#they are so nice and calming to sleep in the same bed with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jinx-xxed · 1 month ago

Note

I need Remmick being so down bad for his human wife pretty please

Work Song

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; I needed this too so thank you for this request 🙏 I love a man that’s down bad and obsessed, those are the best kind ^_^ the title for this one takes after Hozier’s Work Song of course since I was thinking about it while writing this :P I hope you enjoy, and thank you again for requesting!! (Also apologies for me going overboard, I got way too invested in the backstory and couldn’t stop myself :’D)

Summary; Remmick comes home to his wife.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, human reader, down bad Remmick!!, soft Remmick, possessive Remmick, vampirism, cleaning him up, married to Remmick, soft sex, fingering, piv sex, cuddling, he doesn’t know how to handle “I love you”, fluff

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The house is dark and quiet when the door opens with the smallest squeak, resting on old hinges gone too long without oil.

The curtains are drawn tight, the material thicker than your typical run of the mill, assuring no light can sneak through the cracks. The air is fresh with recent movement, signs of a home well lived in with pictures hung on the wall and shoes in a small rack by the door. That’s where Remmick leaves his dust covered boots so he doesn’t track red speckled dirt all over your nice clean floors. He tosses his stained button up in the wash bin you set out for him too, just his white tank remaining as his suspenders fall loose around his hips. Stepping inside your place is like a balm on his unsettled, angry soul, letting him leave everything else behind just for a little while.

Your home is the only one he’s allowed himself to become familiar with, the only one he’s stayed at for longer than a couple months. He knows every hall, every creaky wooden floorboard, every small detail at an almost intimate level. He follows the path he’s gone down hundreds of times, the one that leads him right to your bedroom. Your scent brings him there just the same—sweet and flowery like a perfect spring day, a tantalizing whisper of iron hiding beneath.

Remmick nudges the bedroom door open, his eyes flickering in the dim lighting, red simmering in the blue-gray like the last embers of a dying fire. It’s strange how instantly something within him is calmed at the sight of you, something deep and possessive and maybe even predatory that finally quiets when it realizes you’re still here. Your form is tucked beneath the sheets, blissfully warm and cozy and utterly perfect. He sees a book tossed aside to the corner of the bed, like you’d tried to stay awake for him but ultimately gave up and fell asleep. He can hear your gentle breaths, the quiet thrum of your heart that taunts him.

His steps are near silent when he makes his way over to you. You lay on your stomach, a pillow hugged between both arms, your pretty mouth parted just slightly. You look serene in sleep, an angel come down to earth just for a devil like him. Remmick reaches forward, brushing a stray curl from your face with a tenderness most would think impossible for himself—with his hands that have taken too many lives to count, that are stained with blood every night. But with you they’re gentle, able to rediscover a mushy part of him that was buried centuries ago.

Your eyebrows pinch and you mumble indistinctly when his chilled hand rests on your cheek, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin beneath his calloused palm. He’s a little warmer tonight though, with fresh blood still flowing through him, but it’s never enough to completely chase off the cold bite of death. He leans down to pepper kisses across your face, steadily moving to your neck where he pauses, his blunt teeth teasing along your jugular and inhaling your scent like it’s a lifeline.

Under his attention is how you finally wake, shaken from meaningless dreams by frigid fingers and loving kisses. You smile lazily, stretching your arms and twisting so you’re on your back to face him. You paw at him, pulling him in with no resistance—he’d happily follow your touch wherever you wanted him to go. Your lips meet briefly, a pleased noise rumbling from him before you pull away. “You’re back.” You say, sleep still edging your words. You breathe him in contentedly, your fingers coming up to run through his short hair. He still has that signature metallic tang on him despite his efforts to clean up before coming home. “Was worried ‘bout you.”

“Aw darlin’, you ain’t have to do that. You know I’ll always come back to ya.” Remmick says, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. One of his hands rests above the covers on your waist now, the weight of it comforting and familiar. He huffs, shaking his head. “Shit, thought ‘bout ya all night.”

It’s true, he really was thinking about you the whole time—something he finds himself doing a lot recently. He thinks about you from the moment he leaves your house because of the undeniable call of his hunger, all the way to when he finally returns hours later. He’ll think about wishing he could stay around when your eyes start to droop and the mortal need for sleep takes you away, when you subconsciously curl into him searching for warmth that isn’t there. He hates having to move you off of him so he can go, so he can step out into the unforgiving darkness of night in search of a life to steal. You do make the cutest little noises though, something like a disgruntled cat’s. He’ll tuck you in real nice and kiss you sweetly to make sure you don’t miss him too much, and so he can seal the image in his memory to keep him motivated—a reminder of what he gets to come home to.

“You were gone for so long.” You say with a small pout, holding his face in your hands, his light stubble tickling your palms. The gold ring you wear glints in the darkness, a twin to his own.

He tilts his head so his lips connect with your hand, nuzzling into your touch that he always seems to crave. “Just got caught up with some things s’all.” He’d cut it close tonight, the sun appearing like a reckoning seconds after he’d shut the door. “I’m here now, darlin’.”

You smile at that, pulling him in again to kiss him, enjoying the taste of him. There’s always something metallic hiding beneath every bit of him, something too old for your mind to comprehend, something otherworldly. For most it would be unnerving and terrifying but for you, that’s just your husband, your Remmick. You’d accepted that when you agreed to marry him about three years ago, opening your arms and home to him and every unnatural part that came with him.

It was two years before that when you’d actually met him, the memory always sitting clear in your mind like it happened yesterday.

You’d spent the whole day baking—cookies, pies, cobblers, tarts… the list went on as you prepared for the market happening in town the next morning. You prided yourself on your baked goods, and people always bought you out. The whole house smelled of your efforts, the scent carrying out the open windows and into the trees beyond. You hadn’t heard it at first, the whispers in the leaves, the way all the animals went silent, the world seeming to hold its breath for just a moment. You’d been too busy singing a song you knew by heart as you were prone to do whenever working in the kitchen. (Remmick has told you countless times how much he adores your voice, he says it’s like a fine wine).

You were rotating the food left to cool on the windowsill when you saw him, standing out there by the tree line, watching you with eyes that at first gave you the willies. “Hey there,” you’d called, watching as he flinched at the sound of your voice, “what brings ya over?”

He’d taken a few curious steps towards the house, letting you get a better look at him. Worn button up loosely tucked into high waisted trousers, a white tank hidden beneath, suspenders over the shoulders, old boots, and a banjo slung across his back. He looked like a man who traveled often, never staying in one place long enough to learn the style of it. His face looked kind, set with strong features on stocky shoulders that suggested he was no stranger to hard work. His short black hair was messy but in a presentable way, curled bangs sitting on his forehead. Still, you knew there was something deeper about him that was off, that didn’t belong in your realm of living.

His hands were loosely in his pockets and he shrugged. “Smelled somethin’ mighty sweet, heard somethin’ even sweeter. You got a beautiful voice, darlin’.” He’d given you a close-lipped smile, one that made his eyes crinkle at the edges. His southern drawl was thick like syrup, coated across every word with something mixed in that you couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, I‘ve got years of church choir to thank for that.” You’d joked. You’d tilted your head. “Would you like to try anything, sir? I could always use a taste tester.”

He’d hesitated for a moment longer than would be normal, as if debating something serious in his mind, before shaking his head. He chuckled. “Nah, I’m tryin’ to cut back.”

“Aw, that’s a shame. If you change your mind, I’ll be at the market tomorrow. Feel free to stop by.” You’d said. He’d smiled back at you in a way that suggested he knew something you didn’t, told you that you wouldn’t be seeing him at the market or any day after that.

As soon as the sun went down though, he continued appearing in your backyard. He never stayed long at first, only sticking around to strike up a brief conversation. You’d learned his name, Remmick, and he had learned yours. Your name was always soft on his tongue, like he needed to be careful with something precious. He listened to you talk like you spoke the gospel, reverence in those blue-gray eyes as he never missed a word. In turn he would tell you stories of a time long ago, weaving vibrant imagery that made you feel as if you were standing in the green fields of a country far away. It confirmed things about him that you already suspected, like how he wasn’t from here at all, that he came from something hundreds or maybe even thousands of years old.

You’d sit on your little porch swing while he’d remain in the grass leaning against the railing, never truly breaching the line of your home. The night was warm and muggy, and there was a lull in your conversation, causing your gaze to travel to the banjo he continued to carry with him. “You any good on that thing?” You’d asked with a nod towards it.

Remmick huffed. “I like to think I am.”

You smirked. “Play me somethin’.”

He’d given you that signature smile. “Well, can’t deny a pretty thing like you, can I?”

He was always quick to flatter you, and you had to admit it was getting to you a little, something foreign fluttering in your chest. He’d swung the instrument around, resting it in deft hands and idly strumming a string or two as he thought about what to play. He’d then struck the first few chords and you quickly realized you recognized the song, it being one your family had shared together for years. You couldn’t help but sing along, shutting your eyes and letting yourself feel the music within as your body swayed. It meant that you missed the way Remmick looked at you, like you were heaven come to earth, adoration and reverence burning in his eyes like the hottest fire. That was the moment something clicked into place for him, that cemented his need to have you in whatever way he could.

He was downright obsessed with you. He couldn’t stay away from you and your sweet voice, your mouth watering smell, your entire being that seemed to be kissed by the sun. He knew he’d do anything to stay in your warmth, in your blessing. He kept coming by night after night, staying as long as his hunger allowed or until you couldn’t stop yawning and finally headed to bed with a sleepy goodnight. Part of him wished to follow you inside, thinking of how easy it’d be to take you in the carnal way he secretly desired, to lock you to him for eternity, but Remmick always held back, another part of him not wanting to ruin what you have. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a civil conversation with someone that didn’t end with their blood smeared along his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been shown such simple kindness, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so human.

You didn’t know how much time passed like that, with easy talks and shared songs into the late hours when everybody else would be asleep. You always kept your physical distance, as did he, like some unspoken understanding. The emotional distance was another story, something that was shortening by the day. Feelings were blooming into something out of control, mixing with your desire in order to make a sickly concoction.

You both knew you were onto him, onto the fact he was something unnatural and ancient, but you never bothered to bring it up. You’d heard enough stories from your momma about things like him, you understood how dangerous they were but… you couldn’t find it in yourself to chase him off. You’d grown too fond of him, of his stupid smile and charming words, his endless stories and soothing voice. He felt much the same and yet… you were at some kind of mutual standstill, neither of you quite knowing what to do with it.

Until the one night he didn’t show up.

You’d waited. You’d sat on the porch with furrowed brows and downturned lips, disappointment sitting heavy behind your heart. Had he gotten bored of you? Decided to disappear without a word? You’d supposed it wasn’t a shock, it happened to you all the time. You gave him an hour before you sighed in defeat, heading back inside so the bugs didn’t eat you alive for nothing. You tried to ignore the hurt you felt, knowing it was useless to feel it over someone—something—like him. He didn’t owe you anything, hell, you were lucky he hadn’t killed you. Maybe it was some kind of sign. You’d gone to bed just as thunder rumbled outside, lightning flickering between the clouds.

You were woken hours later by a knock on your back door. You’d grumbled and wrapped a robe around yourself, trudging down the hall and to the kitchen, eyeing the silhouette hidden behind the mesh screen. There was something whispering to not open it, to protect yourself and just crawl right back into bed. You noticed the silence that had settled around your home, the one that made the frogs quiet and the crickets cease their songs, the one always followed by a familiar figure. You knew something was off, could feel it in your bones, but it didn’t stop you from opening that door.

You’d gasped so sharply that it hurt, your body stumbling back a step. Remmick stood there, blood covering his front half, his eyes gleaming a deep red that reflected in the same way an animal’s did. The whole way he carried himself was different, more predatory and deadly, poised to kill at a moments notice. His clothes were disshelved, his bangs plastered to his forehead from sweat. The wind carried the smell of him to you, ancient earth and leather tainted with the iron of blood. He opened his mouth and you saw the teeth sharpened to fangs, coated with his meal.

He smiled at you, and it was no longer one that made your heart flutter. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. “You gon’ let me in, darlin’? Or just keep starin’?”

He liked the way you looked at him then, like everything finally snapped into place for you. Mixed with your fear was a kind of defiance, like you were trying to tell yourself not to be frightened. He liked you seeing him for what he truly was, liked knowing you still wouldn’t cower. It’s what made you step aside and say those simple words, even though you knew your momma was surely rolling in her grave at your stupidity.

Something heavy shifted when he stepped inside your home. Something that told you it could never be undone and you’d have to bear the consequences, but you found that you didn’t care. “So that’s what you are,” you muttered, “a vampire.” You’d heard of them before from your momma, you knew how to kill one. You were pretty sure there was even some kind of emergency kit hidden in a closet somewhere.

Remmick chuckled low and dark, shaking his head. “You knew this whole time and you ain’t ever run or scream or cry…” He smirked, triumphant. “I knew you was somethin’ special, darlin’.”

He sat in a chair at your dining table like it belonged to him, his eyes traveling around your home as he swallowed down every bit of information he could glean about you. The floral designs on the dish cloths, portraits hung on the walls, keepsakes littering empty spaces, and a thick recipe book sitting on the counter—all of it a testament to you, the woman he didn’t stop thinking about night after night. Your scent was so heavy in your home it made it feel like he was breathing in a drug every time he inhaled and fuck- he couldn’t get enough. He wanted it to live inside him, he wanted you to make your home in his veins, in the space between his ribs. He wanted you with him forever.

He watched with a predator’s gaze as you filled a bowl with water, desperate to do something to keep yourself busy. It was brave of you to keep your back to him, but it was like you knew he wouldn’t do anything unless you asked. He’d get on his knees for you if you wanted, he’d beg just to hear his name fall from your lips.

You grabbed one of your pretty little dish rags, setting it and the bowl next to him while you sat in front of him, so close your knees almost touched. He could tell how much you were trying to hide your fear from your expression but he still saw it in your furrowed brows and pressed lips and your eyes that were just a bit too wide. “I’m scarin’ ya.” He said it like a fact, one without room for dispute. His fierce red irises bore into yours, seeing everything you wanted to hide. You went to protest, your trembling mouth opening before he shushed you. “Don’t lie. I can smell it.” It was potent and intoxicating, seeping from your pores and making drool threaten to fall down his chin.

“I ain’t scared of you.” You said with a false confidence. You dipped the rag into the warm water and suddenly grabbed his face in one hand as if to prove it, shocking the both of you with your boldness. Remmick visibly shuddered under your touch, his eyes fluttering briefly and a small noise coming from him, even as your fingers dug into the plush of his cheeks. Oh, how long he’d waited to feel your hands on him, the warmth of your humanity, the softness of your skin. He couldn’t believe he’d gone this long without it, without something that was clearly so vital to his very existence. He knew then he could never go another day without touching you.

“Don’t want you makin’ a mess in my house.” You muttered like an excuse, dragging the rag across his upper lip and moving down, taking the blood with it. He was more than willing to relax into your ministrations, letting you clean him as if he was a child. Nobody had ever done it for him before, after all. He watched you all the while—the crease between your brows, the determined curve of your mouth, studying every detail and committing it to memory.

“I ain’t a stranger to blood, you know. My daddy used to be a doctor.” You began after a good few minutes, talking to keep yourself distracted from the reality of your situation. Remmick didn’t mind of course, he loved your voice more than life itself. His attention immediately shifted towards the sound like a dog with its ears perked.

“Used to?” He’d asked.

“He died in the war. Momma went soon after, they basically said heartbreak caused her stroke n’ killed her.” Your head shook. “She really loved that man to death. Couldn’t blame her, he was the kindest soul you’d ever meet. Always helpin’ the poor and needy, bringing ‘em into the house to heal ‘em when they couldn’t afford their bills. He’d make me help sometimes, getting fresh water and whatnot. That’s why you ain’t nothin’ special.”

“How sweet of ya.” Remmick teased, his fangs showing with his uneven smile.

You’d ignored him, rubbing the cloth along his collarbones and across the gold chain he wore, clearly beginning to discolor from age. The water in the bowl had long since turned red, your dishrag officially ruined but it was the least of your concerns (and Remmick had gotten you a new one later on).

When you’d deemed him clean enough, you moved to get up and dump the bloody water before his large, cold hand latched onto your wrist, stopping you abruptly. It was like the tension was pulled taught as a bowstring at that moment, some small seedling of doubt in you saying he was about to kill you while he just stared at where your bodies were connected. It was slow and purposeful when Remmick brought your hand up to his mouth and ran his lips along your palm, breathing you in, tasting you with darts of his tongue. You felt the flush crawl up the back of your neck and across your cheeks, watching as he nuzzled into your hand, looking at you with those wide red eyes, every reminder of the last couple months together hanging there. Every shared story, every vulnerability, every song sung together.

“I need ya, sweet thing, shoot- I’ve needed ya since that first day. I’ll treat ya nice and good, I swear it on my dead heart.” Remmick said to you, his words thick, heavy, and gravelly with his desire. “You’ll never want for nothin’, darlin’, I’ll give ya everythin’, I promise. Please, baby, let me prove it to ya-“

He continued to kiss along your arm, so determined to show you the truth behind his words, to make you give in to him with murmured pleas and prayers. He relished in the taste of you, his breaths growing labored from his excitement. You stopped him with your hands on either side of his face to pull him back, his lips parted and shiny with spit, his eyes still glowing red but full of unbridled desire for you. You already knew your answer, had known it the whole time. You were so tired of being alone, so tired of searching for someone, anyone, to love you and understand you. You didn’t care that the only one who did was a monster in the body of a man—there was something about it that made it even sweeter.

So you’d agreed.

There was only a second of pause, like Remmick was processing it, those simple words that tilted his entire world, before he was on you. He kissed you with such ferocity, such possession, his hands roaming all over you, gripping you so tightly you had no choice but to submit to him. He’d swept you up with ease, carrying you into your bedroom where he’d fucked you stupid until the sun rose, pulling more orgasms from you than you thought possible, pinning you beneath his sweat soaked body and filling you again and again, whispering his thanks and devotions the entire time. You’d slept through the whole day after that with Remmick cradling you against his cooled body, encasing you in his arms like he was afraid you’d take it all back if he let go.

That was how you fell into the routine of your relationship. He’d spend the light hours tucked away inside the safety of your house while you went about your day, then he’d leave most nights in search of food before coming back hours later and fucking you senseless, exhilarated from both the hunt and seeing you again. Remmick made you feel more loved and protected than you ever had before, always saying praises and promises into your skin like a prayer you’d hear in church, always giving you everything he had to offer. He’d sometimes even bring you gifts after his hunts, little things he knew you’d like. Fresh berries he stole from a garden or farm, beautiful flowers to go right on the table, a book or two he was able to snag off somebody.

It went on like this for months, and then it became a year, then two, until Remmick couldn’t take it anymore and he decided he needed you in a way that was deeper than what he’d been indulging in. It didn’t mean you getting bit, no, not yet, it meant you got presented with a pretty gold ring that matched his own. He asked you to marry him on a warm summers night, when fireflies were dancing outside and the critters of the moon were singing their songs. You’d said yes without hesitation, flinging your arms around him and kissing him until you both ran out of breath. You’d spent the rest of the moon hours dancing and singing and making love, too full of joy to do much else.

It was the best way for Remmick to have you forever, for every other man to know you belonged to him. He knew that one day he would bite you, he would drain the life from your body, he’d taste the sweet nectar of your blood that he so craved, he’d make you just like him and truly keep you for eternity. But that day wasn’t coming anytime soon.

He refused to be greedy just this once, deciding he wasn’t ready to take away your love of sunny days and the warmth of your skin, the thrum of a pulse in your veins. He wasn’t ready to ruin the simple pleasures of being a human being. But he knew he could never stand to lose you to something as menial as old age, or stand by and let some tragedy befall you. Biting you is like his sick way of protecting you, of showing you his love and devotion, even if you don’t know it yet, even if it takes you time to understand. It’d happen no matter what, he knew, but he’d let you enjoy those bright days in ignorance a little while longer.

Remmick can smell it on you now, the hours you’d spent in the sun earlier today, selling your baked goods at the market. The coldness within his bones seeks out your heat, desperate to bask in it and take it for his own. You give him a pleased hum as he grips your waist, blankets being moved aside to reveal your body to him. You’re pliant in his hold, always eager to give in, always eager to let him take control. It’s nice when you can step outside of yourself and just be, something you’ve only been able to do with him.

You can tell that he’s softer this time, his touch more reverent, something about it full of more longing like he’s memorizing every bit of you. He holds you like a man making love to his wife, not a monster clutching his possession so nobody else takes it. His mouth on yours is sensual, a twin to the hands beneath your nightdress, steadily bunching the material up your body so the air kisses along your flesh and leaves goosebumps in its wake.

“Shit, darlin’, yer too perfect.” Remmick mutters, nearly breathless as he looks down at you, your supple curves, the expanse of your breasts and stomach that nearly has him drooling—not from hunger, but from pure want- no, pure need for you. Even after all this time, his attention still makes you squirm, your thighs squeezing together subconsciously. His eyes track the movement like a predator, the burning hue of red steadily consuming his irises once more.

One of his hands moves lower, parting your legs with ease and running his fingers along your clothed cunt. He hums to himself, feeling the way your wetness has dampened your underwear. “Missed me, huh?” He says, his crooked teeth showing in his smirk. He loves that all you can do is nod, a pathetic little noise coming from you. The scent of your arousal hits him like a truck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as it seems to ignite his blood with desire. You smell so goddamn sweet, like the ripest fruit sitting ready for him to take and sink his teeth into.

Your underwear is moved aside and you jolt at that first contact, his fingers dragging up through your folds and collecting your slick. You whimper as he buries his face in the crook of your neck again, a deep groan coming from him with his inhale. As his thumb rolls your clit, his other hand comes up to knead a breast beneath his palm, the cold metal of his ring nipping at your skin. You can feel the way Remmick’s chest heaves against you, his desperate breaths fanning across your throat between his open-mouthed kisses.

You gasp when two fingers sink into your heat, your hands coming to scrabble at his shoulders. You always take him easily, your body attuned to him alone, like he’s branded into your very essence. It drives him crazy. “Fuck, Remmick-“ You whine, arching into his touch. He responds instantly to you saying his name; a harsher squeeze to your breast, a little show of his teeth against your neck, his hips rutting against you in search of friction. His name coming from you is like touching two wires together, sending sparks through his rotten veins. He’d happily walk into the sun as long as your voice is the last thing he hears.

You writhe under his weight, pleasure running like a wildfire beneath your skin. He devours every moan, whine, and gasp he pulls out of you, his erection painful in his pants from his lust and need. His fingers draw in and out of your cunt in smooth motions, pressing against the spots that have you keening, scissoring you open while your slick coats his palm. His thumb traces quick circles over your clit, listening to the way your body sings for him. He knows you’re close, your noises raising in pitch, your nails digging into his back, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“C’mon darlin’, give it to me.” Remmick encourages, lifting just enough to look at your face, your expression twisted with pleasure. Tears edging the corners of your eyes, your pretty mouth dropped open, your cheeks flushed. Your hands rest of either side of his jaw, drawing him in and kissing him deeply as your orgasm crashes over you. He groans appreciatively while you moan into his mouth, shudders wracking your body. He rides you through your orgasm, steadily bringing you down from that high as he practically engulfs you with his muscled form like he needs there to not be a singular inch of space between you. “My sweet girl.” He whispers against your mouth, a string of spit connecting you, his eyes ablaze with his desire.

As your underwear is tossed to some unknown corner, he fumbles with the buckle of his belt, shoving it aside to finally free his aching cock, precum beading at the tip. He runs his slick-covered hand along his length, happily coating himself in your release. He gives a sound halfway between a hum and a moan. “Fuck, darlin’, I need ya…” He practically gasps against your collarbones, his cock slipping between your folds, collecting the remainder of your cum. “Need ya so bad.”

You both moan in tandem when he at last thrusts into you, his hips flush to yours and filling you so completely in the way he’s done countless times before. His hand suddenly finds yours, your fingers intertwining and gripping on to the other so tightly it’s like you’re scared they’ll disappear if you let go. He draws out to the tip only to then slam back in, ecstasy simmering in his veins now that he can take you. He bites your skin between his blunt teeth, teasing that goldmine of ambrosia waiting just beneath, calling to him. He’s dreamt of the day he can finally drink from you, can finally have more than just the few drops that bubble to the surface from a cut or him biting too hard. He pushes those thoughts away now, not daring to tempt his appetite and instead focusing on the way your pussy holds onto him like a vice.

Your free hand comes up to card through his sweat-soaked hair, his short bangs plastered to his forehead. You grip at the strands for purchase as he sets an unrelenting, steady pace, his desperate pleas and vows to you a constant in your ear. You know for a fact no man’s ever loved you the way he does, no man’s ever been this desperate for you, so willing to get on his knees just for you to look at him. You welcomed him in, gave him something to hold on to and call his own, some place to belong—and he’ll spend the rest of his eternity showing you his gratitude.

You moan loud after a particularly harsh thrust, his grip on you tightening as he hits that sweet spot inside of you, the one that knocks the breath from your lungs and has you seeing stars. “So beautiful, sweet girl, y’sound so nice.” Remmick pants, his drool that’s begun to fall smearing along your skin. “Feel so good, so fuckin’ tight fer me.”

You practically chant his name mixed with a slew of curses, voice punctuated by his rutting into you. He has you pinned to the mattress, his muscles flexing against you with his efforts, making sure you stay right where he wants you. He licks up your neck, tasting the saltiness of your sweat, inhaling the drug that is your scent, heightened by your pleasure and mixed with something intoxicating. His groan falls off into a whine, mind overridden by his adoration for you and his lust, chasing the release he can feel building.

He knows it’s the same for you, he can feel your flutters around his cock, that knot within you growing to the point of soon coming undone. His free hand releases your hip to find your clit, rubbing jerky, uneven circles over the sensitive bud while you writhe in an attempt to get away from the overload of pleasure. Remmick never gives you the chance, your body tensing as that second orgasm crashes over you like an angry wave, your noises becoming broken and breathless.

Remmick’s eyes nearly roll back from the way your pussy grips his cock, his forehead falling to your chest as he tries to laugh and fails. “Shit, suckin’ me in. Fuck, sweet thing- I can’t-“ He manages one last thrust before he cums deep inside you, his words breaking off with a wail, your walls painted white with his spend.

You both lay there for a moment, motionless in the aftermath of release, combined sweat covering your bodies and your hands still locked together. You and him shudder when his cock slips out of you, your shared cum beginning to seep from you in his absence.

Remmick is the first to regain himself, as always, his lips leaving gentle kisses on the space between your breasts and up your throat and jaw before reaching your mouth. He kisses you sweetly, then pulling back to bring your hand to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles, on your wedding ring. “My perfect girl.” He murmurs. “So good to me.”

You smile tiredly, your arms slinging across his shoulders. “Could say the same to you.” You tease. You then sigh contentedly, bringing him in and encouraging him to lay on your chest. “I love you, Remmick, I hope you know that.”

Those three words, so simple and yet so damning, always make him stop. He has to run them over in his mind, like he doesn’t believe they can actually be said to a thing like him. His hold on your hips tightens, his face nuzzling into you as if to hide from that phrase. “‘Course I do. Love you too, darlin’.” He mumbles, the words still foreign on his old tongue. Your smile softens, your fingers running soothingly through his hair. You pull the covers back up around you both, encasing him in the warmth that he lacks.

Outside, you can hear the familiar early morning sounds of the South; the birds chirping, the bugs buzzing in their swarms, and the occasional car sputtering by. The world wakes up beyond your reinforced curtains, basking in the sunlight that Remmick so violently hides away from. He knows that in a few hours you’ll go out and join them, greeting your neighbors and sharing recent news, playing a game of normalcy so nobody asks too many questions about the husband they’ve never seen.

But for right now, he’ll enjoy being able to hold you and feel your body right against his, your steady heartbeat drumming in his ear as sleep pulls you away. He’ll enjoy having you all to himself in the safety of the dark before you step out into the daylight and leave him behind.

#finally finished editing this omg #sorry for the wait!!#I hope this is alright 🧎#sinners Remmick #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick smut #vampire fanfic #jinx-xxed asks

3K notes · View notes

nochepsicodelica · 8 months ago

Text

NSFW

Under the covers sex with Toji where it would literally just look like a shaking lump of blankets if it weren't for the sounds of moans, pants, grunts and the thump thump thump of the headboard hitting the wall. It's so hot and humid due to all the movement, the combination of your body heats, and the heavy breathing, but it's a reasonable price to pay for being allowed this level of intimacy.

You can barely see each other, but your ability to feel is your greatest advantage in this close quartered space. You can feel Toji's tacky skin firmly pressed against yours as he rocks both of you on the bed and Toji can feel the warning scratches of your nails on his back. You can feel every inch of his length as it nestles deep inside you with each of his thrusts and Toji can feel the way your walls attempt to suck him back in every time he reels back. You're able to absorb every praise he murmurs into your ear, while Toji is able to indulge in the sound of your sweet, sultry giggles when he starts sucking on your neck. There's an endless fountain of deep kisses loaded with your moans, Toji's deep groans, and your mingled heavy breaths.

The moment belongs to both of you. There are no fears or worries. It's just you and Toji, loving on each other, under a blanket in the dark. When you're on the brink of being entirely consumed by pleasure, Toji gives you all the encouragement in the form of hasty, needy touches and kerosene-fueled kisses that are laced with words that strike you like he's compelling you to cum. Not even ten seconds later, he's following, groaning and muttering curses into your neck with his entire body shuddering as he ruts his release into you.

You both just lay there like that for a few minutes as you wait for the room to still again, for your breathing to calm down and for your hearts to stop thumping in your ears. Once everything has settled, Toji pulls away from your neck and pokes his head out of the blanket. His hair is a mess from the constant rubbing of the blanket on his head, some of it is stuck to his forehead due to how much he's been sweating. You're on the same boat, so coming up for some air is nice. He leans forward and pecks your lips once, twice, and when you stay waiting for a third one, he admires your pout and smirks, before giving it to you.

Quiet sighs are released from you and Toji, when he finally pulls out. He tosses himself on the bed and pulls you into his side with ease, slinging his arm around you as you rest your head on his chest. From there, it's dirty, yet, affectionate murmurings, and soft laughter to help ward off sleep until you've showered and changed the bedding.

3K notes · View notes

konigsluv · 2 months ago

Text

DOMESTIC!Sukuna x Reader

MDNI ꒦꒷ Domestic!Sukuna forgets your birthday, but a surprise picture at work with a 🎀 and donuts makes you forgive him

contains: down-bad Sukuna. dick picture. fem!reader.

"Fuck off, Ryomen,"

Sukuna remembers your exact words as you left the house this morning. He had fucked up. He knew all too well.

Sukuna had forgotten today was your birthday.

It was like any other day when the two of you woke up in bed together. He had pressed kisses to the back of your neck to rouse you from sleep, but not once did he whisper the words "happy birthday, baby,"

You had expected anything, just anything. Flowers, chocolates, maybe even a nice diamond necklace, or even better a ring...

But no.

You walked out into the living room to see it the same as it was the night before. Even with the dishes still in the sink that you asked Sukuna so nicely to take care of a day ago!

You didn't even bother giving him a kiss on the way out of the house, or listen to his excuses as you dressed as fast as you could. Sukuna was even baffled that you pushed his hands off of your waist when he tried talking sweet to you. You never resisted his sweet voice...

Now he knew he was screwed.

Especially when you didn't respond to his texts, and ignored his calls. In all, it made Sukuna a little pissed. Not at you though, just as himself for being such a fuck up. Seriously, how bad of a boyfriend was he to blank on your birthday?

"Fuck, please baby, i'm sorry," he growls into his phone as he collapses onto the couch, "just answer me- answer the god damn phone already," he then hangs up, hoping you'll at least listen to the voicemail.

You don't.

You're at work now, staring down at your phone with furrowed brows. The countless texts:

10:23AM || Ryo: baby i'm sorry

10:23AM || Ryo: i'll take you out to dinner, get you something nice

seen 10:23 AM

10:34AM || Ryo: fuck i'm already pissed off, don't ignore me

10:35AM || Ryo: i'm sorry, tell me what to do to make it up to you

seen 10:35 am

You couldn't believe the audacity of that man. For him to get mad?!

After ignoring him, Sukuna stopped spamming you, which made you feel even shittier.

You kind of wanted him to fight for your attention on your birthday, even if you were mad... and weren't responding...

bzz-bzz

You almost ignore the notification from your phone, thinking you should punish him more. Though you couldn't, you wanted to see what else he had to say for himself.

11:14AM || Ryo: i'm sorry baby. I got your present, just forgive me already

*photo attached*

You purse your lips in suspicion, you wonder what he got you that could make up for forgetting your fucking birthday.

Clicking on the photo you immediately turn your phone off at the speed of light and almost fling it across the room.

Was he crazy?!?! Sending that to you at work?!

Your cheeks flush as you whip your head around, wondering if anyone saw your phone screen. Of course Sukuna sent you a fucking picture of his dick.

11:15AM || You: why the fuck are you sending me dick pics at work?!

11:15AM || You: I'd be dead if someone saw that

11:15AM || Ryo: did you see it

11:16AM || You: your penis? yes Ryomen.

11:16AM || You: I know what it looks like.

11:16AM || Ryo: you didn't, open it again

Groaning internally you wondered what he was on about. You glance around once more before walking into the bathrooms and shutting yourself in a stall.

Clicking on the photo again your eyes widened.

It was Sukuna's cock alright but... he had tied a pink ribbon around it in the shape of a bow. And was that a box of donuts?...

11:19AM || Ryo: i'll let you stack donuts on it. I can get those fruit roll ups if you want me to

You huff a sigh from your nose, running a hand down your face as you try to calm your erratically beating heart. This man was going to be the death of you.

After a minute of conflicted emotions and staring at your phone screen, you respond.

11:20AM || You: you're forgiven.

m.list

please do not copy or repost on any platforms without my permission

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

#ryomen sukuna #jjk #fem!reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x fem!reader #sukuna smut #konigsluv #i love sukuna too much #i feel like i only post about him #ryomen sukuna is my god #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen

1K notes · View notes

kithtaehyung · 7 months ago

Text

minted: three (explicit) | myg

title: minted: part three (m) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader series: masterlist | one | two rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; haegeum au , gang au summary: at this point, you would do anything to forget. including the unthinkable with a gangster. note: sooo this series basically saved my writing slump haha. i am still having the time of my life and i’m so excited to show y’all more of this minted universe. and to also show you just how spicy things can get❤️‍🔥 note 2: this is ofc a present for hali @sailoryooons that spiraled into a whole universe. still always gonna thank nary @joonary for letting me use the vendor reader idea, as well! also happy birthday to @remmykinsff @awbells @keylime4eva @aaclariww and @noshit-cantfindagoodone!! to everyone else having a bday around this time, this is my gift to you hehehe. warnings: language, drugs, alcohol, slow burn, murder mentions, gang activity, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, chains bc of course :)), world-building, reader is still sassy, yoongi is still infuriating, tension explicit warnings: under the cut! drop date: december 9th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 12.3k 😀👍

explicit warnings: i know it’s a slow burn but there’s definitely smut lol, choking, head/hair tugging, penetration, oral (f rec), backshotssss, marking bye, rough sex, ass play, breast play, his hands are a nice necklace😀, taunting cus reader’s an icon, thighs, breath play, spanking, hand job, protected sex, multiple orgasms, restraints (his hands, robe tie), brat!reader but who is honestly shocked🙂‍↔️, brat tamer!yoongi lmao, yoongi is a menace i’m sorryyyy, but reader is…?????, need them both™, teasing, rawdogging HELLO?? (pls wrap it up fr!), commanding yoongi a ha ha, pain kink, cowgirl🙂‍↕️, this is just the calm before a whole damn storm

—

“But,” you exhale with a shake. “Just for tonight…”

This is it.

The brink of no return.

Your soul dips into the dark.

“Please make me fucking forget.”

Did you go too far?

Is there a limit to his accommodation? Did you actually think this was gonna be easy?

When silence swirls between your robes, you start to second guess your demand.

But Yoongi simply stares before stepping aside, allowing you to enter his room with jellied legs.

This is madness, but you’re gonna go through with it. Whatever the hell this will be. Because you may not know much, but you figure all men sit up the same when sex is on the table.

This man, though...

Quite frankly, you aren’t sure about anything when it comes to him. Unless it’s about him doing something questionable. Then there’s no question about it.

The enigma himself makes no conversation as you step inside, even as your eyes roam around a cleaner, more put-together room than when you left the first time. Did Yoongi clean this much while you made a mess of your dreams?

The only answer you get is a door shutting, followed by a massive presence at your back. Before you can so much as turn around, the first words on your shoulders burn like embers,

“Was he your first.”

Fuck.

This isn’t what you approached him for. He’s supposed to make you forget, not remember. Remember?

You don’t turn around; you don’t respond right away. Instead, you swallow before focusing very hard on the fact that Yoongi sleeps on the bedside nearest the window. At least, judging by the way the covers are flipped. You happen to prefer the side opposite.

The heat from his body proves soft but intense, and you can’t help but close your eyes when you finally answer with a question,

“Do you remember yours?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“No.”

Your vision lowers to the rug lying still under the bed. A splash of light grey amongst a darkened, moonlit sea.

No matter how quick Yoongi answers. No matter how even his tone.

He still remembers it, too.

But this isn’t what you expected when you walked in here. You assumed this man was going to get right to it, save no room for you to second guess yourself. Clearly he gave zero shits about kissing you in that taxi, and he damn near undressed you in the living room.

So what’s the holdup here? Does he want this for real? Or not?

Head at a slight angle, you admit with a hint of finality, “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Mm.” A warm, rough hand subtly tugs at your belt, and prominent knuckles nudge through the smooth material of your robe. “So what are you really here for.”

Your eyes blink thrice.

Yoongi cannot be serious. Does he really not know?

No. He knows. With a shift of your jaw, you realize he’s just fucking with you, purposefully not in the way you want. “You’re being difficult.”

“You woke me up.”

Ah. That’s fair.

“So tell me.”

Well. If you’re gonna have to spell things out for him, he’s gonna be waiting for awhile. Because the more you stand here not doing anything, the harder it is to gather a little thing called courage. Courage to meet the beast in his den, and madness to let him devour you whole. Now you have neither. Neither, neither, neither.

Awkwardness sticks to your throat until it’s jammed, and you can barely mush your lips together to form sounds. The courage you speak of flees before you can wrangle it, and what’s left of your answer tumbles out like boulders, “This is.. I don’t.. I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It’s,” you huff, noting that you don’t like this horrible mix of hesitation and anger, “It’s… I’m—”

Your vision jolts as you feel a quick tug shit you’re spinning fuck your back just hit a wall—

“Of all things today,” Yoongi murmurs with slits for eyes, “This is what gets you to shut up?”

Damn it.

You don’t even have a rebuttal. Because he’s right. Yoongi’s sharp discernment is millimeters from your face and you have no intention to move nor speak. Only quick breaths. Only shaky exhales.

But you do swallow.

Which brings out a sound you will never admit you like: a breathy, condescending laugh, as coarse and as soft as his touch.

“You mean to tell me,” he observes, tilting your chin while his irises blaze dark, “You came all the way in here for nothing?”

“No, I—”

“All that talk, and for what.”

Defend yourself. Say something. Say just one word two words any words—

Did Yoongi just pat your cheek? ..Twice?

Why did you kinda like that—

“Makes no sense,” he ponders aloud, lolling his head and staring down your crumpled lips. “Who even are you..”

Now that's an easy one. You always have the answer to that question.

“No one,” you whisper. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Seems like the people back home aren’t the only ones you’ll let down. If Yoongi keeps that question loaded in the chamber, he’s gonna keep shooting the same target. Over, and over, and over.

But you don’t have to worry. Because he drops it, caging you in with a hand near your stiff, risen shoulder, “So what are you here for.”

This is a mistake. Either Yoongi doesn’t want this, or he’s being frustrating on purpose and your fire is both stoked and quelled. “Now I don’t know for sure.”

“The more you stall the harder it gets,” he goads with a lick of teasing. And for a split, minuscule second, you wonder if that meant more than one thing.

Goddamn, he’s annoying. He’s outright savoring this.

Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised. You woke him up for god’s sake. If someone did this same thing to you after the day you’ve had, you wouldn’t have even let them in.

Unfortunately for you, Yoongi’s version of dealing with a midnight inconvenience is whittling them down until they leave—

“So you can tell my bellhop off but I get nothing, huh.”

Oh, shit.

You’re so taken aback that you can only ask, “What?”

Mercifully, the dragon gives you air, straightening before leaving your personal space.

Your focus should be on his words. You know this. But he uses this moment to rake his hair, and words are no match for the sleeve cascading down his inked forearm.

Even as his hair flows in waves, you still cling to his tattoos as he looks downward in thought. “You think I wouldn’t check who the fuck was coming up here?”

It takes you a second to process.

But you realize what this means and you fall silent again.

Yoongi saw that? All of that? You acted without much thought, and if he really did see and hear everything that went down, there’s a chance he thinks a lot differently about you now. No wonder he’s so thrown by this switch in behavior.

But on the other hand.. The way he touched you in the living room. Was all that because of what he saw? Is that side of you the one that pulled him close?

You thought his parting would allow you room to breathe. How very wrong you were.

Shoving all contemplation aside, you decide to coat the room with concern, your assertion making a brief comeback, “He said a lot of shit, Yoongi. What was that about?”

He languidly approaches the long table at your side—one you faintly noticed while leaving the room the first time. Unbothered, he slides unhurried fingers over a gun, stopping on the barrel before reaching for something less lethal.

A decanter, it seems. Liquid flows from the container into a smaller glass, and you assume it’s whisky from the deep amber tones and luscious pour.

When you wonder where else Yoongi litters his weapons, he cuts through your surveying,

“You really wanna know?”

Looking up, you nod.

He sets the bottle down with a dull clink. “He took his chances.”

“His.. What?”

Now what the hell could this man mean by that? You were clearly being coaxed into leaving the premises, vaguely feeling like something seemed off. How is he being so dismissive about all this?

Slowly, Yoongi shakes his head, looking out into the night while taking his initial sip. “I don’t come here often. But when I do, I come alone.” Long fingers nestle his cup perfectly as he explains further, “It’s been awhile, so. Had to feel out the staff.”

The staff. Is that why Yoongi held your hand? To weasel someone out? You really thought he meant it when he said he just wanted to…

How naive.

“His plan could’ve been solid.”

“But what?” You ask, newfound frustration clipping your tone.

Yoongi slides you a look over the rim of his glass. “He didn’t know who he’d be dealing with.”

Your eyes roll so far they strain.

But this begs a question. Does he mean dealing with you? Or him? Surely he meant your little show at the elevator but he could very well mean himself.

Facts are facts. Would Yoongi really trade il-don for you? Absolutely not. So you have to assume he’s mostly talking about the latter.

Your scoff is pitched to the side, “Of course. You wouldn’t trade il-don for anything.”

Yoongi pauses, not acknowledging your comment in the slightest as he strolls back your way. “Something I am curious about..” As he leans in, musk and whisky invade both your space and senses. And you hate, hate, hate that you need more of it. “Who was he talking to?”

“Someone he royally pissed off.”

“Mm.”

“You’re not gonna punish him?”

“Me? Nah.” Leaning on the sideboard, he stares out the windows across the room. Your vision follows suit. “Not until I have to.”

If what happened wasn’t enough to warrant a punishment, you’re morbidly curious about what ticks the box. “I figured he’d be dead by now. At least for trespassing.”

Yoongi only shrugs. “Grey zones aren’t just amnesty for the clans. Anything goes here, too, so a ransom attempt isn’t surprising.”

This man really doesn’t stand on black or white. Here you are with eggs for brains discovering you were almost taken instead of saved, and he’s chalking it up to, what, just another Tuesday? Or is it still Monday? You don’t even know anymore.

Your question leaves you a little scuffed. Because you feel exactly like leftover goods. The fruit at the back. “Are you always this heartless?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Great.

So much for being… Safe up… here…

You glance at the touch on your hip, and your eyes traverse up his arm as he toys with your belt again.

Shouldn’t you feel disgusted? Shouldn’t you be walking away? It’s crystal clear how little this man thinks of you, or anyone for that matter. He probably brought you along just to be a shield for his precious il-don. So why can’t you bring yourself to leave?

Your knot starts to loosen.

His voice begins to flow.

“But if you’re gonna go for what’s mine, don’t be an idiot.”

Wait.

No. Nope. Stop thinking about what that could mean. Because if you think too hard, it will only leave you disappointed.

But there’s something you won’t stop doing. And Yoongi knows you won’t. So as he keeps playing at your waist, your words come out in shudders,

“Can’t believe you used me.”

Yoongi hums, and it makes you shiver when his touch leaves you to rest against wood counters. “You’re about to use me, too.”

Fucking hell, he’s right.

“Gotta say I didn’t expect it, but..” Damn him and his head tilts. “I’m impressed.”

You’re too empty-headed that you can’t even process his words as genuine praise. His touches already feel like pops of lights in the night sky.

It’s a given. You aren’t prepared for him in the slightest.

“Come here.”

Lightly pulling your hand, Yoongi brings you to stand in front of him. And from this point of view, you become even more ensnared.

His robe flows down his taut build so beautifully, painting him like dark water over rolling hills. At his peak, the hair you’ve come to miss frames his face like artwork. Mesmerizing. Your downfall.

“You get one more chance. Tell me why I’m awake.”

Your brow lift is only a front. The rest of you is shaking, trembling, howling. “You clearly know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Relentless. Will you shame yourself for wanting to see him use this same strategy on other people? Most likely. But will that stop you from thinking about it anyway? Absolutely, positively not.

But there’s another side of you that’s being comforted. And it’s the side that realizes how much he’s spoken, how much time you’ve spent without needing to watch behind your back.

Yoongi talking this much? It’s making things easier. And it’s strangely making you feel a little better, even if the subject matter isn’t the greatest topic in the universe.

After you steal a glance at the other whisky glass, you look into his eyes. Determined and decisive. Knowing exactly what you want at this very moment, because you just need a little more time.

“Tell me more. About grey zones.”

Something in the air freezes. And Yoongi’s brows crease so comically you almost laugh. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

His nod is slow as he sets down his glass.

And you’re quickly hauled back so fast that you don’t have time to react.

A rush of air. The world topples. Soft sheets.

Dangerously, a thin chain sways above as Yoongi shrouds your body in silk and lingering smoke. A gasp escapes you as he peers into your eyes, and your senses fire as a commanding hand slides up your thigh.

“Final answer?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck you know you want him and you still do but also talking to him isn’t half bad and maybe you’re just tired of being lonely—

Musk. Alcohol. Breathing hard, you take it all in. Slowly nodding because you can’t function otherwise, which makes a dragon flash teeth.

But he obliges without moving a muscle, so you’re left underneath a demon—robe dangerously close to opening and exposing everything once again.

A man of conviction, Yoongi does exactly as you ask. Eyes drooped, he continues his explanations, as if he didn’t just shove you into his enormous bed and tangle you under his legs,

“They started awhile ago, back when all the high-powers got locked in a grudge match. Took half the city with them.”

Immediately, your shoulders start to sink into his tale. “Half is a lot.”

“Everything went to shit,” he agrees. “Not even the Politicol could stop it all.”

“Bullshit.”

His level expression is enough to refute.

Now that’s a shock to learn. For as long as you can remember, the Politicol have always held more power than any force should ever have. If they weren’t able to keep this under control, the high-powers used to be ungodly.

Staring at the slippage on Yoongi’s shoulder, you wonder if those ink lines are to immortalize the ones that came before him. The history he must’ve grown up memorizing.

Still.. Why does he have them all? There’s no way he doesn’t know how disrespectful that is to all three clans.

But then again. He said he didn’t choose them himself. Which leads you nowhere in this unending maze.

Head disheveled; robe coming undone. To outsiders, you’d be at Yoongi’s mercy.

But in reality, you’re laser focused on him and his explanations. Especially when his voice scratches every itch just right. “So…” You watch his gaze slowly slide down your face. “What happened?”

Even now, Yoongi’s hands stay exactly where they are. The only thing that moves is the tinkling swing of his silver above your warming neck. “Deals were made, stripping power from all of them in certain sectors so that none could completely take over.”

“Why only in certain ones?”

A corner of his mouth quirks up. “Let’s just say the negotiations went how you think they did.”

Your eyes roll yet again. But another question pings into your mind as quick as the first one, knitting your brows. “Wait… Deals with the Politicol? Or each other? No way they would’ve let cowards put them all on a leash.”

At this, something interesting passes over Yoongi’s face.

But it flits away before you can snatch it for further inspection, and the shift of his leg against your thighs resets your brain.

“Any of the clans could’ve monopolized if they had the right resource, but. They weren’t ever gonna let outsiders get a piece. Called a truce and kept their mouths shut.”

Makes sense. You know exactly what resource he’s referring to. “The il-don.”

“That’s part of it.” He shifts again, but this time, your legs have more room to move. “But grey zones have priority infrastructure. The ones that keep the lights on. If you had the money, you had the people. And people are the best resource there is.”

It’s at this moment that a lot of things click into place.

And one of those is figuring out that you may have been a little wrong about the man above you.

Is he heartless? To a high degree. But that comes with being calculating. Patient. Smart. Everything that Yoongi has been this entire time you’ve tagged along.

He’s not keeping the il-don safe because he treasures it. It’s because the money is a tool. A tool to help him get what he wants whenever he needs. And leverage it for value instead of frivolous decisions and material things.

Yoongi must have really, really enjoyed your tangerines.

A stray touch finally makes its way inside your thigh. And you flare between your legs. Shivering. Aching. You’re sparkling inside but won’t allow yourself to fully explode. Not when he’s revealing so much without telling. Not when you’re starting to see things from his angle.

“Keep talking,” you rush out, gripping his robe and squeezing his pelvis.

Though his fingers still light flares on your skin, Yoongi stops in his daring quest, observing your face without judgment.

“I like it,” you shakily admit. Because screw it, since you’ll never see him again. “Learning about all this.”

You sigh at his weight. His beautiful, strangely calming weight. “About you, too.”

Stopping all movements, Yoongi coats your skin with gravel. “What good will knowing all this do.”

He’s got a point. And it hammers home exactly what you were just thinking. “Nothing, maybe,” you answer, squeezing his robe a little longer.

Fuck, you really are this deprived. This lonely. Is bedding a dangerous man—this dangerous man—really better than being alone right now? A mental reset is outstandingly in order throughout the coming abysmal months.

You finish your weak explanation, hoping it’s enough to convince him,

“But it’s helping.”

Yoongi lifts his head to watch your eyes. And you observe how dark his are in return. How cold.

But yet.. Why do you also see…?

With a slight huff, you tack on, “And you aren’t so annoying to talk to right now.”

There it is. That spark you’ve seen before in dusty, tinkering streets. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I might.”

He exhales, shifting himself into a sitting position and facing the door. “The thing about grey zones.. No affiliation, no rules. You can be anyone here.”

When you lift your upper body to sit, you watch his side profile as you repeat, “Anyone?”

Yoongi turns to look at your lips.

You know there’s a question you want to ask. But for some reason, it’s difficult to say.

But eventually, you can’t help it. Because you’re intrigued. You’re haunted. And you really, really need this.

“Then who do you want me to be.”

He lets out a cross between a scoff and a laugh. Looking into your eyes, he asks in disbelief, “You?”

“I’m pretty good at pretending.”

“Sure you are.” He gives you another small grin before resting forearms on his knees. “But you don’t want my answer to that.”

Swallowing is proving too difficult. What the hell does he mean by that? Is it one big bluff or a real opinion? “You’re just being a pussy.”

All you get is the side of his cheek rising high.

Yeah. He’s not gonna tell you a damn thing.

“Forget about me then. Who are you right now?” You wait as his expression falls back to earth. “Agust? Or Yoongi?”

When you end with silence, you’re met with an approaching shadowed visage. And even in this moment, you sense static in the air, both of you poised and locked in a dangerous, thrilling dance.

“You tell me.”

Your breath cuts as he slips a finger inside your robe, and you dare not breathe when he pulls—slow, unhurried, intoxicating.

You’ve never felt quite like this.

Are you supposed to do something, too? Is there something that usually happens here? Your experience isn’t zero but it is clearly leagues below where it should be.

Before you can blink a third time, your garment is ever, ever so slightly off your shoulder.

And you haven’t uttered a damn thing.

So he keeps going, sliding it lower, and lower, until he reveals a part of you that you didn’t mean to reveal so suddenly before.

This time, it’s deliberate. And that makes it terrifying.

This is the point of no return. The slope of your chest barely keeps your robe from dipping any farther. It’s happening, and life between you will never be the same when it’s over.

And yet.

Your nerves speak up at the worst time.

“Get me a drink,” you whisper, “Then maybe I will.”

Yoongi flicks up an eyebrow before obliging, and you silently mourn the loss of his heated touch.

He walks over to pour you something neat, taking his time bringing both glasses to the bed. When you sit up properly, you habitually adjust your robe, scoffing at his hum.

“Thanks,” you whisper, taking the glass and smelling the piercing aroma. “Maybe this is what I needed all along.”

“You ever had sex before?”

The question is so sudden and blunt that you cough up a burning sip. “Ow, fuck..” Wincing, you wipe your mouth before breathing in scratchy inhales. “If you must know, I have.”

“Maybe you are good at pretending then,” Yoongi drawls. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. This situation is new to me.”

His brow raises are definitely talking a lot for him.

“I’ve just never.. I dunno. Never had just one night.” Taking a more cautious sip, you continue. “Much less with someone like you.”

“Like me?”

“With a.. You know.” You fiddle with your glass. “A customer.”

When you hear his reaction, you stare at his raised cheek, stomach fluttering when he sighs downward,

“You can’t just say shit like that.”

“I can say whatever I want,” you counter. “Especially since I…”

You don’t wanna finish that. It helps that Yoongi doesn’t look your way still, taking a sip of his whisky instead. His locks swing forward as he leans, and you almost reach out to feel them. Maybe you’ll get to very soon. When you finally get over this final hurdle of outright shyness.

Why are you so timid right now? Why can’t you just tell him what you very obviously came in here for and get on with it? You’ve been decisive as fuck the rest of today, so what’s got your tongue pressed this time? Is it really your abysmal level of experience?

Or is it because you’re gravitating to more sides of him with each passing second?

“Since you what.”

“Since I don’t like you,” you snip.

Yoongi flashes teeth in amusement. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh, shut up.” You take another drink, feeling the burn down your throat. “I don’t have to if it’s true.”

Both of you keep drinking in silence after that. Which makes things a weird mix of calm and awkward, considering what your original mission was.

Going over the events of today, it’s a wonder why you aren’t crashing into a dreamless sleep. You’ve been up and having the most exhausting day ever, and yet, you can’t imagine shutting your eyes.

Think of something else to talk about. Anything. Any topic you could possibly hold a conversation with Yoongi over.

What did he respond to before? No small talk, since the plantains thing from months ago was a bust. And when you conversed over ramyeon it was more of him angering you on purpose—wait a minute.

There was something you never circled back to.

And as soon as you ask him about it, he appears impressed you remembered,

“Were you bluffing when you said you knew what I was shopping for?”

“No,” he responds immediately. “And I know I’m right.”

“Prove it.”

Mouth curved at an annoying angle, Yoongi shoots you a look before placing his drink down, getting up to walk to a tall armoire.

Your eyes follow his every movement, even the way his ass moves under that damned robe. But soon, your jaw goes slack not because of his assets.

But because the motherfucker was right on the money.

How the… How the fuck did Yoongi know?

In front of your face lies exactly what you were searching for. Sleek. Minimal. Lightweight and visibly balanced. You don’t even want to keep shopping around because this is the only one you want.

How did he know you were shopping for daggers based on one single line of questioning?

“I wasn’t gonna show you until you asked,” he divulges. “Honestly, I was hoping you’d forget. This one was hard as fuck to track down.”

Eyes flicking up to his, you ask in wonder, “Can I…?”

He lifts it slightly, signaling that you can indeed hold it yourself.

And it’s perfect.

“Wow,” you breathe out, feeling along its edges and hilt. It’s all one continuous line, with metal so black and matted that you almost moan. “I don’t have much on me, but.. I’ll give you whatever you want for this.”

“Keep it.”

What?

“It’s yours.”

There’s no way he’s just gonna gift this to you. It’s perfectly crafted in material you can’t even find in Crane. And they have almost every class of ore in existence.

Who even is this man?

“Yoongi, this is…” You shake your head while extending it back. “I can’t just take this.”

“You can.” He fiddles with the bracelet on his wrist. “I did.”

Oh. Charming. The weapon you’re being gifted is stolen goods. “Well, in that case, I really can’t accept it.”

But goddamn, this is more than perfect. You can’t even pluck one finger off the handle. And you can’t change the fact that it was already taken, right? Right?

“At least…” Scowling at your own crumbling morals, you mumble, “Not without good reason.”

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Do I need a reason?”

“No,” you reply. “But I’d like one.”

Yoongi sighs long before moving his fingers. “I lied to you back there in the lobby.” Looking up at a clock instead of you, he works his jaw. “But this time, it really is just that.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

Fuck, the veins in his hands are so prominent when he laces them together. “No. But it’s better than those chopsticks you’re saving in the bathroom.”

Oh. So he saw those, too.

“Thank you,” is what you wave in white. Because that’s exactly how you feel and this one gesture does excuse some of his faults. Maybe. Or your standards have plummeted to the gutters. “I, umm. I usually keep one for self-defence. Just in case.”

Turning it over and back again, you marvel at its light but solid weight. “But I lost mine in the last rough raid before they suddenly stopped.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“K.” Placing it on the closest nightstand, you go back to holding your glass between your hands. “One day I’ll pay you back somehow.”

Yoongi shoots that down on sight. “No need.”

“But I want to.”

He glares before picking up his alcohol. “Anyone that owes me shit gets treated a lot different.” The drink rests in his hand like a liquid gem. “So just accept it as a gift, doll.”

You’d laugh if you knew he was kidding. But you know he’s dead serious, so you only nod.

It’s quiet again as you both retreat into your minds.

Yoongi has the mental fortitude of a fortress it seems. Because he really is set on waiting until you tell him what you woke him up for, and it’s been awhile since this all started.

But being in his presence while the night is quiet is somewhat comforting. You’re finding it easy to think about other things now, especially after he gave you so much to mull over.

Like grey zones and how they came to be. It’s fascinating how you had no clue even though you should. Even though this whole conflict affected half the city.

Wanting to gain more insight, you blurt your curiosity, “How long ago were the grey zones fought over? Before everything was decided?”

“Years. Decades, at this point,” Yoongi answers, his gaze locked as you think about this timeline. “Most people don’t even bother knowing, though.”

“Why? This sounds like a big part of our history.”

“No one cares if a Crane kills a Dragon.” His tone shifts slightly. And you wouldn’t have caught it if not for his subtle sulk. “They only resent the blood they have to wipe from the street.”

Your lids lower all the same. Because that resonates deep within your chest, so much so that you feel your heart bend in its aching. “No one cares about us, either.”

When Yoongi catches your look, you give a sad excuse of a smile. “Being a vendor? Especially where I am? You quickly figure out how little you matter. You as a person, I mean.”

You slide fingers along the tiny rim of your glass, lost in the fibers of his rug more than anything else.

Maybe you’re just a loose fiber in the rug of this city. One that will pretend to run only to be swept back into the folds. “The only things that people remember are what you offer. Anything other than that isn’t worth their time.”

Lifting your chin, you save face. “Can’t say I won’t miss you.” May as well admit it all if you aren’t ever gonna see him again. “You were the only one that ever let me bother them.”

“You never bothered me.”

You look up to see him staring. Lip curled upward, you huff. “With all the looks you gave me? I find that hard to believe.”

Yoongi doesn’t laugh in return. “What would I gain from lying?”

Mm. That’s an interesting question. But the alcohol starts to talk for you as you have the balls to flirt. “People lie to get laid, for one.”

“Mm.” He takes a measured sip of his glass, the last dredges of it swaying at the bottom. “Can’t say I’ve ever needed to.”

“Shocker,” you drawl, sipping to match his pace. And it’s after this drink that you loosely admit, “This is really good, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Lifting the glass to peer inside, you swirl it around before divulging a past you don’t talk about—ever. But what are rules of conversation when you want to stall? “My uncle got me into whisky a long time ago. But fruit stands don’t pay for top shelf alcohol.”

“Where’s he at now?”

“Uhh.” You look away. “Gone.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

He gets up, and you watch in silence as he makes his way to the sideboard. Stuff shifts around before he appears to pour another glass. And he stays there for a bit, black robe blending into all the dark decor.

“Yoongi?”

He turns.

“Can you keep talking?” You keep your drink steady between your robed legs. Buzzed and vulnerable, you offer an explanation, “Turns out there’s a lot I wanna forget right now.”

Like endings. And future endless days without your most frustrating, most dangerous, most favorite customer.

Yoongi pauses before walking back to the bed. When his thighs settle next to yours, he asks without much heart, “What do you wanna know.”

“You.”

His jaw shifts, and you feel a slight tug in your chest.

Was that too forward? Probably. But you’ll take what you can get, like a last meal chosen to hit every one of your desires. “Anything you wanna tell me, of course.”

Yoongi remains quiet. Which isn’t unexpected but still a little letdown.

“Not much to tell.”

Ah. Just more lies then. Maybe you should stick to the original plan. “Nothing at all?”

He looks at you, planting a hand on the bed to lean a little closer. “Nothing you’d wanna hear.”

You shift between his eyes. Wondering if it’s better not knowing or if you really do wanna give in.

Perhaps his eyes will speak for him instead. Glowing dark. Hints of ember and smoke. Years and years squeezed into those irises.

“What if I do,” you quietly question, catching the light on his alcohol-tainted lips.

Reaching out, you boldly place a thumb over one side, slowly brushing off excess liquid and marveling at how soft he is there. Tender, just like his name. “What if I don’t care.”

Yoongi waits for a moment before holding your wrist, the atmosphere trembling and buzzing around your shoulders. Oxygen depletes as he leans in close, his beautiful features almost touching yours.

You feel something locking into place. Something beautiful and terrifying. And it holds you down as you feel his hair, his warmth, his—

A noise blares into the room before you can feel yourself rushing upward, your body reacting on survival instinct alone. Glasses spill onto the rug and you don’t know what’s happening but lack of sleep lack of comfort lack of everything has you ready for—

Time stops.

Sounds muffle.

And your eyes flash wide as you see the tip of your blade pointed straight at Yoongi’s side.

Just as he’s poised with a gun pointed towards the door.

It’s a phone ringing.

A fucking. Telephone.

What have you done?

As Yoongi slowly shifts his gaze to your outstretched hand, you tremble in severe regret. Regret that you pulled this on him with the very weapon he gave you. Regret that he knows all there is to know about how you still feel about him.

But you didn’t mean to… You didn’t even think. And you abhor how you directed your fear at the one person that kept you alive. The one person you fucking saved.

When Yoongi lowers his gun, he doesn’t acknowledge the guilt on your face. But as he walks away to grab his device, his gaze flicks back to you before he answers across the room.

Shit.

You fucked up you fucked up you fucked up.

You weren’t lying when you said you wouldn’t care. You really weren’t. But who knows what Yoongi will think of you after that shock of a face off.

Coming into his room was most definitely a mistake. Now you can’t wrangle your emotions for shit, head pounding with feelings and outcomes and adrenaline to the brim.

Yoongi’s close to the wide bathroom stairs, so you can’t hear what’s being said. He does keep looking at you, though, which keeps your fingers pressed against a hilt.

Are you in danger? Will Yoongi not want anything to do with you anymore? Is it alarming that you can’t decide which one is worse?

The call doesn’t last long.

And as soon as he hangs up, you’re sputtering like a broken fountain, dagger still wielded as he stalks forward—phone clunking to the ground. “Who was that.”

“No one.”

“What’s gonna happen to me.”

“Nothing.”

Fuck. You really did fuck everything up. Your brain is so battered that you’re gonna be skittish and paranoid for a long, long time. “Yoongi, I’m so—I didn’t mean to—It just happened—”

Forget it. It’s over. Your last interaction will haunt you forever and the only way you’ll experience what could’ve happened between you will be in your wildest darkest sweetest illest—

Burns flare at your eyes when Yoongi’s chest meets the quivering tip of your blade.

“Stop,” you wince out, a damning tear pinging to your feet. “Just stop.”

He starts to walk forward, which alarms you enough to step back because what the fuck is he doing! Why can’t your arms move? Why can’t you lower the fucking dagger?

“I can’t,” you croak. “I can’t move.”

You’ve been firing on all fronts the whole day. Even in your dreams, you’re in survival mode. You can’t unlock your arms because they fight for the rest of you. Your legs propel you when the rest of you wants to give up.

But that still doesn’t stop your heart from aching. It burns, it burns, it burns.

When Yoongi grips your wrist, you choke on a sob. When he calls you smart, you squeeze your eyes shut in shame. And when he whispers to drop the fucking blade or he’ll do it for you, you do so after a maddening pause.

It clunks to the ground when a gun does, and you’re suddenly spun until the backs of your knees hit something solid.

Immediately, you’re thrust back onto dark sheets again, tears now rolling into your ears as you instinctively let Yoongi smother you whole.

His hand slides to your inner thigh, and your mind reels when you start feeling a hardness on your stomach. Breath whooshes out of your mouth before you're covered in silk and muscle, and pleasure bursts from where he quickly devours your neck fuck.

Hands are quick to untie your robe as fire stokes your throat.

“I won’t ask again,” he vows with a voice that rumbles. “Tell me what you fuckin’ want.”

“Yoongi—”

“Say it and it’s yours.”

“Make me forget,” you shove through your teeth. “Just make me fucking forget.”

“How.”

Fuck lack of experience. Fuck being shy. You aren’t wasting another damn second and your emotions need all the release they can get. Loose lips, loose tongue, looser inhibitions.

The monster inside of you yanks at its chain, claws and claws at its confines screaming at you to give in. You need this. You want this, especially if Yoongi himself is gonna give it so willingly.

Just say it. Just say it.

“If this really is the last time I’ll see you…”

Yoongi stills as your eyes lock unblinking.

Tell him. Four words.

“Fuck me like it.”

A proverbial chain snaps as Yoongi dives into your neck, ravishing you and sucking hard on your vein. When you yelp, your clenched legs seem to encourage, and he thrusts forward to launch you up the bed with a purpose. With intention.

All to let you know what you just got yourself into.

His fingers light little fires along your skin, burning everything in their paths up your arms, your sides, squeezing into your imperfections and latching down. His lips set your being ablaze as he keeps feasting, causing your breaths to get shorter, and shorter, and shorter.

“So sensitive..”

When you feel the warm swipe of a tongue, your eyes scrunch shut as you shudder. Which makes the whole thing worse for you when Yoongi chuckles dark in return.

“I don’t think you’re ready for this.”

“Shut up,” you huff out, grasping for his robe and raking at his sleeves. “Of course I am—Fuck.”

His thumb rolls across your exposed nipple, pinching it to make you arch right up into his chest. “You sure?”

When the hell did he even open your robe? How did he do that so quick without you knowing?

You bite down on your lip to keep from screaming, nodding in determination while your brows almost kiss.

Watching your expression, Yoongi pinches again, biting his own lip while slowly spreading that shit grin. Your moan comes out more like a muted hum, which seems to displease.

“Uh uh,” he orders. “You’re gonna be loud for me.”

“But what if someone—”

“They won’t.”

He continues in his control, sliding a hand under your thigh to hitch it up before shoving it to the side.

And you know where he’s going. But it still shocks you all the same when his fingers make contact with your slick.

Your very, very wet slick.

Many, many things will haunt you for life. Your experiences. Your choices.

But right now? The only thing that will follow you to your grave is this distinct, biting, staccato batch of laughter. “You shouldn’t’ve ever come in here.”

Breath ragged, you watch as Yoongi concentrates, exploring your cunt with his long digits and hitting every nerve with perfection. When you rub against him, he growls, lifting shiny fingers to insert right into his mouth.

Sucking.

Licking.

And your eyes mirror his at once—as black and pulsing as fallen stars.

He swoops down at the same moment you tug on his clothing, his mouth latching onto the side of your neck he hasn’t ravaged. Impatient, his hand yanks the bottom of your robe to the side, fully exposing your legs and leaking folds while you grapple with your own obstacles.

It’s messy. It’s jilted. It’s exactly what you want.

As soon as you find the slit in his robe, you take a brave leap and reach for his cock, not knowing what you’re gonna find but having a vague idea based on his—

Oh. What.

Fuck, he’s gonna split you in two.

You’ve held one before. You know what they feel like. But this cannot be possible and you’re already mentally preparing yourself for your breaking point.

“You good?”

You snap your head right up, realizing how stunned you must be if he’s asking. “I… You’re fucking huge.”

Yoongi doesn’t react, but that somehow makes it more attractive. Like he knows. And he doesn’t deny a thing. “That a problem?”

“I mean… I think I’ve lived a good enough life.”

To your surprise, the man above breaks completely as you keep blabbering, shoulders shaking alongside those stupid dimples. Those beautiful, elusive dimples. Too bad this is the last time you’ll ever see them. “Did what I wanted.. Not everything, but most of my list.”

Yoongi’s still chuckling. And for a brief moment, you’re brought back to the days he was just a patron. Back to when you would think about him before bed, delighted to see him stop by.

This is him. This is Yoongi with you now.

Where was he this whole time? Was he really waiting until you answered him for real?

You went so far into your head that you missed the change in position. So it makes you jump like hell when you realize where his teal mop of hair resides. “Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing?”

Between your thighs, Yoongi lifts a brow, locking your legs with tough arms before you can even move.

“Yoongi, you don’t have to—oh, fuck!”

The first contact of his tongue on your folds makes your eyes burst, your legs effectively being pinned down in their tensing. Jolts of lust spiral from your core as he licks, sucks, twirls around your clit like it’s second nature, and you feel yourself welcoming his every thrust.

This is happening. This is happening? You’ve never done this before, not that you’ll admit it. Whatever Yoongi’s doing is completely new territory for you and you don’t ever think you’ll leave. Permanent residence. No other land to discover.

Whines echoes throughout the room before you slap a hand over your mouth. Because the whole world will hear his name if you don’t. Especially when he adds fingers and curls them just right what the fuck!

He makes you forget. And forget. And forget. You even forget your own name. Only his. Saying it into your palm over and over and clawing his sheets with the other.

A low growl rumbles between your legs before you hear him purr, “Just like I fucking thought.”

What’d he say? He didn’t say that. You’re hearing things, you’re sure of it. There’s absolutely no way Yoongi’s imagined anything about you, much less what you taste like.

And the words keep coming as he whispers how tight you feel. How hot. How perfect you’re gonna fit him.

While all you can utter in return is gibberish mixed with the syllables of his name.

Pleasure rolls in waves as he learns every inch of your cunt, fingers drenched in your slick and the curves of his cheeks lathered in your scent. When he reaches beneath you to grope your ass, he gives a rough squeeze.

“Move your fucking hand.”

Your eyes fling wide.

“I wanna hear you.”

“No, I’m—there could be people—”

He clambers over you, robe wide open and revealing a body that rips your soul clean out. When he seizes your palm to shove it to the side, another monster starts to wake within your chest.

And this one takes treacherous pleasure in those slitted eyes.

“You’re gonna scream for me.”

“Or else what.”

The dark rumble. The rolling thunder.

Your other monster is starting to match his glint. “You don’t wanna do that with me, doll.”

“Do what?” you ask with flitting eyes.

When all you get is a sharp smirk in return, your stomach flips in desire and excitement. So when he slaps the side of your breast, you hum high with a delighted flinch.

“Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Yes. This is what you came in here for. Your shyness will have to be comfortable with the unknown, but it’s also helping seeing Yoongi much more relaxed.

Like a normal person.

Especially when he leans over to open his bedside drawer, hair swaying as he grabs for what you think are condoms.

Your hunch is right when he rights himself again, teeth nicking a wrapper before tearing it in one sweep. When you start to clench your legs together in response, he shoves them back open with a thigh, robe parting to show exactly what’s going to splice you in half.

You’ll gladly take his amusement at your jaw unhinging. Because what you see is heaven sent.

Yoongi says nothing as he wraps himself fully, and he continues to be silent as you whisper,

“I wanna see you.”

It doesn’t take long for him to understand. As his length presses against your core, he slips off his dark robe, letting it slide down equally dark sheets before pouring onto the floor.

You’re just as quiet as he situates himself above your beating heart. Which is for the best. Your thoughts are better left unsaid.

All you can do is grip his arm, sliding your hand up until you can finally, finally brush his hair with your own fingers. Exhaling when you discover how soft it feels. How comfort can be found in something as trivial as tendrils.

“This is helping, too,” you murmur to his lips, inhaling what you realize is your own scent.

When he cradles your chin, your breath cuts. “Things happen when you say what you want.”

“If only it was always that easy.”

“It is with me.”

Your heart skips twice before tripping on itself, and you instinctively curl your palm against his head. “Everyone around you must be so lucky.”

An eyebrow lifts before he huffs. “Not talking about just anyone, love.”

…Huh?

What does he mean by that because shit you’re getting tugged forward he’s so strong—

“Now, if you’re gonna be difficult,” Yoongi warns. “Let’s give you enough time to reconsider.”

Your thighs widen as he positions himself at your entrance, cockhead rubbing along your folds as you tense.

“Uh uh.” He hums. “This is what you want, yeah?”

“It’s been awhile,” you spat, rolling your eyes when he shoots you a knowing look. “Just… give me a second.”

Obliging, Yoongi starts slow, making your head roll into the pillow as you accommodate his girth. Holy fuck, he’s big. But he’s sliding in easy after his little feast down there, which you piece together as one big prep for the main course.

“Fuck,” he groans, resisting every urge to plow straight into you. At least, from what you can decipher in his pinched features. If this feels amazing for you, you can’t even imagine what he must be feeling now. It only gives you butterflies knowing he’s following through with his word. “So fucking tight.”

“Not my fault you take up… so much space,” you grit through your teeth, neck straining as you blow air to the ceiling.

Fully sheathed, Yoongi rests inside until your muscles relax. And you only peel your eyes open when you start to slip into more pleasure than anything else.

Okay. You can do this. You can fit him surprisingly well—maybe too well—and you’re okay to keep going without restraint.

When you peer down your body, you expect him to look bored or indifferent. Like he’s wasting time dealing with you.

So it makes you shiver when Yoongi looks ready to ruin.

Toned arms flex at his sides, hands keeping your thighs held in their place. When a strand of vibrant hair falls, his chains spark in the moonlight streaming in from the windows. A dragon that waits. And waits.

You’re ready. Your demise will be your reward.

“I’m good,” you assure him. “You can move now—”

A second invisible chain snaps with a clink, and Yoongi launches into a thrust that has you seeing stars. You tumble through the dark as he thrusts again, mouth open with silent yells before you gnaw right into your lip.

“Relax for me,” he commands. “Just like that.”

Your cunt hugs him tight as you bounce even harder, his little grunts of praise making you mewl and whimper in bursts.

Fucking hell, this feels good.

You cannot wait to find out how it’ll feel when you piss him off.

His hands grip your hips, hosting you up onto his thighs as he thrusts hard into your cunt. Your body rocks in an arch, limp and at his mercy—which there is very little of. Enchanted, your lip tightens with the pull of your teeth, eyes squeezing shut as he feels so fucking good and hitting. Just. Right.

It all carries you so far gone that as soon as you feel a rush of air, the sting on your ass makes you react—piercing moan making both of you freeze.

And Yoongi’s eyes deepen a shade as he slowly grins. “There you go.”

“Don’t act like you—fuck!” His second swat has you grunting through your teeth, and his thrust forward at the same time he does it again has you whining. Monosyllabic, his name shoves out of your lungs, with each part more chipped than the next.

“What’s that, love?”

“Yoongi, please—”

“That’s right.” He clutches your sides so damn rough. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

And his pace pitches you into the sun, rocking so hard you won’t be surprised if the bed frame snaps in half. In thirds. In sevenths. Your legs go completely limp as he drives in, filling you and hitting a spot that pierces your eyes with stars and light and lust. Down down down you spiral, up up up you go. It’s only you and him now, with Yoongi plowing into you like his life ends come morning.

There’s nothing in the world that feels like this. Burdened by the dangerous weight of a man—this man—while feeling so light you could float? Absolutely nothing can compare.

Your body finally rests as he stops, but you get no breather as he flips you over with strong arms. Disoriented, you squeak as he tugs you backward, your ass rising in the air as your head is shoved into luxury cotton.

Sweet pain sears your ass again, and you gasp with wide eyes as you feel his cock at your entrance. “What are you—”

“Lift up. Higher.” He slides his dick up your folds. “You’re gonna like this.”

“You don’t speak for me—”

He thrusts into you as soon as you get accustomed to his length and size. And the place his thumb presses makes you scream into your pillow. His pillow. A hotel suite pillow that you’re biting to stay afloat.

How the fuck does that feel so good? How does all of this feel so good? His thumb on your asshole already has you melting, but the smacking of his sack against your clit makes you want to repent.

“So fucking—fuck.”

Drool strings from your mouth as your arms are tugged at the elbows, your whole upper body coming up for air. Precious precious air that’s cut off when Yoongi chokes you from behind.

“Yoo—!”

His strength slams your chest into the headboard, right at the edge of the bed before you feel the force of his palm hit the wall.

“What did I fucking say.”

“A lot.”

“I’m gonna hear you.”

“But—”

He shoves you flush against dark wood, your cheek smushing hard and your lips curling. “Let them hear you, too.”

You keep your moans muted until fingers are shoved down your throat. And you gargle until he yanks them out.

“That’s it. I know you can take it.”

“You’re easier…” Gritting your teeth in a smug grin, you taunt in a bold-faced lie, “Easier to take than I thought.”

His laughter is not lighthearted. “You’re still gonna go there, huh.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you pout, eyes drooping from the euphoric shocks his thrusts provide. Sweat rolls down your arms as you slip on the wall, but it gives your chest a cool surface to rest. “Go where?”

Suddenly, the grinding stops. And your cunt feels abandoned as he pulls out so fast. When you think to spin around, he spanks your ass with a harsh, “Don’t move.”

Do you want to disobey? Yes. But you’re more curious than anything, so do as he says.

And your eyes light up when you realize what he comes back with.

“Now… I could use this,,” he warns, pressing a silky smooth robe tie along your neck. “Since you don’t wanna behave.”

“Do it,” you taunt, wishing like hell that he does. Yes, yes, yes. You’re drunk on lust and volcanic want and you will fight for nothing more. “You won’t.”

Your neck is rocked back before you feel him slap your ass. “Then stay still.”

And you obey as you feel your belt—or his, either one—wrap loosely around your column before it’s tied.

Gently, your chin is turned, and you’re surprised when you’re met with stern eyes. “Can you breathe.”

Blinking, you nod. “Yeah, I can.”

“Two taps if you’re out, understand?”

“Yes.”

A swift pat to your cheek. “What’d I say.”

“Two taps,” you repeat, figuring out fast that you’re liking this development a little too much. “If I’m out.”

Holy fuck the yank you feel is exhilarating, your body bending back as shock overcomes your senses.

Lidded eyes staring down at yours, he vows, “You better make them count or we never do this again.”

“I will, I will,” you rasp out, breath still coming to you fine albeit a little more harshly. “I promise.”

“Good girl.”

Wait, did he say again?

As he slips right back inside, you lose all passing trains of thought. Cunt filled while his fingers clog your mouth makes you traverse to another plane. Every part of you, at his mercy—

Then he yanks you backward and all that mercy burns in the flames of heaven. Flocks to the clouds of hell.

The belt is completely taut as you succumb to his thrusts. Hard. Fast. Rough thrusts make you cry out as he toys with you, gravelly hums tumbling down your back as you arch for him. All the sounds you make echo throughout the room, a symphony of mewls and moans as Yoongi controls your every move.

“Take it.”

“Hmm?”

“You want it,” he repeats. “So take it.”

Oh. Oh, he wants you to—Oh.

You start moving back and forth, doing exactly as he says. Taking what’s yours for the night and shamefully not forever.

But it turns out it’s not enough because he tugs.

“Like you fucking mean it.”

Fuck.

Groaning, you move with more intention, sliding up and down his cock and feeling full every time. It feels good having control, you muse, and imagining him watching your debauchery turns you on that much more.

Your thrusts turn to rough slams, friction running fast while you chase it with all your strength. The groans you hear sound primal, hissed taunts egging you on.

“Guess you can listen after all.”

“Fuck you.”

Another hard yank.

Your laugh only spurns him on.

Slaps to your ass, grabs to your breasts. Yoongi is worshipping every inch of you and you won’t even notice this until nights later when you’re alone. You’ll remember the way he squeezes just right, the way he fits so well, the places he hits with no hesitation nor guesswork. It’s pure experience strangling you with passion and you don’t even know how to embrace it all.

But then you start to feel it. Your breath tapering. It’s getting harder and harder to suck in air and you’re starting to see stars across your eyes.

When you reach an alarming point, you quickly slap his leg twice, oxygen gushing into your lungs right as he lets go.

You almost come on that exhilaration alone. Adrenaline pumps pumps pumps into your veins, eyes blowing black as he spins you around.

Hot, open mouth kisses pepper your burning throat, and you have the nerve to catapult him all the way back onto the bed.

Yoongi lets you top him with a laugh, and you immediately use this opportunity to pin him down with a chokehold. Wanting him to feel the same way you just did. Knowing deep in your soul that he wants it, too.

“Cute.”

“You asshole.”

Holy fuck, you can’t even recognize your own voice. It’s hoarse. It’s rugged.

It’s salacious.

He cocks a brow while peering down his nose. “You done?”

“What?” You blink. Slowly releasing his neck, you admit with a rasp, “No, that’s not what I.. I’m not done with you.”

Yoongi slides into a smirk, and you attempt to scoff with a burning throat.

You wanna tell him how good he is. How stupidly attentive he is. But all you settle for is something neutral. Safe. And maybe a little forward.

“Just felt like calling you that.”

Yoongi’s smile mellows into a line, and if you weren’t in such an evocative position, you would have thought it was genuine contemplation. But he slides hands up your thighs before slapping the side of your ass. “Get on.”

Fuck. You don’t really know how. At least, you don’t know how to do it without showing him you aren’t used to it.

So the confidence will keep getting faked. With a little help of your quick wit and tongue as you grab his length. “Didn’t hear a please.”

Yoongi huffs out amusement. “I don’t say that.”

His tip goes in fine. Fuck. Okay. You can do this you can do this. “Why am I not surprised—!”

He shoves you down as soon as you give him enough leeway, and you groan out as you catch yourself with hands on his chest.

“This is where you’re gonna live,” he says with confidence, laughing in condescension when you scowl. “Fuckin’ love it.”

He can’t say stuff like that.

You ride until you find a rhythm, rolling your body and finding the friction you want. It’s there for the taking. And he’s encouraging you with gravelly words and hums, with hands up your stomach and grasping your chest.

After a single swirl of your hips, he throws his bed back until his neck strains. “Fuck.”

So you take that cue, rotating between rides and swirls. When he tweaks and rolls thumbs around your nipples, you clench hard around him, and he does it until you moan to the ceiling.

A slap to your breast makes you whine, and you keep going before leaning forward, placing hands against his shoulders and bouncing your hips on his cock.

“—a fucking natural,” Yoongi praises, chuckling to himself as he toys with the silk streaming down your neck.

“Maybe I’ve just practiced.”

“Show me more then.”

Quickly, he tugs you down flush against him before grabbing your ass, slamming you down and pistoning up until you scream.

You start biting his shoulder to quell your shouts, which makes him moan loud enough to make you possessive. Wildly possessive. Before long, you feel yourself going limp on him, only for him, solely for his pleasure and yours.

“Just like that. There you go.”

You mewl into his skin as he grabs you, holding you down as he slams into you again and again and again. Drunk with power, you begin to mark his throat, devouring and feasting with reckless abandon.

Growling ragged, Yoongi flips your position and pins you face down, shoving up hard into your cunt before plowing. You fully lean into the yells now, saying his name and inching over the goddamn edge of the bed.

It’s there. Your release. It’s potent and it’s visceral and it’s everything you need need need—

“Yoongi, I’m close—”

He penetrates so far that you can taste him, and you come so harshly that you convulse. Squeezing like hell and quivering in a full body fold.

Holy shit, the screams. Is that you?

The sinister laughs of pride prove you right. “That’s my girl. Fucking scream.”

You can’t stop. All you know is extreme pleasure coursing through your veins, pulsing beautiful colors and making you arch like mad.

But you have more to handle. Yoongi prolongs your euphoria by yanking you back only to sink into you again, hands rubbing both nipples and tongue speaking deadly sins in your ear.

“You aren’t done,” he growls. “Lemme hear you again.”

“I can’t—”

“Liar.”

His name rips from your mouth as you surprise yourself, gushing around his length and squeezing in powerful pulses. Nothing exists. Nothing at all. Everything you know is a feeling, as vibrant and shimmering as the sun above your street back home.

All the heat you’ve ever felt coalesces along your skin, and the words whispered in your ear slide right down with your sweat. You aren’t quite sure what you hear. But judging by your preening, it has to be praise. Dirty, dirty, sinful praise.

When your limp weight is flipped, you allow your legs to be hoisted up with no resistance. Looking upward, you peel open lids to the equivalent of a king. A god. And your outright awe blocks your ears from catching what your dragon swears.

“—perfect,” he grits, inserting himself into your squelching folds. “Again.”

No fucking way you have more left in you. You’re already floating in the ether, buzzing in pleasure and sweat and ecstasy. If you come one more time you’ll be an empty shell.

“Earn it,” you boldly rasp out, grappling a bit of your spirit and reining it back one last time. “Take it, you bi—”

Your heart leaps up your throat as you’re pitched upward, groan serrated and high as you grin in triumph because it feels so fucking rewarding when he gives gives gives.

Letting everything go relaxes your folds, causing Yoongi to rock into you with pride and without resistance. His chain smacks against his pecs at the same pace as your bouncing chest, and you’re more than sure you’re gonna feel bruises on your legs where he sinks his claws.

Skin slapping skin. Mewls and gritted curses. Heady scent covers them all in a thick layer and you feel the light grow closer and closer, stronger this time than all the others before it. Why? Why do you know this one will pitch you over the edge for good?

Both of you may feel the same.

Because Yoongi suddenly shoves himself so far into you and presses his body flush against your shuddering shaking screaming form.

You pulse frantically around him, throat sore and ragged from your final cry as tears stream down your face. It feels so fucking gorgeous that it hurts, and you enter a plane so mystical it’s completely separate from your earthly vessel. The two of you become closer than one, and you feel Yoongi stutter in his groan before yanking out and ripping the condom off.

Hot spurts paint your skin—a sweaty, spent canvas that dips slow with your labored breaths. His own breathing is rough but not exhausted, and you chalk that up to the mountain of stamina and experience he has on you.

It’s done.

Thoroughly spent.

All the pent up emotions dissipate in a slow descent. The chaos of today finally lowers its head, your monsters making their ways back into their cages. Moonlight shines brighter. Fuller.

Illuminating a man in silver as he slowly heads into the bathroom.

Holy fuck. You just slept with a gangster. With a Dragon.

With Yoongi.

There’s no way you can forget this. No way you can see yourself moving past this moment, even years and lifetimes from now. It doesn’t matter if Yoongi never thinks about you again, because something transpired in this room that you’ll keep locked away in your soul forever.

As he brings back a towel to wipe his essence from your skin, you wonder.

Was it all worth it?

Or will this torture you in every dream you’ll ever have?

A palm digs into the mattress before you feel weight and jewelry. The silk around your throat is carefully undone, and lazy, heated lips descend on your neck once more.

Bliss.

Sighing, you utter his name much softer now, telling him please without knowing what for.

“What do you want,” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” you admit in a wisp.

Yoongi keeps worshipping your throat, and you mewl when he reaches to rub your breast in a slow squeeze. When you drag your hand down to grip his cock, he tenses with a gritty hum.

“Careful, love,” he rumbles. “There’s a lot more I can do with you.”

“Tell me.” Your breath starts shorting in anticipation. “Tell me everything.”

“Nah.” When he slides forward, the bare tip of him meets your cunt, causing you to flinch with a bitten lip. “You’re just gonna have to wonder. Day, after day, after day.”

Fuck this guy with the spite of a thousand lives. You’re the one holding his cock, so how the fuck is he still being this sure of himself?

“Put it in,” you blurt, earning his gaze of utter confusion.

“What?”

“Just for a second.” You stroke him, feeling slick velvet and wetness coating your fingers. “That’s the last thing I want.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time tonight, he’s the one that looks hesitant. “You sure…?”

“We’ll never do this again,” you whisper. “And I know you want it, too.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment, searching your eyes for any sense of doubt.

When he finds none, Yoongi positions himself at your entrance, and you feel his knuckles brush your folds before he sinks in. Slowly, cautiously, extraordinarily.

And both of you groan so full.

“Fuck,” Yoongi glowers, teeth sharp as he grounds them hard. His arm veins strain, shifting all his ink in pretty ebbs and flows. All his stomach snaps taut, and you can’t look away from his sheer look of concentration and lust. “Fuck.”

“Feels so good,” you gasp, enjoying the way he’s slowly grinding against your walls. All the slick from your releases allows smooth strokes, and you already feel close for yet another time. An unbelievable amount of orgasm in such a short span. You’ll never reach this peak. Not with anyone else. “What the fuck, I’m close again—”

“Shit—”

It happens in a snap. But more of a mellowed, drawn-out river flow than a full waterfall. Your eyes slowly roll before closing, and your chest arches slow as you rock back and forth on his cock. The squeezes are harder. The pulses are fuller. You’re milking him for all he’s worth, like your cunt won’t let go until it’s pumped him dry.

Which makes Yoongi lose his absolute mind, hissing as he pulls out quick before spilling onto you all over again. Again?

Holy fuck, again?

As he groans up above, his eyes are wiped dark completely. Which makes you wonder how you can still see stars embedded inside.

Was it all worth it?

You’ve never been more achingly sure.

It’s a long shot to know if he feels the same. And an even longer one for that to truly be the case.

But it’s okay.

This is the first, the last, the only time you have. And it was more than you could’ve ever asked for.

As he falls into the sheets next to you, both of you exhale harsh, hearts pounding and pounding into the bed and to the ceiling.

You can’t even move. Every single limb is sore from base to tip, and the door looks so, so far away.

When you whisper his name, you get a little acknowledgement at your side. Gathering all the strength you have left, you whisper,

“I know this is when I’d be kicked out, but.. I can’t move.”

The small puff of air you get in return sounds like a yes. But you aren’t sure until Yoongi verbally gives you a real answer,

“S’ok.”

All you can do is hum, noticing with a sharp pang that you feel soft towel wipes before the smooth slide of sheets up your bare skin.

“Just stay on your side.”

Ah.

Well. At least you aren’t alone for a night.

“And you.. Stay on yours,” you murmur, darkness seeping into your peripherals.

“Mm.”

Yoongi can be as cold and heartless and calculating as he wants. But you know he’s more than what he shows.

Because with a second sharp hit to the chest, you also realize the side you’re on is the side he was on before. He’s not gonna make you move just to keep his preference.

Don’t think too much about it. Do not.

“I wish everything was different,” you whisper, drifting into a dreamless sea. “I don’t want to hate you...”

Your forehead is swept by a warm hand. You cannot lift your lids any longer, but your ears still hang onto their efforts.

And the last thing you hear before succumbing to the dark is a lighter flick and a fact. A cold, expected, damning fact.

“You’ll always hate me.”

When you wake, you’re greeted by the same room you fell asleep in.

Sunlight cuts through grey skies to shine every surface, and you breathe in a musky, comforting scent as you stretch your limbs.

Did last night really happen?

The soreness between your bare legs is more than enough to prove so.

Slowly turning, you whisper to Yoongi that you’re ready to go when he is.

Only to find out that you’re talking to no one.

Shit.

Shooting up, you start to panic. Maybe he’s in the living room already? Getting ready to call someone to bring you back home?

Glancing at the nightstand on his side, you don’t spot the dagger he gifted you, brain grappling with what that could possibly mean.

Your ribs crackle when you bite back emotion. It’s all over.

Shifting back to swing your feet onto cold fibers, you pause with swimming eyes.

Because the blade rests ready on your nightstand, propped on a set of plain clothes in the perfect position you would need it to be.

Teeth clenched and eyes burning, you swipe it before rushing out of bed, head pulsing and a dull ache between your legs. “Fuck..”

The shirt and pants you’re given don’t exactly fit, but you’ll take what you can get as you punch limbs through long sleeves and high pants.

Yoongi isn’t here.

You feel it in your whole being, and you have no fucking clue why it hurts.

But if he’s not here…

Who do you start to hear outside the door?

You freeze, lungs expanding as you hold multiple breaths.

It sounds like talking. But also a myriad of sounds?

Heading into the bathroom, you silently glide across the floor before swiping up the chopsticks. Because yes, you’re still gonna save them. For defence. For keepsakes. For a grave reminder.

Tucking them in a pocket, you ready your dagger under your garment, pressing it flat against your skin like you were trained to do.

Slipping out into the hallway, you hear the sounds clearer. Movement. Slides of furniture.

What the hell is going on?

You’re about to retreat back into the room when a man crosses in front of the hall.

And his hair is strikingly…

Orange?

As he catches you in his vision, he stops on a dime, hand outstretched in greeting. “Hello!”

Your step back makes him laugh. But you’re not laughing in the slightest as you question,

“Where’s.. Where’s Agust?”

“Gone.” The smile spreading makes you squint. “Need to see him?”

Your answer is immediate.

“I’d rather die.”

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: alright before i say anything else: use the bathroom after sex, and especially after doing it unprotected!! i normally include it so this is a rare exception. but yes. please use the bathroom after, and practice safe sex always! a/n 2: WHO COULD THAT BE AT THE END THERE... ahahah but seriously, i for one am still swirly eyed just thinking about what's coming for these two.. they have no idea what's in store and i'm itching to get the next part done! a/n 3: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist ⇥ minted masterlist

#FINALLY FINALLY #5000 words in two days just wanted to say i love y'all #bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #yoongi fic #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #ryenwrites #minted #minted3 #*ryenfictalk #*latest

2K notes · View notes

gothicfied · 6 months ago

Text

Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 Headcanons

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death/dying (typical squid game stuff), other than that it's just fluff

જ⁀➴ Considering the nature of this environment and the people you're surrounded by, you didn't speak up or made yourself noticeable at all. You kept your thoughts and worries to yourself, pretending like it didn't bother you that the players around you were being killed off left and right. And, it worked: no one seemed to bother you or notice you in the first place. Except for one guy.

જ⁀➴ Your bed was directly under Dae-ho's. After being so rattled up by Red-Light-Green-Light, you just sat there on the thin mattress, staring down at your food. The commotion next to you about Gi-hun, a previous winner of these games, didn't interest you at all. Your attention was drawn to Dae-ho though, when he dropped down from his bed with a loud thud.

"Oh," he looked at you with a concerned look, "hey there. Are you okay?"

જ⁀➴ Kickstarting your 'friendship', if a friendship is even possible in this place, you were kindly accepted into Gi-hun's little group, alongside In-ho, Dae-ho and Jung-bae. From the beginning, it seemed like Dae-ho was more concerned with your wellbeing than his own. He'd often share his meals with you, as a general act of kindness. And, it warmed your heart, considering he kept nagging Jung-bae for his milk or water or whatever it was.

જ⁀➴ He'd always keep you an arms length away from him at most, feeling responsible for your survival during the games. He was a marine after all, he needed to protect you, no matter what was to come. You'd show your appreciation with hugs and endless thank-you's when saved from literal death. Dae-ho would just laugh it off, claiming that you'd do the same for him. And you definitely would.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho's a sweet guy with a good heart, refusing to continue the games in the next voting, even if it meant he couldn't pay off his debt completely. Not only did he hate to see other players die (obviously), but he was genuinely scared to lose one of his friends. Especially you. He developed an undeniable adoration for you and he was determined to get you out of here, so that he actually has a chance of living a normal life with you.

જ⁀➴ Your presence alone made him nervous, in the good way, of course. While the others started to notice, you seemed to be oblivious. You'd accept every little compliment with a smile, say something nice back and then go on with your task, completely missing the fact that Dae-ho's cheeks were turning a bright pink. And, to be honest, he was really glad you didn't seem to notice at first.

જ⁀➴ Before lights out, he'd lean down and whisper a quiet "Good night." and after you wake up, you'd be greeted by a fairly cheery "Good morning!". Dae-ho just needed to reassure himself that you were safe and alive, wanting to be the last thing you see when you go to sleep and the first thing you see in the morning, too.

જ⁀➴ When it was your turn to guard the makeshift safety spot that Gi-hun made you guys set up, Dae-ho would stay up alongside you. He'd tell you to go back to sleep and that he could handle doing a double shift, but you refused, wanting to have some alone time with him. His voice was soothing in a stressful time like this and he, somehow, always found the right words to say to calm you down.

"Look, I know we didn't meet under the right circumstances by any means," he started, tucking some of his hair behind his ear, "but I'm still glad we did. You're really brave, you know?" You just chuckled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "I'm really glad we met, too."

જ⁀➴ Whenever Dae-ho was showing signs of distress or discomfort, you'd try to distract him or comfort him by side-hugging him and speaking reassuring words. You noticed that, while he did his best to protect everyone, he definitely needed that as well from time to time.

જ⁀➴ When not being able to sleep at night, you'd sit up and look if Dae-ho was awake as well. For some reason, as if he had developed a sixth sense for you, he'd wake up, feeling your eyes on him. If you try to apologize he'd wave it off, inviting you up to his bed to talk.

જ⁀➴ Even if these beds were small for two people, you'd manage to lay down comfortably, his one arm wrapped around your waist, to keep you from falling off. Your head rests against his chest while you talked his ears off about something Dae-ho couldn't focus on. His mind was just filled with you and the feeling of your body against his.

જ⁀➴ You guys definitely fell asleep like that.

જ⁀➴ And Jung-bae definitely made everyone look before waking you up.

#squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic #squid game x reader #squid games x reader #kang dae ho #player 388 #player 388 x reader #kang dae ho x reader

1K notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 1 month ago

Text

✑ 𝓈𝓃𝑜𝑜𝓏𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You, reluctantly cracking your eyes open to the soft hush of morning light—and oh, what’s this? The bed feels suspiciously warm, suspiciously full, and suspiciously… crowded. That’s right. You’ve somehow ended up entangled in a heap of limbs and sheets.

Waking up beside The TKATB Men + Special Guests ! ! An experience. A blessing. A mild threat to your sanity. And depending on who’s next to you, it’s either blissful, chaotic, or something bordering on criminally hot.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

What happens when you wake up in their space, tangled in sheets that weren’t this messy when you first fell asleep?

Well, dearest readers… let’s just say: things get interesting.

There’s only one way to find out.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You woke up in a nest of luxury—wrapped in dark blue and black silk sheets so soft, it felt like you were swaddled in a secret. Crowe’s room was a humble kind of rich: tidy, calm, and impossibly comforting, like it had been curated not just for sleep, but for rest.

Real, soul-deep rest. It even smelled like him—clean, warm, with just a touch of something expensive and masculine. You had been cocooned in it for hours, and honestly?

You would’ve stayed there forever if you didn’t have plans.

You stirred first, careful not to wake him. Somehow, what was supposed to be a simple sleepover had turned into more than that—it started with you missing him, due to a few missed visits, and Crowe insisting, “Just stay.” Which turned into two nights. Then four. Then it was like his place learned your name and asked if you’d like to live there.

Not that he minded. In fact, he looked like a man who’d decided the rest of the world could wait.

Because Crowe was… honestly a problem.

A beautiful, infuriating, gentleman-shaped problem.

He slept curled toward your side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other draped loosely over the space you’d just vacated. His dark brown skin seemed to glow faintly under the filtered morning light, lashes thick against his cheeks.

His hair used to be in that single braid—his signature—was undone, lay across his chest, the end brushing his collarbone, a few loose strands half-heartedly tucked behind one ear. You couldn’t help but stare for a moment. How could someone be so devastatingly handsome and pretty at the same time?

His face was sculpted but gentle, his lips relaxed in sleep, his brows smooth. Peaceful. You could’ve sworn even the sheets clung to him like they were in love.

It was unfair, really. Life was unfair.

So you got up—very, very slowly—and slipped into one of his black button-ups, drowning a little in the size and warmth of it. It had an absurd number of white buttons, which was both a stylistic choice and mildly excessive, but somehow made you feel wrapped in something that belonged.

Something safe. Something his.

And since you couldn’t cook to save your life, and the last thing you wanted was to ruin his cathedral of a kitchen or wake him up with the horror-movie soundtrack of your culinary attempts, you ordered breakfast instead. You even found a bed tray like this was some kind of love drama where you knew your role—and played it well.

You made everything look nice. Thought about plating. Napkin placement. Symmetry. He always did everything for you, without question, even when you asked him not to. Even when you begged him not to.

So this? This was just you trying to do a fraction in return.

When you returned to the bedroom, food in hand, the room still wrapped in that cool blue quiet, Crowe hadn’t moved much. One eye peeked open, that deep, ocean-blue irises glinting in the half-light.

Sleepy. Heavy-lidded. Disoriented.

Then he smiled. The slow kind. The lazy, heart-melting kind that made you want to crawl right back into bed and never leave again.

“…You look better in that shirt than I do,” he murmured, voice thick and low and absolutely criminal in the morning.

You smiled softly as Crowe blinked himself further into consciousness, watching you set the breakfast tray beside him like you were delivering divine offerings. The moment his eyes landed on the arrangement—folded napkin, fresh fruit, flaky pastries, and his favorite overpriced tea you absolutely Googled just to get it right—he looked… stunned.

“You did this?” he asked, voice still sandpaper and velvet, deep and wrecked from sleep.

You nodded, a little smug. “Well… technically, a very nice delivery guy did most of the heavy lifting, but I curated the whole thing.”

Crowe blinked. Slowly. “You curated me breakfast?”

“I did. Because you always do everything for me, and I figured it’s my turn, even if it’s the bare minimum.” You winked, setting down his tea.

His expression melted—confused awe shifting into that dangerously affectionate look that made your knees go soft. He stared like you just offered him your soul in a silk box. “It’s not the bare minimum. I-I can’t believe you actually—you woke up before me to do this?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “Wow, you know I’m capable of effort, you know.”

“And crimes of fashion,” he added, eyes trailing down to his own shirt swallowing your frame. “That shirt has… twenty-three buttons.”

“Don’t remind me,” you groaned, tugging at the collar. “I almost died getting it on. Who needs that many buttons, Crowe? Are you afraid of the wind?”

He laughed—low, rich, entirely too hot for someone who hadn’t brushed their teeth yet. “It’s called style. And drama. You should try it.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready anyway? I mean, the student council must be foaming at the mouth without you.”

That was your first mistake.

His smile dropped the second the words left your mouth—like you just told him he had to do taxes and smile about it. He let out the most soul-weary groan imaginable, dragging a hand down his face with enough dramatics to win an award.

“Ugh. Don’t say that cursed phrase to me this early.”

“What, student council?” you teased.

He hissed like it physically injured him, eyes narrowing in theatrical betrayal. Before you could smirk again, he struck—swiftly curling his fingers around your wrist and tugging you back toward the bed like you weighed nothing.

You let out a breathless little yelp as your balance tipped, and the next thing you knew, you were back in his arms, warm and tangled in those black silk sheets, wrapped up like you were the prize he refused to share with the world. His arms slid around your waist possessively, his head dropping against your torso like a man done. His long brown hair tickled your side as he let out a sigh so content it melted straight into your ribs.

“Jericho,” you warned, tone flat, one brow raising as you carded your fingers through the dark strands falling over his cheek.

“Mmm?” he hummed against your skin, lips grazing the fabric of his shirt you were still drowning in.

You tensed slightly. “Don’t start.”

He didn’t answer—not in words. Just started peppering lazy, sleep-warm kisses across the curve of your waist. You froze, heart stumbling as his lips followed the line of your body with a tenderness that felt almost unfair.

"Jericho," you repeated, firmer this time.

He tilted his head up, eyes smoldering now under thick lashes, amusement dancing in the corners. “You say my name so sweet,” he murmured, fingers skimming the hem of the shirt—his shirt—as if debating whether to behave.

“…I wonder if you could say it louder later on…”

Spoiler: he chose violence.

He shifted above you in one slow, fluid motion, pressing you back against the mattress with deliberate weight. His hand slid to the first button just above your chest, popping it open with almost sinful patience.

You inhaled sharply.

“Jericho,” you said again, a final warning.

But he was already lowering his head, lips brushing the newly revealed skin. His voice was low, wicked, and soaked in heat as he murmured, “The student council can wait.” Another button undone. Another slow kiss just beneath your collarbone.

“I want to take my time eating my breakfast.”

You gawked. “Oh my god.”

He laughed, soft and smug against your skin, as if this was normal behavior.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

You were lowkey terrified.

But your heart was sprinting, your brain was short-circuiting, and your willpower had officially filed a resignation letter. This was your life now—trapped under a six-foot dark-skin demigod with bedhead, deep blue eyes, and absolutely zero intention of letting you function like a normal person ever again.

Honestly? You could live with that.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The first thing you registered—beyond the dull ache in your limbs and the soft cling of dried paint on your skin—was the weight. A heavy, inescapable warmth curled around your waist like a stubborn human blanket. You cracked one eye open.

Sol. Of course.

You were in Sol’s studio apartment, which, to be fair, had the vibe of someone halfway between genius and sleep-deprived chaos gremlin. Art supplies everywhere—half-open tubes of paint, crumpled sketch paper, an untouched energy drink from God knows when, and several brushes floating in what was definitely not a cup meant for rinsing.

The morning light filtered in through the blinds in thin, golden slices, cutting across the cluttered room like strips of stage lighting over a still life in chaos. This wasn’t a bedroom—it was a living canvas.

And you? Forever his muse.

The dim amber lighting gave everything a cinematic, hazy warmth, as if the clutter was intentional. A curated mess. Still, not dirty, just… lived in. Passionate. Unhinged, but with taste.

And there, tangled in those thin, paint-streaked bedsheets like a man possessed by sleep, was Sol.

You were stuck.

Flat on your back, his head firmly planted against your stomach like it was his personal pillow. His arms looped around your waist like he feared gravity would snatch you away. He was out cold—breathing deep, his face nuzzled into your borrowed band tee—thankfully given post-session, because the entire front of you probably resembled a living art exhibit right now. One long leg had somehow hooked over yours, locking you in like this was a hostage situation of the softest kind.

You shifted a little—your body mildly regretting everything that had happened last night in the name of artistic inspiration—but the moment you twitched, Sol groaned and held on tighter.

This man was over six feet of ink-stained dream logic and stubbornness, and you? You were his chosen teddy bear. There was no escape.

Your eyes drifted down to him. His black mullet hair, dyed with those signature green streaks, had long since escaped the half-up, half-down look he'd started the night with. Now it framed his face in soft, messy thirds—two thick locks had fallen loose on either side, lazily shoved behind one pierced ear. The rest spilled across your stomach and the sheets like he was a man who fell out of an art magazine.

And speaking of the piercings… you couldn’t help but notice them now. Like, really notice.

The way the dim light hit the black hoops of his spider bites, even if the double lip rings were removed for sleep. His ears were an aesthetic chaos of their own: a stud in the left lobe, two upper lobe piercings, and two helix rings tucked neatly in the cartilage.

The right ear? Similar story.

There was even one long bar that ran through his lower helix—sleek and dark, like a blade. You couldn’t figure out how he slept like this and didn’t impale himself in his sleep, but apparently he had the power of art student immunity and vibe protection on his side.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to brush a strand of hair from his face, to gently trace the sharp edges of his jaw, to cup his cheek and maybe see if his eyes—those gorgeous, rare central heterochromia eyes with fiery orange centers and crimson red outer rings—would flutter open and look at you like you were still his muse.

But he just sighed in his sleep, nuzzling closer.

“Clingy bastard,” you whispered to the ceiling, half-laughing, half-swooning. Honestly, you needed a two-hour shower, a gallon of body scrub, and possibly a week-long nap… but the way Sol was wrapped around you like his life depended on it?

Yeah. You could lie here a little longer. Maybe forever. BUTTTTTT--

Was it bad that your fingers were already halfway through his hair before your brain caught up with your actions? Probably. But he was asleep. Dead to the world, soft and warm against your stomach, and so wrapped around you that even trying to shift felt like you were disrespecting fate. You’d try to justify it later. Right now?

You just… couldn’t help yourself.

Sol’s ears had always intrigued you. Covered in piercings and framed by messy black and green hair like a walking daydream from a punk magazine. So you reached up—tentative at first, gentle. Fingertips brushing the edge of his left ear, tracing the cool metal of one of the upper lobe studs.

He didn’t stir.

You went further. Thumb gliding over the smooth hoop of his helix ring, letting your fingers ghost along the trail of metal like a collector counting treasure. His skin was warm. He had so many piercings up close—you could count at least four on this ear alone, and your curiosity was starting to spiral. You brushed the tips again, just a little firmer this time.

And that’s when it happened.

A low, breathy moan escaped him. Barely audible, more sigh than sound. His body twitched slightly, the arm around your waist flexing tighter.

You froze.

His eyes opened. Slowly. Glazed with sleep and only halfway focused. “…The hell are you doing?” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep, warm enough to punch the breath out of your lungs.

You blinked. “Bored.”

Sol stared, dumbfounded, eyes narrowed, looking at like ‘what the fuck does that mean.’ So, of course, you have to answer better.

“Okay, I was admiring your ears,” you added innocently. “You never told me how many piercings you actually have. You’ve got, what, like four just on the right one?”

His gaze narrowed, but the blush creeping over his cheeks betrayed him. “Ten on my ears, added together. … Four on the right, like you said, and six on the left side.”

“And the two lip ones,” you nodded, counting on your fingers. “So that’s, like, twelve total?”

Sol’s face darkened.

That silence? Suspicious. Guilty, even. You squinted at him. “…Wait. Are there more?”

Sol exhaled hard, turning his head into your stomach like he was trying to disappear. “Please, no more, let me go back to sleep,” he groaned, dragging your name out like a curse.

You lifted an eyebrow. “What other ones, Sol?”

“Nope,” he muttered, pressing his face against you like a cat burying itself in a blanket. “You don’t actually care. You’re just trying to see them for the novelty. You’re not really interested.”

You gasped theatrically. “Is that your way of guilt-tripping me out of bed?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled.

You pouted, sitting up halfway in protest—only for him to yank you right back down. His arms rewrapped around your waist with sudden, lazy strength, pinning you again like gravity had picked a side.

“Fine,” he grumbled, cheeks pink now as he stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him. “I’ll show you. Just stop looking at me like you’re about to launch a full investigation.”

You smirked, victorious. “So you were hiding something.”

“I didn’t hide it,” he muttered. “You just never asked about the one in my—”

He stopped.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god,” you breathed. “There’s one I can’t see?”

Sol groaned. “I swear to god, if you tell anyone…”

“You’re doomed,” you said, voice full of glee, already imagining the ways to tease him about this for eternity. “Completely doomed.”

He sighed again, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” Sol sat up slowly, muscles stretching under skin as he peeled off his oversized shirt. You blinked—once, twice—as your eyes caught the flash of silver gleaming against the dusky brown of his skin.

Wait.

Your gaze dropped, and there they were. Piercings. On his chest. Twin silver bars glinting across each nipple like some chaotic blend of punk rock and divine provocation.

You gawked, shamelessly. “You—wait. You have nipple piercings?”

He blinked at you, confused. “Yeah?”

Your face twisted in disbelief. “I thought that was just a thing for the girls in the itty-bitty committee.”

Sol choked on a laugh, a hand flying to his face to cover the smirk he was absolutely failing to hide. His cheeks turned a bright, endearing red. “You’ve been staring for like… five minutes. Say something before I die of embarrassment.”

“I’m just processing,” you said, eyes still glued to his chest. “I mean, they’re kinda hot?”

He huffed, shifting slightly. “You ever gonna stop looking or…?”

“…Do they hurt if I touch them?” you asked, curiosity dragging you deeper.

He leaned back on his hands, chest exposed, a slow smirk curving his lips despite the flush still warming his ears. “They’re healed. Had them for a while now. Wanna try?”

Oh. That tone? Dangerous.

You bit your lip, but couldn’t resist the grin tugging at your mouth. Crawling into his lap, you straddled his thighs, feeling the way his fingers instinctively gripped your waist, grounding you. Your gaze lowered again, zeroing in. The silver bars were stark against his skin, cool and clean and… really unfairly attractive, honestly.

With delicate fingers, you traced one, rubbing gently over the piercing, watching how he tensed under your touch. Sol inhaled sharply, a breathy moan slipping past his lips. His hands tightened at your sides, grounding you both. “Shit,” he muttered, eyes fluttering, “Keep going…”

You blinked up at him. “Don’t you have an art project to finish?”

He cracked one eye open, lazily. “Screw the project. I’ve got plenty of time. I’d rather have my muse work on me.”

Your lips twitched. “So this was the plan all along, huh?”

Sol chuckled, voice deep and low. “I mean… you’re the one still in my lap, babe.”

Touché.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

You woke up slowly. Not the jolting kind of wake-up—more like drifting back to consciousness through layers of warmth and softness that feel too perfect to be real.

The first thing you notice is the sheets.

Heavy. Warm. Impossibly smooth. They cling to your skin like they’re trying to convince you not to move, like they were designed to trap people in comfort. There’s a certain weight to them, the kind that tells you money was involved. High-thread-count Egyptian cotton, probably imported and washed in glacier water by monks.

These sheets don’t just cover you—they embrace you. Soft in a dangerous way. Like, if you stay here long enough, you’ll forget how to function without them.

And the mattress?

Dear god, the mattress.

It doesn’t creak. It doesn’t shift. It doesn’t even breathe wrong. It’s firm in a way that doesn’t feel punishing—just supportive. Like it looked into your soul, saw your back problems and emotional baggage, and whispered, I got you. It’s the kind of bed you could melt into and reemerge reborn. A mattress so precisely engineered it feels like the Swiss invented it just for people who cry when their posture’s corrected.

You sink in deeper without meaning to, half-wrapped in a blanket so plush it might qualify as a sentient being. Your skin slides against the sheets like you’re being tucked in by silk-clad angels on a PR contract. And you’re not even touching the other person in bed. That’s how big this thing is. California King? Please. This is Empire Emperor Eldritch-level.

You’re not home, obviously.

You’re in Geo’s bed. Which is very much shocking for several reasons. Mainly, Geo doesn’t just let people into his personal space. And yet here you are. Sleeping where he sleeps. Wrapped in a level of comfort so extreme it might count as psychological warfare.

The air smells like him—clean, sharp, expensive. Subtle cologne that clings to the fabric, mixed with the faintest metallic tang you can’t quite place. It’s sterile, precise, with undertones of don’t touch anything unless you’ve washed your hands twice.

The room is dark. The blackout curtains do their job a little too well, sealing out even the most determined ray of sunlight. You can’t hear the city. No cars. No footsteps. No ambient life. Just… peace. Wealthy, suffocating peace. And beside you, the slow, even rhythm of breath.

Of course. Geo. The broody and moody prince.

You shift your head on the pillow—God, the pillow. It cradles your skull like it was made for royalty recovering from emotional damage. Just firm enough not to smother, just soft enough to ruin every pillow you’ll ever sleep on after this.

Your eyes adjust to the dark.

He’s there. Still asleep.

Geo—cold, composed, borderline terrifying—looks, for once, completely still. His dark violet hair is tousled from sleep, a few strands curled messily over his brow. The elegant sharpness of his face softened by exhaustion, his mouth barely parted. It’s the most unguarded you’ve ever seen him. Quiet. Warm. Human.

You blink slowly.

You probably shouldn’t be awake right now. But you are.

And somehow, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Again, which is insane, really—because Geo is not the type of person you imagine waking up beside. He’s too rigid. Too calculated. The kind of guy who schedules sleep like it’s a corporate meeting and probably sets alarms just to meditate before sunrise. His life runs on structure.

You’ve seen the calendar on his wall—color-coded, hour-blocked, terrifying. Morning routine? Practically ceremonial. Open the window exactly eight inches. Inhale the morning air like a monk. Ten minutes of yoga, fifteen of meditation, one precisely brewed cup of green tea that probably cost more than your monthly groceries.

And if it’s the weekend? He works out. Not because he has to, but because “idle time dulls the edge.” Direct quote. So yes, waking up here—in his bed, next to him—should be unsettling. And yet…

It’s not. It’s because throughout this whole week was a war zone.

And not what you’re thinking—dirty minded, yeah I know you…

Hours of archery training. Real training.

The kind that made his muscles shake and his temper flare. Every missed shot seemed to dig into him deeper than the last, like failure was a personal insult. You stayed, of course. Even when he told you to go home. You pushed when he got sloppy. Took his sharp-tongued jabs like armor and threw back dry corrections without flinching.

He hates help.

But he lets you help.

By the time you made it back to his place, Geo was moving like a man fresh out of war. Silent. Jaw clenched. Walking like each step personally offended him. You tried to throw yourself face-first into his marshmallow-soft, cashmere-draped bed like any emotionally and physically drained sidekick would—but no. Of course not.

He stopped you with a look. Not a word. Just one of those glares. The kind that could curdle milk and crack glass. Then—whap—a towel and one of his old t-shirts smacked you dead in the face with all the tenderness of a slap. “No one dirty gets near my bed,” he said, voice flat and absolute, colder than his stainless steel water bottle collection. “Not even you.”

You didn’t argue.

Valid. Because, let’s be honest—who in their right mind does sleep in someone’s bed with outside clothes on? Especially hisbed? Geo, with his monogrammed linen, his clinically-aligned throw pillows, his probably imported mattress that cost more than your rent.

You knew better.

So you did the walk of slight shame to the guest bathroom and promptly began one of the most unnecessarily complicated shower experiences of your life.

His shower… that demon. It had buttons. Screens. A dial. A sensor that blinked at you like it was judging your socioeconomic status. You stood there, towel-wrapped and spiritually defeated, too scared to ask Geo for help. That would’ve been social suicide.

He would never let you live it down.

You figured it out eventually, after what felt like a mild psychotic break. And once the water hit—oh. It was like being baptized in a billionaire’s tears. The soap lathered like whipped silk, the conditioner smelled like wealth and emotional detachment. You took your sweet, luxurious time. Because when was the next time you’d get to use his stuff?

Answer: probably never.

Let’s just say—it was a long night.

And now?

Now it’s morning. The room is still dim, blackout curtains in full effect, the air slightly chilled and scented faintly of cedarwood, bergamot, and expensive quiet.

And there he is. Geo.

Lying face-down like the universe finally shut him off. One arm flung under the pillow, the other barely peeking from the sheets like he’s trying to ghost himself from reality. The covers are tangled around his waist, his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned back and sharp hipbone.

You have to physically stop yourself from committing a felony-level stare.

Because Geo? Geo looks wrecked. Not in the tragic way. No, no—this is the elite, cinematic kind of wrecked. His long hair, normally bluish purple and perfectly tamed in that ridiculous precision bowl cut with the low ponytail? Ruined. The tie’s gone. Abandoned. His dark violet strands are everywhere. Messy, soft, cascading across his cheek like he slept through a typhoon and somehow made it fashion.

His bangs are a whole saga. One strand is stuck to his lip. Another is fanned across his lashes. It's giving tragic anime rival post-defeat—and you're into it.

You really shouldn’t be staring.

But you are. Because his face? That face that usually looks like it's judging your existence from ten miles away? It’s… soft. Not just relaxed—vulnerable. The perpetual scowl has melted into something quieter. His lips, full and usually pressed into a thin, annoyed line, are parted just slightly. His brows are smooth. The flush on his cheeks—either from sleep, heat, or residual pride damage—is maddeningly pretty.

He looks human.

Tired. Real. Like someone who ran himself into the ground, then collapsed mid-step. The kind of person who fights even sleep itself—and lost.

You keep staring.

Because there’s something painfully beautiful about seeing him, of all people, undone like this. Like all the hard edges melted. Like the armor cracked just enough to remind you he’s made of the same soft, breakable stuff as everyone else.

Even if he’d never admit it. And honestly? You’re down catastrophic.

You can’t help it. You glance at the bedside clock.

He slept in. By at least an hour.

That alone is enough to make you check the temperature of the room and quietly consider if the world’s ending outside. Maybe today, the sun won’t rise on schedule. Maybe Geo—the unshakable, unsmiling, prideful archer—finally needed a break.

You shift slightly, careful not to disturb the sheets too much. He doesn’t stir. Just breathes. Slow. Deep. At peace, for once.

And you realize you kind of like him like this.

Not perfect. Not performing. Just… existing.

You barely shift when you feel the mattress dip—subtle, like a sigh. Geo stirs beside you, groaning low in his throat like sleep had dragged him through a war zone and then left him for dead.

He sits up slowly, like he’s made of bruises and bad decisions, one arm bracing himself as the sheets slide off his shoulder. His hair is a disaster—long dark violet strands sticking out in every direction, the once-neat ponytail now a halfhearted knot somewhere near the back of his neck. A few pieces fall over his eyes, catching on his lashes. You don’t even try to pretend you’re not staring.

Then—those eyes. That aquamarine stare, foggy with sleep but still stupidly sharp, cut toward you.

“…You’re still here,” he rasps, voice hoarse and broken with sleep. Deep. Rough. Way too attractive for someone who probably hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet.

Your brain short-circuits for a full second.

“I—uh. Yeah.” You mumbled before adding, “Please don’t kick me out.”

He blinks. Just once. A slow, heavy-lidded thing. Then exhales through his nose like he’s too tired to summon sarcasm. His hand drags back through his hair, fingers catching in the mess. “My hair’s a damn mess, isn’t it?”

You nod, lips twitching. “Yeah… A disaster.”

Geo groans, low and ruined, dragging the word out like it personally offended him. “Ahh… fuck.”

It’s not even vulgar—it’s hot, coated in that wrecked, gravelly morning voice that sounds like it was marinated in sleep and frustration. Before you can process it, he flops back down like gravity filed a restraining order on his spine, surrendering entirely to the mattress.

And then—God help you—he shifts closer. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate. His forehead finds your chest with a quiet thud, like that was exactly where he’d been aiming all along. There’s no asking for permission. No hesitation. Just the weight of him pressing in, settling against you with that casual kind of intimacy that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

One arm snakes around your waist—possessive, lazy, final. Like, yes.

You are now Geo’s human pillow. Deal with it.

And wow. Okay. You’re dying. Imploding, really. Internally combusting in real-time. Because this is Geo—Mr. I-have-a-schedule-for-my-soul. Mr. Sharp-eyes-and-judgmental-silence. And he is clinging to you. Like you're the one thing in this entire cold, brutal, flawlessly coordinated world that makes it tolerable to wake up.

He smells like expensive sleep and subtle cologne, like silk sheets and quiet privilege. His long hair is a mess, strands falling in loose, chaotic waves across your stomach and neck, tickling where it shouldn’t and making it impossible to think straight.

You can feel his breath—warm and slow—where his cheek rests against you, and then he murmurs, half-asleep and muffled against your shirt:

“Don’t make me get up yet…”

You go still. Not because you’re nervous, but because your heart is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Geo, broody and impossible Geo, who lectures you on discipline and acts allergic to emotions, is holding onto you like you’re the last safe thing on earth. Like if he lets go, the world might crack open beneath him.

“…oh, right, your dad’s still out there,” you murmur, gently carding your fingers through the mess of his hair.

“Exactly,” he mumbles. “Give it fifteen. He’ll go on his stupid morning walk soon.”

You don’t ask why he doesn’t want to face him just yet. You just stay there. Let him breathe. Let him press closer.

“After that, we can make breakfast,” you offer.

He grunts. That’s a yes.

“Well, maybe… fix your hair first?”

Another grunt. Less enthusiastic. And somehow, you understand. He’s exhausted. Not just in body—but in that deeper way. The kind of tired that no amount of rest can fix. So you stay.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe too hard. You just let him cling. You smile into his scalp. And if your hand drifts into his tangled hair and you press your cheek to the top of his head?

Well. You’ll both pretend it didn’t happen.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Hyugo’s place was exactly what you’d expect from someone who was more myth than man—barely lived in, suspiciously neat, and filled with strangely curated clutter.

The kind of space that screamed I don’t live here; I just crash here when I need to not die of sleep deprivation.

Still, you found yourself spending more time here than at your own place lately. Something about your apartment felt… off. Or maybe you were just bored of your own four walls. Whatever the reason, you’d wandered into Hyugo’s world, and now you were curled up in his suspiciously stiff bed, waiting for the elusive, night-haunting man to finally show up.

The bed was all sharp corners and no give—military-grade firmness. You were starting to suspect he chose it on purpose, like some kind of self-imposed punishment to never get too cozy. It didn’t exactly scream “a sweet guy lives here,” but then again, Hyugo was full of contradictions.

One minute, he was offering you cake with sparkly berry drizzle like a Disney prince in combat boots, and the next he was vanishing into the shadows without so much as a text back.

His apartment, though? Absolutely fanboy-coded.

Posters lined the walls—classic noir detective flicks, sci-fi anthems, and a few vintage anime movie prints. His console collection was stacked neatly beside the TV, surrounded by limited-edition controller sets and at least three different Detective Conan DVDs.

And the kitchen? Not a single spice in sight, but enough sweets to give Willy Wonka a sugar rush: fruit tarts, cream-filled pastries, and what looked suspiciously like a shrine to strawberries.

You’d sprawled across the bed with a sigh, dressed in one of his oversized hoodies, You stayed up longer than you meant to, thumbing through the endless scroll of social media nonsense—videos, memes, fan theories, rabbit holes that led nowhere.

The screen glowed in the darkness of Hyugo’s bedroom like a little portal to a world that, somehow, still felt more distant than the man you were actually sharing space with.

Or not sharing, technically.

The sheets were cold beside you. Unsurprising. It wasn’t like Hyugo was known for being reliably present. He’d always been more phantom than person, flickering in and out of your days like some enigmatic glitch in reality. A shadow in a hoodie with too many secrets and a goddamn stash of berry parfaits in his fridge.

Eventually, the fatigue set in—eyes stinging, thumb cramping, brain buzzing from too much brightness. With a defeated sigh, you tucked your phone beneath the pillow and flopped onto your side.

The bed still smelled like him—sharp citrus and clean cotton—but that was all you got. No arm to curl against. No soft snore, no sleepy mumble of your name. Just you and the stiff mattress in a room that felt a little too empty.

So, you slept.

When morning came, it was rude.

The blinds—half-closed as always—let in just enough sun to paint golden bars across the room, slicing the air with warmth and unwelcome awareness. You groaned and shifted, pulling the blanket up, eyes still crusty from sleep and your hair a mess of pillow friction. You stretched, spine cracking satisfyingly, and rolled over—

Still no Hyugo.

A familiar little twist of disappointment lodged itself in your chest. Not surprising. Not unexpected. But it stung anyway. You had this dumb, fleeting hope—maybe, just maybe, he would’ve shown up in the dead of night, kicked off his shoes, and crawled into bed like some cheesy, fanfiction-level plot convenience. You even left a space open for him, like a fool. But no. Reality had other plans.

You sighed and sat up, hair sticking up at odd angles. You reached for your phone. And yet… something felt off. Off enough that when you swung your legs off the bed and looked around—

There he was.

On the damn floor.

Face down, one arm thrown dramatically to the side like he had spontaneously collapsed mid–Family Guy cutaway gag. His teal hair was a disaster, strands sticking out in every direction like the aftermath of a high-speed chase.

His bangs were matted to his cheek, and that ridiculous long rat-tail he refused to cut had curled awkwardly near his collar. The coat was halfway down his arms, one boot still clinging stubbornly to his foot, the other nowhere in sight. A lazy trail of crumbs framed his body like some ridiculous pastry chalk outline.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Are you serious?”

No answer, of course. Just light snoring and the occasional mumble. You sighed—long, low, and entirely defeated.

How did you not hear him come in? And why the hell is he sleeping on the floor like some tragically aesthetic raccoon?

You slid off the bed with the grace of a cat who had not, in fact, gotten a full eight hours. Padding over in your sleepwear, you crouched beside the body of your once-and-future cryptid, brushing a few strands of teal hair away from his cheek.

“Hyugo,” you muttered, poking his shoulder. No response.

You poked again, this time his cheek. He groaned, rolled onto his back with a sound like a dying alien, and blinked up at you, crimson eyes bleary and unfocused.

“…Bed’s too firm,” he slurred, voice hoarse with sleep.

You gave him a look. “You sleep on rooftops. You once fell asleep in a shopping cart.”

He yawned, the corners of his lips twitching. “And?”

Oh, he’s sassy too now?

You swallowed the lump that rose uninvited. “You’re a menace.”

Before you could get up, his hand reached out—half-conscious but terrifyingly strong—and yanked you down. Not into a hug, no. Into a full-blown, koala-grip straddle. You found yourself awkwardly seated on his stomach, balancing as his arms locked tight around your waist.

“Mmph. Warm now,” he muttered against your shirt.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “You’re here. Floor’s fine.”

You just sighed, brushing your fingers gently through his hair, teasing that thick center bang back from his brow. The way his features softened in sleep made him look younger, more open, like the walls he so carefully maintained had been knocked down by pure exhaustion.

“…I didn’t think you were still here,” came that familiar soft voice.

You didn’t even open your eyes, only tilted your head toward the sound. “You didn’t think I’d vanish before breakfast, did you?”

A lazy chuckle vibrated against your chest. He’d shifted to lie beside you now, fully dressed—still somehow dignified in his disheveled chaos. One arm rested behind his head. The other hovered, hesitating like it wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

Typical Hyugo. Always almost.

But then he frowned, brows pinching like something troubled him. “Actually…” he muttered, “I did try to sleep in the bed with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked sheepish. “You were kind of… dead center. I tried to move you over.”

“And?”

His ears turned pink. “You—uh. You woke up. Glared at me like I insulted your ancestors. Then told me to ‘get the fuck away’ and shoved a pillow in my face.”

You stared. “I… don’t remember that.”

“I know,” he muttered. “You were half-asleep. It was kind of impressive.”

Silence hung between you.

And then you sighed—deep, guilty. “Okay, okay. I didn’t mean it. I was just tired. And… maybe a little annoyed.”

He tilted his head. “Annoyed?”

You hesitated, then looked away. “I… guess I felt lonely. I stayed here thinking I’d have your attention, but you weren’t here. It just felt... off.”

Hyugo didn’t say anything right away, and for a breathless second, you thought maybe he’d dozed off again—curled around you like a worn hoodie someone refused to throw away. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside him, his arms tightened, drawing you in without hesitation, without permission, just need.

He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, and suddenly there were kisses. Rapid, butterfly-soft, peppered along your jawline, cheek, temple. The kind of affection that tried to say what words failed to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice muffled against your skin, lips barely pulling away long enough to form the words. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

You tensed slightly, caught off guard by how earnest it sounded.

“It’s fine—” you began, brushing your fingers through the loose strands of his shaggy teal hair.

“Nope. No, it’s not,” he cut you off, gently but firmly. “I’m making it up to you.”

Another kiss. This one slower. Near the corner of your mouth. His voice softened further, but it still held that edge of stubbornness he always wielded when it came to you.

“I’m not leaving. Not unless you need me to.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

The silence between you didn’t feel cold anymore—it was warm now, intimate. Like the world had slowed down just to give the two of you a moment.

“I don’t,” you said quietly, the words escaping before you could second-guess them. “Not this time.”

He smiled at that. That rare, almost bashful smile he only ever gave when he wasn’t sure he deserved the closeness, but was grateful for it anyway. He pulled you even tighter, curling into you like a cat that had finally found a sunbeam.

For a moment, you forgot about the crumbs, the stiff floor, the missing boot, and the strange liminal haze of early morning. You could’ve stayed like that forever. Or at least until his stomach inevitably growled loud enough to ruin the mood.

You tilted your head back and peeked at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair was disheveled from wind and sleep, strands catching the low, golden sunlight that leaked through the blinds.

There was a smudge of city grit near his jawline—evidence of wherever he’d been that night—and a thin white bandage wrapped around his knuckles. A faint, purpling bruise bloomed under one cheekbone like the start of a storm cloud.

“You look like hell,” you muttered, voice filled with dry affection.

He cracked a smirk, still not lifting his head. “You always say the sweetest things.”

“I’m serious. When do you even sleep?”

He finally glanced up, red eyes finding yours. For a split second, something flickered in them. Not amusement. Not sarcasm. Something… hollow and fragile. Then it was gone.

“When you’re here,” he said, barely audible.

And you stilled.

Those words—“When you’re here”—weren’t dressed up in charm or wit. There was no playful gleam in his eye, no sly curl of his lips. Just truth. Quiet, raw, and heavy in a way that settled beneath your skin like something aching. Something long-held and quietly desperate.

Your breath caught for a moment. Your eyes dropped to his cheek again—the faint bruise blooming beneath delicate skin, soft and plum-dark. A smear of exhaustion clung to his features like a second skin, making his usually youthful face look just a touch older, worn from whatever invisible war he fought before coming home.

“…What happened last night?” you asked, voice hushed, as though saying it too loud might break the moment.

He shifted slightly beneath you, the shrug subtle but unmistakably dismissive. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

You didn’t believe him. Not really. That wasn’t an answer—it was a deflection. You could’ve pressed him. Demanded to know who laid hands on him, why he looked like someone had dragged him through a back alley, why there was blood dried into the folds of his sleeve. But the truth lingered in the stillness between your bodies—he needed the silence more than he needed the interrogation.

So instead, you offered warmth.

You reached down, fingers brushing against the rough gauze wrapped around his knuckles, then laced your hand gently with his. His hand was cold, slightly stiff, but it curled around yours instinctively, like it was second nature. Like holding onto you was the one thing he didn’t have to think twice about.

“You know,” you murmured, your voice slow and dry, “for someone who says the bed’s too firm… you’ve really committed to the floor like it’s a luxury spa.”

A lazy chuckle ghosted past your neck, warm breath brushing your skin. “Only ‘cause you’re in it.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see it.

“You’re such a little shit.”

“I missed you too,” he said simply, almost too quietly.

Then his arms tightened again, drawing you in with the kind of strength that didn’t bruise but didn’t allow escape either. He buried his face back into your shoulder like it was the only place in the world where his guard didn’t need to exist.

You let him.

Not because he asked. Not because you felt obligated. But because, in that strange moment—curled up on a carpet sprinkled with pastry crumbs, light spilling in from the slats of cheap blinds, the city beyond his windows still half-asleep—there was nowhere else you’d rather be. His heartbeat was slow under your palm, a steady thrum of life and tension and something unspoken.

And maybe you weren’t the kind to play house or cling to romantic daydreams. Maybe cuddling on the floor wasn’t your usual script.

But with Hyugo?

With Hyugo, it fit—this messy, half-awake intimacy laced with sugar dust and unsaid things. He sighed, body relaxing a little under your weight. “Stay like this… a bit longer.”

Your lips twitched into something soft. “Only if you promise not to pass out with food in your hand next time.”

“No promises,” he mumbled, voice already heavy with sleep.

Such a little shit frfr.

✑ 𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓁

Dear lord.

You honestly deserved an award—or at least a gold medal—for managing to pin this walking, talking ball of golden retriever energy down into an actual bed.

Deryl was never still. Ever.

If he wasn’t sprinting across a football field or lifting absurd weights, he was pacing around his room like it was a cage and he was some kind of restless lion hopped up on sugar and testosterone.

The fact that he invited you over to ‘hang out and chill’ was a miracle in itself. Apparently, the football coach had finally granted him a rare moment of freedom, and instead of partying or sleeping—like a sane person), he wanted to spend it with you. That should’ve been flattering—and it kind of was—but good god, it was also exhausting.

From the second you stepped foot in his place, it was like walking into the eye of a hurricane. He barely gave you time to sit down before he was tugging you by the hand to show you everything. His room. His signed football. The dumb little trophy from third grade he pretended wasn’t a big deal but kept on display anyway.

He talked nonstop, words tumbling over themselves in that typical Deryl fashion—grinning, excited, animated like he’d swallowed the sun.

You tried to keep up, really. You even humored him when he insisted on doing impromptu push-ups while holding a full conversation with you.

But eventually, you crashed. Not like, passed out—but emotionally, spiritually, mentally—done. The guy was just... too much. So you did the only reasonable thing left: you wrestled him onto the bed.

It took effort. A lot of effort.

The man was built like a truck and fought like a child being dragged away from a bouncy castle. But eventually—after a brief scuffle that probably looked a little too playful for your liking—you managed to get him horizontal, arms flailing, laughter bubbling from his chest.

“Damn,” he panted, hair tousled, eyes bright with the kind of joy that made your chest feel tight. “You really wanted me down, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless. “You’re not allowed to move for at least ten minutes. That’s a law now.”

He grinned like you’d just given him the greatest challenge in existence. “Ten minutes? I don’t know if I can survive that.”

“You will survive, Deryl. Consider it a recovery period.”

“Recovery from what?”

“From being you.”

He laughed, head falling back against the pillow, arms spread like he was about to make a snow angel in the mattress. “Fair.”

Finally—finally—he lay still. The room quieted for the first time all evening, and you took a seat beside him, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. He was still buzzing with energy—you could feel it under his skin—but he was making an effort for you. Trying to be still. Present.

His gaze flicked over to yours, warm and stupidly sincere. “Hey,” he said, voice a little softer, “I really am glad you came over.”

You raised a brow. “Even though I basically tackled you into submission?”

He chuckled. “Especially because of that. No one else gets me to chill out like you do.”

You couldn’t help but smile, despite yourself. “That’s because I’m the only one brave enough to try.”

“You’re not wrong.”

It should’ve been a peaceful moment.

Deryl’s hand had found yours with that ridiculously casual charm he always carried—like it was the most natural thing in the world. Fingers laced, warm skin, a lazy thumb sweeping circles across your knuckles. His grin softened into something quieter, something almost domestic, like this was the kind of thing he could do every night without a second thought.

For a split second, he actually looked still.

But you knew better.

Just as your brain dared to entertain the delusion—maybe he’s calming down, maybe this golden retriever finally burned through all his zoomies for the day—he sat up. Sat up. Like a bolt of lightning just recharged him.

“So I was thinking,” he began, voice way too energetic for someone who should be deep into REM sleep, “we play just one game—Monsters & Mayhem—you’ll love it, there’s strategy, and traps, and dice, and I get to be a werewolf warlock again—”

You blinked, dead-eyed. “…I thought you were going to rest.”

“I am! This is rest! Board games are relaxing!” He was already halfway off the bed, dragging out the board from under his desk like a kid unwrapping a present on Christmas morning.

You just sat there. Exhausted. Physically, mentally, spiritually done. Your spine was folding in on itself like a haunted Victorian child in need of soup. But Deryl—Deryl was on his knees, organizing little plastic figurines and muttering strategy rules to himself, bouncing slightly where he sat. Fully locked in. Eyes sparkling.

You tried.

You tried to be patient.

“Deryl, I really—”

“I’m telling you, the game only takes an hour, maybe two! Depends on how intense the boss phase is, but I’m already setting it up so—”

“Deryl—”

“Okay, pick a character card! You strike me as someone who’d be an elf rogue, right? No wait—you’d hate that—hold on—”

You snapped.

You didn’t mean to. But it came out, loud and unfiltered, fueled by sleep deprivation and the haunting echo of dice rattling in a box:

“DERYL, I WANNA GO TO BED.”

The silence that followed was biblical.

He froze mid-setup, a die hovering in his hand like it was afraid to fall. His mouth hung open a little. His eyes—wide, hazel-green, full of innocence and genuine confusion, blinked once. Twice.

“…Oh.” His voice was very small.

You collapsed back onto the bed dramatically, limbs splayed like a martyr. “I love you, but if you roll one more die, I will launch myself out the nearest window and haunt your locker.”

Deryl was quiet. Thoughtful. Then slowly—very slowly—he put the die down and padded over to the bed, sitting at the edge like a kicked puppy.

“…What if I said I had a candy that helps with sleep?”

Your eyes cracked open slowly, your vision still hazy with sleep, and immediately narrowed in suspicion. “…Candy?”

Deryl sat cross-legged at the edge of the bed, proudly holding up the small, half-crinkled wrapper of the capsule you’d handed him the night before. His face practically glowed with naive delight, cheeks slightly puffed, tousled blond hair flopping in every direction.

“Yeah! That thing you gave me last night? The candy? It made me so sleepy. That stuff’s magical.”

You just stared.

“…Oh my God,” you whispered, horrified and impressed in equal measure. “You actually ate it.”

He blinked at you, eyes wide and honest. “Why wouldn’t I? You said it was strawberry-flavored and ‘good for my energy levels.’”

Right. Energy levels. That was one way to frame melatonin.

To be fair—you had warned him.

Not in words, of course. But through your thoroughly drained expression, your drooping posture, and your complete and utter refusal to play Monsters & Mayhem at midnight. He didn’t pick up on any of it. Of course not. So, really, you had no choice but to lovingly sedate the human golden retriever using candy-wrapped sleep hormones.

And yeah. That’s how the night ended.

Surprisingly effective.

When you woke up the next morning—well, more like afternoon—you felt oddly refreshed. Limbs loose. Mind clear. The blanket tangled but intact. Except for one issue:

You couldn’t breathe.

There were roughly 210 pounds of human sunshine sprawled across your body like a furnace set to maximum heat, wrapped in limbs and pure, unbothered audacity.

Deryl was completely draped over you, face smushed lazily into the crook of your neck. His breath tickled your collarbone, slow and steady, mouth half-open as he snored soft and low—like a purring engine buried in muscle. His skin was warm against yours, dark and smooth beneath the golden morning light filtering through the blinds, a faint sheen of sleep still clinging to him like dew.

His hair—dark brown, thick, and coiled in lazy curls—was flattened on one side, tousled and unruly from tossing around. The sides of his head were neatly shaved, which only made the bedhead up top more dramatic. You could feel the faint scrape of his stubble against your shoulder, rough and unintentional, but somehow comforting.

One of his broad arms was slung heavy over your waist, the other flopped uselessly off the side of the bed. His legs were tangled messily with yours, practically pinning you down, and despite being entirely unconscious, he radiated heat and smug peace like someone who had absolutely no intention of moving.

You squirmed, trying to shift your hips. No luck. Just more snoring.

“Deryl,” you groaned. “Get off.” Nothing.

He muttered something unintelligible into your skin—probably gibberish—and clung tighter, like you were the mattress itself. “Mmm… five more minutes…”

“It’s one in the afternoon, you overgrown golden retriever,” you hissed, jabbing his side with what little leverage you had. “You are literally suffocating me.”

He let out a deep, groggy moan—like a dying beast—and cracked one bleary eye open. His bright green gaze peeked out from beneath thick, dark lashes, slightly unfocused and glazed with sleep. His full lips parted as he spoke, voice hoarse and low. “You’re so dramatic…”

Still, with the grace of a defeated walrus, he finally rolled off you and onto his back, groaning all the way. His arm flopped across his own stomach, curls falling over his forehead, mouth still half-open in a dopey, content expression.

You sucked in a grateful breath, like someone who had just escaped being flattened by a mattress-sized sandbag.

“Oh, thank God,” you gasped. “You were crushing me.”

Deryl, eyes still closed, grinned into the pillow with zero shame. “You’re soft. Like a human pillow. I regret nothing.”

“You should,” you muttered, glaring at him.

But he just chuckled faintly and burrowed deeper into the sheets—his dark skin glowing softly against the white bedding, stubble catching the light, muscles relaxed and at ease.

Even half-asleep and disheveled, he looked frustratingly good. Like he’d just stepped out of a dream—one that snored, hogged the bed, and refused to let you breathe properly.

You hated how fond you were of him in moments like this.

Even if he had nearly killed you with affection.

Silence stretched between you for a beat, peaceful and golden in the post-nap lull. Then, without even opening his eyes, Deryl asked, “So… what do you wanna do today?”

You blinked, still recovering. “I was gonna rest. Maybe nap again. Eat something.”

He yawned. “Might do my usual workout. Make a smoothie. Maybe chill.”

You made a noncommittal noise. “Sounds like a plan.”

“…Wanna work out with me?”

Your head snapped toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he asked, suddenly more awake. “It doesn’t have to be hardcore—we could do yoga! Like couple’s yoga. Or plank challenges. Or—”

“No.”

“But—”

“I said no.”

He rolled onto his back and pulled the full might of his pouty face: big, round eyes, slightly jutted bottom lip, messy hair and all. The kind of face that should be outlawed. “Pleeease?”

You stared at him, expression flat. Then sighed. Loud. Long. Suffering.

“…Fine. Yoga. That’s it.”

“Yessss!” he cheered, throwing both arms in the air and almost rolling off the bed in the process.

So much for a chill day.

You should’ve known better than to trust the chaos incarnate.

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓉

Sleeping over at Brittney’s place was less of a choice and more of a declaration of war you quietly lost.

You could’ve done literally anything else with your night. Catch up on studying (God knew you needed to). Work on that essay you'd been avoiding like the plague. Rewatch that one show where the characters actually made sense. Hell, even organizing your sock drawer sounded like a more productive use of time. But no.

Because Brittney—Queen of Ultimatums, Dictator of Plans, and Menace in Lip Gloss—had decided otherwise.

The chaos started during a regular hangout with your group. Everyone was winding down, casual conversations bubbling like background noise. Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, Brittney looked straight at you and dropped the bomb with that infamous smirk.

“You and me are having a sleepover tonight. Just us.”

You blinked. “Uh, what—”

“I already decided,” she said, tone breezy, as if she hadn’t just hijacked your evening like a scene-stealer in a teen drama.

You scrambled to backpedal, coming up with the most reasonable excuse: “I have to study. I’ve got an exam next week and I haven’t done—”

“Boo,” she interrupted, eyes gleaming as she slowly drew an invisible line through the air. “Cross out you.”

You stared at her.

She stared back. Intense. Unblinking. The kind of stare that made your soul step outside your body and reconsider all your life choices.

You broke first. With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, you rolled your eyes and muttered, “What time?”

She smiled like she’d just won a bet with the devil. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And then—because Brittney was never content with just winning—she had the nerve to give you a slow once-over, eyes flicking down your body with shameless interest.

“Wear something cute, 'kay?”

You stood there, mildly stunned, internally screaming.

Jesus. My God.

As promised—on the dot, like she had alarms wired into her bones—Brittney showed up outside your place at exactly eight. Her car pulled up sleek and smooth, the bass of her playlist thumping low in the background like it had its own attitude. You stepped outside in your basic sleepover getup: a quarter-sleeve top, pajama pants, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Nothing fancy.

You were keeping it simple—mostly to spite her, just a little.

She leaned out the driver’s side window with her usual razor-sharp grin. “Cutie,” she greeted, like it was a title she’d already knighted you with.

You slid into the passenger seat, grumbling something incoherent under your breath while tossing your bag into the back. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was beaming, sunglasses pushed up into her honey-blonde waves even though the sun had already dipped under the horizon. Because of course she was extra like that.

The drive to her place was filled with casual banter, her curated playlist of Y2K bops, and her dramatic commentary on every passing car. You didn’t even realize how quickly time flew until you were standing at her front door, bag in hand, and she was already dragging you inside like you lived there.

Her house was quiet—eerily so. She casually mentioned her parents were out of town for the weekend, which basically translated to: zero supervision, unlimited chaos.

The evening kicked off lowkey. A couple of microwaved snacks, the two of you stretched out on her plush living room floor surrounded by an army of throw pillows and a comforter stolen from her bed. She’d already queued up a nostalgic lineup of early 2000s rom-coms—everything from Legally Blonde to Jennifer’s Body.

Brittney had no shame in living her Paris Hilton-era fantasy.

At some point, she got bored of just watching movies and decided you were her canvas for the night.

You tried to protest. Really, you did. But Brittney was already pulling out her makeup case before you could say “pass.” She sat cross-legged in front of you, legs brushing yours, with an evil little glint in her eyes.

“Hold still,” she ordered, already dabbing concealer under your eyes. “If you mess this up, I swear I’ll glue rhinestones to your eyelids.”

You suffered through it with only mild complaints. Her concentration was oddly soothing, and her hands were surprisingly gentle as she applied everything with an expert’s precision. She finished with a proud little flourish and turned your face toward her mirror.

“Damn,” she said, smug. “I outdid myself.”

You had to admit… it didn’t look half bad. Which only made it worse.

But she wasn’t done.

“Feet up,” she said next, holding a bottle of baby pink polish like it was a threat. “I’m doing your nails, too.”

“You’re unhinged.”

“And you’re lucky.”

You rolled your eyes but complied, and soon you were both giggling over the ridiculousness of it all—your toes painted, your face fully beat, and the faint glow of movie light flickering across the room. Time slipped by without you realizing it.

Somewhere between the third film and the final coat of nail polish drying, the mood shifted—calmer, quieter. More intimate. You were both lounging against the couch now, her head tilted against your shoulder, mascara-streaked lashes fluttering closed every few seconds.

For someone who'd forced you into this, she looked damn peaceful.

And you… Weirdly, didn’t mind it.

Not that you’d ever admit that aloud.

When you finally cracked your eyes open, it was like waking up inside a fever dream. Britney’s room was...a lot.

Hot pink reigned supreme—walls, pillows, LED lights that softly bathed the room in a rosy glow. Zebra print was splashed across throw blankets, chair cushions, and even her fuzzy rug like some kind of kitschy jungle rebellion. The floor was scattered with open fashion magazines, mostly featuring Japanese gyaru style queens and Harajuku icons in glossy poses.

A mirror near the vanity was half-covered in sticky notes and lip prints. Her massive makeup collection gleamed in its tiered organizer, every drawer labeled with sparkly gel pen.

It was clean—technically. Just... chaotically organized.

Like a tornado had passed through Sephora and left her to sort through the glittering debris with her own system. And somehow, she always knew where everything was. You wouldn’t dare move a single thing or she'd hex you.

She hadn’t even taken off her makeup.

Her deep blue eyes remained closed beneath feathery, false lashes—miraculously still intact despite the pillow abuse. A tiny beauty mark rested elegantly beneath her right eye. Her eyelids were dusted with a pink and blue gradient—bubblegum shimmer at the center, icy blue smoked at the edges. Her lips, glossed in a creamy pink, had faded slightly but still looked kissably obnoxious.

Her blonde hair was down. Even in sleep, her look screamed curated chaos. Her nails—manicured to perfection—alternated between cotton candy pink and electric blue, complete with rhinestones that glinted under the fairy lights.

You blinked, dazed, your limbs a little numb from the weight of her.

“…Brit.” You called.

She didn’t stir. Just let out a soft, contented sigh and curled closer, pressing her nose into the crook of your neck. You debated whether to move, but decided it wasn’t worth the energy. You were trapped in pastel hell, and honestly? It was kind of warm.

Eventually, you reached for your phone on the nightstand and blinked at the time. Late morning—more like early afternoon. Neither of you seemed in any rush to move, and there wasn’t much planned anyway.

You could hit the mall, maybe dig through some thrift shops for vintage gems or accessories. Or you could both just stay in, doomscroll Pinterest for outfit inspo while half-watching some messy influencer apology videos.

There was always some juicy drama in the fashion world, or on campus, or in her DMs. A yawn escaped you, and Britney groaned softly, eyes fluttering but not quite waking.

“Brittney.” You called again.

Britney stirred with the subtle grace of a cat sunbathing in a window—stretching slowly, fingers curling against your side before one of her legs slid further over yours, anchoring you in place like she sensed you were considering escape.

Her blonde hair, once tied up in that obnoxiously perfect ponytail, had come loose sometime during the night and now spilled around her shoulders in a soft, tousled cascade of gold and candy-colored streaks. It framed her face like some ethereal dream girl version of chaos incarnate.

You watched her lashes flutter as she squinted one eye open, bleary but sharp enough to notice the phone in your hand. She groaned dramatically, voice a sleepy rasp laced with velvet and attitude.

“Ugh… no phones in bed,” she mumbled, fingers finding your wrist and tugging it gently back down. “I’m not done being warm yet.”

“You’re literally clinging to me like a space heater,” you muttered, though you didn’t pull away. “And it’s past noon.”

Her lips curled into a sleepy, mischievous smile. “Then consider it brunch-in-bed cuddles. With a side of me.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the tiny grin tugging at your lips. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And yet, you still let me do your nails and fall asleep in my arms.” She cracked both eyes open now, her voice lower, playful. “Which, might I say, is very girlfriend behavior.”

You snorted, turning your head slightly. “Don’t push it.”

She pouted, inching closer—her breath warm against your jaw. “But you’re so cozy,” she said, practically whining. “And cute. I mean, look at you—bedhead and everything. You could at least let me kiss your forehead or something before you go tearing me away from my beauty sleep.”

“You weren’t asleep.”

“Details,” she said, brushing her nose against yours, her manicured fingers now tracing lazy little hearts against your side. The glint of rhinestones on her nails sparkled under the soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling, catching your eye every few seconds like a spell.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she beat you to it, pressing a kiss to your temple with all the gentleness of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, “Don’t you wanna stay in bed with me a little longer? Or…” she drew the word out, trailing her fingertips down your arm, “I could do that contouring trick I saw on TikTok. The one that makes your cheekbones look criminal.”

“Brit,” you said flatly, though your voice came out softer than intended.

She blinked up at you, putting on the most pitifully sweet expression she could muster. “Pleeease? I promise to let you study after. Maybe. Kind of. Probably not. But at least you’ll look hot while procrastinating.”

You buried your face into the pillow with a groan, defeated. “Fine. But if you pull out glitter again, I swear—”

“I make no promises,” she sang, already grabbing for her makeup bag like it was Christmas morning.

And honestly… you let her.

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒:

I honestly had way too much fun writing this.

That said—just a heads-up—what you’ve read so far MIGHT (Because I would know I'm simply unpredictable when dealing with myself so much) be the last time I do parts on Brittney and Deryl.

There’s still so much bouncing around in my head, and it gets sofrustrating because my dumbass keeps forgetting stuff unless I force myself to sit down and write it all out.

But anyway, chaos and memory lapses aside, I really enjoyed crafting this chapter—especially the parts with Geo, Crowe, and Brittney.

Ugh. I’m such a simp for those three now, it’s ridiculous.

693 notes · View notes

bananastarlo · 2 months ago

Text

yandere Isekai trope part 2

You’re in his house, chains rattling as you try to shift out of the uncomfortable position of being tied to his bed.

What just happened?

Still trying to wrap your head around the situation, an uneasy dread settles in your stomach.

I did everything I was supposed to. So why? Why am I still here, still here— with him?

You fight back the tears threatening to spill, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

“Darling?“

No…

When he caught you, there had been something very wrong with his eyes. They were beautiful and glinting with a newfound emotion — but if you looked long enough, you’d see how lifeless and hollow his soul truly was.

Now, as he enters the room with careful steps, his eyes hold the same look they had when you first met him.

Like he hadn’t done what he did. Like he hadn’t…

He crouches down to your level. As you shuffle back as far as the chains allow, hurt flashes across his face. Without another word, he reached out and gently cradled your head in his hand, sighing. He held it like he was afraid you’d break under his touch. You could feel his fingers trembling as he closed his eyes, trying to comfort himself in touching you.

They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.They will understand one day.

They will love me!

He had to repeat these words in his head like a prayer, wishing that if he repeated them enough, heaven would answer and grant him his wish.

He started crying, his hands now grabbing onto your face with so much force, that it started to hurt. “You will understand one day, that I had to do this! I had to do this for us! She wouldn’t leave you alone! She would have ruined what we had!“

You scoffed. “She didn’t do anything. Why wasn’t it me?! It should’ve been me.“

His eyes grew wide as he started to comprehend the words that were just coming out of your mouth.

“Why not you?! How could I ever, ever hurt you?! You are my angel! You were sent from heaven to be with me! How could I ever do something like that to you, when you were so nice to me?! No one has ever shown me what love feels like until you showed up…“

“That’s not love.“

“Yes, it is!

How can this not be love if you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I go to sleep?

How can this not be love if every time I speak to you, my heart begins to pound so fast that I can hardly stop myself from pulling you closer?

How can this not be love if I try to seek you in every room I go to?

How can this not be love if your face haunts me, and I would do anything for you!?”

Shit, this guy has officially lost it.

He desperately sobbed.

“Please look at me; I can’t stand it when you don’t look at me.“

As he clutched at your shirt, you endured the process.

The calmer he became, the less threatening he seemed, you thought, as you brought your own hand up to gently stroke his hair.

His breath hitched as he wore the expression of a kicked puppy.

Eventually, he started to calm down and even fell asleep on top of you.

He must’ve been really exhausted after throwing such a tantrum.

You liked him better this way, anyway. Now, being asleep he didn’t look like he could ever hurt a fly, so peaceful in his slumber.

But you know better.

You have to get out of here as soon as possible, but how? Should you try further to console him, in hopes he would start to change? Or are you doomed now because of what he did to Lola? Is there any way I can restart and try again?

These thoughts consumed you as you started to get more and more drowsy, eventually falling asleep.

GAME FAILED.

Beep Beep Beep

You awaken from your sleep. Stretching your limbs, you are startled to see you’re not in your own room.

Where am I?

That’s when a screen appears before you:

“In order to leave this place, you must get along with the yandere of this universe and identify—plus avoid—their darling. Good luck again, and don’t get yourself kidnapped or killed.“

Again? Have I been here before? You certainly don’t remember a thing. What a strange place.

If the screen isn’t lying, I’m surely not dead, right? So I can return home.

A yandere, you scoff.

What is this, some kind of bad otome game?

Well, better do as the screen says.

As you stand in front of a classroom, you start to feel a certain familiarity with this place. You can’t quite wrap your head around it, but it feels like you’ve been here before.

Soon enough, a boy enters the classroom, as you take your seat somewhere in the back. As you stare at him for a few seconds, your heart begins to pound so fast, you fear you might die of shock.

You tumble to the floor, your hand clutching your heart.

“A-Are you alright? Here take my hand.“

Helplessly gasping for air, you take his hand. He places your arm over his shoulder as he carries you to the nurse‘s office.

As he places you down on the bed, you both wait for the nurse. But all of a sudden, the pain starts to fade from your body.

“Oh! The pain has already stopped!“

“Really? I’m relieved. You really stressed me out there.“

He smiled at you. It was a comforting smile that held a lot of warmth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t know what happened back there“, you reassured him.

“Good. I don’t want to lose you ever again, my angel.“

Huh?

Author's Note: Thanks to Anon for the inspiration!

#yandere x reader #male yandere #loser yandere #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere x gn reader #yandere x y/n #yandere #yandere x darling #isekai #x reader #reader insert #yandere drabble #obslove #yan boy

657 notes · View notes

leviruthan · 1 month ago

Text

accidentally confessing to them while you were drunk pt.2

characters: vice housewardens minus ortho. jamil + other overbloat guys are here

You had a rough day. Between classes and Grim's annoying behavior plus the amount of assignment that the professors keep piling up- you were stressed and exhausted. Nothing new, to be honest. When a few students suggested grabbing drinks at the "Mystery Shack" you agreed, figuring you deserved to chill a little. One drink turned into two and before you knew it, you were... drunk and extremely relaxed.

That's when you found yourself face-to-face with him. Whoever it is, the result is the same. A rush of feelings amplified by the alcohol, leading to a embarrassing and honest (accidental) confession.

TREY CLOVER

Trey wasn't the type to go to places like that on his own. But he was there because, as Heartslabyul's unofficial mom, he'd been roped into keeping an eye on his dormmates (and Cater begged him to come along) Someone had to make sure Ace didn't start a bar fight or something similar. He was nursing a glass of simple water, his usual calm smile in place. Then you stumbled over to his table with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes.

"Trey!" you exclaimed, a cheerful smile on your face before plopping down across from him with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. "I didn't...expect to see you here. You're so… so nice. Too nice. It's your fault that I am totally.... you're too good!"

He is somewhat surprised to see you so intoxicated, your words not even making sense. But kind of found it cute honestly. He raised an amused eyebrow. "Is that so? I think I'm just average."

"Nooo!" you protested, leaning forward so fast you nearly knocked over his drink. "You're like… a warm cookie! Fresh from the oven. All soft and perfect and....and...and I love you okay?! And you smell like cinnamon" you leaned forward towards him then sniffed him. "...And I wanna kiss you and all that!"

The table went silent. Trey’s smile froze, his glass halfway to his lips. The students nearby choked on their drinks, and Ace let out a low whistle. Your confession hung in the air like the elephant in the room, loud and gloriously mortifying. Before Trey could respond, you decided the best course of action was to drape yourself across the table, grab his hand, and press a sloppy kiss to his knuckle. "I think I really really really like youu..."

Trey brain short-circuited. He was used to handling chaotic situations, but this? This was uncharted territory. His ears turned pink and he let out a nervous chuckle. He gently sets his hand free. "Okay, let’s… slow down there. You’re probably gonna regret this tomorrow."

You didn’t hear him. You already passed out with your face smushed against the table, snoring softly. Trey sighed with a hand running through his hair. He couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in his chest at your words even if they were fueled by alcohol.

Though he did not think he would ever admit it. He always thought you were cute. Your determination, the way you devour his desserts with that big grin... and well everything.

But he is practical, always putting duty first. So he never let himself dwell on it. Your confession whether drunken or not, hits him harder than he expects. He feels torn between dismissing it as alcohol-fueled nonsense and hoping there's some truth to it. Either way, he isn't going to let you stumble home alone.

He gently pries you off the stool, slinging your arm over his shoulder. "....Well, let’s just get you home before you confess to the bartender next," he mutters. He carries you back to Ramshackle.

He tucked you into bed, left a glass of water and some painkillers on your nightstand. And tried not to overthink the way his heart skipped when you mumbled his name in your sleep.

You woke up with a headache that felt like a stampeding wildebeest and vague memories of humiliating yourself.

Trey isn't one to make a big deal out of things, so when you run into him he's casual as ever. And when you stammer, obviously mortified about last night, he simply chuckles. "You were pretty talkative," he teases a little leaning closer to you. Your face burns.

"Don't worry, I won't hold you to it. Unless you meant it." He leaves it at that. His tone was gentle, leaving the door open without pushing it. You nodded, face burning. Trey wasn’t going to let you drown in embarrassment. He was giving you a chance to figure out what you really felt, one batch of cookies at a time.

RUGGIE BUCCHI

The Mystery Shack was a goldmine for Ruggie Bucchi.

Ruggie is here for one reason: free food. Some Savanaclaw upperclassmen were bragging about sneaking snacks from the Shack's kitchen. And of course Ruggie wasn't one to miss a hustle. He tagged along to supervise. He's got a plate of pilfered chicken wings and a smug grin, dodging the bartender's suspicious glares while scoping out any unattended drinks.

You were meanwhile drowning your sorrows in a third glass of something sparkly and purple. Your head is spinning. Everything feels dreamy.

You’re leaning against the bar, laughing too loud at a bad joke. When he notices you Ruggie slides up with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. "Yeesh, Prefect, you’re a mess," he teases with a smirk. "How many of those fruity things you had? You look two seconds away from faceplanting onto the ground. That will be a sight to see."

Your brain is swimming, and Ruggie’s sly grin is doing weird things to your heart. You completely ignore what he's talking about. Before you can think (well you aren't very thinky right now) you grab his sleeve and blurt, "Ruggie, I like you. You're so cute."

Ruggie's eyes widen at the unprompted response that you just gave. He nearly chokes on his sandwich. "H-Huh?! What's that supposed to mean?!" He laughs, but it’s nervous, his tail flicking behind him. "You're drunk as a skunk, aren't ya? Dont go saying weird stuff."

"No, I mean it." you insist, swaying closer. "You're always helping me out even though you act like you aren't. And your laugh's all… hehe… I love it. You're a scrappy little hyena who steals my heart along with snacks!" you giggle like the fool you were currently. Leaning forward to clumsily hug him, you almost fall. He barely catches you because he's caught super off guard.

Ruggie's brain has been frozen, ears twitching as his brain processed your words. The nearby Savanaclaw students snickered. Leona who was lounging in a corner, raised an eyebrow with a smirk like he was watching a particularly entertaining soap opera.

Ruggie is so flustered. Scratching his cheek to hide the blush. "Tch, you’re gonna make me lose my appetite," he grumbles, but he doesn't pull away when you lean on him. "C'mon, let’s get you somewhere you won’t embarrass yourself worse. And, uh… maybe we'll talk about this when you're not three sheets to the wind, yeah?"

You're already all over him. Throwing your arms around his shoulders and ruffling his hair, cooing about how soft his ears are. "So fluffy!" you squeal, trying to pet them while he squirms, half-laughing, half-protesting.

You passed out thanks to being too intoxicated, slumping against his shoulder with a contented sigh.

Ruggie is a pragmatist. He doesn’t trust easily. And feelings are a luxury he rarely affords. But you've always been different, someone who matches his hustle without judgment. Your confession while sloppy, makes his chest feel weirdly tight. He’s not sure if it’s the alcohol talking or if you actually mean it. But the thought of you picking him over everyone else? It's got him feeling really giddy. He’s not falling head over heels just yet. But he’s definitely very intrigued.

With a muttered curse, he slung your arm over his shoulder and hauled you back to Ramshackle, grumbling about extra work the whole way.

When you ran into him at the cafeteria next time, he was his usual cheeky self. He snagged an extra donut from your tray with a grin.

"Yo. You look like death warmed over." he said, his eyes lingered on you a little longer than usual. When you mumbled an apology for last night, he waved it off.

"Eh, you were drunk. Happens. But, uh… you meant any of that? Cause I ain't opposed to a partner in crime, just so you know." His tone was casual, but you can see his ears are perked. Waiting for your answer.

You stammered, blushing because it was pretty embarrassing. His grin told you he wasn't going to let you off easy. Ruggie wasn’t one for mushy stuff, but he was giving you a chance to figure out if your drunken confession had any truth to it. And maybe, just maybe, he was hoping it did.

JADE LEECH

The Mystery Shack wasn’t Jade's usual scene, but he was there on business. Floyd had dragged him along to scope out the competition. Apparently, the Shack's signature drinks were cutting into Mostro Lounge's profits.

Jade is observing the crowd AKA gathering intel for Azul. The bar's a for gossip. And he's sipping something non-alcoholic. All polite smiles and sharp eyes. He notices you're there and decides to "check in" for his own amusement.

You're wobbling near the dance floor, humming off-key. Then Jade appears like he materialized from thin air. "My, my, you seem to be enjoying yourself," he says with that smooth as ever voice. "Do take care not to overdo it, hmm?"

His teasing tone and that infuriatingly perfect smile hit you like a tidal wave. The alcohol loosens your tongue, and you blurt out of the blue "Jade?? You're....ugh, I... Your creepy charm has got me all messed up!"

Jade's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his smile sharpens, delighted. He's thinking you're obviously speaking bullshit stuff without any thought. But it's entertaining so he pushes further. "Oh? What a fascinating development," he purrs, leaning closer. "I must say, I didn't expect such words from you. How terribly intriguing."

"I’m serious!" you hiccup, pointing at him. "You're all polite BUT scary and… it’s so damn hot. You're a low-key terrifying dude. But hot terrifying. I like you. I wanna go mushroom hunting with you and..hic..maybe kiss you in the woods or something." You laugh, spilling a bit of your drink. Oblivious to the way his eyes glint and his smile widens.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. He's clearly enjoying this far too much. "Dear me, such bold words. I wonder if you'll feel the same come morning." He gently steers you toward a quieter corner, his hand on your back. "Let's ensure you don’t make any more reckless declarations tonight. Though I must admit, I'm rather curious to see if this confession truly holds water."

You weren't listening. You leaned closer, nearly tipping over. You’re touchy like never, leaning against his arm and tracing the edge of his glove, looking fascinated by the texture. "So fancy..." you mumble. Then try to hug him only to almost fall miserably.

Jade catches you with ease. Chuckling as you babble about how and why you like him. He's enjoying it, somehow it's more entertaining than anything else even if he mostly thinks you're just saying such things cause you're drunk. He lets you cling while steering you away from spilling more drink on him.

Steadying you as you swayed, he said, "Such bold words. I'll have to hold you to them when you're sober."

But you were already out, slumping against his chest with a soft snore. Jade sighed, a mix of amusement and exasperation. He carefully lifted you, carrying you back to Ramshackle with Floyd trailing behind, still snickering. He left you tucked in with a glass of water and a single pristine mushroom on your nightstand. A strange Jade-like token so you know Jade was here.

"What a fascinating evening," he smiles cryptically after tucking you in with much care, looking at you one last time before leaving.

You woke up with a pounding headache and a mushroom staring at you accusingly. You remember you probably bothered Jade last night. And some memory that feel like a dream. Anyway you went to see him soon. When you ran into Jade at the Mostro Lounge, he was infuriatingly composed, polishing a glass with that same enigmatic smile. He tells you to take a seat first.

He brings it up because of course he isn't letting you get away with that. His smile is sharp. "You were quite the spectacle last night. Care to clarify your sentiments?"

You tilt your head. The night was a foggy mess that didn't feel real.But all you can think is that you probably humiliated yourself to an extent. You haven't confirmed them yet. "Sentiments?"

He leans onto the table, coming face to face with you, voice smooth as silk. "You expressed such great admiration, I am quite hurt you can't remember," but he is smiling like always.

The memories crash in or well, they're now confirmed. And you cringe. "I didn’t mean to- okay so" you sigh, deciding since you've come this far might as well... "I do.. like you, but I didn’t want to say it like that! Can we just forget it?"

Jade's smile widens, a hint of genuine warmth beneath the menace. "Forget? Oh, but I’m far too intrigued. Shall we discuss this further… privately?" You have this eel hooked, but he'll toy with you first, savoring every flustered reaction.

ROOK HUNT

The Mystery Shack was the perfect hunting ground for Rook Hunt, who was there observing beauty (people-watching with unsettling intensity). He had been invited by some Pomefiore students who wanted his poetic input on their new cocktail recipes, and Rook couldn't resist of course.

You were trying to forget your miserable life with a fourth glass of something glittery and alarmingly sweet. And it was too good that you kept drinking even though you started feeling dizzy.

You spotted Rook perched on a barstool saying poetic stuff about the whatever.

"Rook!" you called, stumbling over with a dopey grin. "You’re so weird! But good weird! Anddd! I love you! You're like a sparkly arrow that shoots right through my heart! Hehe!" You giggle like an excited child.

His reaction is super accepting. Rook's eyes light up and he claps like you've just performed a Shakespearean soliloquy. "Mon tresor, what passion!" he exclaims, absolutely enchanted.

His enthusiasm made drunk you even more enthusiastic. "I wanna...hic...write cheesy poems together." You grab his hand, looking up at him with starry eyes and a shy smile.

He so thrilled by your raw emotion, even if it was fueled by cheap vodka. The idea of you as his poetic muse is already spiraling into a dozen romantic fantasies in his head.

"Such raw, unfiltered beauté!" You threw your arms around him, nuzzling his shoulder and mumbling about how he was too pretty for this world.

Rook is over the moon. He lives for grand gestures and heartfelt declarations, and your confession is like a gift wrapped in glitter. He always admired your authenticity, your ability to shine despite everything. This just seals it. You're his muse, his star, his raison d'être. He’s already planning a forest picnic to celebrate your "heart's truth".

"Alas, my dear, you are far too radiant for your own good!" he said. But you weren't awake to hear it because you passed out in his arms with a blissful smile. Rook carried you back to Ramshackle like a knight bearing a sleeping princess. He left you tucked in with a handwritten poem on your nightstand. About how beautifully you have expressed your feelings. (too much credit lmao)

When you you next saw him you wanted to hide in a bush. "Rook, I was drunk. I am so sorry for the trouble-"

"Non, non!" he interrupted, leaning forward and pressing a finger to your lips. "There is no shame in truth. I am enchanted, and I await your next verse- sober or otherwise." He winked, leaving you flustered but oddly charmed. Rook wasn't going to let this go, but he will give you time to decide if your feelings were real. He sure hopes they are!

LILIA VANROUGE

Lilia was at the Mystery Shack for fun of course. He's flitting around, and trying all the dangerous and hardcore drinks. Being a fae and being as experienced as he was of course he wasn't getting drunk or anything. He's just chatting with students like he was one of them.

You you were on your first drink. A a student said it was light. Spoiler, it wasn’t. Your head was a carnival ride.

You're just lazing around on a couch, giggling at the ceiling for no particular reason. Lilia plops down beside you cause he noticed you were here! And what else to do than bother his favorite human? His grin is in full force. "Khee hee, you’re quite the sight tonight, little one" he teases. "Had a bit too much, have we?"

His playful energy is infectious, and in your drunken haze you grab his sleeve and blurt "Lilia, you're so cool. How can you be so old yet so cute? I like you."

Lilia cackles, nearly falling off the couch. "Oh, my! Such fervor!" he says, wiping a tear from his eye. "You're a bold one, confessing to an old bat like me. But I must warn you my heart is a tricky thing to catch." His tone is light and amused.

"I'm serious! Don't take it as a joke!!" you slur, poking his cheek. But who could really take you seriously in this state? "I really like you. I wanna be around you foreveeeer!"

"Khee hee, forever's a long time, Dearie," he says, patting your head. "Lets get you sobered up before you pledge your eternal soul, hmm?" He is mostly just finding it funny.

Lilia has lived centuries, so he's not easily swept off his feet. But your drunken confession is certainly adorable. He's always liked your nature. Your honest heartfelt words make him feel oddly fond. He’s not falling in love yet but he's definitely attached. He lived long enough to know genuine affection when he saw it. And yours was as real as it was hilarious.

As expected you passed out soon. Head on his shoulder as you drool slightly. Lilia chuckled and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. Lilia floats you home (literally) while humming a lullaby.

The next day he’s at Ramshackle, dangling upside-down. You almost became a Ramshackle ghost out of scare. He laughed when you screamed.

"Khee hee heee, Good morning, my dear!" he chirped. "You were quite the love drunk last night? I’m flattered, I must admit!"

You groaned, hiding your face. "Lilia, I’m so sorry. I was drunk-"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted, floating over to pat your head. "It was delightful. And not entirely unwelcome! Shall we explore this 'forever' you spoke of, hm?" His tone is teasing but the smile he gives you is warm, leaving you flustered but hopeful. Lilia wasn't going to push, though will tease you. But he is definitely intrigued and he will make sure you knew it.

485 notes · View notes

okwonyo · 9 months ago

Text

KISS IT BETTER, 或 𓈒𓈒 after an argument.

❛𝗈𝗁, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𓈒𓈒 ❜

𝒾 ⠀⦂ ⠀ 엔하이픈 ୨୧ f ╱ r! 1OOO fluff ── hurt&comfort non idol au mention of crying skinship kissing ⠀ ｡｡ ⠀ ( 𝑜𝑜𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑟𝑒𝑠 )

지아 ⠀⦂ ⠀this is quite long ! i hope you still enjoy ><

rblgs♥︎fdbcks & C𝑙𝑖CK

HEESEUNG

before going to bed, the bedroom would be silent and tense. your gaze would barely look at his direction as you get ready to sleep.

hesitating slightly, he would ask, “do you want me to sleep on the couch?” and his heart would hurt in apprehension when you would finally look at him.

you would pose what your doing for a second, then heavily sigh, “don’t be silly, heeseung”

would press his lips at the use of his name, but nod his head nonetheless.

would stay still for a moment after you both get under the covers and turn off the lights. his face would face the ceiling— something would be so off.

his skin would feel alone, his warmth would miss yours.

his chest would tighten at the song of you moving alone, scared you will take the couch at the end. but instead, your arms would wrap against his and your nose would bury in his chest.

JAY

would not be the type to fight nor argue often. as he knows how he can get, would always do everything to stay calm.

the rare time you would fight with each other, would always end up leaving for a while when he would feel his voice rise and his throat tightening with words he would never want to say.

his hands would be filled with groceries when he comes back. he would still be silent as he walks past you in the living room to the kitchen.

after a few minutes, you would hear the weather bowling or something getting cooked.

not-so-discretely, you would go see what he is cooking and, most importantly, if it is enough for the both of you to eat. always, the chef would sense you even before you step behind him.

his eyes would meet yours and the smile he would give you would tell you that there is nothing to worry about.

JAKE

would think about the argument during the entire of his days.

his mind would be full of the image of you leaving for work in the morning, hurt and mad at him like never before.

would keep wondering if you are still upset, if you are okay, if it ruined your entire day. anyone would be able to see how bad feels and the fact he is anything but well on his face.

his heart would drop in his stomach when he would step inside of your shred apartment and not see you there like every other day. he would sit on the couch and wait patiently for your return— not calling you to not crumble if you don’t answer.

without thinking of the fight anymore, would hold you in his embrace as soon as you step inside. holding the back of your head so softly, your nose buried in his neck.

SUNGHOON

there is just no way he stays away from you after any fight.

no matter how mad you are against each other, would always follow you everywhere you go without any after thoughts— it would be like a survival instinct.

when you go to the bedroom, when you go to the bathroom, even when you go on a walk because you are that mad. this crazy man would follow a meter behind you.

“you know i still love you right?” he would say loudly enough so you would hear him. you would tell him to shut up, “so don’t walk so far!”

would end up walking next to you. with his hand in yours eventually. with his arm around your waist, even, if you feel nice.

JUNGWON

every fight with him would mainly end up in the same way. which is a deep talk, with your hands in his.

would always do his best to understand you. would even rub your palm with his thumb while you talk.

and if he looks at you for a little too long, tears would form in the corner of your eyes and the light would reflect in them.

seriously, how could you not cry just a little?

your voice would be wobbly as you speak, “i’m sorry for being mean earlier,”

but his arms would have already found their way around your form and you would be pressed against him.

your words would be muffled in his shirt and his hand would rub your back.

“you could never be mean even if you tried,” he would assure you. “now, don't cry or i’ll cry too.”

SUNOO

“fine,” would be the last thing he would hear coming from your mouth for a few hours.

would know it’s serious when you stop holding his arm while walking and just leave him behind.

his steps would be heavy as his heart as he follows you without much to say. rethinking of where exactly it all went wrong and a way to fix it.

after a while, he would come next to you and drape his arm on your shoulders. you would not even look at him.

pulling closer, he would lower his head to your face, “what about you tell me what is wrong so i can fix it, hm?”

his second mistake of the day would be adding, “i’ll do anything”

RIKI

would come to your house one or two days after the argument all sad and shy.

“hi,” would be the first thing he would say when he enters your room— even though he would like to do more.

“hey,” you would greet him back.

the boy would then proceed to look at you as if it was the first time he has seen you ever. with his hands in his pocket.

you would stare at him back.

all the courage it would take him to speak up would be immense. “so.. are we over?” he would ask.

you would frown your eyebrows immediately, “wait— what? why?”

“well, we fought,” he would tell you like you weren’t there. then would add; “pretty bad,”

you would coo immediately, stepping close to him. “riki, this is what happens in a relationship,” you would giggle.

his face gently cupped in your hands, you would continue, “we will talk it out and move forward.”

then, he would hug you.

ㅤㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open

1K notes · View notes

cashmoneyyysstuff · 9 months ago

Text

half return.

synopsis : katsuki’s decides to go home for the weekend, he invites you to come with him.

an. I'M BACK ! yall it’s been a while since ive written a full lil fic and this has been itw for a lil bit so i hope yall enjoy ! requests are still otw ! but i figured I’d write a little something to celebrate mha ending :(( tysm mha you will forever be my most beloved animanga in the whole world..BUT ANYWAY SAD STUFF ASIDE yall know i had to bring back my childhood friends to lovers on em,,cmon NOWW ITS JUST MY FAV TROPE YALL 🤧🤧🤧🤧 Anyways, i hope yall enjoy, much luv xxx

cw. SUPER childhood friends to lovers (MY BIG ONE), MHA MANGA SPOILERS (post war and katsuki in rehab !), kissing and being in lubbb bleurghh, soft suki, sleeping in the same bed, mitsuki and katsuki lol, masaru being a sweetie, cooking, lemme know if i missed sum else <33 !!

“i’m goin’ back home for the weekend.”

these are the first words spoken in a couple of minutes. you were content with sitting in katsuki’s dorm room back at the height alliance, simply sitting in the same space doing your own thing. things slowly taking back their normal course despite you all still having a lot of work to do.

you look up from your phone to look at katsuki who’s eyes have not drifted from his. “oh yeah ? that sounds nice.” you smile, you’re sure his parents must want nothing more than to spend time with their son who saved the world. and you think secretly, he wants to go home too.

he grunts in response, continuing to scroll through his feed. and after a pause he adds “hag asked if you wanted to come with.”

you blink at him, it has been a while since you’ve properly spent time with katsuki’s parents. the last times you did it was when they came to visit you in the hospital to wish you well and offer you some sweets, not exactly the most joyous of occasions, but you loved seeing them either way.

you blink up at him, “are you sure that’d be okay ? i mean, it’s a family thing, no ?”

katsuki shrugs in response “‘s not up to me, she wants to see you so bad.” he glances at you “you gonna say no to her ?” you snicker at his teasing. mitsuki was a sweetheart, but she still intimidated you a little bit since she was a rather..intense woman.

“well i’d hate to disappoint her.” you jest, katsuki snorts, soft smirk pulling at his face as he rolls his eyes. he finally turns to look at you “you don’t have to, i could just tell her you’re busy.” your heart shakes at his subtle reassurance, but you shake your head.

“that’s fine, it’s been a while since i’ve been to your house anyway.” you scooch closer to your boyfriend, laying your head against his chest as he wraps his arm around you immediately. you want to get as close to his heart as possible, wanting to hear even the faintest of sound. to make sure he’s really there with you at times.

katsuki’s hand is warm as he softly rubs up and down your arm, “yeah it has, hasn’t it..” he sighs, and you think he was talking for both of you.

katsuki's house feels no different from when you were a kid.

the house still smells the same, mitsuki always told you that she liked the soft fresh scent she sprayed through the house. she always liked to leave at least one window open because she said it felt too stuffy, a habit that you recognised in your boyfriend, but that was also probably because he ran hotter than most people.

it calmed her, she said, and with how rowdy katsuki was lord knew she needed it. katsuki always complained when his mother would try out new air fresheners, and you remember his distain for a particular strong lavender one. (although you didn't like it much, either.)

the couches are still the same, all the pictures hanging around the house are unchanged as well. pictures of mitsuki and masaru at their wedding, of katsuki getting a big all might figure for christmas, and of you both at your elementary school entrance ceremony. you giggle every time you see it because katsuki's face hasn't changed much aside from it's pudginess. his expression fierce and you could even see how tight he was gripping your hand in the picture. (katsuki doesn't find it as funny as you do.)

katsuki's mom has always been very youthful, her face hasn't changed much from the years you've known her aside from some wrinkles appearing with age, she still looked as gorgeous as ever. you've always thought she was stunning. she greets you just as excitedly as she did when you were six and came over to play. although she can't scoop you up in her arms anymore she still embraces you so tightly, she stills comments on how big you've gotten and how you manage to look prettier every time she sees you, you feel just as warm.

as usual, katsuki is quick to try and drag you to his room as soon as he gets the chance, not before getting an earful from his mother for not responding to her texts and not telling him how he was doing. they quickly get to arguing, like usual. and masaru quickly comes to your aid so you don't have to sit in the middle of the two loud blondes.

his voice is as gentle as you've always known it to be as he asks you if you're okay, if you're starting up school well. his soft tone and the care he has for you makes you feel warm too.

katsuki manages to swiftly get you two out of the living room, stomping up the stairs and mumbling to himself about his damn old hag. you giggle and he turns to glare at you, squeezing your hand hard and scoffing.

you see katsuki visibly slow down the closer you get to his room, his expression visibly more calm than a few moments ago. serene, like he's taking it all in. you squeeze his hand tighter and he squeezes back, you don't think he realises it.

it takes you back too, the sound of your footsteps in your ears reminds you of your socked feet running around the hallway chasing each other, padding softly against the floor when you would try to sneak a cookie late at night 'cus katsuki told you you were too chicken to go. you can almost hear your loud laughter and soft giggles in your ears. you're griping katsuki's hand.

katsuki sighs before opening the door to his room, the window is already open, his mom most definitely did this to greet him back in her own way, he stays quiet about it. you see how he scans around his room like he hadn't been there in years, a lot of stuff he had in here before was sitting in his dorm room now, but it's still his room. black sheets replace his previous one's, the one's that were used to replace his even older all might themed one's. you'd really seen it all, it makes you even more nostalgic.

"hasn't changed much." you hear him mumble, he looks around at the posters on his wall. the look in his eyes is a foreign one, it's a sort of peace you don't see often in him.

"did you expect it to ?" you tease, taking slow steps like you're exploring a museum. his room is no different, it shouldn't be. but you think maybe it's because you're both a bit more different than the last time you've been in here, maybe you've both grown up a bit more. katsuki plops down onto the floor, leaning against his bed, you follow suit.

"guess not," he scoffs, running a hand through his hair. you both sit in silence, your eyes fixed on a poster on his door. it's crinkly and it's a bit torn up around the edges. you lean your head onto katsuki shoulders and inhale, breathing the room in and close your eyes. you feel him wrap his arm around you after a moment. after the experiences you've both had, being able to relax like this with him is more than you could ever ask for. he squeezes your shoulder and you snuggle against him more when he presses his nose to your hairline, pressing a kiss to it shortly after. you feel warm all over again.

you've sat on this floor more times than you could count. laying on you're back as you laughed with your best friend, on your stomach as you read comics together. you'd eat snacks too, but katsuki never liked eating on his bed because he'd get bothered by crumbs, so you were on the floor most often. laying on it too much made your stomach hurt, and you knew your butt would be sore. but you'd go through any pain to be with katsuki, and with everything you'd been through a sore butt was absolutely nothing.

you sit there for longer than you should in a room that hasn't changed, that wasn't left untouched for long. you have memories with every thing inside this room, katsuki still the all might bobble head you'd gotten him as a joke in your room. you see the fake golden first place medal he'd gotten when your elementary school had track races. so much that you've shared with him, so much more you want to share.

right now in his room frozen in time, you feel like you have all the time in the world. it's foolish, but it's nostalgic, and it fills you with hope that everything will be like usual again.

"you're peeling those all wrong."

the sound of slicing stills as you look over at your boyfriend. you tilt your head "i'm not."

"you are, unless you actually want to cut your fingers off." he fights, rolling his eyes. you turn your nose up at him, frowning down at the potato in your hands. it looked good, you knew you were doing good.

"asshole." you grunt, you hear katsuki grunt next to you, the clattering of his own knife cutting carrots (you’re surprised he’s still that good at it despite only having one arm) catches your attention before you feel him press behind you. you stiffen, you try not to let him see the effect he has on you because you know he gets annoying about it.

when you were kids, katsuki always thought it was funny to say you needed him, joking that he was your knight in shining armor because you kept clinging to him, his words not yours. despite it seeming like he was clingier than you.

he places his hand over yours, it’s warm as it cover yours and guides you. you feel your heart pick up when he speaks closer to your ear. "you shouldn't cut towards yourself. and you slice too damn fast," he leans into your shoulder "ease up a bit."

you swallow, your heart beats in your ears "okay. thanks, mr. know it all." you mutter bitterly. katsuki continues to move your hand for you, you don't stop him.

"you should be glad i am, otherwise i would’a let you keep hacking at shit like a maniac." he chuckles.

your throw your head back and groan "ugh, you're so annoying."

you've known it for years. katsuki has been your best friend since you were in diapers and despite how much you love him, you will be the first one to complain about how fucking annoying he is.

even when you were babies. your mom told you that katsuki would take your pacifier and shove it in his own mouth while you wailed helplessly. he'd tug at your hair and poke you in class. you're sure you've called him every name in the book ; a meanie, a big bully, annoying, a jerk, an asshole, a dick head, every mean word you'd learned over the years. it makes you a bit nostalgic, but he's just so irritating.

he huffs, shoving his head into your shoulder. his hand still over yours, and he slowly lowers it into the counter. you drop the knife to turn to blink at him with wide eyes. he keeps his eyes on yours and returns to his earlier position so you don't see this embarrassment covering his cheeks. he wraps his arm around your waist tightly, pressing against you harder making up for the one that can’t. you snort at his antics.

you're sure katsuki will be an irritating know it all for the rest of his life, he's been for as long as you've known him after all. but one thing he always hated was making you upset. he always claimed it irritated him when he went too far and you'd ignore him, but in the few times he made you cry, you always saw how apologetic he looked. how his eyes were just a bit a glossy when he'd tuck his head into your shoulder in shame. he never said sorry often unless his mom forced him too when she caught you two arguing, but you always knew he was with the way he insisted on sharing his snacks with you, how he let you play with the better controller, how if he was feeling really sweet he'd kiss your cheek and look away with a bright red face.

as irritating as he is, you do hope he never changes.

you wish you could stay here for longer, just a bit longer, but you worry one of his parents (most likely his mom) would walk in and see you both. you pat at his arm squeezing it softly "i think i got the hang of it, katsu." you utter softly. he grunts, staying against you for a moment longer before moving away, squeezing your side, to which you squeal in surprise, you see him smirk and he goes back to his own cutting board.

so irritating, you think. yet you bite your lip to hide the smile growing on your face.

“hey, bathroom’s free if you want it.”

katsuki’s still drying his hair with his towel when he pads into the room, his room.

you tear your eyes away from one of his many all might figures, running your fingers across it’s details “oh okay, thanks.” you stretch, arms and all might rising along with you. you hear katsuki scoff and he stomps over, ripping the figure out of your hand.

“be careful with that.” he growls, you giggle apologetically “sorry, sorry..” he rolls his eyes, placing it back neatly on his shelf, posing the arms exactly as he likes them.

what a nerd, you think. you giggle to yourself.

katsuki’s bathroom reminds you of sleepovers. of being sent up to brush your teeth before bed and racing to see which one of you could do it the fastest and get their teeth the cleanest, you both could never agree on it. it reminds you of how much katsuki hated the flavor of the toothpaste and would make such an ugly face when he’d taste it you’d fall over laughing. it reminds you of gargling mouthwash and competing on who could do it the loudest.

katsuki was always the one who started those ridiculous contests and was always the sorest of losers, but you never backed down from his challenges. it made things more fun, he made things more fun.

you’d known this bathroom for your entire life, if the picture book filled with pictures of you and katsuki in the bath together didn’t prove that fact. (though katsuki likes to pretend they don’t exist.)

the kid’s scented shampoo is gone now, the one you’re using doesn’t make as many bubbles as the other one did, and it doesn’t smell as fruity sweet. things change, just like you.

you feel cozy in your pyjama’s. katsuki had insisted you sleep in his room, looking at you like you grew another head when you told him you’d sleep in the guest bedroom. “don’t piss me off, you’re sleeping here.” is all he’d offered you.

and sure, you always have. katsuki hated being separated from you and you from him, so you sleeping in his room was mandatory. but besides on a few occasions, you still haven’t slept with him alone since you were a kid. it’s stupid, but it makes you a bit nervous. it’s stupid, but you hope you don’t look weird while you sleep and you hope to every god you don’t drool.

katsuki looks up at you when you walk through the bedroom door. you smile at him and he jerks his neck to signal you to come in, scooting over to make more space for you. you close the door softly behind you, not wanting to disturb katsuki’s parents you’d already wished goodnight to, you softly pad over to him and he snorts.

“why’re you creepin’ like that ?” he smirks, clearly amused.

“i don’t want to disturb others by stomping around like a behemoth, unlike you.” you sass. katsuki scoffs, glaring at you.

“fuck off,” he snarls “you look stupid. lookin’ like you’re about to steal christmas.”

you gasp, walking over to his bed, and smacking his arm, he barks out a loud laugh and you shove him, he shoves you back with his good arm and you continue to scuffle and poke at the other’s stomach and sides until you push his arms away and scoot back. he huffs proudly, always the arrogant bastard. the sorest of losers.

you make your way to lay down next to him, there’s a bit of a distance though. because you feel petty, but also because it’s strange thinking you’ll fall asleep with him like this willingly. it won’t be accidentally like it happened a few times in his dorm room and you’d begrudgingly go back to your own room. you nervously rub at your legs.

“the fuck’re are you doin’ ?”

“what ?” you huff, trying to mask your embarrassment with annoyance. katsuki only raises a brow.

“yer actin’ fucking weird.” he scowls, you scowl back.

“am not !”

“are too.”

“i’m not doing this with you.” you sigh petulantly, crossing your arms. “i’m just fine.” you hear katsuki scoff next to you.

“sure, weirdo.” your side eye makes him laugh, he leans his shoulder against his headboard “come over here.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re shuffling to his side embarrassingly fast. katsuki leans his head into your neck, pressing a peck there and two to your cheek. which he proceeds to bite once, then leans even more in your space to bite your nose to make you laugh. he grunts at something blocking him from pulling you closer, which ends up being his own arm.

“move that for me, yeah ?” he grumbles, looking down towards his arm. you blink at him before slowly reaching for it. you can tell it wants to flinch with the way the muscles between his thumb and pointer finger tighten and how his breath hitches. he doesn’t stop you when you grab a hold of it. it hangs limply as you draw shapes across it.

“how are you doing here ?” you whisper, he’s close enough to hear you like this. his eyes don’t look away from yours fixed on his hand.

“‘m startin’ to feel it better..an' i can move my arm some, can't move my hand at all though.” he mutters lowly, lidded eyes on you “doc says it’s good progress.”

“that’s good.” you smile, relieved. you’d been a bit worried about katsuki denying a prosthetic but you immediately hated yourself for doubting him. he had his own reasons for refusing it and if he thought he could handle therapy, then that meant he could.

"that's really good."

you trust him, you always have. you trust him with your life, and you’ll trust him when he tells you he’ll always come back to you, even if he scares the shit out of you. you trusted him for trust fall when he promised he would catch you and he did, even if he did scare you. you trusted him on your first day of school when he said he’d keep holding your hand the whole day and when he said he would be your best friend forever.

you’ll trust he’ll be okay, as usual.

“yeah, sure.” he spits, glaring at his arm.

“katsuki..” you sigh, you place a hand against his cheek to get him to look at you. he huffs, face turning to you but his eyes won’t. “it is great progress. especially with what you went through. shit, the doctors thought they’d have to cut it off at first !”

“it still sucks.” he utters bitterly, closing his eyes he inhales, eyes darting towards the end of the room. “it’s—i don’t know—weird, i guess. feels weird as shit knowing you just can’t use your arm anymore when you could your entire life.” the fist he manages to squeeze shut clenches and so does your heart.

you know he’s probably most angry at himself for putting himself in that situation, in his eyes. but he’s a hero in yours. you can’t help but feel for him. his hand that gripped your tightly to ground you, that squeezed your nose for saying dumb shit, even the one that’d pull at your clothes to drag you away.

you’d been with it your whole life, so you can’t even start to imagine how he felt.

“i know,” you start sweetly, he sighs against your hand, eyes still downcast “i mean—i don’t think i’ll ever understand how you feel. but i want you to understand that this is just all part of the process..” his eyes flit up to you as you speak.

“you’re a hero, katsuki.” and you don’t say it like it’s the job he wants. not like it was written on his provisional hero license. you say it like when you were both 5 years old watching tv and katsuki proclaimed loud and proud he wanted to be just like all might, and at ten when he said he’d be even better than him. like when izuku would come over to play and you’d all sing the theme song together.

you say it like it is, his dream.

“and nobody can ever take that away from you, but now your body needs rest. a lot of it.” you continue, nodding to yourself. katsuki softly huffs in amusement in your hand. it’s soft but it’s there and it makes you smile. he looks up at you now.

“and it’s frustrating right now, i’m sure. but you’ll get it. you’ll get there, just give it—give yourself time.” you let go of his hand and press both of your hands against his cheeks now, because you need him to listen. he’s always had this horrible habit of going to the extreme for what he stands for. and though you looked up to him for it, sometimes it was extremely self destructive, and you want him to know he has the time. that he has to give himself time.

he heaves a long sigh, nodding against your skin. he grunts, pressing his mouth to your hand. “mhm,” he responds, and that’s more than enough for you. he grabs your wrist with his good hand, leans in, and kisses you. you meet him halfway like you did when he first kissed you goodnight on your front porch when you were 15. back then, he’d gone beet red and swiftly walked away, hands in his pockets muttering a quick ‘see you’ but he’s gotten more comfortable throughout, way more comfortable. he kisses you easily now, and his cheek still shine pink, but he doesn’t look away, rubbing his thumb against your cheek.

“thanks,” he utters softly. it comes out easily when he used to have a harder time forcing it out before. “i, uh—i’ll get better, wanna hold you properly.” he mumbles, a small pout on his face. you giggle, sure he’s more comfortable now, but he still gets just as easily embarrassed when he has to speak his mind. and that was okay, you’d wait for him, you’ll give him the time he has yet to give himself fully.

“then do your best, yeah ?” you encourage. you kiss his nose and he scrunches it up, but a smile twitches onto his face. “dummy,” he mutters affectionately, leaning in to bite your nose. you laugh, pushing at his chest, and he silences you with a flurry of kisses to your mouth.

he uses his good arm to press you to him and pull you down onto his bed, he grunts when you squeal in surprise, he makes himself comfortable and pulls the covers over you both.

“so damn loud, thought you said you didn’t wanna bother my parents.” he teases, you roll your eyes. your smile is still so ultimately fond of him as years ago, despite how irritating he was, he was still your best friend.

“shush.” is all you offer him, getting more comfortable against him, getting more comfortable with the idea of falling asleep with him like this.

katsuki remains quiet for a few minutes. “hey,” you look up at him and you can see how hard he wills himself not to look away from you.

“love you.”

your eyes widen, you blink. and it’s quiet. katsuki looks around the room “c’mon. say it back, will ya ?” he utters grumpily, tucking his head into your shoulder and his voice bordering on whiny.

“right sorry,” you chuckle “not used to it yet.” you say sweetly.

this was something new, something he told you just recently. that he loved you, that he was too pussy to tell you before because he’d loved you all these years, is what he told you. the thought makes your heart feel warm all over. everything he’s ever done over the years had i love you poured all over it all along, it makes you unbearably giddy.

you love him so much.

so you tell him, “i love you, too. so much.” he shoves his nose harder into your shoulder at your last words and you giggle.

“i’ll keep sayin’ it ‘till you get to used to it. do it forever if i have to.” he mumbles out and you’re giddy, impossibly so, because you can’t wait for forever.

“okay..” you hum.

you think maybe things will never truly go back to how they usually were. the world has changed and so have you, so have you both. and there’s still so much to do, but you want this new normal to come with katsuki, you want your forever with him. you want him to stay your best friend forever like he’d pinky promised you, even though he thought those were girly and stupid, he still promised and katsuki was somebody who never went back on his word.

so you’ll trust him, you’ll trust that he’ll always be yours and that you’ll be together forever. that he’ll tell you he loves you forever, and that you’ll get used to it.

1K notes · View notes

theblacklewinsky · 10 months ago

Text

Note: back with our favorite boo, Terry. It's my birthday, but I guess I can gift y'all with something lol! ❤️

Helpful Neighbors. | Aaron Pierre.

Toxic!Neighbor Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader.

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on. toy play, water sports), extreme language (cursing, use of b-word and others.) slight daddy kink if you squint.

Summary: You confront your noisy neighbor about his loud late night company, he allows you to retaliate.

you fucking nasty,

first you cum and then you wipe it on my ass cheeks.

There wasn't much that you knew about your neighbor Terry. You knew he was generally friendly, you bringing him a small housewarming gift of a bath and bodywork's candle when he'd first moved in months prior. You knew he was a vet based on the marines sticker on the bumper of his pick up. You knew he was active, you often seen him heading out for camping trips, often seeing him in the apartments shared gym area when you'd take time out of your busy schedule to get a short work out in. You knew he was gorgeous, anybody could attest to that.

And he was loud. Very fucking loud.

And if you didn't know anything else, you knew that for sure.

The noise varied. Most nights he was particularly quiet, you wouldn't even have noticed anybody lived there if you hadn't seen him before. But some nights, he was a little loud. Metal music from an 80's band bled through the apartment walls, straight into your bedroom, you actually didn't mind it—being an exhausted charge nurse, the metal music did something for you, calming you in a strange way. Him seemingly fixing something, sometimes in the latest hours, drilling, hammering.

But it wasn't any of that. There wasn't any metal music. But he was sure drilling or hammering somebody. And she was extensively louder than anything you'd heard from Terry's apartment. You had to quickly grab your remote, muting your comfort show on your television to make sure she wasn't screaming blood murder.

It wasn't bloody murder, but she was screaming alright. You sighed, it was your first off day in two weeks of working straight in the trauma unit of the local hospital. It'd been a viscous stomach bug going around, and with the big panic from the prior pandemic, the hospital wasn't risking another one slipping up—so work was rough, and long.

But maybe you were bitter? It'd been way too long since you'd properly got your rocks off—not anything involving your beloved rose. So maybe you were just a bit bitter that at least somebody was getting theirs. Good for him! Just not on tonight. Not this night. You'd planned to crawl in bed, eat the most unhealthiest snacks in your cabinet and watch your comfort show, and maybe weep the prior two weeks out onto your pillow, you deserved a good cry after all, girl.

You sighed heavily, placing the pillow over your head letting out a groan. You'd definitely have to catch him in the morning and talk about this, cause this was outrageous.

Maybe sleep was out of the equation, but you'd definitely moved on to weeping.

The morning sprung and you jumped into action. Due to working 7AM to 7PM, you left out for work around the same time as a Terry did his morning runs. 6AM.

You woke up at 5:30 on a mission, brushing your teeth and doing your skincare and putting on your biggest t-shirt, sweatpants to match, oh you meant business.

You caught him as soon as he'd left his door, jogging the opposite way of your apartment toward the elevators before you called out to him. He turned confused at first until he noticed you, giving a lazy morning smile as he did. Black compression shirt, with the pair of black basketball shorts to match. He had no business being so damn fine. But you weren't deterred by that, last night was fucking atrocious.

"Goodmornin', beautiful," he smoothly recited like he did every morning. He was just nice like that. He said it every morning without fail, he always found something to compliment you on. New color of scrubs, how you decided to get your hair, even sweeter when he sees you out of your deliciously fitting scrubs.

"Good morning Terry," you smiled weakly, "I don't mean to disturb your routine, but can we talk for a minute?" You uneasily shifted your weight. You weren't good with confrontation, it just wasn't in your nature, but you didn't play about your sleep.

He nodded and you walked inside still holding the door open for him to signal him to follow you. He did, his smile faltering a bit once he came inside, you could tell he was confused a little thrown off.

You closed the door behind y'all, moving into your large kitchen area to pour yourself a mug of coffee. "Want some?" You politely asked him to which he politely rejected holding up his thermal water bottle.

You added your usual fixings to your coffee, taking a cautious sip, cradling your mug in your hand before you continued. "I don't mean to be confrontational when I say this," you walked around him heading into the living area, plopping on your newly purchased gray plush sectional, " but you were very ...loud last night." You chose your words, nicely.

He featured you a puzzling look, his finger gesturing to the comfortable chair adjacent to you, "of course." You quickly obliged before he took a seat, uneasily continuing. "Your lady...company, I meant." Sex talk wasn't your thing. Sex was sacred to talk about for you—and you didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable at all.

"Oh shit," he softly cursed, his expression filled with slight concern, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were bein' so loud, I hope we ain't keep you up."

"Oh, it's not a big deal," you quickly intercepted not wanting him to feel any type of way, "it's just my first day off in a couple of weeks so I just wanted to wind down with some quiet time and you guys were very...vocal," you chuckled to diffuse the awkwardness of the conversation, to which he added a light chuckle of his own, "at least somebodies getting their rocks off around here." You said jokingly before taking a sip of coffee. You hoped that didn't sound suggestive.

A short moment of silence followed your statement before you recognized Terry's eyes locked on something behind you for responding, "I see I ain't the only one gettin' mine," you furrowed your brows slowly turning your attention to where he was previously locked on. Your rose, sitting cleaned and comfortably on your end table.

You really had to learn to start putting shit back.

Or maybe not.

Somehow you found yourself on your back, pinned to the couch, Terry folding you up in missionary, knees to your chest, rose to your clit as he gave you long, deep, torturing strokes. You couldn't even remember the quick and somehow satisfying foreplay you'd taken to get here—and you didn't even care anymore. You could feel the fat tip of his dick kissing your cervix, and as if you weren't loud enough, you got louder. How ironic? You could barely hear yourself think, or were you thinking at all?

"Mhm," he hummed, his face composed, nothing but his teeth lightly sunken into his bottom teeth as he drilled you in, finger tips of his thumb and pointer finger giving your right nipple light squeezes and tugs, he kept his eyes on you, even when they rolled back, quickly turning up the vibrator, "look at you, mama. Why you bein' so vocal? Why you bein' so fuckin' loud, baby?" He taunted.

"My god, Terry," you whined, breathless, he kept up, dick hitting that spot that made your toes curl. How was he so good at this shit? You understood her completely. It wasn't atrocious at all. Very understandable. Very justified.

"Yeah, baby?" He quirked his brow up, his own soft groans almost mocking yours. "You want her to hear you? She still next door, wake her ass up mama. She kept you up all night didn't she?" He asked tearing his fingers away from your nipples to slap firmly against your cheek prompting an answer from you.

"Yessss," you slurred out, throat raw from moaning and groaning. You'd say yes to anything he asked you in this moment. You'd adopt six German kids and live on a farm with him if he requested you to do so in this moment, the world was his oyster. He was digging you out so good, so deliciously good. He was getting more than your rocks off and you knew that when the pressure in the pit of your tummy came weighing down on your bladder. "Ooouuu fuck! Fuck I'm gonna—"

"Yeah," he chuckled, evil all evident in his tone, all in his smile as he glanced down to the mess unfolding between y'all, "wet this dick up baby, I feel that shit." He groaned, eyes zoning in on the creamy ring you were leaving around him. "Wet me up, and you better wake her ass up when you do."

"Cumming!" You abruptly announced nearly cutting him off from his lewd rant, the sounds of your own arousal clashing with his dick sent you tumbling over the edge, clear juices spurting out of you with so much force it ejected him out as well. It only prompted a more lazy laugh out of him, shaking the suction of the rose on your clit even faster. Trembling underneath him, your breath hitched in your throat as he sent you into complete overdrive, your voice was hoarse once a moan came tumbling out of you loud and broken. Why did you cum so hard from knowing that she was next door, possibly hearing you get your nut off with him?

"I like that shit, mama," he mumbled to you, turning the rose off slapping his free hand down on your clit, watching your body jerk in response. He said nothing dipping his body down momentarily to give your soft, sensitive nub three sloppy, mind numbing sucks. He was so loud and lewd with it, smacks loud, tongue slurping loudly. You were too turned on, too sensitive, but too fucked out to even object given how sensitive you were. He stood up on his knee once again, other floor planted flat on the ground. "Sticking up so pretty f'me and shit," he hummed, "put that ass in the air, I'm finna give her some more."

You whined, you were too tired to move. If this was sex? What the fuck were you having before? And he seemed to insatiable, how was he asking you for more when you already so tattered from your last orgasm?

"Can't," you weakly managed to get out.

He took the initiative to help you, his hands firmly grasping your hips and flipping you over roughly, bringing your hips up into the air, spreading out so nicely for him. He moaned in response, looking at how both your holes seemed to open for him. He slapped his massive hand against your ass cheek, the loud sound seemingly filling your quiet apartment, a high wince following behind it, his dick twitching at the recoil. "You gon be a good girl for daddy and hold this shit on your clit while I take care of you back here?" He asked you the dominating reference only furthering the throbbing in your pussy, one hand softly kneading the sting out from his slap. You could hear the quiet buzzing from behind you, head nodding eagerly as your hand reached from under you, making grabby motions for the toy.

Once it was in your possession, you placed it where he asked you, body lightly trembling since your clit hadn't had a moment long enough without stimulation. Both his large hands had been planted on your ass cheeks, spreading you apart for him. He groaned in response, spitting down onto your second hole winking for him so sweetly, you moaned in response to his lewd action. "Fuck yeah," he muttered sending another lighter slap to your ass. No further words were spoken as he grabbed his girthy member in his hands, fat tip rubbing softly against your slit before he stretched you open once again around him.

A loud whine erupted from you as soon as you felt him sliding into you, stretching you, the light sting providing the perfect pain to compliment the pleasure of him literally stuffing you. It was mind numbing for him, feeling you stretch and clench around him so perfectly, gummy, wet walls feeling so warm and snug around him. "Pussy so fuckin' good," he muttered not sure to who, you or him.

His strokes had already started off staggering; hard and deep. Pelvis slamming into your ass with loud, rippling sounds through your apartment, the force literally nudging your couch across the floor. You couldn't care about the scratches you knew were now engrained in your hardwood flooring, everything was so good. Too good.

"Fuckkkk!" You slurred out, eyes fluttering closed, face pressed against the plush cushions beneath you. Brainless wasn't the word for you. You were hyper focused on the pleasure you were receiving, the vibrations from the toy, Terry's back breaking strokes, and the sounds of your arousal around him didn't help the diagnosis. Your free hand held onto the top of the couch for a sense of stability. "Why—why you fuckin' me like this?!" You stammered out through a moan, voice hoarse and broken.

"What you mean, mama?" He asked through a groan, sending another rough slap to your ass. "You such a good girl, you deserve this dick. Workin' all hard and shit, always lookin' so fuckin' good." He grunted, working himself inside of you. Thumb tracing your asshole teasingly. "You deserve some good dick, baby."

The praise only heightened your moans, encouraging you to slam your ass back on him until you felt your own orgasm once again lurking around the corner.

"Show the fuck out, then, baby," he said breathlessly, stilling his own movements as he watched as you fucked yourself on his dick, ass slamming back onto his pelvis with dizzying recoil.

"Shiiiit! I'm finna cummmm!" You moaned out, your movements only increasing in pace, using him for your own pleasure now. And he ate that shit up.

"That's right, get that nut mama. Get yo' shit, fuck me," he affirmed through a series of groans accentuating your own, "fuck, I feel all that shit. Nasty ass bitch, get that nut." His dirty words filling your ears as you released around him, halting your movements. Squirting for the second time, the orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks literally. This one cramped your muscles as it temporarily paralyzed you, huge steaks of pleasure coursing through you. Terry didn't give you a moment to recover, his own climax brewing in the background. He resumed his strokes as if he never stopped, powerful, fast and hard. The rose clobbered to the floor with a hard thud, still buzzing away as your body flattened into the couch, Terry using his upper body strength to drop dick in you.

"You runnin?" He asked breathlessly through a series of overstimulating strokes to your pussy. "Why you runnin? Daddy, let you get yours right? Let daddy get his." He hummed to you.

You couldn't tell him you were overstimulated. Could you talk at all? Were you even breathing? What the fuck even was this?

"Dick got you goin' stupid, look at you," he groaned, dick hitting that spot again, and again. You came again, with announcement. You hadn't even known you were that close again. "Fuck, you keep cummin' on my dick."

Your voice came back to you in little squeals, nodding in agreement to his last statement.

"Pussy so good—I'm finna nut baby," his voice rushed and panicked as he kept up his strokes, "fuck I'm finna nut—shit!" He hurriedly pulled out of you, groans and grunts spilling from him earnestly as warm, ropes of cum painted your ass.

That was so unreal.

You focused on steadying yourself as you heard Terrys whispered curses behind you. It wasn't long before you heard his lazy chuckle, soft lips kissing down your spine causing a small chill to sneak through you. "You good?"

"Yes? I dunno," you answered bleakly, voice rasped out. Terry laughed gently, hands rubbing some warmth into your thighs and midsection.

"You enjoyed yourself?" He asked softly, kissing up to your neck, and shoulder tenderly. You nodded eagerly to his question, earning another chuckle for him. He sounded so good. "I'm glad, where towels at pretty girl. Lemme clean you up."

"Bathroom closet," you jammed your finger in the direction of the closet. You were halfway into a slumber when Terry came back with a warm towel, cleaning you up gently.

You knew for a fact it was gonna be a lot of noise coming from the both of your apartments.

still don't have a tag list together but I hope y'all enjoyed another toxic Terry fic 🫡 my favorite Terry after all! Happy Friday! 💗

#aaron pierre #fine black men #fine as fuck #black writers #black!fem!reader #rebel ridge #terry richmond

1K notes · View notes