks his lips hungrily before diving in, his tongue lapping at your slit eagerly. He moans into your pussy, the vibrations making you gasp and arch off the bed. His hands grip your hips tighter, holding you in place as he eats you out like a starving man. “Mmmm...so fuckin' sweet,” he mumbles between long licks.

A moan escapes your lips, your back arching off the mattress as pleasure courses through your body. “Oh god, Rafe…” You pant, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Fuck…”

Rafe growls low in his throat. He doubles his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, swirling around your clit. He sucks on it gently, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your top. He pinches and tugs at the hard peaks, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core as you squeal, squirming underneath him.

“Look at you. So responsive,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “Gonna make you come so hard, baby.” His nose nudges against your clit as he tongues your entrance. You squeal, your back arching off of the bed. You reach up and tug on one of your nipples, your pussy gushing on his face.

Rafe laps up your juices greedily, his tongue thrusting inside you, fucking your dripping cunt. He moans at the taste of you, more turned on than ever. He reaches down with one hand, unbuckling his belt. His cock throbs in his slacks and he can’t take it anymore, edging closer to your legs. Caught up in the smell, taste, and feel of you, he starts to hump your calf, his thighs squeezing your leg to steady it. He moans into your cunt, pulling away from your little clit for only a second before latching back on.

He continues to suck and nibble on your clit while finger-fucking you roughly, plunging two digits deep into your tight cunt. “You're so fuckin' wet for me, baby,” he grunts, breaking the seal from your pussy to speak. “Love eating this sweet cunt.” 

Your toes curl. “You didn't ask if you could hump me, baby.” Normally Rafe is always the dominant one, using you like a personal fuck toy, but with his face buried between your legs and his cock rubbing up against your calf, you feel like taking charge.

Rafe whines, stopping his hips. “Baby, fuck, please let me hump you! It feels so good, eating you out feels so fucking good.” His breath is hot against your slick folds, his tongue darting out to lap at your juices, savoring the flavor of you. He gazes up at you, sucking your clit directly into his mouth.

Your back arches deliciously, and you nod. “You can hump me, baby. Make yourself feel good.”

With a relieved groan, Rafe resumes humping your leg, his thick cock sliding against your skin through his pants. He rocks his hips faster, the friction driving him wild. His tongue never leaves your clit, continuing to swirl and suckle the sensitive bundle of nerves. “You like watching me hump you, don't you?” he rasps, his voice strained. “Seeing me lose control because of you... Fuck, I love it. I love you.”

“I love you too,” You moan, hips bucking in his face. “Good boy. Keep going.”

Hearing you call him ‘good boy’, Rafe lets out a satisfied grunt. He increases his pace, his hips rocking against your leg even harder. He continues to lick and suck on your clit, driving you crazy with pleasure. He can feel himself getting close, his balls tightening and his cock throbbing. “God, baby, I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum!” he warns, his voice shaky with anticipation. “Cum with me, please!”

Rafe's warning turns into a guttural moan as he finally loses control. His hips jerk erratically, grinding his clothed erection against your leg as he orgasms. Thick ropes of cum spurt from his cock, soaking through his pants and staining your skin. At the same time, he sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue working overtime to bring you to climax alongside him.

As the waves of pleasure subside, he slowly pulls away, licking his lips clean of your essence. He climbs up onto the bed next to you, his eyes glazed with satisfaction and adoration. “I love you. I love you so much,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You're so fucking hot when you cum for me. Such a good girl.”

“I love you too,” You say, grabbing him and pulling him closer.

He looks down at his slacks, soaked and covered with cum. He hums, reaching up and cupping your face. “Do you wanna clean me up, baby?”

You take a deep breath, a small smile gracing your face. “Yeah.”

Rafe grins, climbing up to lean against the headboard as you start to lick the wet spot on his slacks.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

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[cybergirrll]

fuse

hamzah x reader

synopsis- power goes out in your apartment complex, your friend hamzah who lives on the floor above you stops by in the middle of the night

fluff?!!! friends to lovers?!! (p.s. i personally think if you listen to pretty girl by clairo while you read it makes the whole thing a lot cuter)

-

about 5 minutes ago, you’d woken up for no apparent reason. you figured you’d drift back into your previous ever so peaceful slumber, but you were wrong.

so now, annoyed at your minds inability to fall back asleep you stared at the wall, mindlessly observing how the moonlight ever so slightly lit up the back of the curtains, the drapes allowing the softest light to mix amongst the darkness the room withheld.

usually when you awoke in the night like this, you fell back asleep almost immediately, having no memory of it in the morning. this time however, your heart fluttered in an exhilarating way. maybe it was the overload of coffee you had that morning, or maybe it was the boy upstairs.

hamzah lived on floor 3 in apartment A. you lived on floor 2 in apartment A. you’d met about four months ago, when there was a mix up with the mail addresses and you were getting coupons for cat litter. quickly, you became great friends. you were kind of lonely, with your friends living on the other side of town, and him being alone most of the time with his two cats. you loved having movie nights, going grocery shopping together at the store down the block, pet sitting red and blue, meeting on the balcony, complaining about your annoying neighbors, talking about movies, music, games and everything. it was one of the greatest friendships you’d ever had.

however, in the past week, something felt different. you tried to suppress the growing attraction that swelled your heart, twisting your stomach with butterflies whenever you saw him. it was so corny you felt sick. he was only a friend, you’d never even thought about liking him like that before but it crept up on you so suddenly, like an unexpected wave that hit you from behind, knocking you over and drifting you out into the cerulean blue sea. you weren’t used to feeling like this. so, you ignored it.

he was the last thing on your mind when you went to sleep and the first when you woke up in the middle of the night. you couldn’t help it. he was so awkward but in his own way where it was funny and sweet and so charming and hes so gentle and nice and so funny and he laughs at all your jokes and makes you laugh and his smile was so cute and his hair is adorable and he’s so smart and cute andUuooaagghhhh my god. he was driving you absolutely insane.

you felt so nervous to be around him, like he might sense what’s in your eyes and then you would implode right then and there. when he talks to you about how he used to be so depressed living on his own and how it got better but he still feels that empty void in him sometimes, you just want to kiss him on the mouth right then and there and tell him everything’s going to be okay and that you loved him so much and you wanted him to be happy forever. these kinds of thoughts kept you up the past few nights.

you checked the time on your phone 1:15 AM. welp. you were already up. you leaned over, clicking your lamp on. the bulb didn’t light up. you clicked it off and on again and still, there was no dim glow you hoped for. you peered down at the wall where the lamp was plugged in. “hmmm.” you got up and flicked the light switch by your door, your overhead light unresponsive.

a soft knock on your front door.

you were creeped out now, sure you were about to have some true crime documentary made about you. you waited for a moment, another soft knock. it wasn’t in your imagination. taking another deep breath, you slipped out of your room and over to the front door. you peeked through the peephole, relieved, and a bit nervous, to see hamzah.

you opened the door. “you scared the shit out of me.” his eyes looked sleepy, curls unruly. “sorry,” he smiled softly “i just wanted to check on you. i think a power line broke or something.” you stared at him for a moment, gripping the door a little tighter when you realized you were only in your underwear and an oversized t shirt.

“um- yeah. yeah, i’m okay. why were you up?” you tugged your t shirt down a little bit to cover the tops of your thighs. thankfully his gaze stayed fixed on your eyes. “i was editing a video, and then uhh- everything went dark. yeah.” he chuckled softly

“yeah you look tire-“ “why were you up?” he blurted.

“oh- i, no sorry what were you saying.”

“oh nothing,” you giggled a little.

“i just woke up in the middle of the night, couldn’t go back to sleep.”

he nodded, smiling softly, a little flustered.

you two stood there for a few quiet moments, just looking at each other. you felt so fluttery, like you were in a dream. maybe it was the eeriness of the situation, the fact that it was one in the morning and he was at your door like he’d usually be during the day. you weren’t sure if you should invite him in, or if it was a stupid idea because he looked tired. but then why was he here? it was almost the middle of the night and it’s not like a power outage would wake you up, so he would’ve assumed you were asleep.

he smiled softly at you and turned to walk away, taking a few steps before you ran out and grabbed his hand. “wait.”

he turned around, his eyes wide and soft in the darkness of the hallway. shoot. now he was looking at you and now you had to explain yourself but you don’t even know why you did that, you just couldn’t let him leave. you were still holding onto his hand

“stay.”

“you want me to?” hamzah’s voice was gentle, soft, drizzling down your spine like warm honey. he was talking to you this way, his eyes glimmering, so relaxed, so sleepy, so dark, so him.

you nodded, calculating your next moves in your head. this moment felt so perfect, you didn’t want to let it slip through your fingers.

you could lead him inside, just to go back talking again like the friends you were but something about this, standing in the hallway now made you want it to last. you wanted to capture this moment and keep it in a jar and live in that jar forever, you wanted to pour whatever was in that jar into your tea every morning, hoping it gave you that same unreal feeli-

his hand in yours. he squeezed it softly.

without thinking he laced his fingers with yours, slowly led you back inside your apartment and closed your door. you turned to face him, your back against the door. he moved closer, big brown eyes peering into yours, trying to figure something out.

you just looked and looked at him until he smiled at you. he’d never been like this with anyone, really. but he liked this feeling with you. you place your hand on his shoulder, awkwardly moving up to the side of his neck.

his hand fell down to your waist, other hand still holding yours tightly. he looks at you, a little nervous. you nod. he mumbles your name softly, hand fisting the side of your cotton shirt.

“you’re my favorite,” he mumbles again, under his breath. you bury your fingers in the back of his head and gently pull him closer until his nose brushes against yours. you can tell he’s a little nervous.

you kiss his lips softly and then pull away a little, looking into his eyes. he leans back in, hand cupping your face as he kisses you again. he was so warm and gentle against you, afraid you would shatter if he wasn’t soft enough with you.

he didn’t think he was much for affection, but the way you sighed against his mouth when he kissed you made him want more of you. he wanted to kiss you all day all the time forever. god he liked you so much. how did he go so long without this?

you pulled away a little, forehead against his. “hamzah i-“ a car alarm starts blaring outside, red headlights pulsing and flashing faintly from outside, piercing the dark. you hear muffled chatter and complaints from outside. hamzah pulled away, glancing towards the window and muttering something about bad timing.

“i um- i should head back to my place.” he shoved his hands in his pockets. you open your mouth to speak, hesitating and then just nodding. “okay, yeah um-“ you slide off of the door and open it for him. he looks at you quickly and mumbles a “night” before he slips out of the door and you close it behind him.

you slide down against the door, knees tucked against your chest on the floor. the car alarm finally died down outside. what were you even supposed to do now? go back to sleep?

-

hope u enjoyed!! sorry if this totally sucks 🤧

[goldfades]

VALENTINE'S DAY ───── LAMELO BALL

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | lamelo is never quiet type, and it extends to your relationship — because that's just who he is, and how he shows his love. this is how your valentine's day always goes.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lamelo being the best bf ever, and just fluffy stuff!

Every year, without fail, LaMelo Ball made Valentine’s Day his personal stage. It wasn’t just a day; it was an event. No matter what was going on—road games, media obligations, team practices—he always found a way to make sure you felt like the center of his universe.

The first time it happened, you thought it was a fluke. A ridiculous, over-the-top, early-relationship flex. You had barely been together for a few months when he sent a massive bouquet of roses—three dozen, deep red, wrapped in sleek black paper—to your apartment at exactly midnight. It came with a note in his messy, looping handwriting: First Valentine’s. Not the last.

By the second year, it became clear that this wasn’t just some honeymoon-phase thing. Because this time, it was an even bigger arrangement—lilies, peonies, and the same signature roses, towering in a glass vase you were pretty sure could double as a fish tank. That, and a diamond bracelet, which he clasped around your wrist himself with the type of satisfaction that said, Yeah, I did that.

The third year, you didn’t even try to act surprised when he went even bigger. It was just how he loved—bold, unfiltered, and grand.

And now, another Valentine’s was here.

You woke up to the first sign of it: the soft ding of a text notification. Still half-asleep, you reached for your phone, eyes squinting at the brightness of the screen.

Melo 💕 Morning, Valentine. Be ready by 7.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, already knowing what that meant. Because this wasn’t just a dinner reservation or a casual date. When LaMelo said “be ready,” he meant something’s coming, and it’s coming big.

You stretched, blinking up at the ceiling as the weight of his text settled in. Be ready by 7. No further explanation. No details. Just that.

But you already knew how this would go.

You swung your legs over the bed, running a hand through your hair as you sat up. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater kicking in. Outside, the city still felt half-asleep, the early morning light filtering in through your curtains in muted golds and grays.

And then—ding. Another text.

Melo 💕 Check the door.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your lips curled into a smile as you climbed out of bed, padding toward the front door. There was no need to check the peephole. You already knew what would be waiting on the other side.

When you pulled it open, the scent hit you first—sweet, floral, overwhelming in the best way.

There, standing proudly on your doorstep, was the kind of bouquet that would put entire wedding arrangements to shame. A mix of your favorites—full-bloom peonies, creamy garden roses, white orchids threaded between delicate baby’s breath, the kind of bouquet that looked like it belonged in the lobby of a five-star hotel rather than sitting outside your apartment door.

Tucked neatly between the stems was a black envelope, your name scrawled across the front in his signature handwriting. You already knew what it would say before you even opened it.

For my Valentine, You already know what today is. Get ready. —Melo ♡

You shook your head, laughing softly. Same Melo. Always.

But that was the thing about him. He didn’t just say he loved you—he made it felt like an undeniable fact, like the sky being blue or the sun rising every morning.

You pulled the bouquet inside carefully, placing it on the counter before heading toward your bathroom. If you had any hope of making it through whatever he had planned tonight, you needed to start getting ready now.

By the time the evening rolled around, the anticipation sat in your chest like static—warm, buzzing, something you couldn't quite shake.

You stood in front of your mirror, adjusting the clasp of your necklace. The dress he sent over fit like it had been made for you—because, knowing him, it probably had been. It was elegant but understated, the type of effortless glamour Melo always liked on you.

As if on cue, your phone vibrated on the counter.

Melo 💕 I’m outside.

With one last glance in the mirror, you grabbed your clutch and headed out.

When you stepped into the crisp night air, the first thing you saw was the car—a sleek black Rolls-Royce, engine humming low and steady like it had been idling there for a while.

And then, there was him.

LaMelo stood next to the car, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed, watching you. His chain caught the glow of the streetlights, and he was wearing that easy, knowing smirk—the one that told you he knew he had outdone himself again.

“You look good, baby,” he murmured as you stepped closer. His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate. “Like, real good.”

Your lips curved. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before stepping forward, his hands finding your waist with the kind of ease that came from years of muscle memory. “You ready?”

You tilted your head. “Do I get any hints this time? Or are we sticking to the whole ‘mystery’ thing?”

Melo hummed, pretending to think about it. Then, with a grin, he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Nah. You’ll see.”

And with that, he opened the car door, the night stretching ahead like a promise.

You slid into the car, the scent of his cologne already wrapped thick in the air—something deep and smooth, a little woody, something that smelled expensive in the way Melo always did. The seats were buttery soft against your skin, and the hum of the engine felt impossibly steady beneath you, like the entire night was resting in the palm of his hand.

Melo climbed in next to you, one hand on the steering wheel, the other stretching across the center console to rest on your thigh like it belonged there. He always did that. A quiet reassurance. A you’re here, I’m here, that’s all that matters.

"Comfortable?" he asked, shooting you a quick glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You ran a hand along the sleek leather of the seat, already knowing that whatever destination he had in mind, it was going to be as excessive as always. "Do I ever have a choice with you?"

He grinned at that. “Nope.”

The car pulled off smoothly, gliding onto the road with the kind of ease that came from Melo’s particular brand of living—never rushed, always in control, like everything was happening exactly how he wanted it to.

Outside, the city lights flickered past in a blur, neon signs and warm streetlights stretching across the skyline like scattered constellations. You stole a glance at him, the glow of the dashboard casting soft shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the relaxed set of his mouth.

LaMelo Ball, for all his flash and extravagance, was surprisingly quiet in moments like these. He never felt the need to fill silences with small talk, never rushed to explain himself. He let things breathe. And maybe that was why, even when he was spoiling you to the point of ridiculousness, it never felt performative. It was just him.

You let the silence linger for a beat before finally breaking it. “So, where are we going?”

Melo exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Always with the questions.”

You shot him a look. “You can’t drop off a thousand-dollar bouquet at my door, send me a dress, pick me up in this—” you gestured to the ridiculously luxurious car— “and not expect me to be curious.”

He hummed, eyes still on the road. "You’ll see."

"You keep saying that," you muttered, crossing your arms.

He grinned, clearly entertained. “And yet, here you are. Still in the car. Still trusting me.”

You hated that he was right.

But it wasn’t long before you started to get an idea of where he was taking you. The roads shifted, the city lights fading into something quieter, more private. When the car slowed, your brows furrowed.

This wasn’t a restaurant.

This wasn’t some exclusive, celebrity-packed dining spot with a three-month waitlist.

This was—

“Melo,” you started, eyes widening as you took in the familiar gated entrance, the dimly lit pathway leading up to an impossibly grand rooftop setup. “Did you—?”

He only smirked as he pulled the car to a smooth stop, throwing it in park before turning to you fully.

“You like it?” he asked, a certain boyish pride lacing his voice.

Like it?

Your gaze swept over the setup visible through the open terrace doors—hundreds of twinkling string lights draped from above, the soft glow of candles flickering against crisp white table linens, a private chef already setting up by the terrace’s edge. The city skyline stretched endlessly in the background, hazy and golden in the distance.

It was perfect. It was ridiculous. It was him.

“Melo,” you whispered, still stunned.

He let out a small chuckle, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I figured we’ve done the whole restaurant thing enough. Wanted to switch it up.”

You turned to him, still trying to process it all. “You booked out an entire rooftop just to ‘switch it up’?”

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah.”

The simplicity of it made your chest ache. Because this was how he loved—loud, effortless, like the world was his to shape and all he wanted to do was carve a space for you in it.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Melo’s grin softened into something fonder, something quieter. “Maybe.” Then, with a tilt of his head, “Come on. Let me show you.”

The night unraveled in golden moments.

Dinner was perfect. The kind of perfect that made your chest feel full, warm. The chef had prepared a menu tailored specifically to the things Melo knew you loved—seared scallops with that buttery sauce you were obsessed with, truffle pasta that melted on your tongue, a dessert that felt almost too beautiful to eat.

Halfway through the meal, you caught Melo watching you, chin resting lazily in his palm, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“What?” you asked, setting your fork down.

He shook his head, lips twitching. “Nothin’. You’re just cute when you’re happy.”

Your face warmed instantly. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair, one hand stretching across the table to toy with your fingers. “Nah. Just facts.”

And then there was the gift.

Because, of course, there was always a gift.

You were halfway through your glass of wine when he slid a small velvet box onto the table, completely casual, as if he was passing you the salt.

You stared at it. “Melo.”

“What?” he said, ever-so-innocent.

“You did not.”

He arched a brow. “You gon’ open it, or you just gon’ keep yellin’ at me?”

Your heart pounded as you reached for the box, flipping it open with careful fingers.

Inside, nestled against plush velvet, was a necklace.

Not just any necklace—the necklace. The one you had pointed out months ago in passing, barely thinking twice about it, assuming it would be just another one of those it’s pretty, but it’s too much moments.

But Melo had remembered.

You looked up at him, eyes soft, stunned.

“LaMelo,” you murmured. “How did you—?”

He only smirked, already reaching over to take it from the box. “Turn around.”

You swallowed, doing as he said, heart stuttering as he gently brushed your hair aside. The metal was cool against your skin, the weight of it settling perfectly as he clasped it into place.

When you turned back around, he was already watching you, gaze flickering between your eyes and the necklace, as if making sure it belonged there.

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small, overwhelmed laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Melo grinned, leaning forward, his voice low, teasing. “And yet, here you are. Still trusting me.”

And just like that, you knew—he had won. Again.