#this bitch needs to get his priorities right

[daddymaster21]

Okay!!! chapter 2 right away because I’m depressed and I need to binge something comforting

1. BEN POV RIGHT AWAY BARK WOOF

2. I’m very normal about him 🙂‍↕️

3. I can’t decide if having super hearing would be awesome or miserable. Probably some combination of both

4. Ben in his nickname era will always be comforting to me

5. Butcher and Ben can’t help having a dick measuring contest the second they’re within twenty feet of each other

6. Yeah, good luck with that buddy. You’re about to be real displeased

7. “I thought you were only going to ask once” fucking ICON, I LOVE HER

8. “Butcher would get himself killed all over me” seriously. I need to be in a polycule with her and Ben

9. Ben has his priorities straight. Why listen when women?

10. Unfortunately I am that crow-brained 😔

11. WAIT TILL HE LEARNS THERE’S A WORD FOR THAT. YOU’LL DEFENESTRATE HER!

12. She’s the funniest woman alive fr

13. Unfortunately almost all of your brilliant plans are also stupid plans. On the bright side, this one turns out pretty good!

14. Respond to insults with logic is hilarious. It makes people SO much more angry

15. That’s… that’s too many horse paintings, and i like horses

16. Ben would hate me, I semi-regularly wake up at like 11:30

17. God I hate peanut butter. Even the smell upsets me

18. “Very nicely” homeboy, you didn’t even say please

19. God, I hate cooking. Like. I can cook, but I really do hate it so much

20. I feel like it’s in the name??? A man who’s also a whore

21. Regrettably I am also a mean bitch who would throw a knife at someone if I knew it couldn’t hurt them

22. Literally every celebrity ever died in 2016. That shit was wild

23. Robin Williams is a national treasure

24. Boy howdy if he’d said that to me and I’d been through what she’s been through? He would be covered in third degree burns

Final thoughts: yeah… I also hate it when men.

Chapter 2 - A New Kind of Tension

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Chapter title from American Idiot by Green Day.

Word Count: 5.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Soldier Boy is woken up, and you have to deal with the pitfalls of your idea. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn.

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

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When he was forced into this type of sleep, Ben didn’t dream. This type of sleep was more like death, with no part of him alive in any way that mattered. But in the few seconds before he woke, with chemicals leaving his system and consciousness returning, he felt pain.

Borderline unbearable, exhaustive and consuming pain. The last few times he had been woken up, the pain had made the bomb in his chest start to tick, tick, tick, building up and up, off the beat from his heart until they found a rhythm, and he would explode.

It never relieved all that pain, but fuck him if it wasn’t cathartic.

Every time he had woken up in Russia, he’d fought the scientists like a fucking animal. When that assfuck, traitorous Brit and his cum guzzling team had found him, Ben hadn’t hesitated to use teeth and fire, hellbent on getting out, on getting home. This time wasn’t any different, the beat in his chest was already banging against his ribs, save for the stark exception of his surroundings.

He wasn’t in a clean lab or disgusting tube. He was in a suburban living room, complete with potted plants, one of those new and weirdly flat TVs, and some of the most boring paintings of roses he had ever fucking seen. Not a single person was in sight, no tubes were hooked to his body, and no cannon barrels or gas-filled vents sat in his vision. A small part of him hesitated, wondering if he was suddenly dreaming, his body having adapted to fight back and allow him some hazy peace. But the fever in his chest was growing, and there was no goddamn world where he would ever find suburbia and floral-patterned carpets peaceful. No, this was someone’s attempt to trick him, to make him compliant. Maybe Vought, maybe the Reds, maybe the CIA, didn’t matter. They all died the same.

The nuclear explosion from his chest lit the room, tearing out of him with a rush. Ben braced himself for bullets and grenades as his captors realized their little plan had failed, but none came. And as the dust cleared, he realized that not only were there no soldiers dropping from the sky or weapons hurling at his body, but everything was… exactly the same. Well, the plants had been burnt to a crisp, but that was the only evidence of his power having ripped through the room. The TV was still smooth and clean, the sofa hadn’t moved an inch, and the paintings hung evenly on the walls.

What the fuck.

He paused, the drum in his chest having stilled, and listened. Bird song, running water below the floor, electrical hums through the walls, and…

There it was.

Heartbeats.

Five heartbeats. All sped up, all bouncing around in the chests of their owners. Three moved heavily and quickly, one rapid and staggered—that one reeked of terror—and one beat only a single mark off from steady, almost as if it were devoid of any fear. Interesting.

Ben searched the room for a camera, but settled on looking in the direction of the heartbeats.

“I know you’re there,” he drawled. “I can fuckin hear you. Come out, you pussies.”

There was a pause, all five heartbeats having stuttered at his words, before a door creaked down the dark, sconce lined halls, and footsteps sounded towards him.

The people who stepped from the shadows into the living room should thank the Lord that Ben didn’t kill them the moment they were in the light. Grace Mallory, the thin-lipped bitch, watched him wearily, with the backstabbing Billy Butcher to her left. Only a step behind them was the blonde broad that had blasted him in the face at Vought Tower, accompanied by her and Butcher’s gangly cocksucker. The only one he didn’t recognize stood at the very front, a woman who was looking at him with sharp eyes, arms crossed in front of her body and legs planted apart. This was the holder of the steady heart, unsurprisingly given her collected stance and cold gaze. It was almost amusing, the way she was looking at him, like she was a lion and he was a gazelle, like if she glared her lovely eyes at Ben enough, he might drop dead. But he turned his eyes from her tiny fury to Butcher and Mallory, giving them a smirk that made his murderous intentions clear.

“What the fuck is this?”

It was Butcher who answered, returning the false smile. “This is an intervention, mate. You have a problem, and we’re here to help.”

“The only problem I have is you. If you had half a brain, you’d start running.”

“Really? Because to me,” Butcher’s smile didn’t falter as he gestured around the room. “It seems like you’re having some performance issues.”

“Don’t make him angry,” the cocksucker mumbled from the back. Butcher only rolled his eyes in response.

“This, Soldier Boy, is an opportunity. We’re giving you a second chance to help us with Homelander.” Mallory said, watching Ben carefully.

“A second chance?” It was Ben’s turn to roll his eyes. “You should be grateful that I might not kill you all when I leave.”

“I’d start playing nice, Soldier Boy.” The blonde stepped forward with a scowl. “You don’t have the upper hand here."

"Oh, please, you blast me down once and think you’re some sort of god? You caught me off guard that time, doll. This time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Blondie opened her mouth to retaliate, but Butcher snorted first, a newer, more twisted grin on his face.

“Starlight’s no god, but she is,” Butcher nudged the steady-hearted newcomer forward. “Meet your new babysitter. Go on, Love, say hello.”

The woman stumbled slightly at the push, her already strong frown deepening, and had barely turned her anger to Butcher when Ben started to laugh. All eyes fell to him as he gave a loud snort of amusement, a broad grin on his face.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “Didn’t think you were funny, Butcher, but that’s a fucking riot.”

“We’re being serious,” Starlight snapped. “You answer to her now.”

“Yeah,” Ben rolled his eyes, giving his alleged keeper a once over. “Sure. Sunshine over here is going to stop me from ripping all your heads off your bodies. Fuck, she won’t even stop me leaving this room.”

“Wanna bet?”

Ben paused as the woman spoke for the first time. It wasn’t just her heartbeat that was level and even. Her voice was smooth, unbreaking and calm with not a trace of anxiety. Her eyes were still watching him coldly, her pretty face set like a mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to bet that I can’t stop you?” She repeated slowly, as if he were a child.  “I’d advise you not to, but I don’t think you’d care for my opinion.”

“You think you can stop me, Sunshine? Are you fucking stupid?”

“No, but I don’t think my intelligence matters here. You’re not walking out that door.”

Part of Ben wanted to start laughing again. At her blatant lack of self-preservation to go up against him and not flinch. At her smooth claim of intelligence but painfully clear lack of understanding about the situation she was in. At her companions, who had all stepped back, undoubtedly realizing that their gambit had failed and leaving her in his line of fire.

Part of him wanted to be quick and brutal, make her an example before he left. But it wasn’t worth it, and her face was too nice to ruin, so he settled to just walk past her. He’d kill Butcher on his way out and figure out what he wanted to do from there.

He only had to take three long strides to reach the hall, making to just move past the woman, but she side-stepped, blocking his path. Ben looked down at her, finding his amusement at her misguided boldness fading into annoyance.

“Move, Sunshine. I’ll only ask once.”

She met his glare, no break in her resolve. “I’d say the same to you, Grampa.”

“I’m warning you. I’m not above hitting a lady.”

“I thought you were only going to ask once.”

That was it. Ben moved to grab her, to shove her aside and end her pointless little charade. He didn’t have time for her frivolous, self-indulgent bullshit, he had tried to warn her, and at this point her blood was really just on her own hands.

It happened fast. He reached to push her, she didn’t flinch, her face looking almost bored as Ben lunged, and his hand had barely landed on her arm before he let go, recoiling from her with a roar.

“What the fuck!” He looked at his hand, now raw and red, with blisters fading as soon as they had formed. His gaze shot to the woman’s unbothered face, she herself having neither flinched nor wavered. “Did you just fucking burn me?”

“I warned you,” she said. “I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Ben looked past her, where the small group remained, having retreated down the hall. Butcher’s face was painted with deep amusement as Starlight and Mallory held twin looks of satisfaction. Only the cocksucker still looked afraid, but his nervous eyes were trained on the woman, as though she might blow to pieces at any second.

“Somebody better start talking,” Ben growled.

“We tried to tell you, Governor,” Butcher said with an overly dramatic sigh. “She’s in charge here.”

“You think this will hold me? I-“

“You were unprepared, we got lucky, it won’t happen again. We all heard the speech you gave Annie.” The woman cut him off with a snort. “You need to start getting it into your head. You do not have the upper hand. The sooner you do, the sooner we can actually do something productive instead of peacocking like idiots.”

Ben stared at her, the drum in his chest growing loud once more, his anger serving as fuel. He didn’t bother to try and control it, simply letting it set to his heart and build and build. Just before the sound could drown out all his other senses, he heard the woman yell.

“Everyone out!” Her voice was slightly alarmed, but laced with no panic. And as the door slammed down the hall, Ben realized her heartbeat hadn’t retreated. She was still right in front of him. He hoped this hurt.

As the smoke cleared, Ben opened his eyes to, tragically and annoyingly, see the woman completely intact, unbothered, and in one piece. Most he could tell, she had only taken a step back.

“Are you done?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Lovely,” she sighed. “You just tried that. Didn’t work. Won’t work. Not on me. Like I said before you started acting like a toddler, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can help each other.”

“How could you possibly help me?”

She grinned. “I’m so glad you asked. Hughie! You’re up!”

The skinny little coward appeared over her shoulder, anxiety painted over his face. “Can’t Mallory or Butcher do this?”

“Nah, Mallory has a powerful resting-hater-face, and Butcher would get himself killed all over me, which would be gross. I don’t need that right now.”

The cocksucker pouted. “Annie?”

“No, I don’t think he’s her biggest fan, especially after the whole tower thing-“

“Stop talking about me like I’m not right fucking here,” Ben cut in.

“Fine, you baby. Hughie,” the woman nudged Cocksucker forward. “Give him the pitch.”

Ben didn’t listen to Cocksucker as he rambled, catching only the beginning and electing to ignore him once the words “article B-55XP2 allows” were said. Instead, he focused on the woman, whose brow was furrowed as she listened to her companion talk. Small tendrils of smoke were rising from her body, and Ben noted the way Cocksucker stood off to the side, attempting to somehow paradoxically hold and elude both Ben’s and the woman’s attention. Her lips were in a tight line now, and she was hugging herself slightly, curving into her own body. The smoke from her had begun to choke the room, and though Ben could hear her level heartbeat, he could also hear her gnaw on her lower lip and the tap of her foot on the floor. When her gaze abruptly slid to his, Ben held it unblinkingly, and the crease in her brow only deepened.

Before Ben could figure out what sat behind her sharp eyes, Cocksucker let out a cough and said a name that made the woman turn.

“Can you turn it down, please?”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Hughie,” she mumbled, taking another step back as Cocksucker gave a nod of thanks.

“So the big thing to know…” Once again, Ben didn’t hear whatever it was being said. No, he was now fully staring at the woman, her name playing in his head. It wasn’t a supe name, like how Butcher had referred to Blondie. Almost every supe Ben had known preferred being called by their fancy little brand name, but he hadn’t even learned if this bitch had one. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard of her. Last time he had been introduced to a large number of new players, most of them weak, whining pussies with pathetic powers, but this woman was far from pathetic. He hadn’t heard anything about a fire-supe, let alone a doll faced, angry, bitchy one who had to have the resting heart rate of a whale. He bet he could pick it up to match the Cocksuckers, if he really tried. He bet he could make her scream, maybe from being ripped limb from limb, maybe from cumming her brains out all over him. A smirk started to grow on his face as he imagined it, her ice-queen demeanor crumbling from his irresistible charm-

“Are you fucking listening?” The woman herself broke him from his thoughts, her fingers snapping in his face.

“No,” Ben sneered. “Why should I?”

“Well, if you’d pay Hughie half the attention you seem to be paying to my tits, you’d be able to answer your own dumb question.”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself-“

“Please, I’ve been told you stick your dick in anything with a hole.” She cut him off again, an action that, if she kept it up, would result in her being punched. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a real nice watermelon to play with if you just fucking listen.”

“Fine.”

She paused, but was thrown for only a second. “Ok, great, Hughie-“

“But you do the talking.”

She almost snorted. “Are you that fucking crow-brained that you can’t listen unless it’s something shiny?” She paused. “Sorry Hughie. No offense, you’re plenty shiny.”

The Cocksucker, Ben knew his name was Hughie at this point but couldn’t find himself fucked to use it, just shrugged. “No offense taken.” His attention shifted back to Ben. “Will you really listen if she talks?”

“She talks like a person. You talk like a boring army manual.”

“Could’ve just said book,” Cocksucker said with a frown, but stepped back nonetheless.

“This is fucking stupid,” the woman said with a glare that was somehow stronger than before.

“You wanted me to listen to your stupid little sales pitch, Sunshine. This is what will make me listen.”

She rolled her eyes further back than Ben had ever seen before, but started to speak, her voice dripping with contempt.

“Here’s the deal. You help us with our Homelander problem, we give you immunity for all the definite war crimes you’ve committed and keep you from being Sleeping Beauty for a third time. You’ll stay here, with me, until we have a clear and safe shot at Homelander. You’ll do your little Oppenheimer magic trick, and we’ll take care of the rest. After Homelander's dead, you’ll be free to leave America for good, and live out your shitty immortal life on some stupid island where no one knows who you are.” As she came to the end of her speech, Ben grinned at her.

“See? Wasn’t so hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “Any questions?”

“Questions? Nah. But you should know, this is fucking stupid, and I’m not participating in it. All I’ll get is a vacation, and I could have that right fucking now.”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you can’t leave this room, let alone go on vacation. And I’d say what you’d ‘get’,” she used air quotes, and Ben wondered if he could throw her out a window. “Is us not knocking you out right now.”

“Also immunity,” Cocksucker piped up.

She nodded. “Also immunity. We’re offering you this once.” She gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Act now and we’ll throw in a second watermelon.”

“I’ll fucking break out.” Ben snarled.

“Take your best shot. This safe house is more durable than a cold-war bunker, inside and out.”

“I’ll kill your team.”

“Try it. I’ll burn off your money maker.”

“I’ll heal.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt.”

“I’ll go back to Vought.”

“Please, you hate them almost as much as me.”

“I doubt that.”

Her voice was coated in visceral, hot rage when she answered. “Don’t.”

Ben paused at that, squinting at her. “Why do you hate them?”

She shrugged. “Not your concern. But for the record, if you did try something that ass-brained, I wouldn’t just burn your face.”

Ben almost flinched when he saw her eyes flick down.

“What if I fail?”

“You won’t.” Her tone made it clear that there wasn’t room for debate.

“What if I want to stay here after, then?” Ben snapped. “I just spent forty years away. I’m not going again.”

“Fucking earn it.”

Ben let out a slow breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was backed into a corner. But he had been against walls that were far more dangerous, and far more painful. He would play this little game until he figured out how to take her, the only player aside from him that mattered, out. But he wasn’t going to make any of this pleasant. If they wanted pleasant, they shouldn’t have crossed him in the first place.

“I want my fucking shield and suit back.”

She smiled with teeth for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

——-

This had been a mistake. Now that everyone had left, you could admit—to yourself and no one else—that this was a stupid, arrogant mistake.

The first day had been… rough. There were three bedrooms, all with identical queen beds and equally generic decor. Solider Boy had insisted on laying on all of them to “test their durability." When you had told him they were all the exact same, he had called you an “uncultured hick." You had explained that you were from Boston and currently lived in New York, two urban areas that rendered “hick” an unsuitable title for you, offering “street trash” as a replacement. He told you he’d call you whatever he wanted, utilizing his nickname of “Sunshine” once again. You reminded him of your threat to burn off his favorite part of himself, he said that you would be only depriving yourself of it, and you left the conversation before you could make good on the promise.

Eventually he came down the stairs and gruffly told you that the bedroom with the attached bathroom was his, before stomping back into the said room to do something undoubtedly disgraceful .

Day two was only worse. You had collapsed in the bedroom with the five horse paintings, as it had been closest to the stairs, and you were exhausted from a day of verbal sparring and worrying if you’d have to go back to MM, tail between your legs, and admit you’d been wrong. Now, having gotten a whopping 4 hours of restless sleep, you just wanted coffee. Mallory told you she would send someone to drop groceries overnight, the safe house door having a bank-like slot for packages, and she had made good on her word. You had been able to tell this because when you walked into the kitchen, it looked like a food bomb had detonated.

“What the shit is this?” You said, your voice more tired than angry.

Soldier Boy, sitting at the counter, glared at you. “You’re up late.”

“It’s 7am. In nobody’s world is that ‘late’.”

“I’ve been up for 2 hours.”

You shrugged. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I had to eat a sandwich.”

“Yeah, that happens.” You survey the mess for anything that you can use, hoping to see a box of cereal buried somewhere. You find what you’re looking for, along with some coffee that you put into the filter and stare at with blank exhaustion. In your sleepy haze, you block out Soldier Boy’s ramblings of hunger and shitty, crunchy peanut butter, hoping he tires himself out and leaves you alone. 

You were startled out of your head by the sound of your name.

"Huh?"

“Whatever you’re making, I want some too.” That gets through to you, and your head snaps up.

“How do you know my name?”

"Cocksucker said it."

"Cocksucker?"

"The little puppy that follows Butcher and Starlight around."

"Hughie?" 

"Sure." He rolled his eyes. “So, what are we eating?"

"We?"

"I asked you, very nicely, to cook me some of whatever you're making too. Or are you fucking deaf?"

“I’m not cooking anything.”

His brow knit in confusion. “You’re not going to eat? I thought all the feminist shit stopped that.”

“I’m going to eat, Jackass. But I’m not going to cook anything, I’m just going to throw cereal and milk into a bowl. You can do that yourself.” You decided not to touch the feminist comment, focusing on pouring your coffee instead.

“Well, what are you going to cook for lunch.”

“Well, if Mallory followed my list, I’ll heat up chicken tenders.”

“Dinner?”

You tilt your head. “Not sure. That’s like, twelve hours away.”

“But you’ll. You’ll cook something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to cook.”

“What?!” He looked horrified now. It would almost be funny, if it were any other circumstances. “How?”

“I never learned.”

“But you’re a woman!”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation.” You turned on your heels to leave the room, coffee in hand, trying to ignore the hot feeling bubbling under your skin. You paused only to call back over your shoulder. “And clean up your fucking mess!”

Thankfully, after that, the morning was uneventful. You avoided Soldier Boy, he avoided you. All the way into lunch, you were almost able to forget your situation.

Almost.

“Fuck!” You tripped over a bag of apples on the floor, your eyes having been glued to your phone as you entered the kitchen. You looked around, seeing the mess from this morning sitting just as you’d left it.

“Keep it down!” Soldier Boy’s voice carried down the stairs. You ignored his request, raising your voice to a shriek.

“Get your manwhore ass down here right now, before I make you!”

You stepped further into the room, the bubbling feeling returning, and surveyed the area that somehow looked worse than before. Picking through the melted frozens, scattered produce, and loose cans and boxes, a dirty knife and plate on the counter.

“What the fuck is a manwhore,” he grumbled as he walked through the door.

“What the hell is this?” You ignored his question, gesturing around you.

He frowned. “The kitchen.”

“No, you ass. Why is all the food still out.”

He glared at you. “Because I’m already doing enough for your sorry ass, I’m not cleaning too.”

“You didn’t even put away your dishes!”

Soldier Boy just gave you an annoyed look, turning to walk away. Your vision went red.

“Shit!” He howled, running backwards into the room before turning with a glare. “You bitch!”

It took you a second to understand what he was talking about. You only managed to clue in from the fading scars on his face, and the realization that the feeling in you had boiled over.

If you were a better, less tired and angry person, you might have apologized. Thank god you weren’t.

“I am not going to spend the next who-knows-how-many months cleaning up after you. If you want to make this as difficult as possible, turn this house into a shithole, feel fucking free. I won’t stop you.”

“You don’t know how many months we’ll be here?”

“There’s a lot of moving parts to this operation that don’t concern you, and-“ You held up your hand as he started to interject. “That’s not the point. Clean up.”

“You should be thankful I’m even still here, you bitch. If it matters so much to you, do it yourself.” He growled back.

“Are you really that fucking stupid, or did you not just hear me say that this is not my mess to clean?! Either you do it, or it doesn’t get done.”

“You couldn’t make me with a million dollars and a blowjob.”

“Good thing I’m not offering either.”

A cold silence settled in the room, your arms crossed over your chest, trying to keep yourself from exploding once more. His glare had developed a murderous glint in his eyes, his fists clenched at his side.

“Bitch.”

You raised your chin. “Cunt.”

“You know, if I didn’t think it’d be a shame to ruin such a nice face, I’d slam you into the oven and burn yours off.”

“Oh, so you are that stupid.”

“Watch yourself.” He said your name in a low voice, taking a rough step forward.

“Sorry, for a second there I thought you said you believed you could burn a supe with fire powers. I must’ve misheard you.”

“I could make this very painful for you.”

“As opposed to your cheery compliance so far?”

“Do you think I’m just going to roll over?” He hissed, taking another step forward. “Be you and Butcher’s little lap dog?”

Something grew taut in your gut, but you held his gaze. “I think that if you don’t back the fuck up, I won’t make you roll over so much as physically harm you until you’re crying on the floor.”

"You're fighting a war you can’t win, Sunshine. I’ll kick your ass.” He sneered. “I’ll make you sob back home to Daddy Butcher.”

Your blood felt cold, your jaw almost cracking from the pressure in your chest. “So do it. Or move.”

Soldier Boy’s face was a portrait of rage, and you felt like he was dissecting with his cold green eyes. Looking for any weakness, any exploitable fallacy on your mask, any crack in your head that he could pry open and fill with poison. Make your lungs collapse into your ribs, make you claw and claw in desperation-

“Hm,” he grunted. He pulled himself to his full height before turning and leaving, leaving your anger sizzling at nothing. You watched as Soldier Boy, with controlled and rigid movements, stepped away from you, leaving the room without another word. Leaving you in the slop of the kitchen. He was getting further and further away from you, too far you to do anything about it, except maybe-

Before you could stop yourself, your hands were wrapped around the knife on the counter and the knife was flying across the room. It bounced off of Soldier Boy's back with a pitiful sound, but he stopped in his path, turning slowly. He glanced down, eyes finding the abandoned utensil on the floor before he dragged his gaze back to you.

“Did you just throw a fucking knife at me?”

“Clean up.”

He stared at you with the same eyes as before, the only betrayer of his emotions the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It’ll take more than a bad throw to make me pussy enough to be your maid, Sunshine.” With that, he was gone.

———-

Ideally, the woman Ben would be forced into a lockdown with would be fun. She would give him sweet smiles and syrupy words, laugh at his jokes, and sprout similar ones. She wouldn’t be a sulking, useless, bitter prude whose greatest talent seemed to be finding issue with every word out of his mouth. Every time they had spoken, he had felt that beat in his ribs grow and grow, and it was nothing short of a fucking miracle it hadn’t gone off.

He hadn’t cleaned the kitchen, and he wouldn’t. It was beneath him, and she was the one who had chosen to be here, not him. In a brief moment of weakness, the stench from the rotten produce almost breaking his resolve, Ben had eyed a vacuum cleaner, only to realize he couldn’t use it if he wanted to. There were far too many buttons, weird twisty things lining the handle and bag, and he would take the first flight to Russia before he asked her for help.

They skirted around each other with success for two days after the knife incident, sneaking into the kitchen at odd hours to look for somehow edible food and leaving every possible door in the house locked behind them. A beautiful and well executed arrangement, broken only by her sudden appearance in the living room a few days later, standing behind him as he watched TV.

“We need to talk.” When Ben didn’t answer, she walked around the sofa, and grabbed the remote, turning off the screen. “Now.”

Ben scowled. “I was busy.”

“Watch a re-run of Jeopardy? With categories you don’t even understand?” She crossed her arms in front of him.

“I understood enough.”

She snorted. “One of the categories was ‘Celebrity-Inspired Products’. Name one modern, non-supe celebrity.”

Ben paused. “Marlon Brando.”

“Marlon Brando died in 2004.”

“Gene Wilder.”

“2016.”

“That one funny guy who was on the rise. In that stupid book movie.” Ben frowned. “William Robinson.”

She titled her head. “William Robinson… Do you mean fucking Robin Williams.”

“I was close,” Ben said with a shrug.

“Yeah, well, not really, cause he died in 2014. Now can we please talk.”

“Are you here to apologize?”

“Yes, actually.”

That got Ben’s attention. “Well then. Go on."

She had started to chew her lip again, her nose wrinkling like she smelled something bad. Though, to be fair, she probably did. The milk in the kitchen had become a problem. “I am sorry.” She took a needlessly labored breath through her nose. “I shouldn’t have thrown the knife at you. It was childish.”

Ben waited for her to continue, and when she didn't, he leaned forward. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“So you’re going to clean the kitchen?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Nope.”

Ben lounged back. “Then your apology is worthless.”

The now-familiar look of anger had returned to her face. “I am not your maid.”

“And I’m not yours.”

“I didn’t make the mess. And I’m not going to clean it just because you think you’re better than me.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” He retorted. “I am better than you.”

“Because you’re a man?” She jeered. “A big whiny baby with muscles?”

“Because I built up the company that gave you your little sparkle show. I am Vought. Those ungrateful backstabbing assholes wouldn’t be anywhere without me.”

She fell silent at that, the victory pumping its fists inside Ben’s head slowing the drum in his chest. If he had observed one thing about her, it was that there was almost never a time she lacked in words. Also, she listened to her stupid music deafeningly loud and had an impressive arm. He had felt that knife hit him, sharp end first, right on his spine, still burning from the heat of her touch. Another deep breath escaped her, a fog that had formed on her face clearing.

“Power and greatness have nothing to do with cleaning. Vought won’t hear about your refusal to run a dish washer and grovel on their knees for your forgiveness.”

“Because when I’m through with them, they won’t have knees.” Ben smiled at the fanstasy on a wheel-chair bound Stan Edgar.

“No, because they couldn’t give a shit about it. I don’t love being here any more than you, but I have to be. This is a marriage of convenience, so we-“

He snorted. “I'm not marrying you, Sunshine. You’re pretty, but too much of a bitch for my taste.”

“It’s an expression, you fucking idiot. It means a weary alliance hinging on a favor. We don’t need to like each other, but we can’t kill each other, or this will be a net loss.“

“Sure.” Ben gave her his cockiest grin. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“You couldn’t handle me, Grampa.” Despite her mocking voice, her small step back didn’t escape Ben’s notice. Though her heart was steady, he dismissed it as anxiety. Obviously, nobody had helped her relieve any of that clear, needless stress plaguing her in a while. He would. Make this whole situation a little more bearable. Maybe, once she had a good fuck, she’d turn out to be just half as pleasant as his fantasy.

“I fucked Marilyn Monroe. I almost made her leave that pussy, Kennedy. You’d be lucky if I looked at you.”

“I’d say I’m lucky right now. You’re too busy trying to fuck your own reflection to look anywhere else.”

“And my reflection thanks me every fucking night.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she gave him a toothy, arrogant smile. Ben knew she thought she’d won.

“If you ever want someone to pull that stick out of your ass, I’d be happy to help.”

Her smile faltered quickly, but was plastered back onto her face just as fast. “I’m sure it’ll fall out on its own.”

“In case it doesn’t, my door is open.”

“Thought I was a bitch?”

“You said we didn’t need to like each other to get hitched-”

“Never said hitched.”

“So if you ever want to ‘not like each other,’” he winked at her. “As hard as possible, my door is open. I’m a gentleman, you’d have fun.” He reached to take her, and he had hardly brushed their fingers when she jumped back, recoiling like he was covered in warts.

For the first time, Ben thought that the look on her face might be fear. She rubbed her hand like it had been burned, a part of him thought she might bite through her lips, and her heart had become erratic. But when she spoke, her voice was just as level as always.

“Clean your dishes, and keep your door fucking closed. Or next time I throw a knife, I’ll aim for your eye, and I won’t miss.”

She stomped up the stairs, the room lingering with smoke long after she left.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

In tears crying laughing at Izuku’s Adventures Into The Criminal Underground And Also Method Acting feat. That One Dude Who Tried To Set Him On Fire Multiple Times And His Brother, Also Method Acting. I need to know what other medically insane things they got up to in that three day period please I need the full story

IZUKU AND MIRIO’S PRIORITIES:

Saving whatever lady Dabi started projecting his trauma onto from her abusive relationship

Dealing with this gun smuggling bullshit

Completing The List

Getting to know Dabi, their new CI

Except they don’t have any idea who the fuck these people are and where to find this lady’s abusive shitbag partner. And so they ask Dabi, who is their CI, if this lady gave them any information to go on that they can use to find this yakuza guy.

And how the fuck should Dabi know? It’s not like he talked to her.

Miro:

Izuku:

Mirio, mournfully: you’re so bad at this

Dabi’s never had to consider “other people” while he gallivants around on his bullshit. So he’s been roaming around in his shitty matrix coat asking pointed questions about how he can murder this shitbag yakuza asshole when like 90% of the information he had to go on was that he was an abusive piece of shit. So Mirio insists on skittering the crew right on over to this lady to find out if her piece of shit partner had fucking killed her because one of the most wanted criminals in Japan had decided he wanted him dead for being an abusive piece of shit.

But they don’t know where she lives.

So they go to the ramen store where Dabi’s been eating his feelings and throw rocks at her mom’s window until she talks to them. She recognizes Dabi. He’s the one who keeps eating at least three bowls of ramen per sitting and sometimes cries into his own hands.

Dabi insists they are not here to talk about that.

They’re here about her daughter, who, as they learn, has stopped answering the phone and isn’t in her apartment. Mirio convinces the mom that they’re trying to save her daughter, and she gives them a lead on where they might find her dumb fucker of a partner. Now they have to go save this lady.

Dabi wants to fuck off and do it solo (he hates these fucking people) but Mirio convinces him to stick it out together because Mirio can get this lady into a safe house whereas Dabi cannot. So fucking fine. Whatever. He’s still not their CI.

The issue isn’t exactly getting to the lady. The issue is getting to the lady without her getting shot in the head.

The plan comes partially from the wisdom of Banjo, who has the coolest name of all the past users and so of course Izuku trusts him implicitly.

BANJO’S WISDOM IS THUS:

The best way to get someone to buy a bad cover story is to be the messiest bitch in the room.

If they pretend to have a complete train wreck of a personal life, the yakuza will ignore how their story is obvious bullshit because they will be too busy staring at their life decisions in fascinated horror. They need reality tv show levels of interpersonal drama. The yakuza needs to believe that they are suffering a close pass with the Kardashians of the criminal underbelly.

This works for Izuku, who insists upon maintaining his Character. As evidenced, he has done a way better job at keeping that thing going than Dabi has at whatever his character is. Dabi informs him that he does not have a character, and Izuku asks him if that means his outfit was a serious decision. Dabi reconsiders setting him on fire.

The past users of one for all insist upon providing their own input into The Plan, and while Mirio already found out that Izuku has ghosts in his bones, Dabi is not supposed to know that. He tries to make it subtle. He is not subtle.

Dabi, annoyed: is whatever freak shit you’re doing because of that weird ancestral grudge match thing you’re doing with all for one

Izuku: I have no idea what you’re talking about

Second: excellent now kill him he knows too much

Izuku, remembering 1-3 lived in a way more hardcore time: •_•

Dabi: the league already knows that you’re the next whatever it is. can’t remember what it was called. One or something. is it true that comes with ghosts because the doc thought it came with ghosts

Izuku, sweating: what

Mirio: other people know about the ghosts in your bones???

Dabi: shigaraki literally never shut up about it

Mirio: shigaraki knows about the ghosts in your bones???

Dabi: I mean he mostly bitches about the other stuff

Mirio, only knows about the ghosts in his bones, but knows there’s stuff he doesn’t know, has assumed that it’s Izuku being all mights actual biological son: shigaraki knows about more than the ghosts in your bones???

Izuku needs to know why the fuck the league has a doctor speculating about what may or may not be in Izuku’s bones. And Dabi doesn’t fucking know okay. The doc just got drunk as shit one day and started bitching about how all for one always made unreasonable demands of him and how the fuck was he supposed to separate the vestiges out from each other so all for one could only get his brother’s ghost and not the rest of them, because he wanted his brother back and in his head where he couldn’t run away from him anymore but also he didn’t want to deal with the others. Frankly Dabi thought it was the doc having a bad trip because surely he wasn’t such a fucked up little freak that he had actual ghosts within him but then he had to exist near Izuku for more than seven consecutive minutes and honestly Dabi sees it.

Second, violent with rage: that bitch

Izuku, paling: I gotta talk to some people about some things

Now The Past Users Are Angry. Izuku’s Bones Rattle With The Fury Of An Upended Hornet’s Nest. He Does Not Think That His Bones Should Be Doing That.

The past users are furious. They are very protective of each other and do not want First’s fuckass brother discovering an even more controlling version of vaulting. First low key changed the course of society in his efforts to not be in his dumb fucking brother’s vault and he cannot go back okay he cannot

First and Second disappear into Izuku’s Bones for private discussion. Izuku and Third make sustained and tortured eye contact.

The rest of them decide to shelve the matter. They are locked into saving Dabi’s lady and this can wait for after. Luckily, First’s asshole brother is currently imprisoned and that surely will not change within the calendar year. And Izuku thankfully got a CI who tipped them off to valuable intel on the issue, the way that CI’s do. It’s fantastic that Dabi is now their CI.

And so Izuku goes back so he and the others can lock in. But Dabi does not want to do that. He wants to know why the fuck Izuku is like this and what is wrong with him. Izuku does not see the relevance of that to the pressing matter. Dabi insists it’s relevant to his sanity. The words “you have two gay ghosts in your bones and you still can’t figure your shit out with my brother” are uttered, and Izuku does not see how those two things are related at all.

Izuku Insists That They Return To The Plan, Which Is Thus:

Mirio, in Character, is going to go to the yakuza hideout to announce that he’d like to turn in his own brother, who doesn’t approve of his *gags* renewed relationship with Izuku’s Character, and who he suspects also *gags* hooked up with Izuku’s Character. He isn’t sure which and it may be both. Whatever the case, he would like to betray his own brother over it, who is Dabi

Izuku, also in Character, which he is bodying, will arrive moments later, also looking to sell out Dabi, who’s still angry about him hooking up with his brother. Second finds this part of the plan very believable, as people get very upset when you sleep with their brother. Or so he’s been told.

Izuku’s Character will encounter Mirio’s Character there, and they will immediately devolve into a loud and protracted domestic dispute about what the other is doing here. Guns will be pulled.

While the yakuza is distracted by watching Izuku and Mirio’s train wreck of a fake relationship, Dabi is to wriggle his leather clad ass in through the window and get his lady out.

If He Kills Anyone, Mirio Will Break Both Of His Kneecaps and Throw His Ass In Jail and Izuku Will Tell Fuyumi. Dabi knows in his heart and soul that they mean both of these things. He is more afraid of the latter.

Once the lady is clear, Mirio and Izuku will then take down the yakuza members in the bar under the excuse that someone was staring at their boyfriend, who is *gags* the other

That’s it that’s the plan.

Somehow, it fucking works. The yakuza members that aren’t subdued in the resultant fight are newly alarmed that they’ve seemingly been dragged into the drama of whatever the fuck is Izuku and Mirio’s mess of a romantic relationship. Dabi gets the lady out of the place unharmed, and there’s no one there for him to kill, because they’re all busy responding to Izuku and Mirio’s bullshit.

The lady has no idea who the fuck Dabi is and why he’s invested in her life.

Mirio assures her that he’s working through some personal things and then they take her to the hospital, where Mirio alerts the on-duty hero that he needs to send word down the underground hero channels using Mirio’s callsign that she’s a witness in an ongoing investigation and that she and her mother need to be taken into protective custody.

He then fucks off with Izuku, as they are Locked In to taking down this arms trafficking ring.

The hideout they most recently hit was great for them. It gave them a good lead into where they’re getting their newest shipment of guns, which they start chasing down.

Aizawa, vibrating: Where Are They

The on-duty hero, low key tried to take credit for way more than what he was involved in, now afraid: I’m not sure they didn’t say honestly they seemed really locked

Aizawa: fuck

Meanwhile Mirio and Izuku are bullying Dabi about his redemption arc over food and Dabi is reconsidering setting them on fire.

IZUKU AND MIRIO’S PRIORITIES, UPDATED:

Saving whatever lady Dabi started projecting his trauma onto from her abusive relationship (completed, nailed it)

Dealing with this gun smuggling bullshit (ongoing)

Completing The List (ongoing)

Getting to know Dabi, their new CI (know him well enough already, he kind of sucks)

Dabi insists that he is not their fucking CI. But, despite himself, the List intrigues him.

Dabi, looking at it: yeah okay we can bang this thing out

Most of the list can be completed in the span of their takedown of this gun smuggling bullshit. But they hit a bit of a wall, because Steal a Car is on the list.

And Izuku doesn’t want to steal some random person’s car. That’s not for the ultimate sake of crime fighting and introduces a huge stressor into that person’s life. He can’t steal Mirio’s car with permission, because it’s not stealing. Maybe someone in the yakuza has a car that he can steal, but Izuku isn’t sure. Tokyo is a very walkable city.

They decide the best thing to do is to steal Izuku’s mentor’s car, as he knows Izuku is going to engage in car stealing, because it is On The List, which Izuku is supposed to complete. His mentor will be very proud of him, he thinks.

Mirio, crouched down alongside the car as Izuku hotwires it: huh. Lotta cars in this parking lot

Izuku, locked in: probably one of the other units has a party or something going on

Mirio, less convinced: does that look like all mights truck to you

Izuku, not bothering to look: I mean it couldn’t be right

Mirio: yeah you’re right it must not be

Dabi, their lookout: would you two hurry the fuck up

They steal Izuku’s mentor’s car. They take it for a nice car wash and bring it back, no worse for wear. They leave a lovely note on the dashboard informing him that Izuku is well on his way to Completing The List. They then immediately fuck off again.

Aizawa discovers this and starts taking deep breaths.

Izuku and Mirio decide that a nice way to tie the bow up on this entire situation is to intercept the newest shipment of guns in advance, get access to some yakuza leaders by pretending to be the gun sellers themselves, and not invite Dabi to any of that bit. He is to liable to kill people, and they need him as their CI.

Dabi legitimately, truly needs them both to fuck off. This isn’t even a group activity. He is not their CI and not working with them. He has bitches to kill.

Mirio and Izuku, neither of whom have ever had a CI before, feels this is to be expected with a fledgling CI relationship. They’re doing fantastic, they feel.

The plan goes to shit immediately, because Izuku and Mirio are recognized as those two crazy bitches who keep dragging the yakuza into their love lives. The plan goes to shit even harder because Dabi shows up.

And then the League shows up.

WHAT THE LEAGUE IS DOING HERE:

They’re sad weepy bitches who just want the band back together

Unfortunately, they’re sad weepy bitches who have the communication skills of a rusty paper clip

Inherently, the issue is that shigaraki’s socialization consisted exclusively of cussing internet strangers out on Xbox live. He has no idea how to rebuild this relationship and none of them have any idea how to attempt. Fundamentally, they Will Die if any of them have to admit that they were wrong or even address the fact that Dabi left like, at all. But it’s okay because they have a plan and the plan is thus

Dabi’s been making waves in the criminal underground the past couple days for trying to kill some dude and for somehow being attached to his brother’s horrifyingly messy relationship crash out. This all makes sense to the League, who knows that he’s got some fucked up family situation going on and who mentioned some kind of brother thing at some point, probably

They Are Going To Go And They Are Going To Kill Those Bitches With Dabi And Then When It’s Over They Will Very Assertively Lead Him To The Car And Look Cool And Windswept As They Do It And He Will Simply Get In And Come Back With Them And Then They Will All Pretend This Never Happened. They Will Never Bring It Up Again Or Acknowledge Any Underlying Issues God Bless And Amen.

Anyway they roll up and Dabi is there with Shigaraki’s freak of a nemesis

Shigaraki: *ungodly screeching*

It devolves into a lot of Dabi and the League screaming at each other from opposite sides of this shootout, which Izuku feels he is the only one locked in for. Honestly, it’s hard to hear over the gunfire. But there’s a lot of “lying, cheating whores” being tossed around and a lot of “you didn’t even wait before going to them you fucking slut” and “I’m setting the clothes you left behind on fire you lying bitch whore” being tossed around. This is also directly because Shigaraki was socialized exclusively via XBox Live.

Mirio feels this is an unhealthy way to handle your interpersonal relationships and tries to give Dabi some advice on communication in relationships while taking cover from gunfire

Dabi really, truly needs him to fuck off

Izuku is wondering if anyone, literally anyone would like to lock into this gunfight or if it’s just him

But it is Just Him. The League doesn’t even want to fight Shigaraki’s freak of a nemesis because the wound from Dabi is too fresh. Dabi can stay with him and make friendship bracelets and tell him his deep dark tragic backstories late at night because obviously he doesn’t want to do it with the league anymore. Spinner stop crying.

Izuku, the Only One Locked In here: okay fuck this fuck this

Izuku Breaks Character. He full cowls. He goes straight for the yakuza.

Underling: did any of you know he could do that.

The ending, Izuku feels, is anticlimactic. He and Mirio defeat the yakuza. The League just fucking leaves with minimal fighting because Dabi’s a dirty cheating whore and they didn’t want to help him fight the yakuza anyway, and also Spinner cannot stop crying. Mirio tries to console Dabi, who tells him to fuck right off and stomps into the night, shitty matrix coat flapping behind him.

Izuku and Mirio agree to not tell anyone about anything that happened with Dabi or the League, because Dabi is their CI now, and the first rule about confidential informants is that they are confidential. It is not because they are afraid Mr. Aizawa will hurt them if he finds out, no siree.

And then Mirio sets about calling for clean up and police support and crime scene techs.

An ungodly swarm of underground heroes descend on the scene, which surprises Izuku. His mentor is among them, and Izuku was under the impression that he was supposed to check in at his mentor’s apartment when he was done. But maybe this is his fault. He thought threeish days was an okay time frame for the List, but Six did tell him his list was lame. Maybe he shouldn’t have needed so much time to complete such a basic list.

Izuku, to his new mentor: sensei! I have completed your list.

Mentor, bewildered: why

Izuku: … you told me to?

Aizawa, Appearing With Exhaustion and Rage: why

Izuku, confused: I just answered that

Aizawa is distressed upon reading the list. Why the fuck would Izuku look at a list like that and not call Aizawa so he could arrest his fucking teacher. What the fuck has he been doing. Why is he dressed like that. How many fucking guns does he have. Does this list tell him to buy drugs does he have drugs

Izuku: okay so I just bought cigarettes but technically nicotine is a drug and I’m not supposed to have it so it still counts

Aizawa, counting this as the one good thing of the night: as long as you didn’t smoke them

Izuku: oh no I did do that

Mirio, regretfully: he did

Izuku: they were so gross

Mirio: but he didn’t choke it was very smooth and realistic and I was very proud

Aizawa: why would you smoke them

Izuku: my character smokes

Aizawa:

Aizawa, with despair: what

Izuku does not understand why everyone is so angry. He completed the List as instructed. They told him to do that. What do you mean he wasn’t supposed to do any of those things why would you put it on the List then.

Internship is immediately and permanently canceled. His mentor’s teaching license is revoked and Izuku receives a permanent ban from participating in work studies, because he’s done this four times and every single time his supervisor has “had their teaching license revoked or died,” which Izuku maintains is unfair because he is only responsible for half of those. The past users agree this is bullshit, because Izuku’s list was very lame and if anything he was being coddled with this. These were all very age appropriate tasks.

Izuku is Despondent. He mopes horrifically for the rest of the week. When his classmates return, Todoroki joins him in despondence. He was hoping that Izuku could intern for his father and get Endeavor’s teaching license revoked so he would stop asking Todoroki to intern with him.

Mina is enchanted by all this. Izuku will not budge on revealing what he did to finally get banned, and with the other bullshit he gets up to, it must be good. It is her white whale. Her dearest pursuit. She begs him at length and while live on TikTok to please please please fucking tell the story. Izuku sticks to his current stance, which is that the ban is unfair because he got banned since all of his supervisors have “had their licenses revoked or died” but he is only responsible for half of those things. He does not reveal which half.

[sherlock-is-ace]

Each time Aziraphale didn't choose Crowley.

[invoncible]

KEEP AWAY with the INVINCIBLE VARIANTS ! ✧˚. — after finding you in this universe, they're not gonna let you go! w/ mohawk, viltrumite, no goggles w/ gn! reader cw. suggestive. no goggles is a freak

— a continuation of running into the variants during the war :)

"donald, give me some good news." cecil had his hands on his hips as he stared at all the destruction broadcasted to the pentagon control room.

"uh... some variants seem to be slowing down on their escapades, sir."

"that could go both ways," cecil's eyes narrowed. "depending on what they've decided to do instead."

the big screen zeroed in on a version of mark dragging some random through the air. the blood drained from cecil's face as he walked closer, eyes narrowing at the footage.

"who the fuck is that?" cecil snapped. he deprived them of the chance to respond when he followed up with, "get me an ID on that kid. and prep the next squad of reanimen to go after them."

now, did cecil really think that was gonna do anything against him? he was hopeful, but his top priority was saving a life. but mark was not going to make that easy for him.

MOHAWK MARK

mark was having the time of his life! he was set to conquer dimensions, he'd killed so many people, and he was making out with the love of his life on the roof of some random building against the napalm skyline.

he was so content kissing you silly. imposing his body into your space, his forearm flattened against the wall behind you right next to your head, his other tilting your jaw up; being in your arms felt like coming home, and he'd kill anyone to stay there.

his eyes only broke open when he heard the wailing screams of cecil's undead soldiers in the distance. he sighed heavily, pulling away slowly and smiling proudly when he swiped his thumb over your swollen lips.

"c'mon, baby," he muttered lowly, pulling you in his arms. he scoffed amusedly at your dazed state, pressing one last kiss to the fat of your cheeks before his feet left the ground. "some bad guys are tryna take you from me."

"who?" you responded, wrapping your arm around his shoulders.

"no one you need to worry your pretty little head about!" he laughed, taking off into the sky. "i'm not letting anyone ruin this."

you could only hold on for your life as he wove through the clouds, avoiding the squadron of reanimen pursuing him.

"mark!" you screamed, ducking into his chest as one frantically launched itself into the air, swiping at your head.

"yeah, hold on, baby." mark's grin would scare you if you hadn't realized how devoted he was to you within the hours of meeting him. "i've got you."

an undead solider leaped into the air, clasping its metal hand around his shin and letting its weight drag him down. mark grit his teeth, swinging his leg in an attempt to shake it off.

but the soldier held firm, climbing up mark's body.

"are you fucking kidding me?" mark groaned in annoyance. he turned to you. "i'm gonna need you to trust me, y/n." you felt his grip around you loosen.

your body tensed, nails digging into his shoulder. "no—"

"trust me." he braced himself, muscles coiling as he prepared to throw you.

"mark, what—"

"it's gonna take a minute, tops, and i'll catch you."

"what the fuck?!"

"pretty please with a cherry on top?"

catch me? your eyes blew open, grappling at his arms even as he lowered you down before catapulting you into the air.

mark immediately turned to the bitch on his leg, grabbing its throat and twisting until its head popped off. he shifted his weight as he zipped through the rest of the hordes of reanimen, ripping them limb from limb.

all the while you were on the verge of passing out, falling from who knows how high back onto the abandoned streets. you regretted all your life choices in that moment, especially getting involved with this half-bald freak of nature.

your stomach lurched as the ground rushed up to meet you. you barely had time to scream before something caught you midair, arms locking around you like a vice. the impact rattled through your bones, but before you could process the relief, you realized it wasn’t mark—it was one of the sentries he was fighting. held in someone’s arms for the second time that day, you were whisked away from the battlefield, your head spinning.

"what the fuck is going on?" you whispered to yourself, dizzy and lightheaded from your some-hundred ft. fall.

mark's head turned as if he had a sixth sense. he saw the red light fading in the distance. he snapped the final limb before ricocheting towards you.

his hands curled around the base of its neck, stopping its escape in its tracks. "think you got something of mine..." he said lowly, lifting the cyborg off the ground.

its jaw snapped wildly, thrashing to try and dislodge itself from his grip. mark clicked his tongue, laughing. "aww, look, y/n!" he grinned and pointed his free hand to the reaniman. "it's trying to get away!"

you just stared at him, dumbfounded. thankfully, he got his satisfaction and snapped the neck of the soldier, wrapping an arm around your waist as he tossed the dead agent over the rooftop.

"there," he pressed his lips to the side of your head as he took to the sky again. "see? wasn't so bad. now, where were we?"

you rolled your eyes, but rested your head against his shoulder anyways.

VILTRUMITE MARK

"first, we'll get married."

"married?"

"as soon as possible."

"uh-huh."

"then kids."

"kids?!"

"at least... four."

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a smile. reaching over, you took a french fry from the package he was holding (the same one he’d terrorized a McDonald's to get for you). you two were sitting atop the golden gate bridge, and for some reason, the shitshow beneath your feet didn't make you feel queasy anymore.

mark, as you've learned, saved the softest spot in his heart for you and his mother. he was adamant on just talking to you, rekindling the love he knew he had for you.

"it seems like you're trying to replace your y/n with me." you hum, passing him a look. "we're not the same person."

he shook his head, resting his head in your lap. you softened against your will, dragging your nails against his scalp.

"you say that like it matters." he sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled into your thighs. "you’re mine. you’ve always been mine. doesn’t matter what version of you i started with—i like this one just fine."

"that's—"

mark's head hit the cool metal of the bridge in the next second, his eyes flying open as he saw a squadron of reanimen bolting away with you in their arms.

his eye twitched, a crazed genre of rage rushing through his veins. not again. not my y/n. he shot off the landing after them.

other soldiers fell out of formation to slow him down, thrusting the reinforced soles of their feet into his face. he barely flinched, grabbing anything he could and throwing them off into the distance. carnage could come later; right now, he needed you back with him.

what was cecil thinking sending these zombies after the mark raised on viltrum? mark shut that whole thing down real quick, snatching you by your waist and throwing you over his shoulder as he mopped the rest of them up.

he held you in front of him, a frown on his lips as he asked oh-so-gently, "are you okay?"

brain rattled by being treated like a football, you settled for nodding. your eyes drifted behind him, too slow to warn him about the lone zombie throttling through the air towards him.

the sentry's feet slammed into mark's back. its hand grabbed onto you, preventing you from being sent to the ground with mark. you dangled in the air, watching the asphalt below crack under the impact of his fall.

"mark!" you yelled after him, gagging in disgust when you were brought closer to the agent's rotting flesh. "shit—"

below, mark stood slowly, letting the gravel fall off his white uniform. he exhaled in annoyance, like a bull grunting before charging. he watched you struggle in the soldier's arms as you were carried farther and farther away, and he's never felt his heart beat so erratically.

he zipped towards you. a sonic boom tore through the air as he slammed into the reaniman's side, driving it into the ground. right before the agent could be reduced to paste on the pavement, you were ripped from its grasp into mark’s.

he barely spared a glance at the corpse, scowling as he shifted his grip on you. his next words were muttered, spoken more to himself than to you.

"more reason this stupid planet needs our oversight. they waste their time with their arrogant pursuits." he sneered, flying to another location you two could be alone.

your pulse began to steady, body sinking against his.

mark exhaled, softer this time. his grip around you tightened, but his lips were gentle when they pressed against your temple. then your cheek, then your lips—languid, warm and slow, savoring the way you felt in his arms.

"they could never keep us apart." he murmured against your lips. "if they want to figure that out the hard way... so be it."

NO GOGGLES MARK

mark came back to you, like he promised. he wasn't going to miss the opportunity in front of him! you handled him so well.

there was nowhere he wanted to be other than under you, your hands wrapped around his neck. at first you were weirded out. he claimed you were together in another dimension, and with everything he knew about you, you believed him. now you were just... intrigued.

"squeeze harder, baby, come on." he gasped, winking up at you in his delirium. "i can take it."

you pouted, eyebrows knitting. "i don't like this game." you needed to work up to the level he was expecting from you, as much as you were enjoying this too.

he laughed hoarsely, curling his fingers around your wrists. "we got a couple more we can play. but i dunno if you'd want to do them all out in the open."

you rolled your eyes, a small chuckle slipping through your lips. you dragged your nails down his chest, noting the way he shivered. the maniacal grin you've come to know him for grew on his face once again.

"i wouldn't mind, of course." his eyes glinted with a twisted delight, his hands squeezing at the fat of your thighs. "don't think i can wait any longer, actually."

"you might just get lucky," you giggled so sweetly that mark's fucked up mind paused its depraved thoughts to really take it in.

he began to respond when the rooftop caved under you. soldier after soldier emerged through the hole, bombarding you with numbers. their half-metal bodies blotted out the setting sun. mark growled in frustration, swiping through the swarm. when the smoke cleared, you were nowhere to be found.

"fuck," he chuckled, cracking his neck. "making me chase you, huh?"

mark grinned, tilting his head as he watched them try to drag you away. fun! did they really think they could outpace him?

he shot forward, cracking through the air like a bullet. he didn’t even slow down as his fist caved into the first reaniman’s spine, sending it crashing into the pavement below. the next got a foot to the chest—its entire torso collapsing under the force, mechanical parts sparking and hissing as they fell.

you yelped as one tried to launch itself away, still holding you tight in its arms. mark barely had to think yet he caught its ankle, spun it mid-air, and slammed it into the ground so hard it cratered on impact.

you didn't have the time to register you were falling; you landed in his arms a second later.

"there we go," he hummed, dusting debris off your clothes. "still breathing?" he pressed his ear to your chest, heat blooming across his skin with every thundering beat of your heart, head rising and falling as you inhaled and exhaled.

your chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. he laughed, delighted by the look on your face.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up. "hey, don't tap out yet. you said i was getting lucky."

"i said you might get lucky." you corrected, even though you already decided how the night was going to go.

he grinned. "will you actually choke me out this time?"

"i'll fucking slap you." you hummed, a pleasant breeze drifting past your face as he carried you off to a more secluded location.

"i love you so fucking much." he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. his hands tightened around you. when you looked up, he was biting his lip to conceal his excitement.

"this planet better give you a medal of honor or some shit the way you're saving lives right now," he chuckled, leaning down and gnawing on the fluff of your cheek. "how long do you think you can keep me occupied?"

he didn’t need to hear your answer—he was already planning to keep you up all night. but the look in your eyes told him he didn’t have to do much convincing.

© invoncible

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 10.2k DON'T FORGET TO READ PREVIOUS CHAPTER tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation series masterlist < previous chapter< next chapter

“You’re not serious.”

“Himari, please let’s not fight. I said I’d spend the 26th with you.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

She huffs, watching her boyfriend get his shower ready to go out and spend the day with another woman. Bitterness swirls in her stomach, anger threatening to be released if she wasn’t digging her nails into her palms. “You’re spending Christmas with some random bitch and a snot-nosed kid. How do you think that makes me fe—”

“Be quiet.” Satoru says, turning around to face her with a firm frown set in place. “I’ll tolerate you insulting me but don’t disrespect them, especially Koji.”

Himari freezes, her words catching in her throat as she registers the sharpness in Satoru’s voice. His usual laidback tone is gone, replaced with a seriousness that sends a chill down her spine. Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her expression.  “Disrespect them?” she repeats, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Are you even listening to yourself? You’re choosing them over me, Satoru. On Christmas. What am I supposed to think?”  

“You’re supposed to understand,” he replies, his tone softening but remaining firm. “Koji is my son. I’ve already missed enough of his life—I’m not going to miss any more.”  

“And what about me? What about us?” Himari snaps, stepping closer to him. “We’ve been together for almost two years, and I’ve only just now found out about all this shit. How do you think that makes me feel? Like an afterthought? Like you don’t trust me?”  

Satoru exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knows she has a point, but he also knows this argument isn’t going anywhere productive. “Himari, this isn’t about trust. It’s about priorities. Koji needs me, and I’m not going to let him down. Not ever. I just need you to understand that, that’s all.”  

“And what about my needs?” she presses, her voice breaking slightly. “Am I just supposed to sit here and wait for you to decide when I’m important enough to make time for?”  

“You’re important to me,” Satoru says, his gaze meeting hers. “But Koji will always come first. That’s not going to change, Himari. If you can’t accept that…” He trails off, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.  

Himari’s jaw tightens, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? You waltz into my life with all your charm and promises, and now you’re telling me I have to share you with some other family? What kind of relationship is this supposed to be? I did not sign up to be a fucking step-mother.”

Satoru steps closer, his expression softening slightly. “It’s the kind where I’m trying to do right by my son while still being with you. But I can’t do this if you’re going to make me choose.”  

She stares at him, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “Maybe you already have,” she whispers before turning on her heel and storming out of the bathroom.  

Satoru watches her leave, a heaviness settling in his chest. He doesn’t chase after her, instead turning back to the shower and letting the water run. For a moment, he just stands there, the steam fogging the mirror and blurring his reflection.  

He’s made his choice, and he doesn’t regret it. But he knows the fallout isn’t over yet. He sighs as he steps in, closing the glass door. She’ll come around in a few hours when she’s all settled down, that’s how it always is—so he won’t dwell over it. Besides, he has more pressing matters to take into account. 

Hearing the shower run in the bathroom, Himari has stomped over to the bedroom. Hands fishing the sheets in order to feel for his phone. After some seconds, she finds it. Already knowing the password, she angrily unlocks it and begins swiping and surfing through every app of his. “If you’re cheating on me, Satoru. I swear to god.” She mutters to herself, scowling down at the screen. 

She doesn’t see anything, but she does click on his message with you. It all consists of just talks of the kid. 

Himari scrolls through the thread of messages, her scowl deepening as she reads. The exchanges are polite, straightforward, and almost entirely about your son—pickup times, school updates, doctor appointments. Nothing incriminating, nothing emotional. Just... parental coordination.  

But it still stings.  

Her grip tightens on the phone as her eyes skim over a message from a few days ago, the last message between you two:  

Y/N: 

Thank you for picking him up and the food.  

Satoru:

Of course, he’s my son. Just let me know if you need anything else.

Himari scoffs, tossing the phone onto the bed with a frustrated huff. “Let me know if you need anything else.” she repeats mockingly under her breath. "He’s bending over backward for her, and I’m just supposed to sit here like nothing’s wrong? Yeah fucking right.”  

She paces the room, her mind racing. No matter how innocent the texts look, she can’t shake the feeling of being replaced. It doesn’t matter that Satoru insists he’s doing this for his son—his attention is divided, and she’s no longer at the center of his world.  Her pacing comes to a halt as she glances back at the phone. A new idea begins to form, one she knows is petty but feels justified in her growing anger.  

"If he won’t make me a priority," she mutters, picking up the phone again, "then I’ll remind him of what he stands to lose."  

She opens the camera app and snaps a picture of herself, deliberately angling it to show her figure in the soft light of the bedroom. Attaching it to a blank text, she hovers over the send button.  But something stops her. A hesitation, a flicker of doubt. She’s never had to fight for Satoru’s attention before—he’s always made her feel like she was the only one that mattered.  

Until now.  

With a frustrated growl, she deletes the photo and tosses the phone back onto the bed. Crossing her arms, she glares at the bathroom door, the sound of the shower still running behind it.  

"If you want to play the perfect dad, fine," she mutters. "But don’t expect me to sit around and wait while you pretend I don’t exist." 

Sitting down onto the bed, another form of thought pops in her head. Yanking the phone back into her hands, she presses his photo album. There must be something in here. And so, she scours and scours, zooming in on every picture in fear you’ll be in the background. However, she doesn’t find anything. Only pictures of that little brat who looks like his mirrored version. “Because of you…” she grits, hand tightening around the phone. 

Continuing to scroll higher, she can tell she’s reaching earlier years. Still, the insecurity and fear plaguing her chest causes her to not stop—not until she gets to the very first photo in his album. Then she’ll for sure know he’s still hers. She’s in the year 2015, before she met Satoru. He looks younger, more boyish. She pushes down the endearing feelings she holds towards his younger self and scrolls up. 

Until, she comes across a video. 

The start of it has your face in it and she’s clicking. You’re sitting cross legged on the floor in some Christmas jammies, a Santa hat on your head with a big Christmas tree behind you. She can assume Satoru’s sitting across from you, hearing his voice say, “Okay, go!”

The entirety of the video is her holding back throwing his phone across the room. Seeing you two open each other's gifts, seeing you smile at her man, and seeing her man look at you holding the camera in such a soft way—a way she’s almost never experienced before. 

She’s getting nauseous. 

She almost throws up when she catches a glimpse of you two kissing, saying the words I love you so softly. She quickly clicks out and shuts the phone off when the sounds of low moaning fill the speakers. 

Why does he even still have this? Does he look back on this?

She wants to claw her eyes and ears out of her body. Feeling utterly infuriated at her boyfriend for keeping practically a sextape of his ex even after all these years. You fucking assume, Satoru! Himari sits on the edge of the bed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her mind is a storm of thoughts—jealousy, anger, and a pang of something else she refuses to name. Satoru’s insistence on prioritizing Koji and you feels like a betrayal, even if she knows deep down it’s not the same as him being unfaithful.  

Still, she can’t shake the bitterness creeping into her heart.  

She glances at his phone again, her jaw tightening. What does she have that I don’t? The question gnaws at her, even as she tries to shove it aside.  

When the sound of the shower cuts off, Himari straightens her posture, her eyes narrowing. A brewing begins to form—not a vengeful one, but one that will force Satoru to confront the rift growing between them.  Moments later, Satoru steps out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, his damp hair tousled and messy. He pauses when he sees her sitting there, her gaze piercing through him. “What’s with the look?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  

She doesn’t answer right away, instead standing up and taking a slow step toward him. “Satoru,” she starts, her voice low but steady, “do you even realize how this feels for me? Watching you drop everything for her and that kid?”  

He sighs, already bracing himself for another argument. “Himari, we’ve been over this. Koji is my son. I have responsibilities—”  

“And what about your responsibilities to me?” she snaps, cutting him off. “I’m your girlfriend. I’ve been by your side for years. I’ve supported you, loved you, stood by you. But lately, it feels like I don’t even exist to you.”  

Satoru pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration etched into his features. “This isn’t about us, Himari. It’s about Koji. He’s my son. I missed years of his life because I didn’t even know he existed. I’m not going to waste more time by pretending he doesn’t matter.”  

“And I don’t matter?” she fires back, her voice rising. “That’s what you’re saying, right? That I come second to some kid you barely even know?”  

Satoru’s patience finally snaps. “He’s not some kid, Himari! He’s my blood, my responsibility. And if you can’t understand that, maybe you don’t belong in my life after all.”  

The words hang in the air like a slap. Himari stares at him, stunned into silence, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to process what he just said. Satoru doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his phone from the bed, slipping it into his pocket, and heads toward the door. “I’ll be back later,” he says flatly. “Don’t wait up.”  

The door slams shut behind him, leaving Himari alone in the room, her anger boiling over into tears she refuses to let fall. In the silence, one thought echoes louder than the rest: 

I won’t let her win. You wanted me to teach you, right? Then I’ll teach you.

Satoru’s already not having a good day. He could put most of the blame on his girlfriend, the other on his parents for questioning why he’s spending the holiday with you instead, and also the fact that there’s traffic. 

Of course there’s traffic. 

It’s a good thing, almost. It gives him some time to himself. It lets him calm his annoyance, the last thing he wants to do is ruin the day for his son. He’s also a little nervous to see you. He hasn’t seen or texted you since your small argument last time, and while he does feel bad, the other part of him still believes that what he did wasn’t wrong. Hopefully—maybe today or another day—he can settle that issue with you truly. There’s a lot of things he needs to settle with you, actually. 

But just like they say one day at a time, one problem at a time. 

His finger taps absentmindedly against his steering wheel as he surges his car forward before stopping again. Sighing, he checks the time. Cutting it a little close. He turns the music up and leans back, sighing heavily. 

But the song on the radio is something upbeat, and it only serves to grate on his nerves. Satoru switches it off with a sharp jab of his finger. The silence that follows isn’t much better, though—it leaves too much room for his thoughts to wander again. 

He wonders if you’ll bring up the argument as soon as he arrives. You’re not one to let things fester, not when Koji’s around, but he knows you’ve probably been stewing on it, the way you always do when it involves him. The guilt creeps in again, and he brushes it off like a pesky fly. He’s good at that—pushing things aside until they’re too big to ignore. That’s why you two are in this mess in the first place, isn’t it?

Well, it’s surely part of it. 

The honk of a car behind him jolts him out of his thoughts. The traffic’s moving again, and Satoru presses on the gas, muttering a curse under his breath. He’s cutting it close, all right.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, his nerves are just frayed enough that he almost considers texting you to say he’s here instead of going to the door. But that feels… cowardly. He’s Satoru Gojo, for crying out loud. He can face you.

He steps out of the car, walking into the complex and up to your apartment. When he knocks on the door, it takes a moment before he hears the faint sound of footsteps approaching. The door swings open, and there you are, looking… tired. But not unhappy to see him, which is something. Adorned in an apron too, how cute. 

“Hey,” you say, your voice softer than he expected.

“Hey,” he replies, trying for a smile that doesn’t feel forced. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

You nod, stepping aside to let him in. The warmth of your home envelops him immediately, and the faint sound of Koji’s laughter from the other room eases some of the tension in his chest.

“How’s he doing?” Satoru asks, his voice low as he glances toward the sound.

“He’s excited. Been asking about you all morning,” you say, crossing your arms but not looking at him directly.

Satoru shifts on his feet, his fingers tightening around the handle of the gift bag. “Yeah, well… I’m here now.”

You look at him then, your expression unreadable. “Yeah. You are.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Koji comes barreling into the room, his face lighting up when he sees his dad. “Papa!”

Satoru smiles, scooping up his son with ease as he walks into the living room, settling down onto the couch. The smell of delicious food fills his senses, eyes closing momentarily with a heavenly sigh. “Smells good, what’s your mother making?”

Koji grins, his arms wrapped tightly around Satoru’s neck. “She’s making roast chicken and cookies!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement. “And I helped with the cookies. But Mama said I ate too much of the dough.”  

Satoru chuckles, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Sounds about right. You’ve got a sweet tooth like your old man.”  

Koji’s giggle is infectious, and Satoru can’t help but feel a swell of warmth as he holds his son close. His gaze drifts toward the kitchen, where the faint sound of clinking dishes and soft humming filters through. For a moment, the tension from the past few days fades, replaced by the simple comfort of being here with his family.  

“You’re late,” your voice cuts through the air, light but pointed. You step into the living room, wiping your hands on a towel as you glance at him. He notices the small smudge of flour on your cheek, but there’s a softness in your expression that Satoru clings to.  His eyes move down your figure, ignoring the fluttering in his heart because you just look so damn cute in an apron. It feels domestic. 

You’re wearing a comfortable dress underneath, hair down with gold jewelry. Satoru physically gulps and tears his eyes away when they linger too long on your smooth legs. “Like I said, traffic.” He replies effortlessly, flashing you a sheepish grin. “But I’m here now, aren’t I?”  

You inhale deeply, lips thinning but you concede with a simple nod. “Food’s almost ready. Koji, go wash your hands. And don’t forget to use soap this time.”  

Koji pouts but hops off Satoru’s lap, darting toward the bathroom. The moment he’s out of earshot, the room grows quiet, the weight of unspoken words settling between you and Satoru.  He leans back on the couch, watching you as you cross your arms and lean against the doorway. “You didn’t have to go all out today, you know,” he says, his tone softer than usual. “I could’ve helped you cook—”

You shrug, looking away for a moment as you cut him off. “It’s Christmas,” you reply. “I wanted it to be nice. For Koji.”  

He nods, understanding what you’re not saying. “For Koji,” he echoes. There’s a pause before he adds, “And for you, too. You deserve something nice, Y/N.”  

Your eyes flicker to his, searching for any hint of insincerity. But all you find is that familiar look—the one that’s both infuriating and disarming at the same time. “You can’t just say things like that and expect everything to be okay, Satoru,” you murmur, your voice barely audible.  

“I know,” he says, sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees. “But I’m trying, okay? I know I’ve been pushing boundaries, and I’m sorry. I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “I don’t want to miss any more of this. Of him. Of you.”  

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. You hate when he says confusing things like this because it messes with your head, fooling yourself into thinking there’s something else there. Clearing your throat, you straighten out your light pink apron. “Don’t say things like that.”

The firmness in your tone causes Satoru to purse his lips. Standing up and walking over to you. “I don’t mean anything weird by it.”

“You may not think that, but other people have different opinions.”

“Are you still mad at me from before?”

That always ticks you off—asking such obvious questions with such an innocent face. You think he’s joking, just trying to poke at the bear. But his concerned eyes, brows lifted up—it tells a whole other story. You open your mouth to respond, but Koji’s cheerful shout from the bathroom interrupts.  

“Mama! Papa! I’m ready!”  

You glance toward the bathroom, then back at Satoru. The moment is gone, but the tension lingers. “Dinner’s in ten,” you say simply, turning on your heel to head back to the kitchen.  

Satoru watches you go, a bittersweet mien playing on his godly face. He knows he’s got a long way to go—but for now, he’ll take whatever moments he can get. It’s Christmas, he wants to make the most out of it. And if that means faking it til he makes it, then so be it. 

He’s not the only one faking. 

You three are seated at the circular table in your kitchen. the warmth of the meal and the soft glow of fairy lights draped along the windows creating a cozy atmosphere. Koji chatters excitedly about his favorite Christmas movies as he eagerly digs into his plate, his small hands occasionally reaching for a cookie from the platter in the center. If Koji knew any better, he’d ask why his parents weren’t really talking to one another. 

And unfortunately, he does know better. 

“Mama? Papa? Why are you so quiet?”

Damn kids’ continent, but uncomfortable questions. 

You freeze, the fork halfway to your mouth, glancing at Satoru across the table. His eyes briefly meet yours before flicking back to Koji, his usual confident demeanor faltering under the weight of the question. “Quiet? We’re not quiet, bud,” Satoru says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leans forward, propping his chin on his hand. “I’m just too busy stuffing my face to talk. This food is so good.”

Koji tilts his head, unconvinced. “But you always talk a lot, Papa. And Mama, you’re not smiling. I thought today was a happy day.”

Your grip on the fork tightens, the weight of Koji’s words hitting harder than you’d like to admit. Out of the mouths of babes, as they say. You force a small smile, though it feels paper-thin. “It is a happy day, sweetie. Mama’s just tired from all the cooking, that’s all.”  

Koji frowns, his big, curious eyes shifting between you and Satoru. He’s far too perceptive for his age, and it’s moments like this that make it clear just how much he picks up on. Satoru clears his throat, leaning back in his chair. “Hey, how about this? After dinner, we’ll all watch a Christmas movie together. You can pick, Koji. And then, we can open the presents.”  

Koji’s face lights up at the suggestion, but he’s not completely distracted. “Okay! But only if Mama picks, too. We all have to pick one!”  

You manage a soft chuckle, finally taking a bite of your food to avoid answering immediately. Satoru’s gaze lingers on you, and you can feel the unspoken words sitting heavy between you both. “That sounds like a deal,” you say after swallowing. “But only if you promise to eat all your vegetables first.”  

Koji scrunches his nose but nods. “Deal!”  

The rest of the meal is filled with Koji’s chatter, and though you and Satoru exchange a few words here and there, the tension remains. It’s not lost on either of you that Koji’s cheerful energy is doing the heavy lifting to make this feel like the family dinner it should be.  When the plates are cleared and Koji races to the couch to pick out the first movie, Satoru hesitates in the kitchen. He grabs a dish towel and starts drying the plates you’ve already washed, a small gesture that feels too intentional to be casual.  

“You don’t have to help,” you murmur, not looking at him. “I got it.”

“I want to,” he replies simply. There’s a pause before he adds, “I would’ve helped cook too, sorry I came later.”  

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his expression softer than you expected. “It’s okay,” you admit quietly. “It’s just dinner and opening gifts, I didn’t ask you to.”  

His hand stills on the plate he’s holding. “I know,” he says, his voice low. “But it’s still an obligation of mine, you don’t have to do everything alone. I’m here now, remember?”  

The vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard. The truth to his words cause you to bite your lips, guilt sinking into your bones. It didn’t feel like one of those snide comments, but it had practically the same effect. And you know that he’s here, so he can handle some of your weight. However, it’s nonetheless hard to trust him with it, fearing it’ll be too heavy for him too. Before you can respond, Koji’s voice echoes from the living room.  

“Mama! Papa! Hurry up, the movie’s starting!”  

You sigh, drying your hands on a towel. “Let’s go before he starts it without us.” Satoru follows you to the couch, where Koji has already made a nest of blankets. As the movie begins, Koji snuggles between the two of you, his small hands clutching the remote.  He giggles, snuggling closer to you both, dropping the remote to the table. 

 It’s not perfect, but for tonight, it’s enough. It has to be, it’s Christmas. Although you’re not doing too much this holiday, not that you ever do, it still means a lot to Koji. Because he finally has his dad to spend it with. 

As the movie begins, Koji seems to have other plans. He grabs both of your hands—Satoru’s right and your left— bringing them in front of him and making them mash together. Immediately you tense up, just the slightest graze of Satoru’s long fingers having more of an effect on you than you anticipated. 

You pull away, Satoru’s hand lingers before he soon gets the hint. 

Koji frowns, head swiveling between his two parents. “Mama, Papa, you’re supposed to hold hands! That’s what families do,” Koji says, his little brows furrowing in frustration. His pout deepens, clearly displeased with your reaction.  

You give him a soft smile, hoping to smooth things over. “We are a family, Koji. We don’t need to hold hands to prove that,” you say gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead.  

“But it’s Christmas!” he protests, his small hands still clutching yours and Satoru’s as if he could force them together by sheer will. “Santa says families should be happy and together on Christmas! That’s what they do in the movies.”  

Satoru chuckles lightly, though there’s a hint of something conflicted in his expression as he looks at Koji. “Santa sounds like a pretty smart guy,” he murmurs, his gaze briefly flicking to you before resting on Koji again. “But sometimes families have their own way of being happy, bud. It doesn’t always look the same.”  

Koji seems to consider this, his lips pursed in thought. “Okay… but can we all hold hands just for the movie?” His tone is pleading, his wide eyes impossible to say no to.  

You hesitate, feeling the weight of Satoru’s gaze on you, before finally relenting with a quiet sigh. “I….Alright, just for the movie,” you say, letting Koji place your hand back in Satoru’s.  

Satoru’s fingers brush against yours again, warm and steady, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The contact feels heavier than it should, but Koji’s delighted giggle pulls your focus back to him.  

“See? Now it’s perfect!” he exclaims, snuggling back into the blankets with a satisfied grin. He holds your conjoined hands. 

Satoru hums softly, unintentionally giving your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before turning his attention to the screen. The movie plays on, Koji’s laughter filling the room. And while the air between you and Satoru remains thick with unspoken words, for this moment, you let yourself stay in the quiet warmth of your son’s happiness.  

The warmth of Koji’s small hands on top of yours is grounding, even as the tension between you and Satoru buzzes just beneath the surface. You glance at him briefly, finding his expression softer than usual. He’s watching Koji, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but when he catches your gaze, something knowing lingers in his eyes.

You look back at the screen, ignoring the familiarity Satoru’s large hand brings you. It’s familiar but different at the same time. It feels a bit more calloused, proof of his own events he’s faced in his life during the time you were separated. 

And to him, your hand feels just as it always did. Warm, soft, and so perfectly fitting. It’s like two puzzle pieces, or a key to a lock. For a second, he compares how it feels to Himari before mentally chastising himself. That’s probably a fucked up thing to do. But he’s already done a lot of that in his life. His thumb runs smoothly across your knuckles, causing a shiver to run down your spine. 

You want to pull away, but your son is a reminder to keep up the act. 

The movie plays on, filling the silence with cheerful music and laughter, but you can hardly focus. Satoru’s hand is still resting lightly against yours, his thumb brushing against your rugged muscle every so often, whether intentionally or not. It sends a twinge of something—nostalgia, maybe?—through your chest. You shift slightly, trying to focus on the screen, but Koji’s contented sigh draws your attention back to him. He’s nestled between the two of you, his little face illuminated by the glow of the TV, looking completely at peace.

“Are you happy, Koji?” you ask softly, the words slipping out before you can think them through.

Koji nods emphatically, his grin widening. “Yeah! This is the best Christmas ever!”

Satoru chuckles, his voice low and warm. “That’s a pretty big claim, Koji. We haven’t even opened the presents yet. What makes it the best?”

“Because I have Mama and Papa,” Koji says simply, looking between the two of you with wide, earnest eyes. “I don’t need presents or anything. Just you two.”

Your heart clenches at his words, and you feel Satoru’s hand tighten a bit around yours. You don’t twitch away this time, letting the moment settle over you like the soft glow of the fairy lights. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been emotional this entire week already, or the fact that Koji is just so happy, but you’re feeling yourself choke up. 

For a brief second, the weight of everything—the arguments, the hurt, the uncertainty—fades into the background. It’s just the three of you, here and now, and maybe that’s enough. “Merry Christmas, Koji,” you whisper, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. Hiding a trembling lip against his white tresses. Your eyes close, forcing your tears to stay exactly put where they are. 

“Merry Christmas,” Satoru echoes, his voice unusually tender. He peers over at you from the corner of his eye, a gut-wrenching twisting at his stomach when he sees your expression. He wants to wipe away the crinkle between your eyebrows with his free hand, but he decides against it—probably not the best thing to do right now. He can only offer you a firmer hand on top of yours, cradling it like it’s a diamond. It’s like a warm quilt, it feels oddly comforting. 

Again, you’re getting nostalgic. Maybe that’s another reason why you feel like crying right now—knowing you only have this fleeting moment. Koji’s smile widens, his hands squeezing one last time before settling back into his blanket cocoon.

The hours pass, having watched multiple movies already. Koji’s on the edge of falling asleep before you carefully wake him up that it’s midnight. He practically jumps right back into action, all former sleepiness gone and relaxes with utter excitement. “Presents! We can open the presents!” He scrambles to the tree, already beginning to pick at the ones he wants to open. 

You smile softly, watching Koji bounce around with excitement, the energy from the day still shining brightly in his eyes. He’s so full of joy, so eager to unwrap the surprises you and Satoru managed to get for him. The sight warms your heart, even as a quiet tension lingers in the room.

Satoru, still leaning back against the couch, watches Koji with a mix of amusement and something more—something heavier. His lips twitch, as if trying to hold back a smile, but the look in his eyes when he glances at you doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Alright, baby,” you say softly, standing up from your spot. “Let’s open them, but remember, one at a time.”

Koji nods, his little hands already tearing into the first present like a whirlwind. He pulls out a small toy car and holds it up triumphantly, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Look, Mama! Look, Papa! It’s just like the one I saw at the store!”

Satoru chuckles and ruffles his hair. “That’s a good one, Koji. I’m jealous. What else ya got?”

You can’t help but smile at the exchange, even as you reach down to grab the next present for Koji. But something still nags at you. The way Satoru looks at Koji, it’s so…heartwarming. It’s a look given only to his child, one a father could only give out. You feel both touched and warm at the same time. 

Tonight is about Koji, about making sure he feels loved and special. And while you and Satoru are at odds, you both are doing one hell of a job of making sure that it comes true. 

As Koji continues to unwrap gifts, the room fills with laughter and the sound of crinkling wrapping paper. Your heart swells watching him, but in the back of your mind, the remnants of the earlier tension refuse to fully fade. The space between you and Satoru feels both distant and strangely intimate all at once.

After maybe an hour, after admiring each gift right after opening it, Koji finishes opening his presents. You both settle back into the couch, Koji nestled between you, holding onto his new toys. There’s figurines—mainly Spider-Man or Avengers based—toy cars or motorcycles, a little rocket ship, hot wheels, a Nerf Gun, new clothes, he really got it all this year. Of course, most of the contribution was from Satoru. The silence stretches, but it feels softer now. The tension, although still there, feels more like a quiet hum in the background, overshadowed by Koji’s happiness.

“Thank you, Mama,” Koji says sleepily, his little voice thick with the exhaustion of the day. “And thank you, Papa.”

Satoru leans in, placing a gentle kiss on the top of Koji’s head. “You’re welcome, bud. Merry Christmas.” He smiles, watching his son begin to put his Spider-Man on top of the motorcycle, sparing a glance back at the tree. It’s then his smile falters. 

“Oh, you forgot two, Koji.”

“Hm?” His son looks up, seeing the two gifts all the way at the back of the tree. Getting so distracted with all his other gifts, he must’ve forgotten about those two. He sets his toys to the side and crawls back onto the floor to reach for the gift bags. Reading the tags, he looks over at you. “Oh, Mama. These are from your friend.” 

When Koji stands up and hands you one of the presents, you’re suddenly reminded. Oh. In a way, you did also forget that Suguru got you and Koji something—just so wrapped up in watching Koji rip apart each of his gifts. You smile faintly, thumbs running over the intricate snowflake patterns. 

“Friend?” Satoru asks, his voice bringing you back to reality. 

Head turning over, you realize that his face has contorted—scrunched up slightly when he holds onto Koji’s gift, reading the name of the receiver. “Suguru?” His eyes meet yours, filled with a tint of disapproval. “When did he get you two something?”

You almost lie, feeling a random burst of gultuness hit you. But it’s gone as soon as it comes. Because Satoru’s voice sounds curlis in a sense, but also suspicious. It makes you feel a little irritated, holding back a light scoff. So what Suguru got you and Koji something? “He came over to drop it off.” 

Maybe that wasn’t the best answer to give. Now Satoru’s body has faced you fully, eyebrow raising like he’s trying to put two and two together. But there’s nothing to put together. “And when was this?”

“A few days ago,” you reply back, firming your intonation. 

Satoru’s gaze narrows ever so slightly, and you can feel the shift in the air between you both. The tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface all evening suddenly intensifies. “A few days ago…” Satoru repeats, his tone now more deliberate.

“Is there a problem?” You ask, mirroring his reaction. 

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, very obviously holding back on something for the sake of his son and the holiday. Shaking his head and giving Koji’s gift back to him. “Nope, no problem.”

You can’t help yourself as you huff under your breath, focusing back on your son as he opens the gift. He gasps, yanking the tissue paper out and revealing a bright, shiny new Spider-Man action figure. His eyes widen with delight as he holds it up to you and Satoru, showing off the intricate details of the toy. "Look, Mama! Look, Papa! It's just like the new one I saw on TV!" He beams, completely oblivious to the lingering tension in the room. “It talks and makes noises and lights up!”

You chuckle softly, finding his excitement endearing. "It's perfect, Koji. You’re going to have so much fun with that."

Satoru, however, seems distracted. He’s still watching you closely, his expression unreadable, though there’s a faint edge to his demeanor. You can tell he's trying to keep his composure, but his mind is clearly elsewhere.

Koji has almost entirely disregarded his previous gifts to play with his new gift, his attention fully focused on the toy in his hands. 

Satoru clears his throat, the subtle sound pulling you back from your thoughts. "So, Suguru came by to drop off gifts...?" His voice carries a tone that’s almost too casual, but you don’t miss the hint of something more in his eyes.

You hold his gaze, the irritation bubbling up again. "Yes, he did. He’s been kind to us." You can’t help the defensiveness that creeps into your voice. "Is that a problem?"

Satoru doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he glances over at Koji, who’s happily occupied with his toy. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before meeting your eyes again. "No, I didn’t say that. I just... I just didn’t know he was so involved."

You feel a knot form in your stomach. The subtle way he’s questioning you, the way his posture tenses every time Suguru’s name comes up—he’s feeling something, and you’re not sure how to read it. Before you can respond, Koji looks up from his toys, his voice full of innocent curiosity. “Is something wrong, Papa? Mama?”

You both turn your attention to him, but the tension doesn’t fully dissipate. You force a smile, trying to keep things light. "No, Koji. Everything’s fine." You reach over to ruffle his hair. "Are you enjoying your presents?"

Koji nods enthusiastically, his smile wide. "Best Christmas ever!" he exclaims. He looks down at your gift. “Open yours, Mama. I wanna see what your friend got you.”

You hesitate, still trying to steady your emotions after the tension with Satoru. “Alright, sweetheart,” you say, holding your gift upright in your lap. Gently peeling away the wrapping, revealing a small, wooden box. The delicate craftsmanship catches your attention immediately. 

Koji’s eyes widen in anticipation. “What’s inside, Mama? What is it?”

You open the box, revealing a small silver pendant shaped like a star, its surface engraved with intricate patterns. It’s beautiful—elegant and simple, a perfect fit for you. You trace your fingers over the smooth edges, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you smile at the thoughtful gesture. It comes with a thin silver chain, a small note underneath it. When you pull it out, it reads: 

“For the one who shines the brightest, even in the darkest of times.”

Your heart skips a beat as you read the words. It’s simple, yet so deeply personal. You trace the note with your fingertips, a mixture of warmth and something else stirring in your chest. You always mocked Suguru in the past for being so corny with his words, you never expected to be on the receiving end of them. And you never expected to blush from it either. 

“Isn’t it pretty, Mama?” Koji asks, his voice filled with genuine excitement. “I think it’s sparkly like the stars!”

You nod. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. I’m sure it’ll look lovely on me,” You slide the pendant into your hand, clutching it for a moment longer before carefully setting it back inside. But, despite your best efforts to keep things together, you can feel the tension building again. Satoru’s look that he fails to hide is getting more on your nerves by the second. He’s acting like he has some right to be upset if his friend is giving you something. He’s acting like it’s a bigger deal than it actually is.

“Are you gonna wear it?” Koji asks, his eyes shining with curiosity. “Papa, won’t Mama look pretty with it?”

You peer over. “Of course, Mama will look pretty with it,” he says with a half-smile that’s forced. “She’s always beautiful, no matter what she wears.”

You scoff this time. What a load of shit. 

Koji squeals, clearly pleased with the answer. “Right, Mama? You’re the prettiest!”

You smile back, feeling warmth in your chest, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, sweetheart,” you mutter softly, trying to keep things light. 

It’s extremely late now. Koji has passed out in his room with the figurine Suguru got him. Satoru and you have cleaned up in complete silence, the awkward tension intensifying even more now that Koji isn’t here to mend that. There’s only the sound of the soft hum of the dishwasher as it runs. You wipe down the counter, your movements mechanical, each action making the silence stretch longer and longer between you. Satoru stands by the sink, wiping down the wet surface around it with a towel, his back to you. But you can feel his presence in the room like a weight pressing down on the air.

Neither of you says anything, the unspoken words piling up between you both. You can feel the tension crawling beneath your skin, just like before, but now there’s no Koji to distract you, no innocent question to break the silence. Just you and Satoru, both avoiding the inevitable conversation that looms in the background. Until he finally has the balls to do something. “He didn’t tell me he was getting you guys something.”

You pause, staring down at the clean surface. “Why would he have to tell you? It’s just a present.” Your hand moves again, moving onto the corner of the granite. 

Satoru bites his tongue, willing himself not to snark back. He turns his body around, eyes digging holes into the back of your head. “I mean, it’s a little strange.”

“How?”

“Because Koji is my son, you’re my ex.”

“So that suddenly means I’m incapable of receiving presents from other men now?” You whirl around, hands on your hips. “What did you say again? Oh, right. ‘Stop getting mad at little things’.” 

Satoru flinches, his jaw tightening at your words. For a moment, he’s caught off guard, not expecting you to snap back so quickly. But he doesn’t back down. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” His voice is low, tight, as if he’s trying to keep his composure. “I just don’t like how...how weird that feels.”

You roll your eyes. “Right, weird, huh?”

“I’m not trying to argue, okay?”

“I’m not arguing either,” you quip back. “But you have no right to act like this is ‘weird’ when it’s not. You have no right to be even curious about who’s giving Koji and I gifts.”

“No right?” He huffs back at you, lip curling up. “I think I have all the right, Y/N. First off, he’s my son. Second off, we used to date. And third off, that’s my best friend. What kind of best friend—”

“Then maybe you should take that up with him.” You cut him off, chin tilting up. It’s getting harder by the second to keep things calm and composed. But Satoru shoving his fat nose into something that doesn’t involve him is testing every bit of patience you have. “I can get a gift from whoever I want, that’s none of your concern.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow as you speak, his grip on the towel tightening, the vein in his neck twitching with barely restrained frustration. “None of my concern, huh?” His voice lowers, the words coming out sharp. “That’s funny, because it seems like everything I do, say, or feel ends up being your concern, whether you want it to be or not.”

You step closer, your heart racing as the anger rises in your chest, pushing against the barriers you’ve built. “Satoru, I’m done pretending like everything we do is some sort of tangled mess that you have the right to control. You’re not my boyfriend anymore, and Koji isn’t the reason I have to explain every little thing to you.”

“I’m not saying you have to.”

“Then just shut the hell up about it already.”

Silence follows. 

The room feels colder now, the weight of your words settling heavily in the space between you. Satoru doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw clenched tightly as he stares at you, his chest rising and falling as if he’s weighing the next words carefully. He’s frustrated, no doubt, but something else lingers beneath it—something deeper, something that neither of you has dared to address.

You stand there, both of you frozen, the only sound the faint hum of the dishwasher and the quiet rhythm of your breathing. It feels as though time has stopped, the tension so thick it’s almost suffocating. Then, slowly, Satoru takes a breath and places the towel down on the counter, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice much softer now, but still tinged with frustration. “I get it. It’s not my place anymore.”

Your lips purse, feeling slightly caught off guard by his quick reluctance to further escalate things. But that’s a good thing, right? Swallowing down anything else, you nod stiffly. Eyes moving down to focus on anything else but him. Your hands awkwardly fiddle together. 

But he never looks away from you. Mind reeling about what to say or do next, fearing that he did in fact make a big deal out of nothing. It’s just presents, that’s it. But the quiet voice in his head nags at him more and more. But why didn’t Suguru say anything? Isn’t it at least some common courtesy to tell your best friend you’re getting his son and ex a gift? Even a simple text would have sufficed. 

But he didn’t do any of that. So Satoru’s brain feels like he tried to hide it—for a reason? He doesn’t know. Maybe he forgot? Still, he doesn’t like the knot that forms in his gut. 

A calming breath is taken to reset his system, shaking his head. Not tonight, not tonight. His fingers reach into the pocket of his coat, feeling a small, square box. He waits for a few seconds, unsure if he should continue on. Nonetheless, he does. Pulling out the little thing, presenting it in front of him. 

He clears his throat, you look back over at him. Head tilting slightly at the sight of the wrapped box with a tiny red bow. “…what is that?”

“My gift to you.” He murmurs out, holding it to you. 

Your eyes widen, mouth parting. No words come out, feeling a multitude of varying emotions. It all ends with you reaching out for the box, shaking it a little. You hear a small clanking. Asking a stupid question like what is it will just keep your wary feelings alive. So, you carefully remove the light wrapping, slowly like you’re scared as to why you’ll see inside. 

You’re not scared. Just more confused. 

“A key?” You question, holding up the gold key in front of your face. It dangles as your vision focuses back on the man in front of you. “What is this for?”

Satoru watches you, his eyes a mix of uncertainty and something deeper, something more vulnerable. He shifts slightly, hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense as if bracing himself for your reaction. “To your new place.” 

Your heart skips a beat at his words. A new place? Your mind struggles to catch up, trying to make sense of the statement. “My new place?” you repeat, still not sure if you heard him correctly.

Satoru nods slowly, his eyes now focused on the key in your hand. “I’ve been looking for something for you. For Koji. A place where you both can be… comfortable. It’s. A nice neighborhood, enough room. There’s a school next by and there’s open spots left.” His voice is steady, but there’s a tinge of something vulnerable in the way he says it—like he’s giving you space to decide, but also hoping for something more.

A rush of conflicting emotions hits you. You look down at the key again, your fingers curling around it as you try to process what he’s saying. “You… got me a place?” You repeat, still in shock over the fact that he went out of his way to do so. 

He shifts his weight, eyes still on the key. “Not just you. A place for you, Koji… and maybe even me, too. When I come to visit sometimes, there’s four bedrooms, one of them can be used as a spare.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Satoru has always been unpredictable, but this—this is different. It feels like he’s offering something more than just a space. It’s a possibility. A chance. But it also feels like an unspoken question, one that you’re not sure how to answer. “I don’t know what to say,” you whisper, looking at the key again. “Why now?”

Satoru steps closer, his expression softer than you’ve seen in a long time. “Because… I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I know I’ve messed things up too for us, and I’m not asking for anything. Just… I thought it might be a good way to start fresh. For you and Koji. And you guys mean a lot to me, I want you to live in a nice space. Not…not somewhere like this. The people look shady.”

You stand there, the weight of his words sinking in. The offer is unexpected, yet strangely comforting. It’s not just about the apartment or the key—it’s about something deeper, something that might hold the possibility of fixing whatever things were broken.

But then, a quiet part of you wonders: Do I want this?

You bite the inside of your cheek, clutching the key tighter in your hand now. You bite the inside of your cheek, clutching the key in your hand now. The smooth, cold metal feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding all the unanswered questions and unresolved feelings between you and Satoru. You glance up at him, his expression open yet guarded, as though he’s trying to brace himself for any answer you might give.

“Satoru...” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what to say.”

He shrugs, though there’s an uneasy tension in his posture. “You don’t have to say anything right now. I just...I wanted to give you something. Something that’s yours.” His gaze flickers to the key in your hand. “No strings, no expectations. Just a place where you and Koji can feel safe. If you don’t want it, I’ll still keep it around if you someday change your mind.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs at something deep within you, but it also makes your heart ache. You swallow hard, your emotions swirling. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this first?” you ask, your tone softer now, though still tinged with confusion.

“Because I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he admits, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured or think it was about me trying to fix everything all at once. It’s not like that. I just... I care about you. And about Koji. And besides, it’s Christmas.” He ends with a small smile, his right dimple peeking out. 

His words hang in the air, filling the silence between you. For a small instant, you don’t respond, your mind racing. This gesture—it’s thoughtful, maybe even selfless—but it’s also overwhelming. You hold the key closer, feeling its edges press into your palm, grounding you in the midst of the emotional storm. Finally, you exhale, your voice steady but quiet. “I need some time to think about this. It’s... a lot.”

Satoru nods, his blue eyes softening. “Take all the time you need. It’s yours, no matter what you decide.” He pauses, glancing toward the door. “Well, I should probably get going.”

Adjusting his coat, he takes one step out the kitchen before you stop him with a hand to his arm. A ring of fire burns up his arm and to his ears, slowly making its way to his cheeks when he looks back down at you. “I…I got you something…too.”

His eyebrows raise, not having expected you to give him something in return. Letting go of his arm, you walk to a small cupboard, reaching in and pulling out a square shaped gift. It’s wrapped in light blue wrapping with a red bow. You hand it to him and he takes it, feeling around. He already has an idea of what it is. 

“Open it when you get back.” You mutter, rubbing the back of your neck. 

He stares quietly for a small time, a hint of a smile almost making its way onto his face again. It’s cute how shy you look right now. Some things never change, do they? He nods, murmuring back. “Okay, thank you.”

With one final hum from you, he heads back to the door. His stomach feeling lighter. You hesitate, watching him turn toward the hallway. “Satoru.”

He stops, looking back at you over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.” Your words are sincere, even if you’re still unsure about everything. “For thinking about us.”

A faint grin tugs at his lips, though there’s a hint of sadness in it. “Always,” he says softly before walking away, leaving you standing there with the key in your hand and your thoughts spinning.

You remain rooted in place, the key dangling lightly in your grip as the door clicks shut behind him. The silence that follows feels deafening. The warmth of the holiday lights around the room does little to ease the cold weight settling in your chest. You sit down at the edge of the couch, staring at the key, your mind replaying Satoru’s words. No strings, no expectations. Just a place where you and Koji can feel safe.

It’s a generous gift, undeniably thoughtful, but it feels complicated—like every other thing in your relationship with Satoru. You know he means well, but the history between you makes it impossible to separate the gesture from the lingering emotions that bind you both. Your gaze shifts to the Christmas tree, now surrounded by Koji’s new toys. You can still picture his bright smile, hear his laughter from earlier in the evening. The thought of giving him a stable home, something truly yours, tugs at your heart. But then there’s the nagging voice in your head, reminding you of the tension tonight—the unspoken conflicts, the unresolved feelings, and the fragile line you and Satoru walk every time you see each other.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch, the key resting in your palm. Your eyes drift to the small silver pendant Suguru gave you earlier. It still sits on the coffee table, catching the warm glow of the Christmas lights. Another kind gesture. Another layer to the mess.

The soft patter of small feet interrupts your thoughts. Koji appears in the hallway, rubbing his eyes sleepily, his Spider-Man toy clutched tightly in one hand. 

“Mama?” he mumbles, his voice groggy. “Why are you still up?”

You quickly set the key on the table, forcing a smile. “Just cleaning up, sweetheart. Is everything okay?” 

He nods, yawning as he climbs onto your lap, resting his head against your chest. “Yes.”

“Did you have a good Christmas?”

“The best Christmas ever.”

You hold him close, brushing his messy hair away from his forehead. “That’s all that matters,” you whisper, kissing the top of his head. But even as you say it, your thoughts drift back to the key—and everything it represents.

Satoru has been staring at the gift—stil wrapped—for about fifteen minutes now. He’s conflicted. Unsure if he wants to know what you got him, or if it’ll bring on something unwanted. The gift sits untouched on the table before him, the wrapping paper shimmering faintly under the soft glow of the Christmas lights. Satoru leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, one hand tangled in his hair as he stares at it. His jaw tightens, then relaxes, his thoughts spiraling in circles.

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long he’s been sitting here, debating whether to open it.

He knows it’s just a gift. A simple, kind gesture. But with everything that’s happened tonight—the tension, the unspoken words, the unresolved feelings—this small box feels heavier than it should. What if it’s something that reminds him of how things used to be? Or worse, what if it’s just a polite, distant gift, a reminder of how far apart you’ve drifted?

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his face. “It’s just a damn gift, Satoru,” he mutters to himself. Yet he doesn’t move, his blue eyes fixed on the box as if it might spring to life and deliver answers to questions he’s too afraid to ask. 

He huffs a reluctant laugh, his hand finally reaching for the gift. His fingers trace the edges of the paper before he carefully begins to unwrap it, the sound of tearing paper filling the quiet room. Beneath the wrapping is a small black box, simple and unassuming. He lifts the top up and it drops to the side. 

His hands still in place, almost beginning to tremble. His breathing shallows, heart thumping quicker than before. Carefully—very carefully—he reaches in. Handling the object with utmost care, bringing it closer to his face. 

Two faces stare back at him. 

His son—undeniably younger, maybe around one year old. He’s being held in your lap, arms secure around his tiny stomach. He looks chubbier, cuter. Wearing a cute Christmas get up. Baby Santa. And when his eyes glaze over to you, he gulps. 

You’re wearing an equally festive outfit. A bright red sweater adorned with little snowflakes and reindeer, a simple black skirt to go with it. Your face is glowing with a smile so genuine, it knocks the breath out of him. Your hair is a little messier, your cheeks flushed with warmth, probably from laughing too much. Koji’s tiny hand clutches at your sweater, and your other hand is raised in a peace sign as you lean closer to him for the photo. 

Satoru’s fingers brush the surface of the photograph, his chest tightening as the memory pulls him under. It looks like a professional photo done, you must’ve gone all out that Christmas. Now, holding it in his hands, it feels like a physical snapshot of a life he had no chance of living in. 

His thumb grazes the edge of the picture frame it’s nestled in. It’s a simple wooden frame, painted white, with the words Our First Christmas Together etched across the top in tiny gold letters.

He lets out a shaky exhale, his vision blurring slightly. He blinks rapidly, trying to push back the emotions clawing at his throat. It’s not just the photograph—it’s what it represents. A time when things were simpler. When the two of you were a family, before everything unraveled. When it was just you and Koji—no room for him. 

The weight of the night presses on him again, harder this time. He feels foolish for hesitating to open the gift, for overthinking it, when you’d given him something so pure. Something so full of love. He pulls the frame in, swallowing hard as he leans back on the couch. He holds it close to his chest. His other hand runs through his hair, tugging slightly as he tries to steady himself. “Why’d you have to go and do this?” he whispers to no one, his voice breaking. He outwardly chuckles—bitter but affectionate. Warm tears sliding down his cheeks and resting atop the wooden frame. His lips press a small kiss to his baby son, and to you. 

Because now, more than ever, he realizes how much he still misses you. And how much he regrets letting it all slip away when he was too young and stupid to think clearly. 

That night when he heads to bed, he sleeps with the picture of his family next to him. Tucked in like it’s a physical being, and in a way, it is. 

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@boothillglazer @miss-dior @miakxn @rjreins

[onetoomanyfandomfixations]

Hazbin Hotel Characters React to You Asking for a Hug (PART 2)

Buckle in bitches, its time for some COMFORT

Lucifer

Guys he’s SO nervous

“Oh really? You, uh, you want a hug from me? Are you sure?”

Nervous laughter 100

Takes a hot minute for him to adjust, but DOES give good hugs

WING HUGS. Y’ALL KNOW HOW I GET ABOUT WING HUGS.

Y’all gotta remember he’s a dad

So good, firm dad hug

His hands are clammy af, but don’t mention that pls

Gives you the opportunity to talk out whatever’s going through your head

Actually has really insightful advice

Like his daughter, honestly so honoured you chose to come to him

Lute

“Must I?”

Begrudging as FUCK

But she’ll do it

If she has to

Stiff, awkward hugs that last for 5 seconds tops

No wing hugs :(

“Human souls are weird”

Tries to teach you how to fight so you can use sparring as a “normal” coping mechanism

Adam

As much as I hate him, would give BANGIN hugs

“Fuck, you wan’ a hug? Fuck yeah bitch, get over here!”

Super enthusiastic about it????

Like, gives you shit, but its still one of the tightest and most excited hugs you’ve ever received

Very very warm

You will probably overheat if you stay there too long

WING HUGS!!!!!!!

Will be extra touchy with you from here on out

Arm around the shoulder, etc

Carmilla

Is she mom, or mommy? Jury’s still out on that one.

Will never ever refuse you if you need a hug

Will, however, try to pull you aside and make it a private moment

Not a big fan on PDA, but your wellbeing takes priority

Makes you rest your head against her chest, no matter how tall you are

If you tell her what’s going on, will fix it

You don’t even need to ask.

She’s gonna check up on you after at LEAST twice

Rosie

Is she mom or mommy part 2: electric boogaloo

Drops EVERYTHING

Ushers you into a sunroom and brews you a pot of tea to share

And grabs snacks, of course

Definitely forgets if cannibalism makes you queasy

Holds you hand from across the table and encourages you to talk it out with her

A lil bit pushy about it, but its from a place of love

But if you need it, will definitely hug you

Another one with bone shattering hugs

Her hands are cold af tho, so beware

Vox

Tbh doesn’t hear you the first time, he’s super focused on whatever else he’s doing

Once he hears you/it registers to him, he’s pretty confused

“Why do you need a hug?”

Only hugs you if y’all are really close

Generally not a touchy person

He won’t stop whatever he’s doing though

Most likely will just sit you in his lap, so he can cuddle And work

Multitasking, bitch

Don’t do it while he’s actively broadcasting though

Super against PDA (bc he’s embarrassed) and will probably snap at you if you break this boundary

Velvette

“Wot. Why?”

Also confused

Like Vox, usually to busy to properly hug you

But will let you stick around and lay all over her while she works

Anyone who questions it dies Very quickly, and Very grotesquely

Very protective

“Babes, do I need to hurt someone? Coz you Know I’ll do it”

Probs takes selfies of you hanging off of her bc she thinks its cute

Will dress you up to try and make you feel better

Valentino

Seek psychological help 💕

I know he’s got a sexy voice, but you know I’m right

[nouearth]

bound to him.

patrick bateman x male reader.

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. drabble [ 1.1k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳established relationship 〳 sexual content: top!patrick, sadist!patrick, bottom!reader, masochist!reader, rough!sex, slapping, bondage, light dom/sub dynamics, throat-fucking, breeding.

It hurts. Everything hurts whenever you were with Patrick Bateman.

Not only did you get a thrill out of being treated like you were a disgrace to society, you encouraged Patrick—to slap you harder until your cheeks welted with splotches of red, to spit on you with a veil of disgust in his expression, to tighten the hemp bounds around your wrists until the teeth of the rope broke flesh with its strength— you had no plans on surrendering to the pain, because you were a good boy.

It was undisputed that you were Patrick’s good boy.

You were a good boy that took Patrick’s large and throbbing dick however he pleased. It made you whimper, when the weight of his heavy cock renewed the sting in your battered cheek. Slapping the fresh wound with his swinging cock. Smearing his pre-cum over your bruises like it was calming ointment. You attempted to persuade Patrick to shift his priorities elsewhere with the enticing opening of your mouth, the lick your lips, but Patrick was always a step ahead of you. Laughed at you, he loved doing that, when he pulled his dick away from your mouth at the last second after agonizing minutes of smelling the scent of his leaking cockhead.

He loved tormenting you, unraveling you into a puddle of despair until your consciousness was only responsive to the simple presence of Patrick and his thick cock. “Please, please, please,” you begged, and through your desperation, Patrick was proud to reward you for your patience. Though, only after branding your cheek with a seething smack.

“Another peep out of you, and I’m throwing you out onto the streets. Don’t interrupt me ever again. Got that, bitch?”

He held your nape and slid himself down your throat in one smooth push. You choked on your own spit, on your own gags as Patrick forced those glorious sounds of regret and distress into the valley of your tight throat. He was negligent of your own well-being, priding himself on the fact that your body was in reserve for Patrick only.

Until his cock was shoved down to the root. Until your swollen mouth was pressed to the well-groomed pubic area of his body. Until he could feel your throat tighten in futile attempts to swallow his dick down. Until you were in tears because you were at the brink of blacking out. Patrick held your neck tighter, slapping your cheeks in both wonder and in rapture. Ten seconds became twenty. Twenty seconds became forty. A minute becomes two. Copious amounts of drool was leaking out of the corners of your mouth, dripping onto his satin sheets—you were absolutely going to pay for that mess.

And you happily will, because you were Patrick’s good boy.

Once he was done throat-fucking you, you should be surrendering, weakly waving a white flag in the air because Patrick had gone too far. You should be begging for mercy, to be let go, to be freed from the ropes that bound you to his headboard. It wasn’t like you could escape, all you could do was tug. Tug hard at the ropes, twist until the friction had seared marks onto your wrists, but it was all hopeless, the headboard wouldn’t budge. Not a single wobble. You could see wrath and lust in Patrick’s gaze when he pushed your legs back ‘till your knees touched your chest, and right there, this was your chance to escape. You should demand him to stop before it was too late—but you didn’t, because why would you?

Why would you want the pain to stop, when you haven’t gotten a taste of what true pain felt like? When Patrick breached your unprepared hole in one strong thrust, it knocked the tears out of you and stunned you into silence. You felt meek, full of shame and guilt because you were losing yourself to this man’s violent need to completely rapture you like you were some kind of roadkill. Your cock throbbed in excitement as Patrick battered your insides, fucking like he could bruise your gut and see the color bloom at the most tender spots on your body.

He was big, he was so fucking big, and your hole was gripping him, pleading for him to slow down, but that only aroused Patrick, driving his cock forward and back harder, ripping your ass into two. Faster. Harder. Slamming the headboard into the wall with the impact of his thrusts. Smacking his strong, toned thighs against the back of your sweaty legs. It felt like a thousand pin-needles prickling your thighs, then at your face, when Patrick smacked you out of the blue—because he can.

Again, because he owned you.

Again, because you would take it like a good boy.

Again, because you came without his permission.

And again, because although he would never admit it, you looked so pretty crying, splattering cum all over your body while begging for him to hit you harder for the happy accident.

You were taking him, letting Patrick bury his juicy cock inside of you to the root. Churning your hole like he was on a mission to gut you until he was left with shattered bones to fuck. Your piercing cries echoed in the room. Patrick’s large shaft unrelenting and unforgiving, punching your prostate more than a multiple of times to milk your orgasm.

Patrick fucked you with deep strokes, fiery passion in his eyes, veins pulsing from biceps to forearms, sweat stuck to his fringe briefly before he pushed them back to free his vision—because he grunted with completion. He needed to see the marbling of your eyes, the pair rolling back into your eye sockets as he filled your violated hole with warm and thick seed. His hands on your hips were bruising, nails digging into your skin while he rocked your body into his cock, creaming your insides until his balls had tightened from the emptiness. You could feel your hole leaking with his cum, trickling out of you like a combusted can of whipped cream.

Then all was quiet as Patrick caught his breath, staring at your bounded wrecked body like it was slaughtered meat hung up to dry-age. His fingers ran over your ribs, smearing your splatters of cum from one side to the other, nails scraping over your collarbones, then scoffed.

“Don’t you think you should be punished for coming before me? I ought to rope that bitch cock of yours. Open your mouth.”

He was lethal, and you knew he wasn’t good for you, but you couldn’t get enough. You would do anything for him. You were afraid of the person he had turned you into, all by means of his abuse, of his large cock, but you were too far gone.

You were devoted to Patrick, loyal, and honorable.

And most importantly, you were his.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[multiheadcanons]

MERCS AT THEIR WORST.

scout: what a dickhead. and he doesn’t even do anything to earn the bragging rights. so he’s just a little twat, running around really fast and fucking shit up and never in a way that it’s needed. cocky, and stupid, and so vapid. its not even worth giving him the attention, it’s like willingly letting a family of cockroaches into your home and throwing garbage on the ground as a welcome gift. and he’s annoying. there is never a time he can actually shut the fuck up unless he’s dead. and he’d be better off dead.

soldier: the rudest man you’ll ever meet. and violent. like, “maybe you shouldn’t be around him unarmed” kind of violent. the “you also shouldn’t let him know that you are armed” kind of violent. he is going to see that as a challenge. he is looking for a fight. he’s looking for blood. and he’ll get it from anyone. he’s an opportunist. known to commit random acts of assault on vulnerable people. disrespectful, hateful, and paranoid. he will lure you to him with a false sense of normalcy, and he will hurt you if you fall for it. but soldier is a bad actor. and he’s rabid. put a bullet between his eyes before he gets this far. sometimes he needs to remember death is an option off the field for him, as well. he just gets too big for his britches, sometimes.

pyro: so pyro is an actual wanted criminal, who’s bounty for their capture is only growing. and when pyro is at their worst, the money looks real nice. overbearing, clingy, and annoying, dealing with pyro is like dealing with a toddler. you might actually have better luck with a toddler. a toddler can’t kill you. but pyro will scream, cry, throw shit, and then decide that they don’t like you anymore because you said you had to leave. and anymore is permanent. you’re not leaving. they’re stubborn, they’re easily offended, and they have a penchant for blaming the wrong person when things go south. and then they get mad. just keep in mind the police are three numbers away.

demo: see, tavish is a god amongst men. tavish is universally a bright, lively man. which is why he fucking sucks when he’s lazy. tavish is a force, a raging wave in a vicious storm at sea. seeing demo at an energy level lower than four is surreal. its like looking at a lion in a cage. it’s cool, in a way. to be so close to something that is known for its fiery nature in such a calm state. and then you start wondering if he got lobotomized or something. and no becomes his favorite word. he doesn’t want to do that. he doesn’t want to go there. that sounds exhausting. he doesn’t want to eat that. he just lays around all day and eats trash and drinks. one would even dare call him a loser. but that word very specifically sets him off. which is odd, because demo doesn’t really react to insults often. it gets his ass off the couch, anyway. so maybe he should be called it more.

heavy: it’s better to just not interact with him, because misha isn’t there. whoever is is cold. and curt. not quite rude, but it’s not what you know him to be capable of. and when you think about it, it’s exactly what you know him to be capable of. you just don’t want to remember it’s there. solitary, and defensive about it. and so quiet. and, if you’re brave enough to steal a glance, when you look at his eyes, they’re hollow. and you can see a spark when he is mentioned, or interacted with. he extinguishes it himself. he doesn’t want to be here. just leave him be.

engineer: what an irritant. prissy, egotistical, and huffy when he doesn’t get his way… get away from this guy. such an uptight asshole. and the worst part is he’s a fucking hypocrite. none of this would be an issue if he wasn’t the world’s biggest hypocrite. he will bitch and moan and whine and complain, and then do everything he just chastised. but because he’s got a superiority complex, it’s fine when he does it. a “rules for thee, not for me” kind of guy, even when there’s no reason for him to get preference or priority. and he’s a slob. nasty ass egghead ass loser. that’s why he’s 4’11”.

medic: get away from him. this is not a joke. there is no telling what he will do when he’s like this. he is not safe to be around. obsessive, possessive, and aggressive about it. he’s suffocating and overbearing to be around. and if you try to get out of his radius of influence he will physically drag you back. you don’t get to leave until he tells you to leave. and he never realizes when he’s getting worse, because he shrugs off criticism on a good day. he gets downright combative in a bad mood. and he’s so mean. he says hurtful things to watch your face fall. he knocks you down because he hates how he built you up. he gets madder when you don’t react. he starts to up the ante and he won’t stop unless you hate him. he might just kill you. line crosser, double crosser, bridge burner, and paranoid about the consequences. but not paranoid enough to not do it.

sniper: sniper is the best— wrong word. most adjusted man on the team. sniper’s worst is some of these mercenaries’ average day. he’s bitchy, he’s bitter, he’s mean, even. nothing’s fun and nobody should be happy. and he resource guards like a son of a bitch. he takes health and ammo packs because he wants to, and not because he’s running low. he just doesn’t want anyone else to have it. and he picks more fights with his teammates than with his opponents. and when he’s alone in his van for the night, he realizes damn… he was an asshole today. and it cost his team, even if they won the battle. it didn’t have to be that difficult. he didn’t have to be that difficult. he’s pretty self aware of when he is slipping, and he tries to make it up the next day. he still bitches pretty loudly, though.

spy: nobody sees spy at his worst. nobody will ever see spy at his worst. he sleeps through it. sleeps through battle. sleeps through contracts. wakes up long enough to piss, shit, eat whatever garbage he can find, smoke a cigarette or three and go back to sleep. sleeps through the banging on his bedroom door. sleeps through the team coming into his room to make sure he’s even alive. and the worst part is, when the team sees him this way, they breathe easier. they can actually locate him. the base can get lively. he’s not permanently dampening everything with his standoffish attitude and dickhead tendencies. but he doesn’t know. he sleeps through it.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part seven)

warnings ; they’re speaking through sex again :’( slight choking, slapping (it’s one time!), they talk through the entire sexual encounter except she’s just being a bitch and so is he, unprotected sex

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; three things. 1) i may have taken it too far. 2) midnight rain by tswift should be your preferred song for this chapter. 3) this is actually the longest part of tpod. idk where we took a left turn chat but we did. i swear i didn’t mean to make this part as solemn as i did but as we near the end of tpod (tears.), i felt like it was only right to understand oc at her core so here’s the result of that. also — to understand where i got jungkook’s backstory with his parents from, this tiktok is a good place to start!

playlist here

series masterlist here

No one warns you that the final stretch is the most brutal. That success feels just as suffocating as failure when the entire world is watching.

The campaign is nearly done. Months of work, endless negotiations, photoshoots, and strategy meetings all culminating. It’s the moment where everything either clicks like a symphony or combusts in front of the entire fashion world.

Your inbox has been a battlefield. Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing, notifications piling on top of more notifications until it feels like your brain has been rewired into a crisis-response machine. There’s always something, always someone asking, demanding, needing. Your calendar bleeds red with the words URGENT. FINAL. APPROVAL NEEDED. Stores in Milan are delayed, Tokyo wants new creative, LA’s billboard specs aren’t matching the mockups.

Every second is accounted for, every breath calibrated. Still, it’s not enough. There’s not enough hours in the day, not enough you to go around. You take passion in every single project you’ve ever spearheaded — and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Jeon Jungkook has some entanglement with your priorities.

Every single frame, every image of Jungkook’s face stretched across Times Square, across Paris, Seoul, London, has to be perfect. It has to work.

You really should be relieved this is all coming to an end shortly. Each campaign you work on gets more tedious, takes more out of you mentally, but somehow this time the relief makes it nowhere near your brain.

The strangest thought keeps entering your consciousness, and you have trouble shaking it out — you can’t tell if you’re more afraid of it ending or it continuing forever.

When this campaign ends, so does everything else. The excuses. The built-in justifications for why he’s still around. There’ll be no more moments where his thigh brushes yours and he pretends not to notice. No more mornings on set where he leans too close and murmurs “Did you sleep?” like he didn’t spend the night in your bed.

The truth is louder than every thought you’ve had in the past week. The problem isn’t that you’ve slept with him.

It’s that you haven’t stopped.

Every spare moment, every sliver of stillness not swallowed by meetings or mayhem or managerial fires, you spend with him. It started innocently enough; one night, when you couldn’t sleep and had downed two bottles of apple soju alone in your hotel room, you knocked on his door and asked if you could sleep in there. Technically, you could blame it on soju and loneliness and ‘he was just there’.

But then it happened again… and again. And now it’s every night.

In his hotel room, where his bedframe slams against the walls multiple times before you have to yell at him to stop it before the people next door hears.

In his trailer, where you tell yourself you’re just checking on wardrobe or last-minute adjustments (even though clothes have never been part of your job description), only to end up with your skirt bunched around your hips and his cock pounding up into you.

In your hotel room, where he shows up unannounced, backs you against the wall, and makes you forget why you ever built walls in the first place.

You keep having to tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t stop insisting it’s just sex. Just stress relief. Just bodies crashing into each other because neither of you have time to feel anything else.

You’re a terrible liar, always have been. You could never even get away with sneaking an extra rice cake as a kid; your mother would take one look at your face, at the twitch of your mouth or the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeves, and sigh like she was exhausted by how transparent you were. You’d try to deny it anyway, cheeks flushed, the truth practically dripping off your skin. She’d just shake her head and say, “Don’t lie if you can’t carry it.”

With Jungkook, it’s not just twisted idea of sexual release anymore.

He brushes the hair off your face when he thinks you’re asleep. His fingers trace idle circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to move. He lingers around you, waits for you.

It’s not like you’re any less guilty. Your hands find him without thinking. Your head always fits perfectly on his chest. Your breath evens out the second you hear his voice.

You hate that this messy, reckless, undeniably complicated situation has somehow become a place you seek out, a weakness you swore you didn’t have.

For all the chaos, all the pressure, all the madness of a global campaign hanging by a thread, he’s the only part of it that feels like breathing.

You’re already two coffees deep and three interns down by 10 a.m. The first one had emailed you a question you answered in the kickoff deck. The second brought you the wrong mockup. The third called you ma’am.

Your phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since sunrise, updates from 4 different countries, each ping a reminder that the final rollout is less than a breath away. You can practically hear the plastic peeling off the billboards, the glass being polished on storefront displays.

You haven’t eaten or even blinked. Your brain is a latticework of numbers, dates, time zones, PR contingencies, and the endless, echoing drumbeat of what if it all falls apart.

You’re seated at the long glass table in the Calvin Klein Seoul office, surrounded by executives from three continents. Stylists, art directors, logistics leads, all of them watching you click through the final rollout deck you spent all night walking through, dressed in Jungkook’s oversized t-shirt, while he had watched you with a little glimmer in his eyes . You’re walking them through the launch cadence, slide by slide, one city at a time. “And when the Seoul flagship hits its first 24 hour mark, we immediately cue the social media team to drop another teaser—”

The wooden door creaks opens. You don’t dare look up. You can already feel it, that little shift in the air, the flicker of attention from the far end of the room, executives perking up at the sight. Something in your chest tenses before your brain catches up.

The person doesn’t interrupt or make a sound. They slide into the room like smoke under a door, low-profile but impossible to ignore.

Without a word or so much as a glance at you, you realize Jungkook sets something down beside you. It’s a paper bag, small, folded once at the top. No label. No note. Just… placed at the edge of your space like it belongs there.

Your words catch mid-sentence. Your mouth stays open, but your voice doesn’t follow.

You keep talking. At least, you think you do. The rest of the sentence escapes your mouth, but it doesn’t sound like you anymore. Because then your gaze snags on him in your peripheral vision; black hoodie, Calvin Klein embroidery at the sleeve, hands in his pockets like he’s some kind of sniper, and your nerves flare like firecrackers in the pit of your stomach.

He moves slowly behind the row of seated execs, ducking his head slightly in polite apology, brushing past some stylist from Paris and the campaign director from London.

You stare down at the bag as if it’s a live grenade. Somehow you already know what’s inside. The shape gives it away. The crinkle of the wrapper when he set it down. The faint, familiar scent.

You only mentioned it once a few days ago.

Late at night, half-asleep, your cheek pressed to his chest, his tattoos warm beneath your fingers, you were tracing one lazily when you said it, half a joke, half a memory. Something about how your mom used to buy you honey-butter rice crackers from a specific stall near Jagalchi Market. You hadn’t had them in years. You didn’t think they even existed anymore. You also didn’t think he was listening.

Certainly not enough to track them down, to bring them here, to drop them beside you in a boardroom full of Calvin Klein power players like it was nothing. Like this isn’t about to ruin you in ways you don’t have the language for.

Because now, your voice is gone, stomach is in knots and your heart is doing something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

You force yourself to keep going, click to the next slide, pretend that your hands aren’t shaking. Pretend you’re not unraveling, one honey-butter memory at a time.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your hotel room in Korea is technically five-star; minimalist, modern, all black slate and cool steel, with blackout curtains that seal out the city and a minibar stocked with items that probably cost more than your old New York rent.

But tonight, it feels lived-in.

Your heels are discarded near the entryway, blouse tossed over the arm of the chair without a second thought. The table is cluttered with evidence of your unraveling; printouts, lipsticks without caps, a mangled pen you’ve been chewing to death all week. Three water bottles, none of them finished. A wrinkled Post-it with the wrong font code scribbled in your own handwriting. A half-eaten package of the honey butter cookies you and Jungkook shared a few moments earlier. You can’t remember when the room got like this. You just know it reflects some incredibly disorganized part of your brain.

And in the middle of it all, there’s Jungkook. Or rather, you, under him.

Jungkook’s mouth is warm against your skin, dragging slow along your neck, his lips parting slightly as he kisses the hollow just beneath your collarbone. The mattress dips under his weight, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding down the curve of your waist, fingers splayed. You arch into him before you can stop yourself, chest rising to meet him.

He hums low, the sound buzzing where his mouth meets your skin. “Stress looks good on you.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Shut up.”

He chuckles quietly, his nose nudging just under your jaw, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and already dizzy. “..For what?” you manage to get out.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, dark eyes glittering. “Your snack.”

God, there it is again. That stupid flutter. That microscopic internal panic. That ache in your chest you keep calling indigestion.

You groan, dropping your head back into the pillow. “You can’t do that.”

His brow lifts, completely unbothered. “Do what?”

You shove at his shoulder playfully, “You know what. You can’t just bring me something like that, not in front of the team.”

He blinks with wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—” you flail, exasperated, “weird. It’s unprofessional. It’s—”

“It’s not like I kissed you in front of them,” He shrugs.

Your mouth drops open. “Jeon Jungkook.”

He grins, his even stupider bunny teeth poking out with no remorse. “Wait, should I have? I can schedule it for tomorrow if that’s easier for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. I could do a casual peck in the meeting room. Or, I don’t know, something soft and respectful, like neck biting.”

Your hand flies up to cover your face, laugh muffled against your palm, already hating how much he’s getting to you. “You are the worst.”

“And yet, here I am,” he says with a shameless grin as he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, brushing it with a kiss that feels deceptively light. “Feeding you. Stressing you out more. What a catch, huh?”

You don’t laugh at that. The truth is, you’re still thinking about it. The snack. The paper bag. The quiet way he placed it beside you like it was nothing, like it didn’t detonate right there on the boardroom table, splitting something open inside you so violently it still hasn’t settled. It could’ve been nothing, could’ve been a small, forgettable passing gesture. And for a moment, it was. Until suddenly it wasn’t and it was the idea that he’s noticing you, listening to you, remembering.

You’re not sure anyone ever has before.

You can’t want that. You’ve spent your entire career making sure you didn’t need that.

His mouth is on you again, trailing lower. Warm lips, slow kisses, fingertips slipping beneath the wire of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

You feel yourself slipping again. The thread you were holding onto, gone. His touch undoing whatever discipline you had left.

And then, as if he can hear the chaos in your head, he murmurs against your ribs, “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“You’re being too annoying,” you snap, though it comes out weaker than intended, barely hanging on to its own conviction. What a comeback. Are you 5? Is this a playground? Is your crush really biting your collarbone while you pretend it’s not affecting you?

He hums against your skin, teeth grazing before he bites, your spine curving into him involuntarily. His mouth keeps moving, lower now, and you pathetically keep talking.

It’s not in full thoughts or arguments that matter. Just stray words, loose complaints, flung into the air between shallow breaths and the rising ache in your throat.

“You’re not funny,” you murmur, voice barely there as his lips ghost along the slope of your ribs.

“Never said I was,” he mutters back.

“And I still think you shouldn’t have brought that snack—”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s weird,” you go on, even as your fingers curl in the sheets, “It’s too thoughtful. You don’t get to do that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook, you—”

“Baby,” he says, and the word lands like a spark. “Shut up.”

You blink at him, not because it’s crude or sharp or surprising — he’s said worse to you in moments less intimate — but because it works. His hand slides up your side, fingers spreading across your ribs like he’s calming you.

“I’m trying to kiss you,” he whispers, mouth brushing beneath your breast now. “And you’re out here giving a speech.”

Your jaw drops at him, and you stare, half-shocked, half-infuriated. “You are so—”

But the sentence breaks apart in your mouth before it can land, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You’re too wired on the cocktail of adrenaline and intimacy and all the feelings you’ve been swallowing down like pills you can’t afford to miss.

You opt for the kindergartener route you have going for you, and shove him. He barely has time to react before you’re pushing him onto his back, straddling him, arms folded tightly across your chest like you’ve just declared emotional war.

He looks up at you from the mattress wide-eyed, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen from the trail he’d been tracing down your body.

“I’m grumpy now,” you announce, “And it’s your fault.”

Jungkook pauses in his tracks, and then he laughs. It’s a real expression, cracking open the air between you like it’s never carried tension at all.

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “You think this is funny?”

“I think,” he says as his hands slide slowly up your thighs, “you’re so hot when you’re pissed off.”

You scoff, but you don’t move. “You think everything I do is hot.”

“Because it is.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

Lightly, his thumbs press against your skin, steady and unrepentant. “Especially when you’re annoying.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, and his hands stay exactly where they are. It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to lean in, waiting for whatever version of you breaks first.

Before you can stop them, your lips twitch. “Fine,” you roll your eyes, the words dragging reluctantly out of your mouth. “Maybe I do talk too much.”

He grins ridiculously wide and so outrageously beautiful it makes your stomach twist in protest. “Told you.”

You roll your eyes again, but it’s half-hearted now. You’re already caving. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes still locked on yours, like he’s enjoying every second of this unraveling. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “It’s already there.”

And then you kiss him again, desperately in a way you’ll hate yourself for later. It’s full of every word you won’t let yourself say, every truth lodged somewhere between your chest and throat, caught like a warning. Because if you keep talking, you’ll say too much. And if he keeps listening, really listening, he might hear it.

You kiss him like it’s the only way to shut yourself up.

You’re still straddling him, knees digging into the mattress, hands sliding up over his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt that’s too soft, too in the way, too much when all you want is skin and something to grip onto when the rest of your world keeps spinning.

His mouth moves with yours, not in a hurry at all. Yet for some reason your lips cannot stop flapping even as he kisses you like he’s trying to teach you silence.

You mutter between breaths, the words slipping out faster than you can catch them, strung together by nerves and some long-forgotten version of logic. Half-formed thoughts. More pointless complaints. The last flailing attempts to keep control in a situation where you’ve already lost it.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, teeth grazing his bottom lip as your lips move against his.

He laughs into the kiss warmly “Is this foreplay?”

“Want it to be?” you murmur, already leaning in again. Your mouth finds his like it’s been waiting all day (Mostly because it has.)

He hums lowly, tongue dragging down the sharp line of your jaw. “We could at least make it original,” he whispers, and you feel his teeth brush your pulse point.

“You make everything complicated,” you breathe out, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, your nails dragging slightly over the skin of his stomach.

“And you,” he says, “make everything dramatic.”

You pull back enough to shoot him a look, the kind that could kill if your blood wasn’t already on fire. “You kiss me with that dirty mouth?”

Jungkook smiles infuriatingly and raises his arms without a word. You yank his shirt off in one swift motion and toss it aside like it’s offended you just by existing.

He’s bare beneath you; golden skin, lean muscle, smooth lines and sharp edges. He’s the kind of stunning that should get less shocking with time, but it doesn’t. No matter how many times you’ve seen him like this, it still stops you for a second.

Looking at him like this, laid out beneath you, like you’re the one with the upper hand, it does something to you. His thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles into your skin, gentle in a way that feels unearned.

“You’re staring,” he says softly.

“I’m thinking,” you retort a little too quickly, fingers dragging over the center of his chest.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Thinking about what?”

You shrug, playing it off like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs. “About how stupid you are.”

And he laughs again, head tipping back, throat exposed. “You know,” he says, still catching his breath, “most people find better ways to compliment me.”

You shut him up with your mouth, kissing down his neck, biting lightly at his collarbone, your hands moving with purpose now. He groans, his hips twitching beneath you, but he doesn’t stop you.

But even with his body under yours, even with your hips beginning to grind slowly into his lap, even with all that heat simmering between your thighs, your thoughts won’t quit. They spin like a storm behind your eyes.

You actually have no idea what the fuck you are going to do when, in a short amount of time, you kiss goodbye whatever this is between you and Jungkook.

This arrangement, this twisted little thing you swore was temporary and physical, has spiraled into something else entirely.

You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to know better. Actually, you do know better.

But how do you walk away from the only thing that makes sense when everything else is spinning? How do you stop when his hands are on your waist and his mouth is stealing the air from your lungs and the only time you feel like yourself is when you’re pressed against him like this?

Now it’s going to be a bitch to walk away from. Somewhere between “just this one time” and the fifth time you woke up in his arms, it stopped being casual. Somewhere between a breathless fuck in his trailer and that stupid paper bag left beside you in the middle of a meeting, it became a cautionary tale for everything you’ve ever believed in.

And for just a second, you wonder if maybe this is what being alive is supposed to feel like. It’s a thought you shove down the moment it surfaces, because god, how cliché. How humiliating. You’ve spent your whole life rolling your eyes at that exact kind of sentiment. At those stupid American rom-coms where the grand romantic arc begins with a spilled coffee and ends in a rain-soaked confession at JFK. You’ve never been that girl. Never wanted to be. You don’t believe in fate or big love declarations at airport gates. You believe in cause and effect, in strategy.

You barely notice when his hand finds the clasp at the back of your bra, his fingers moving deliberately slow like he knows what it means for a woman like you to let someone like him this close to something soft.

The straps slip off your shoulders, snag at your elbows, then fall. Somewhere between the edge of the bed and the frayed edge of your sanity, it’s gone.

You’re bare on top of him now, and his eyes are on you, trailing over every inch like he can’t decide where to look first.

And then because you’re an idiot with a long-standing habit of self-sabotage, you open your mouth again

“So,” you start, “how many girls have you done this with on a press tour?”

He stills, hands pause on your waist. His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to make sense of the sudden shift. “I’m sorry,” he deadpans, confused. “What?”

You blink down at him. “You know. Girls on your team. Staff. Stylists. Whoever.”

His brows lift slowly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s weighing whether to be amused or offended. “You want to talk about this,” he murmurs, “right now?”

His hands move again, this time sliding up your front, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before cupping them fully. The way he touches you is infuriatingly natural, clearly enjoying the contradiction of you scolding him while arching into his hands.

“I just think it’s a valid question,” you reply, which would sound far more convincing if you weren’t already tilting your hips forward.

He raises a brow. “While you’re straddling me? Shirtless? After kissing my neck two minutes ago?”

You glare, unamused. “Answer the question.”

Jungkook sits up slightly, bringing your bodies flush, his chest against yours, his lips brushing the curve of your collarbone as he speaks.

“If I did…” he begins, mouth skimming the edge of your shoulder, “would you be jealous?”

You scoff, but the sound lacks any real bite. “I just want to know what kind of PR nightmare I’ll be cleaning up next.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” You clarify.

“You are,” he exhales, his mouth now at your throat, “And it’s adorable.”

You want to fight back but his lips are moving down your chest. His teeth graze the swell of your breast, and then tongue follows. Argument folds in on itself. Brain goes brrr.

Whatever the answer was, it doesn’t matter. Right..?

You slide off his lap just long enough to push your skirt down, the fabric gliding over your hips and slinking down your legs in one smooth motion. It falls to the floor, pooling quietly beside his forgotten shirt like it’s grateful to be dismissed.

You’re back on top of him, barely even clothed, one flimsy thong on your body, saying things you shouldn’t say in a voice that sounds dangerously close to jealousy.

“I mean,” you murmur, your hips shifting enough to feel him through the frustrating layers still separating you, “it wouldn’t surprise me.”

He tenses beneath you, but you keep going because you’re already too far gone. “You’re always surrounded by women,” you continue, even as your fingers curl into his shoulders. “Stylists… assistants… makeup artists practically sitting in your lap. All of them obsessed with you.”

His grip on your thighs tightens. “And you…” you breathe, eyes locked on his as you roll your hips once, “you like being adored, don’t you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are half-lidded, his mouth parted like he wants to answer, like he might, but the words never quite make it out.

You don’t even know why you keep talking. The longer you speak, the more ridiculous it sounds. The more foreign it feels coming out of your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself like this — you are not inherently petty or insecure. You know damn well who you are.

You don’t need the answer to any of this. Because he already gives you everything else. When you rock your hips again, his breath stutters. His hands slide up your sides, fingertips skimming your ribs like he doesn’t know whether to stop you or pull you closer. You brace your hands on his chest, breath halting in your throat.

He exhales sharply as if he’s been holding it in since the moment you climbed back onto him. “Jesus,” he chokes, head tilted back, throat working as he swallows hard.

He still hasn’t touched you the way you want him to. Still hasn’t said the thing you’re almost certain is sitting right there on his tongue.

Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, your arms wrapping around his neck like your body’s already decided you’re staying, even if your mouth is still trying to fight its way out.

God, your mouth. It’s still poking at bruises that might not even be there.

“I mean, I’m sure they all throw themselves at you,” you speak against his jaw, your lips brushing the curve of it “You’re famous. You’re pretty. You walk into a room and girls practically trip over themselves to be noticed. Of course they want you.”

“And I bet you let them,” you whisper, quieter now. “I bet you don’t even have to try. Just one look and—”

“Okay,” he says finally. “Where are you going with this?” It’s not a snap, more of a low, tired rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

You freeze, arms still looped around his neck, “Your dick’s been inside me, Jungkook. God forbid I be curious.”

He exhales slowly like he’s not sure whether to laugh or call you out again. Instead, he reaches for his waistband, shoves his pants down far enough to get them off with your help, your hands sliding down his thighs, helping even as the tension between you simmers.

He shakes his head, lips twitching with disbelief. “So, what, should I start asking about your history too?”

You shrug, eyes locked on his, your legs bracketing his hips again like the conversation isn’t tearing you open. “I’m an open book,” you say, voice too calm to be sincere. “Ask me whatever.”

His hands find your waist, fingers gripping tighter now, your clothed core dragging over the thick line of his cock through his boxers, and the sound he makes isn’t quite a moan but it’s not far off.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head back, eyes dark. “You fuck other guys like this, then?”

You don’t answer with words. You respond with another slow grind, as the weight of what’s really being asked sinks into the silence between you. “I could,” you say, the lie slipping out so fast it almost convinces even you.

The truth is actually laughable. You haven’t had a good fuck before Jungkook, not in months. Not since that work trip to Dubai, when you let some stranger talk his way into your hotel room after a rooftop dinner and two glasses of wine you barely tasted. It was fine, technically. He was attractive, charming enough, said all the right things. You came. You faked it the second time. You deleted his number from your phone the next morning.

And yet, that dude still texts you sometimes when he’s bored and nostalgic. The thought makes your stomach turn.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe to win. Maybe to deflect. Maybe because if you keep reaching for the upper hand, you won’t have to admit how far beneath him you already feel.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift right away. He inhales, sharp and deep through his nose like he’s swallowing back whatever instinct is clawing its way up his throat.

“Yeah?” he says, almost calm. “Are they here right now?”

Before you can answer, his hands are on your waist, pushing you back enough to slide you out from under him a little. He shoves his boxers down with a kind of frustrated urgency, his cock springing free and slapping hard against the taut line of his abs.

You already know what kind of sex this is going to be. The kind where no one says what they mean. The kind where jealousy and resentment and desire all tangle into something loud and wordless. To put it very nicely, he’s going to fuck the attitude right out of you.

But you’re past the point of caring. You’re on a blind rampage now, the dam cracking wide open, and whatever damage comes next, you’ll deal with it later.

“We can call them up if you want,” you snap, teeth bared in something that’s not quite a smile.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes locked on yours with a look that is so far from the man who brought you your favorite childhood snack in a paper bag. “Let’s fucking do that, why don’t we?,” he growls, as his hand moves up and down, “Call them up right now. Let’s see if they fuck you as good as me.”

You kick your panties off, flinging them somewhere toward the foot of the bed without a second thought. There’s this self-destructive little ache that lives just beneath your skin, the one that wants to push him until he snaps. That sadistic little part of you that’s already soaking wet from how far you’ve pushed him, and how much further you plan to go.

He asked a question earlier you have to ponder: Is this foreplay? It has to be. Because if it’s not, then what the hell is it? A psychological experiment? An Olympic sport in emotional repression? Some new form of torture designed specifically for overachieving women with control issues and a deeply repressed praise kink?

Either way, it’s working. Your body is humming, your brain has turned into jell-o, and your dignity is already halfway to hell. So yeah. If it’s not foreplay, it’s a very convincing impersonation.

“Hm,” you hum as you settle over his lap again, letting your fingers graze his chest for balance. “One time, this guy had my legs on his shoulders, I nearly had my feet on the wall behind me.”

The lie drips from your tongue like a challenge. His jaw flexes at the words,pressing the tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it through your slick. You both moan in an unrestrained, ugly, desperate fashion.

“Oh, really?” he grits, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness again,“Didn’t we do that two nights ago?”

You bite your lip, fighting a whimper that threatens to shatter the act. “Did we?” you murmur, dumbfounded, “I don’t remember.”

You’re playing with fire. You know it. The look in his eyes is a warning — you’re as good as dead.

“Don’t worry,” he growls, his voice scraping over your skin like sandpaper, his tip circling your clit, “this is just my nighttime shift. Probably gonna call Jennie tomorrow. It’s been a minute.”

He’s hit something raw now, a nerve buried so deep beneath your indifference, you didn’t even know it was there. Because you don’t care about Jennie. You don’t. You’re not even sure if they ever actually fucked. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. They probably did. Right?

Why wouldn’t they?

They looked close enough together. Seemed to be the kind of comfortable that doesn’t just happen unless you’ve seen someone naked or nearly naked or laughing in your hotel bed at two in the morning.

You moan involuntarily as the head of his cock slides over your clit, the friction sparking between your hips that makes your fingernails dig into his shoulder. “Y–Yeah?” you gasp as your body clenches around nothing. “Is she as good as me?”

“Sometimes,” he fires back. He presses in, just the tip. Your mouths both fall open like it’s instinct. “You play your cards right tonight,” he grits, breath hitching as his fingers bruise into your hips, “and I’ll bump you up to my number one option.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to sob into his shoulder and tell him you’re sorry, even though you don’t know what for.

You feel so full and he’s barely inside you. “Hnnh, fuck,” you exhale, trying to blink through the haze. You’re bleeding pride and panic and can’t let him win, so you say the worst thing possible. “You know,” you bite your lip to restrain another moan, “we’re thinking of doing another idol for the next campaign.”

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits.

“Might go with Mingyu.”

You twist the knife all the way in. “He’s fucking hot.”

You feel his body go still, every muscle wound tight.

You don’t even know why you said it. You just remember reading something on a gossip site once, some stupid headline about the ‘97 line’ and how close they all were. You don’t really get it. Also don’t really care.

“Yeah?” he grits out, the words slipping between clenched teeth, “Fuck. You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

His head falls back for a beat, jaw tight, breath ragged. “Why are you doing this to me?”

It’s not a threat or even anger. He’s genuinely asking, vulnerable in a way you’re not ready for. You’ve taken it too far, and you know it.

You always know it, right before you feel the consequences.

You sink down fully onto his cock, guided by the firm, trembling grip of his hands on your waist. Your body jolts from the stretch, from the violent relief of finally having him inside you again.

Jungkook fills you slowly, inch by inch, and your walls flutter around him tightly. You’re already clenching around him when he speaks again,, every word punctuated with a thrust that makes your body seize and your mind go white. “Talk all you want about other guys,” he growls, thrusting up into you again, harder now. “But we both know—” another thrust. “it’s my cock you keep coming back to.”

You try to say something, but nothing comes out. All you can offer is a moan, your head falling back as your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm even as your body trembles from how much he’s giving you.

The only sounds left are incoherent — some cock-drunk babbles and gasping praise neither of you have the presence of mind to translate. But somehow, he feels deeper tonight. His eyes open, and when they meet yours, something inside you stops.

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he says like the words are being torn out of him. “I’ve never — fuuuck — looked at anyone else the way I look at you. Not one fucking person.”

That sentence shouldn’t make you want to hurl but it does. Not because it’s some grand ideology , or because it’s unexpected, but because for the first time in your life, you believe it. No one’s ever looked at you like that before, not even your ex, not even the men who promised things they never meant. No one’s ever made you feel like you were the only one in the room, like you were something chosen. It’s not the thrusts or the stretch or even the way he holds you that finally breaks you; it’s the quiet, devastating truth of being seen.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, head pressing into the pillow, jaw clenched trying not to cum too fast. “Still so tight.”

His hand drags up your thigh, then curves around your waist again. “Always feel so fucking good around me,” he gasps.

“This pussy,” he rasps, voice fraying as he thrusts up into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs, “was fucking made for me. Say it.”

The words hit like a pulse between your legs and you swear you feel your brain glitch. You blink down at him, completely drunk, lips parted, a blissed-out smile threatening the corner of your mouth. You don’t even bother pretending to hold back. “Yours,” you whisper breathlessly, “All yours, Jungkook.”

He makes some satisfied move and your rhythm builds with every roll of your hips, every grind that forces him deeper, and then you’re bouncing, chasing friction like a madman. Your arms wind around his neck, dragging him up, chest to chest, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as your body fucks him with all the fire you’ve been holding in. Every wet snap of skin echoes through the room loudly.

“Shit, baby,” he chokes, hands slipping down to grab your ass.

You grab his jaw, fingers firm, forcing his face back to yours. “Don’t you dare fucking look away from me.”

His eyes fly open, drowning in black. He stares at you, and your hips move faster, sloppier now, thighs burning. You can feel him twitching inside you, every nerve in his body pulled tight and shaking. “You promise there’s no one else?” you murmur, voice even as it splinters at the edges from how fucking good he feels.

He groans like he’s dying, as if the question alone might undo him. “Fuck, baby no,” he gasps, nodding so fast it’s practically frantic. “You’re it. You hear me? You’re the only one who fucks me this good. And I’m the only one who knows how you like it.”

You lift yourself the entire way off his hardened length, and then slam yourself back down, squeezing around him just to watch his face go slack, mouth falling open in a silent curse. “That so?” you tease, “You swear I’m the only one?”

He shudders beneath you, hands everywhere now, “No one else,” he groans, “There’s no one else.”

He pulls you closer, foreheads pressed, skin slick with sweat. There’s nothing between you now. Not pride or distance or a single lie.

Your hips find a rhythm that borders on reckless. It leaves no room for thought, only sensation. You only feel the stretch of him inside you, the way he fills you so completely it’s a miracle you can still breathe.

“You look so good like this,” he grits out, his fingers sliding up the column of your throat, “Can’t even hold back anymore, huh?”

You really can’t. You’re past that now. There’s no pretending anymore. There’s no compartmentalizing the way he makes you feel from the way he’s already carved himself into every part of you that was supposed to stay untouched.

His mouth brushes your ear, hips snapping up into yours with a sharp, brutal slap that makes your whole body jolt. “What were you saying about those other guys?” he pants, teeth grazing your skin. “Because your pussy says otherwise.”

Your head drops forward with a whimper, fingers clawing at his shoulders, tangled in his damp hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Shut up,” you gasp. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, panic and pleasure all tangled up together, no way to pull them apart now.

Before your mind has a chance to pause your actions, you slap him. A quick, sharp smack across the face. Not enough to hurt.

It doesn’t deter him, not even a little. If anything, it makes him grin harder, all flushed and delirious like you just did him a favor. His hand at your throat tightens slightly, encouraging your worst instincts.

His tongue drags across his lower lip, catching on the silver ring that gleams when the light hits just right. “Feels so good, Jungkook,” you choke out, voice dissolving into air.

“No one else,” you manage, the sound soft and shaky, like it’s been dragged from the pit of your chest and barely survived the journey. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

The admission slips out before you can stop it, suddenly too exposed under the dim lights in your room, and it’s immediately followed by a cry when his hips slam up into yours.

“I want to cum,” you gasp, the words tumbling out as your back arches, nails embedded into his shoulders. “I want to cum so bad.”

Jungkook’s grip at your throat softens, thumb brushing along the line of your jaw, “Say that again,” he begs, pleading.

You hesitate long enough to panic. Your heart’s in your throat, your brain’s short-circuiting, and suddenly you have no idea which part he means. But you’re not about to repeat the one that sounds like a confession. You default like you always do and dodge the feeling that has bloomed in your chest like an unwelcome old friend.

“I w-want to cum,” you repeat, lips trembling. It’s quite embarrassing how quick you wither from his touch. He’s fucking you in earnest now with deep, relentless thrusts that make your whole body shaking from the sheer force. Your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, hands grasping for anything solid — his shoulder, the back of his neck, the sweat-damp strands of hair curling at his nape.

And then he’s just pouring unholy words into your ears and it’s somehow the sweetest noise you’ve heard all week. “You feel that? That’s mine. Every inch of it. Every fucking inch of your pussy… mine.”

“Jungkook!” you practically scream, his name tumbling out like a broken prayer. You try to say more, but nothing actually forms. His head drops against your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“I know,” he speaks into your skin, cock plunging so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach. “I know, baby. Cum with me. Please, just like that.”

Your body is on fire, everything pulling tight at once. Your nails are buried in his shoulders now, deep enough to leave marks he’ll have to explain later. “Jungkook, fuck, aah, I—“

And then you’re falling down… down, crashing somewhere in your sheets. Yet the only image that flashes, all you can think about is those honey-butter cookies. The ones your mom used to bring home in paper bags. The first time you tasted them, you remember thinking: this is the best thing I’ll ever feel. Somehow, this feels like that again. Like safety. Like sweetness. Like something you weren’t supposed to have but got anyway.

You cum with a cry that tears straight from your throat, body seizing around him so tightly it drags a broken grunt from his chest. The release is blinding, back arching so sharply it feels like your spine might snap, your limbs useless and numb, your mind nowhere and everywhere at once. Blood roars in your ears, heart pounds similarly to a war drum, arms locked around his neck like you might float away if you don’t hold on.

He tries to move, to roll off you like he’s already thinking about cleanup or consequence, but you tighten your grip — arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist — locking him in place with the kind of desperation you don’t even bother hiding. You want him to stay. In you, on you, with you. Your hearts are thudding so hard it feels like they’re trying to break through your ribcages just to reach each other, like even now, even here, it’s still not close enough.

You know you’ll have to get up soon, do all the very normal, very unsexy things: pee, breathe, pretend like this didn’t mean more than it was supposed to.

Not yet, though. Not when your body still feels warm from the inside out. Not when he still faintly tastes like honey butter.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Busan looks different when you return with everything you once swore you needed to prove.

The sea still stretches wide, unbothered by your ambition. The wind still catches at your clothes the same way it did when you were a little girl except now the fabric is designer, and your heels leave imprints in sand that once knew you barefoot.

It’s just another set. Another location added last minute to an already bloated campaign schedule.

It wasn’t even supposed to be part of the rollout. But Jungkook asked for it, a final shoot in the city that made him, to be plastered all over the country like a love letter. He said it with that easy comfort of someone who’s never needed to run from the place that raised him.

You couldn’t argue with him.

The second your feet had hit the boardwalk, you felt it. It was a slow, gnawing ache in your chest, the kind that smells like sea air and old wood and guilt.

You haven’t seen your parents in months. Haven’t spoken to them, either. You run through the excuses you gave yourself in your head, ready to recite them at a moment’s notice — too busy, too tired, too afraid.

Now, here you are, back in the city that built you, standing in the middle of a place that should feel like home. It couldn’t be far from that demented word.

You’re the most successful stranger this town’s ever seen.

Jungkook glows under the sunlight, dressed in pale denim and soft white cotton as he leans against a sea-worn railing, the camera clicking in frantic bursts around him.

You haven’t said much today, barely offered any notes. The comments to the stylists have been short, distracted, your arms crossed too tight across your chest as you chew the inside of your cheek raw.

He smiles for the lens, shifts his weight, lets the wind lift his hair just enough to catch the light, but his eyes keep drifting. Away from the camera, past the crew. Back to you, again and again. You might need to call him out for his staring problem.

You don’t want to explain why your stomach’s been twisted since you got here, why the smell of sea salt and tteokbokki stalls makes your chest go tight, why your parents are twenty minutes away and still have no idea you’re here.

So you keep your arms crossed and your eyes moving from the ocean, to the clouds, to a rusted street sign you swear you used to pass on your way home from school. You’re just not that girl anymore, the one who used to run barefoot across this boardwalk and dream of anything bigger.

Still, when the stylist asks you to step in while she goes to the bathroom and adjust Jungkook’s collar, you hesitate. It feels oddly domestic, despite being surrounded by over ten crew members.

And then you’re in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric back from his skin. His neck is warm beneath your touch, flushed from the sun or the attention or maybe from the way your hand lingers a second too long. You can’t tell if it’s the wind that makes you shiver or the fact that you’re touching him.

“You good?” he murmurs, meant only for you.

You look up, caught off guard, your hand still near his collarbone. His eyes are already on you, steady and far too gentle for someone who’s supposed to be your problem.

In that second, you swear he knows. Nothing to the extent of the constant inner turmoil your brain is under, but that he watched the way your eyes keep flickering back to the sea and has deemed you mentally unstable.

You don’t say anything. You nod too fast, like that makes it casual, like that makes it fine, and step back like you didn’t just give yourself away.

For the rest of the shoot, his eyes keep drifting back to you, thankfully not in a way that gives him away. It’s more in that quiet, insistent way that makes it impossible to ignore.

Later that night, the world finally shuts up.

The shoot’s been over for hours. The lights are packed, the cameras wrapped, the team scattered across Busan in waves of laughter and secondhand adrenaline, spilling into barbecue joints and neon-lit bars.

You told them you were exhausted from the travel, that you wanted a reprieve in the form of a good book and your mattress.

You’re a better liar than your mother thought you were.

You’re here instead. Barefoot in the sand just beyond the edge of the hotel’s private beach, your heels abandoned somewhere behind you, your white button-down rolled to the elbows, a half-drunk bottle of soju dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. The wind nips at your cheeks, and the ocean keeps moving, loud and endless and entirely uninterested in you. The sky stretches above you like black velvet, stars painting the horizon.

You stare out at the waves as they crash against the rocks, steady and relentless. You let the sound fill the hollow space in your chest where something used to be.

Your phone is off. Your mouth tastes like salt. You haven’t cried, not really, but your throat burns like you’ve been swallowing it all day.

You don’t even register him at first.

“Drinking alone? Brutal.”

You flinch visibly and immediately curse yourself for not hiding better, for letting your guard slip when you’re this close to falling apart.

You turn your head, slow and unwilling. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie, his hair still a little windswept from the shoot. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in that way you’ve come to dread, uncomfortably observant.

Tiredly, you exhale, and look back at the sea. “Not right now, Jungkook.”

There’s a moment of silence, an unfortunately long one. It stretches enough to feel intentional, like it could tip either way. The waves speak for you, crashing steady and loud, giving you something to focus on that isn’t him.

But he doesn’t leave. He sinks down beside you with an exhale, arms draped over his knees, shoulders slouched in that unbothered way he gets when he’s just existing.

Without turning, you tilt the bottle in his direction. “You want?”

He takes it without a word, drinks, passes it back. The glass clicks softly between your fingers.

“Your jaw was locked all day,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Didn’t yell at a single photographer. Honestly kind of alarming.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “That’s poetic.”

He shrugs, “I’ve had time to study the source material.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s lazy. The waves fill the space again, stretching wide between you, all sea breeze and salt and unspoken memories filling your brain.

After a moment, he glances sideways. “You okay?”

It’s a simple inquiry. One of those questions you’ve answered all week with a nod and a forced smile and some bullshit about sleep deprivation.

Tonight, it lands differently.

You keep your eyes on the ocean. On the white spray hitting the rocks again and again “Just tired,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. “Not alone,” you answer automatically, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I have a team.”

“You don’t let them carry it the way you do,” he says. “You hold it like if anything goes wrong, it’s your name thrown in the dirt.”

He’s not wrong. Your whole life has been defined by approvals, by acceptance. Admitting it just doesn’t come as naturally to you as you like.

You tip the bottle back again. The soju doesn’t burn as much now. Slides down easy. Maybe it’s because of the cold numbing of your lips or the ache between your ribs. The waves crash ahead of you, rhythmic and unbothered. The seafoam bursts white against the dark curve of rock, and somewhere beneath all of it, something small gives way.

The words slip out before you even realize you’re speaking.

“There used to be this one stretch of beach my sister and I would sneak off to when we were kids.”

Jungkook shifts beside you, but thankfully says nothing in response.

“It was maybe ten minutes from where we lived. Nothing fancy. Mostly local. Never crowded.”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Why you’re letting the words drift out like this. Why your lips won’t keep still.

“We didn’t have swimsuits. Not real ones, anyway. We used to cut up old t-shirts and tie them with elastic bands, like we were designing our own line or something.”

You almost laugh at the fond memory. Your sister was somewhat of a eccentric kid, always dragging you along on journeys your mother didn’t want to put a stop to as she cried over bills overdue on the table, as your father drank himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t bare to dig himself out.

You glance down, dragging your thumb along the green glass of the bottle, your hair catching in the wind, brushing against your mouth almost to remind you you’re still here.

“One summer we went every day,” you murmur. “Took leftover rice balls, bruised fruit, whatever we could sneak from the kitchen. Sat on a plastic mat and swore we were queens of the coast.”

Another sip, let the silence settle over the story like a tide pulling back.

“I remember the sand being warmer than this,” you say after a moment. “And the wind smelled different. Less like salt, more like sugar.”

You’re not really sure you want a response from him. This isn’t something that needs fixing. The bones in your jaw tighten, as if that might be enough to keep everything else from slipping out.

Jungkook shifts a little closer. The wind picks up around you, sharp and briny, curling through your hair and catching on your shirt. Somewhere behind you, far beyond the sand and the silence, the city is still awake. But out here, it’s just water and breath and the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel too thin.

“Do you know when the last time I spoke to my sister was?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the shoreline, glazed and distant. Kind of hoping the sea might offer a version of the truth that hurts less.

“Or my parents?” you add.

You let out something that resembles a laugh but comes out dangerously close to a sobbing gasp.

“Five months ago,” you say.

The wind shoves harder at your shoulders, like it’s trying to force the words back into your chest, but it’s too late. They’re out now. Floating in the space between you, real and impossible to take back. “I’ve declined every call.”

“I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy,” you murmur, eyes still locked on the waves. “That I’ll call tomorrow. That it’s not the right time. That I’ve got too much going on.”

“But the truth is…” You breathe in slow. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

It slips out like seawater, salty and sharp and heavy. You don’t know why you said it. Why you’re saying any of this. Why the silence next to him feels like the safest place you’ve had to fall apart in years. Why the words keep showing up uninvited, too heavy to hold and disgustingly honest to bury.

Your career was built on knowing when to shut up. Spent years learning how to compartmentalize, how to file grief under “later,” how to turn pain into something manageable. Now your ankles are in the sand, shoes discarded, spilling your family guilt to Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“I think I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or say something about how this is above his pay grade with his position in your life as the dude you fuck. Or try to fill the silence with a joke or a solution or whatever it is people usually offer when they don’t know what else to do.

The problem about it all is you can’t erase the image from your mind of you and your sister playing on the beach, who wore dresses made from seaweed and had dreams sculpted in the shape of seashells. Now, you’re just the girl who ran. The girl who hasn’t called home. The girl who isn’t sure if there’s anything left to run back to.

You swipe at your cheek even though there aren’t any tears yet. The threat of them is there, high in your throat, burning at the edges.

And in the back of your mind, there’s a voice. Your own judgmental one. Why are you telling him this? Why does it feel easier to say it here, now, to him?

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, low enough that the waves almost swallow it whole. “I didn’t talk to my parents for a while either.”

You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively around the neck of the soju bottle, eyes locked on the ocean even as your focus fractures. Tide foams white at the edges of your vision, but it’s his words that drown you.

Jungkook keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you. “It wasn’t some big dramatic fight or anything,” he says, almost as if he’s still deciding if it’s worth saying out loud. “No ultimatums. Just… time and my pride. Too many excuses that felt valid until they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s been two months, and calling starts to feel harder than not calling. Because if you do, you’ll have to explain why it took so long.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest.

“I love them,” he continues, “They know that. But when the whole world starts looking at you a certain way, it’s hard to go back to just being their son.“

He looks down, brushes his hands together absently, and sand is clinging to his palms. “I think part of me thought I’d disappoint them just by being… myself.”

You stare at him blankly. Finally seeing him clearly for the first time.

There’s a man underneath it all, a man who’s known guilt. A man who’s run too far and too fast. A man who is still, somehow, trying to figure out how to come home to himself.

Something inside you twists like the nauseous thrum after one too many drinks on an empty stomach.

He looks over at you then, and the moonlight catches across his face. You can see it now, the weight he’s still carrying as he tries to make room for yours.

“You’re not the worst daughter in the world,” he says. “You’re just a girl trying to survive.”

Throat is tight, chest tighter, and head feels like it’s slowly filling with static. But the worst part, the part you weren’t ready for, is the way your heart aches not just for yourself but for him.

He inhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ocean ahead, “I saw them again,” he goes on. “After everything, after the time apart.”

“My mom made all this food,” he smiles without humor. “Like it was Chuseok or something. I think I cried before I even got my shoes off.”

He glances down at the sand, his tone softer now, afraid of breaking whatever’s holding this moment together. “And I remember thinking… no matter how far I go, no matter who I turn into, there’s still a place that’ll wait for me that doesn’t care about the stadiums or what the numbers say.”

“I knew I had to come home,” his final line delivers like a punch straight to the nose. “Not just for them. For me.”

You don’t fight the tear that slips down your cheek without permission or preamble. No wiping it away or any acknowledgment of it. Saltwater on skin.

“I feel so lost,” you whisper so quietly it barely counts as sound.

Jungkook already knows that saying ‘okay’ wouldn’t help. The wind threads through your hair like a ghost of comfort. You literally don’t know why you’re still talking. Why you’re letting the softest, most wrecked parts of yourself spill out here at his feet, under this sky.

Yet, he hasn’t flinched and somehow he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but exactly who you are right now.

Jungkook hasn’t touched you the entire time which makes you feel like a basket case. He’s supposed to be making some remark about how your tits look great in your top, or trying to grope you through your pants. He’s choosing instead to let you break without rearranging the pieces to make them prettier.

You take another sip. The bottle’s gone warm now, bitter at the bottom.

“Maybe it’s time to call them.”

His advice doesn’t come with weight or warning. It lands like a paper cut and it stings in a way that makes you go still. “Not because you owe them anything or because it’ll fix everything. Just… because it might fix a part of you.”

Saliva trickles down your throat like molasses. Your hand tightens around the bottle, your knuckles pale where they catch the moonlight, as if holding onto something will stop the rest of this. “And maybe,” he continues, talking more to the sand than to you, “… maybe, they’re waiting. They’re probably scared to try again or say the wrong thing. Scared to lose you completely.”

You hate the way your chest clenches at that. Hate the calm in his voice, the certainty in it.

Hate how he says it like he knows something you don’t, something you’ve spent too long trying not to think about.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Another tear slips free anyway, trailing down your cheek before you can catch it. You drink to chase it down, hoping the burn will swallow the emotion with it.

“You don’t know them,” you retort.

“You’re right,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. “And you don’t know me.”

The silence that follows feels like a dare.

“I’m starting to.”

Your throat closes around it, tight to speak. You stare at the waves again, vision swimming, heart caught somewhere high and trembling in your chest. Shoulders tense like your whole body’s trying not to fall apart under the weight of being seen.

“Why are you right about this?” It’s not really a question. Not one that needs an answer.

Jungkook shrugs, “High chance I’m not.”

“What would I even say to them?” You expect yourself to start crying harder as you imagine the look on your mother’s face when she swings open the wooden door that divides you two, but instead you let out some strangled breath.

And then, with that same quiet certainty that’s been threading through everything he’s said tonight, he replies. “Hi is a good start.”

You huff a laugh, if you can even call it that. There’s nothing bitter in it, not really, just the frayed underside of someone who hasn’t let herself admit how much she wants something to feel easy again.

You turn back to the water, and in what feels like days or maybe weeks, you let your shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Before you realize what your body is doing, you shift.

Slowly, almost cautiously, your head finds his shoulder.

His hoodie is soft where it meets your skin, worn cotton and faint woodsy notes of his cologne. He stiffens for half a second, long enough for you to wonder if you should pull away. But then he exhales, and you feel it beneath your cheek as he settles.

You close your eyes. It’s the first thing you’ve done with him that isn’t laced with tension or a good fuck or something to prove. Like something steady beneath your feet for the first time in months. You’ve spent your whole life staying ready. Even in bed with him, you’re still half-armored, still controlling the pace, the narrative, the exit plan.

Your mind is spiraling. This man, who you swore was just a complication to manage, another name on a campaign, has somehow managed to see more of you tonight than most people ever do. It almost feels like the first real thing you’ve had in a long time.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder what he’s thinking. Then you really don’t have to wonder as his voice slides into the quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if you keep drinking that, I’m going to have to carry you back to the hotel.”

You scoff against the fabric of his hoodie, breath mingling in the cotton. “Please. I’ve survived four week campaign launches on three hours of sleep and a melted protein bar. I think I can handle a little soju.”

“You’re really bad at accepting help,” he says, not unkindly.

You don’t miss a beat. “You’re really bad at minding your business.”

Jungkook takes the bottle from your death grip on it. “You know that’s mine,” you mutter, not bothering to move.

“You offered it earlier,” he snickers, not looking at you.

“That was out of pity. You looked cold.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. “Mm,” he hums, swallowing. “Tastes like judgment and unresolved emotion.”

A snort exits your body at that statement, and without thinking too hard about anything else, you reach for him, loop your arm through his. You curl into his side, your fingers sliding into the bend of his arm.

Your heart pounds harder than it should. This touch, it’s nothing like what you’re used to.This isn’t about sex or dominance or who will give in first.

Your pulse hammers as you stare at the waves, trying to calm yourself. You’ve had his hands all over you. You’ve kissed him until your mouth went numb. You’ve slept in his bed and cursed him and come undone beneath him.

He leans his head slightly toward yours when he says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You gulp. “What did you expect?”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Waves answer for you, their rhythm steady, the only constant in a night that’s shifting under your feet. You take another drink from the bottle he passes back, let your hand stay exactly where it is.

The bottle moves between you two so many times you lose track. When it’s empty, you reach for the rest of the pack you bought and open the next one. And… then another. Neither of you keeping tabs nor trying to.

You’re too warm now to feel the breeze. The moon hangs low and heavy over the water, dim and pregnant. The waves shimmer beneath it, silver and restless.

You’ve stopped talking about work and pretending this warm feeling that’s spread from your scalp to your toes isn’t nice. Now it’s smaller things.

Jungkook tells you about his first performance in elementary school, how he nearly threw up behind the curtain, convinced he’d forget all the words. How he still remembers the way it felt when the crowd clapped at the end.

You tell him about your first pitch meeting in New York, how your voice shook the entire time and your hands wouldn’t stop sweating, but how you walked out with the deal anyway because you refused to let anyone doubt you twice.

You go back and forth like that. Fragments of lives neither of you meant to offer up but somehow keep giving.

Somewhere in the middle of his story about failing his first math test twice — both times for forgetting to put his name at the top — you look at him.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

The curve of his mouth when he’s laughing. The way his hands move when he talks, animated and careless. The soft gleam of the light catching on his earring, on the slope of his lashes, on the faint scar on his cheek that you’ve never noticed before. His hair’s messy from the wind. His hoodie’s rumpled. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

You must be drunk. You have to be drunk.

Because… god…. he’s beautiful.

Jungkook’s always been hot. You’re well aware of how women all over the world fawn over him. But now he’s just for you under the stars.

You don’t plan it or think much.

You just lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours, a little tentative at first. You’re already tilting your chin just so, letting your fingers curl tighter around his arm. He smells like fabric softener and salt, like sea air clinging to his skin and the faint trace of cologne you’ve only ever caught in passing but could recognize even in a lineup. He tastes like soju and mint, like laughter, like stories shared too easily under moonlight. And when he kisses you back, slow, more certain now, you don’t dare hesitate to let the bottle drop from your hands onto the sand, cupping his other cheek with your palm.

Reluctantly, you pull away, your warm fingers still pressed into the side of his face. Your breath whispers against his mouth, “Why did I just do that?”

Corners of Jungkook’s mouth tilt slightly, “I don’t know. But.. if you do it a second time, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, biting back the smile that threatens to give you away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, “You’re the one kissing me under the stars. Kind of romantic, no?”

You exhale a laugh. Then kiss him again while holding your breath because you don’t want to say anything else.

And the next day, when you drive twenty minutes to your parents’ house in Busan, you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath since that kiss until the street comes into view.

The building looks smaller than it used to. That’s the first betrayal.

Smaller, duller, drained of the larger-than-life scale it once carried when you were a kid staring up at it like it could swallow you whole. The bricks are paler now, bleached by time or guilt or maybe just too many summers. The gate still creaks and the third step wobbles beneath your weight like it remembers you.

Everything is exactly the same. Which is somehow so much worse.

You stand there longer than you should, keys cold in your hand, thumb pressing into the metal like if you just hold it tight enough, maybe the anxiety will dissolve. It doesn’t. You try to rehearse something. An opening line, a reason, an apology but your brain’s playing static. White noise and old echoes and the blood-rush sound of your own name when it used to be shouted across this lawn.

You think of Jungkook. “Hi is a good start.”

So you knock.

The door opens too fast. No time to brace, no time to breathe.

Your mother with a breath caught in her throat. A wrinkle at the corner of her mouth you don’t remember being there. Eyes you’ve spent half your life trying to forget and the other half trying to see again.

You almost forget to say hi.

She looks older somehow. Smaller than you remember. Her hair is pulled back the same way it always was, her apron dusted in flour like she’s been baking something just to pass the time.

She stares at you for a second, silent and wide-eyed.

You ditch the practiced words. Yoy say something else that finally breaks you.

“Eomma.”

You don’t even make it another second before the tears hit you full force. You move with muscle memory, and when your arms wrap around her, she’s already there catching you.

She smells the same. Feels the same too.

Her hands move across your back in rhythmic circles, pressing comfort straight into your skin. Erase the ache of every voicemail you never returned, every text you left hanging, every birthday you pretended didn’t sting.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and her voice breaks around it. “I missed you so much.”

You nod into her shoulder because your mouth doesn’t work right now. Because your throat is tight and your eyes are flooding and your voice gets caught somewhere behind all the guilt. But the words come out anyway, muffled and wet against the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to come back.”

She pulls you in even more like she’s trying to fold you into herself, as if you’re something she’s been trying to find her way back to, too. She just gives you the one thing you were never brave enough to ask for.

Grace.

Faint footsteps are heard in the background. You lift your head barely to see your sister.

She’s in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here, with those same wide eyes, hands pressed to her mouth.

“Unnie?”

It’s all she says.

You nod, and that’s all she needs before she’s hurtling toward you, flinging her arms around your waist like she’s trying to make up for every time you didn’t answer her call. Her hug is messier, less practiced yet hits you just as hard.

You laugh. You actually do, right there between the sobs and the apologies and the second-chance hugs. Not because anything’s fixed or that the damage is undone.

It’s just that there’s too much love in the room to hold without spilling.

You dig into your bag with trembling fingers, reaching for the one thing you knew would make her smile. You hand her the photocard. Jimin, smiling on glossy paper.

She gasps like you’ve handed her a diamond. “No way.”

“I bribed someone at the top,” you tease, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t have to,” She hugs the picture tight to her chest.

“I wanted to,” you say, and you mean it.

Time ticks differently that day, a clock you weren’t expecting to miss. There’s too much food, stories told fast, many emotions that rise and fall without warning. You cry again, laugh more, and sit on the same couch you once did with textbooks and chipped nail polish, listening to your mother fuss over your appetite and your sister’s loud music.

Though it isn’t perfect, though there are still things left unspoken and walls to slowly disassemble, it feels like a beginning.

When you finally climb back into your car that evening, parked just down the street where the air smells like dried seaweed and laundry, you sit in silence for a long time. The engine doesn’t start. Your hands don’t move.

You think of Jungkook again faintly.

You realize then and there: you don’t feel so lost.

You feel grateful.

And maybe a little unsteady, knowing that Jeon Jungkook, the cockiest, most infuriating, most impossible man you’ve ever met, was the one who handed you the courage to come home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos

[bubbleguppies42]

if anyone would get it. i think it’s you. and i just gotta say wilson would be SO expressive during sex. just watching the show, he’s always wearing how he feels. sex would not be an exception

YES YES YES I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT THIS HE IS SOOO EXPRESSIVE

to start, his eyes tell the entire story before he even starts talking. like those puppy dog eyes he gives you when he's upset. ugh I NEED him.

back to the goon ofc. I imagine him being a big pleaser. like he ALWAYS wants to get you off first. you're his priority, after all. he'd be eating you out and stare up at you with those boba brown eyes (I feel like I stole this description from someone and if I did I'm so sorry) while he eats you like a man starved.

the whole time this is happening you can't tell who's moaning more. he's lapping at your clit and moaning like a bitch. it's pathetic, and so so so hot. (he's more subby expressive in my mind but I absolutely adore dom wilson and I have so many headcannons for him lmk if I should post them)

imagine you're sucking his dick and he's doing his best to be quiet but he just can't. he's repeating your name like a prayer. "fuck, that's my good girl" would be a common phrase from him.

however, in my perv wilson world he'd be very rough with you. it would be the one time he lets his sweet, caring mask slip. seeing you oh so willing to do what he wants turns him on beyond belief. he's in love with you and CANNOT be normal about it. he sees how sweet you are and it just makes him want to ruin. he's pulling your hair, choking you, tying you up, anything his depraved mind wants. (he's a freak and there's so much more than this)

also the idea of him coming home and just being a mess for you, he's begging to fuck you, or eat you out. anything with you, he NEEDS it. he needs YOU.

when you guys are fucking his eyes are literally rolling back, he's moaning like he's in a porno, and he's fucking you relentlessly. he never shuts up. AND IT'S BEAUTIFUL. he praises you and makes sure you know how good you make him feel. tells you how beautiful you look while he absolutely destroys you. it gives you whiplash, his soft words mixed with his brutal pace.

this does not discredit how much of a freak he is. he'd text you to meet him in his office for lunch and then have you bent over his desk 10 minutes later. he's doing his best to be quiet and shoving his fingers in yours to shut you up. he'd call you a slut for showing up, and he'd mention how you know that he loves seeing you like this. he's raking his eyes over you, enjoying the mess he's made of you right in his office. he'd whisper in your ear that you need to be his good girl and be quiet, he'd mention that if you get too loud house might be able to hear you through the wall, they're thin after all. this just makes you moan louder. causing him to shove his fingers further down your throat, enjoying the way you gag, just like you do on his cock.

if this wasn't the response you expected I tend to get carried away just send the ask again and I can change it up

I hope you enjoy!!

[autumnalmoons]

Your late-night company (nsfw, mdni, +18 only)

It's smut bc I'm a horny bitch (lovingly), and because I want him to split me in half--I know he can, like c'mon

Viktor x fem!Reader | 2.1K

Notes: PWP, Established relationship, set kinda between act 1 and act 2, Vaginal Fingering, Innapropiate use of Viktor's cane (sorryyyy), Dom!Viktor if you squint, Cockwarming, Nipple play, English isn't my native language so lemme know if i messed up somewhere :)

Ever since he could hear the echo of your heels reverberate around the lab like a second heartbeat, Viktor knew you were onto something—and such rhythm makes his heart pick up speed too, though Viktor’s faster than each one of your carefree strides against the dark marble floor.

You go, smooching his cheek and surely leaving a pink mark on your lipstick. Not that he minds, of course, he's used to leaving his loving marks on you, too, and even now, he can see the now purplish hickey down your collarbone that you’ve been trying to veil with a silk scarf.

“What brings you here, my darling?” Viktor hums, unconsciously seeking your lips. Is that pink lipstick the one that tastes like cherry? He’s a man of science, he’s ought to investigate.

“Nothing much. I came to bring you home,” you say, hugging his slender frame from behind, your chin hooked in the crook of his shoulder, just over his back brace. “I miss my Vitya so, so much…”

Viktor shivers, trying to ground himself in the domestic, seemingly innocent gesture of a kiss over your temple. "I miss you, too, my jewel. Alas, Progress Day is in a couple of weeks, and we need to have everything ready in case a mishap happens.” He sighs, thick brows furrowing in focus. “As usually does.”

You nod. Of course, you understand that his work is a priority, but you also have a good memory; of those two past days when you went to sleep alone. There are those familiar purple bags under his eyes, only darker.

“Hmm, alright,” you say, massaging his scalp for a bit before wandering around the lab. “Then allow me to make you company. This place is filthy, handsome.”

“Chaos potentiates creativity.”

Your chuckle reverberates around the lab, which causes Viktor to lift his chin a little higher, how easily he can make you happy.

He turns back toward his desk, hearing you going toward the closet supply to get a feathery duster, mumbling a song under your breath as you hop around cleaning surfaces and wiping down machinery with a piece of cloth.

It's only a matter of time before your plan starts, and you have calculated it just as perfectly as Viktor's equations; using your knowledge of the man next to you, his existence is the most amazing creation you've seen—much to Viktor's attempts to surpass it with his machines.

You dust off the drawer next to his desk, ‘accidentally’ knocking off one of the pens tossed over the wooden surface, further down against the wall. "Oops!" you say in your best role of an actress, which isn't that good, only for him to look your way.

The floor is cold as you brush it with your fingers, a fine layer of dust and carbon covering it. One of the windows must be open because you can feel the cold autumn wind brushing under your mischievously short skirt, one of Viktor's favorites, right against your already wet folds that the underwear you chose today isn't meant to cover.

You want him to see. Swaying your hips playfully the moment you feel his gaze burn your back.

Over the purring of the machines, you hear his air leave in a sharp inhale.

Between not wearing panties at all, you choose ones made of black lace and cute, little black ribbons decorating the most… enticing areas. The cloth down your pussy was too small, and you had to choose or covering your clit, or covering your core—which of course, you choose the eager bundle of nerves, so Viktor could see you all wet and glistening for him.

Smiling, you push the pen further down his desk, a soft—very inappropriate—groan escaping your lips, copying my memory of one of the sounds you made every time his cock presses that special spot inside of you.

“I liked that pen a lot,” Viktor mutters, though you can hear the smirk in his voice.

By now, you have no idea where that damned pen had gone. “I’m sure I can make it up for you about that,” you say, knees bending slightly, so your pussy can open a little. Only if he ever tries to play the oblivious.

A chair squeaked, and it’s impossible not to start imagining Viktor’s lithe fingers caressing the curve of your ass. Instead, you got the cold metal of his cane’s handle.

“Ah!” He chuckled at hearing your surprised gasp.

“Is that disappointment I hear, my jewel? Or just cold?” He hums, dragging the handle along the folds of your pussy until it brushes your entrance, only the tip. “You’re all dressed up for me. And I wonder… why is that, hmm?” he says, the tip of the cane playing between your folds. “Is it because you’d like to ‘keep me company’?”

“I never told you how I planned to accompany you," You mutter, feeling your legs starting to shake as the cold metal meets your boiling core, thinking that you were about to melt.

“Use your words, darling. If you’re so eager.”

There is a certain edge to his words, the hoarse tone around his R replacing the usual soft tone he uses to whisper to you when you two aren’t in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I… I thought you may need… um…” you say, voice lost with each playful movement of his cane in and out your entrance; barely some inches in, but moving it just right thanks to the exhaustive research Viktor had conducted ever since he caught you with that vibrator. Little by little, your arousal warms the metal, and you wonder if Viktor can feel it, too. “Relaxing.”

“Relaxing? My, I’d say this is rather… distracting,” he chuckles, the wheels of his stool coming closer as you hold your hands against your burning thighs. “A pleasant one, of course, but still a distraction.”

“Oh? Then do I deserve a punishment?” You try your best to quip, though your voice quivers mid-sentence.

There’s barely a heartbeat of silence, and then:

“Bend over the desk,” he says, voice stern. You could almost picture him in one of the Academy’s auditoriums giving a lecture in that tone, absolute, bossy. He knows it, of course. He knows you, after all, just like any of inventions, he had spent several hours studying you. Loving you.

Your walls squeeze nothing at the words, but the light from the descending dusk is enough for him to see it.

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “I wonder how you’ve been pleasing yourself these days that I haven’t returned home, my jewel.”

You attempt to roll over—you want to see him, because he looked just so unfairly stunning with his brown hair stuck to his temples, beads of sweat running down his chest as he bit his lip as seeing you just so shamelessly needy for him, trying to contain himself just a little longer...

He pushes your back down the desk, pinching your butt once he catches you trying to turn your head to see him.

“Oh, no, no, my love. If you are going to distract me, then you must accept the consequences.” He bends down, biting your earlobe before nuzzling his nose down your neck, taking in the sweet essence of your clothes, of your hair, the same one he could always smell on his pillow. The mix of his shampoo makes his grasp on your hips tighten.

You whine, pouted lips parting in a breathless moan when he introduces the handler of his cane inside of you, his thumb lazily rubbing circles on your clit, first clockwise, and then in the contrary direction once he feels your walls starting to contract, ushering your orgasm away.

The wet sounds of the handle coming in and out your soaked cunt fills the lab, Viktor’s stool creaking as he re-position. From the sound of his pants unbuckling, you think you know what he’s doing that needed such a good grip on his seat.

“I wonder if you’d take me as well,” he mumbles, your wet sounds mixed with a new one that could only be Viktor starting to jack off from the view of you. "All those toys and they can't replace me.” He uses his left knee to part your legs even wider, his free hand making a wrinkled mess of your skirt, just above your hips.

You huff, fingers white from grabbing the edge of the desk. “As if I’ve ever disappointed you.”

Viktor chuckles, pinching your clit slightly before letting go. The emptiness fills you when he withdraws his cane, though the narrow length is soon replaced by the thick head of his cock rubbing against your entrance.

“Mmmm,” you hum, satisfied. Your hips buckle against him, trying to take him inside of you in one thrust.  Sadly, Viktor’s punishment for keeping him away from his duties was never.-ending teasing.

Viktor caresses the curve of your ass, his hands going to brush the outline of your hips and waist until his chest is against your back once again, his big length teasing through your folds without actually giving you what you want—and yet, you know you could finish off with only this. Would he be so cruel, though?

“Come here,” he mutters against your ear, sliding a hand around your waist, and pushing you down the seat with him.

You hiss, feeling the quick buckle of his hips as his cock burrows deep inside of you, twitching at the welcoming, wet warmth of your walls. His hands take you by the hips to stop you from starting to ride him.

“Shhh, shhh. Patience, my love,” Viktor coos, nuzzling his face in the side of your neck as he bites a trail of kisses toward your shoulder, fingers gently pulling down one end of the scarf, brushing slowly down your shoulders to reveal the quite generous cut in your neckline.

Humming, approbatory, Viktor returns to his desk, with a firm grip around your waist to keep you still.

He kisses your cheek, putting his cane against the wall. The metal glistens, soaked with your juices against the reddish hue of the dying sunlight.

His right hand pushes your legs open, tangling your legs against the desk to keep them open when his fingers slide down your stomach, fingers lazily rubbing your clit.

Closing your eyes, your head lolls against his shoulder, letting him take your lips in a kiss that lets you taste the bitterness of the coffee he has just drank to keep himself awake during the night.

His tongue passes along your bottom lip, and it’s indeed that cherry-flavored lipstick, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as the hand grabbing your hip raises to grab your breasts when he grows needy, too.

“Vitya…” you moan, voice muffled as he kisses you again.

“My favorite blouse,” Viktor says, tugging down the smock of the front so he could see your lacy black bra. “So easy to access.”

You smile, hips gently swaying side to side against his lap each time he strokes your clit.

Viktor’s fingers work masterfully inside your bra, rubbing your nipple as your hands frantically undo the clip of your top so he can push the bra away.

It’s too much. Between his playful nibbles down your neck, the slow circles drawn on your clit, his fingers pinching your nipples and rubbing them to make the little peaks soft again even his cock filling you, although still, is enough to push you through the edge of pleasure. Legs shiver as your mouth stutters a moan, letting out a cry that Viktor drowned with his mouth.

“We can’t let the guards know what we’re doing, don’t you think, my jewel?”

“Why… why not?” you pant, kissing the mole peeking above his shirt’s collar. “My boyfriend fucks me so good,” you giggle.

Viktor smiled, his cock twitching at your lewd words. Your walls keep squeezing him, greedily wanting to be soaked with his cum.

"I haven't yet today," Viktor hums, deep in thought, kissing your sweaty brow. “Let me finish revising this blueprint, and we’ll go home.”

You pout, but only another heated kiss is necessary to make you respond:

“Okay,” you say, all doe-eyed now that you’re satisfied. Momentarily, of course. And that you had convinced him to go home. “But only this one blueprint. Or I’ll bite you.” You try to stand up, Viktor’s hand yanking you back between his legs before his cock could sleep out from your pussy.

“I never said you could move, my love,” Viktor says, squeezing your hips playfully. “I’d take you can be a good girl while I finish my work?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Viktor chuckles, his free hand starts to rub your overstimulated clit once again. His other hand quickly drops his pen to reach the bottom drawer of his desk, where you can see the outline of the vibrator Viktor keeps there ‘just in case’. “I suppose I just have to tire you up, then.”

[mr-crawlings-wife]

Hello! Can I request a Study Group ff wherein reader is the secret girlfriend of Pi Hanwool, that means no one knows except Minhwan that she is the gf. The reader was known as the kind and quiet type of student and a people pleaser too. That is why she can't deny when girls asking her to do things and boys making a move on her. Then one day, Pi Hanwool saw a boy (you can decide who) flirting with her to the point that the reader is visibly uncomfy. So Hanwool intervene (he's possessive and jealous) and that's the time that everyone know who she is.

Sorry if it's too specific. You can change it however you like. I just want to see Hanwool being possessive ACKKK

Hey! Took a while to respond. Sorry about that 😔. Anyway 😄

!!SECRET SOFTIE <3

Warnings: violence, bullying, intimacy

Honestly how did you even bag this man?

And further, getting him to care about you? Like he don't be giving fucks about anybody. I'm pretty sure he doesn't go out of his way at all to make life convenient for someone else.

I'm willing to bet money he's done the opposite though, gleefully even.

The love he holds for you must be so genuine.

Cause he loves you enough to acknowledge that he's bad for you, stay away and be respectful, and also step in when you need help. (Which is bare minimum btw)

The fact that y'all are together, he didn't even want Minhwan to know. (He knows that bitch is a gossip 😭) That's just how much he wanted to protect you.

He takes almost every precaution possible to make sure that word doesn't get out. He's trying to do things right.

Sure it'd be easier for him if he could just prance around with you hanging off of his arm, but that would mean, when he's not around, you'd have to be constantly guarded and watched. And he doesn't wanna suffocate you like that. You're his pookie bear. Your comfort is his top priority.

Minhwan only knows cause he walked in on you two 😔. Hanwool was leaving pecks below your ear and reading a book while you were sitting on his lap. He's still mad about him ruining the moment.

We're getting off track. Anyway, precautions..

Hanwool avoids you like the plague at school. He almost never goes on outdoor dates and when he does, he puts on a heavy disguise.

You're not saved on his phone. He memorized your number, that's how he calls you.

He also erases his call history and your chats regularly so that there's no trace. Not that he thinks his dad would go that far to be nosey but just to be sure.

He also hasn't introduced you to Hansol. He's trying to discern if she won't spill the beans to their dad. Not that he doesn't trust her, she's just a kid, she could easily blurt it out.

When you get bullied or pushed around at school, he isn't even there to see it. Y'all aren't in the same class.

But he does see the bruises after school and feels immensely guilty. He doesn't pressure you for names but when you do slip up, they're swiftly dealt with.

But one day, when he's walking through the halls, doing a casual patrol, he glances inside your classroom. The way his blood pressure went up, god have mercy.

To think that someone was trying to force you to kiss them. The world is a disgusting dark place and Hanwool wants to rip that boy to shreds. ( Isn't that the guy that used to date Jiwoo?)

You are his, someone else was putting their hands on you. Putting their hands on what was his. But more than just possessive, he was also feeling protective.

This one bully was downright harassing you. Like he was nearly on top of you.

But not to worry 😁

That boy got whacked with a chair.

Hanwool made sure to check that you were doing okay and didn't get hurt before diving fully into ass whopping

Tables were broken.

Papers were scattered.

Windows were shattered.

Everything in that room was in shambles.

It looked like a set up in an apocalyptic movie

Hanwool was starting to mutter "mine" near the end as he was beating that bully into the chalk board.

But then he came to his senses and dropped the bully on the floor, rushing to check up on you again, cause he's never been so violent in front of you and he's low-key worried.

But he stopped midway and just stared. He was trying to map out his next course of action. Cause he did just have a crash out and trash an entire classroom over some cutesy girl he shouldn't give a fuck about. That was the plan at least. But they probably heard him mutter. And even if they didn't, they'd probably figure out that you mean something to him for him to react in this manner.

He takes a deep breath and announces to the entire class that anyone who dares to touch you, or even look at you wrong, will be personally dealt with by him. He can see the confusion on your face in his periphery but he chooses to ignore it for now.

After class he tries to convince you to allow him to always be around you and to always have men guarding you.

He makes it seem like whether you accept it or not is up to you... But is it really?

From that day onwards, he's tailing you all day everyday. You're at the convenience store getting toilet paper? You better believe he's in the snack aisle behind you. Watching you through the cracks.

He's like a stalker that has your permission to stalk.

He also, always has you on his lap at school, not during class, but every other time.

He's low-key kinda grateful he acted out that day. Cause he can now freely express his love for you.

He can touch you, hold your hand, your waist, your hips, you in general.

Although he does make sure not to act too enamored.

Also he leans a bit into the fuckboy persona cause he still wants people to think you don't mean shit to him.

At home he literally never stops holding you though.

Damn I wrote a lot more than I expected.

[edenesth]

[7:03 AM]

"Oh my freaking god! If you don't know how to drive, go back to driving school!" you shouted, resisting the urge to flip off the car in front of you. "Seriously, how did these people even get their driver's licenses?!"

Seonghwa bit his lip, glancing over at you with hearts in his eyes. He admired your heeled foot pressing aggressively on the accelerator as you overtook the slow driver hogging the fast lane. His eyes travelled up to your work outfit—a well-fitted black velvet dress with a mid-thigh slit, a floral-patterned scrunchie on your wrist, and a pair of geeky rose gold-rimmed glasses on your face.

God, if only she knew how hot she looked.

The thing was, you were usually the sweetest angel known to man. Everyone at your workplace called you 'sunshine,' and you truly were the nicest person to exist, a quality that had drawn him to you. To him, this made you wifey material, and he couldn't imagine loving anyone else if you weren't the one he eventually married.

But there was one time when you were most unlike your usual self: whenever you were on the road, behind the wheel. When you drove, you turned into a complete demon.

He remembered witnessing this side of you for the first time. It was just a few weeks into your relationship when he needed a ride. His initial shock quickly turned into admiration as he savoured the meanest resting bitch face he'd ever seen on you. He had no idea his sweet, perfect angel could harbour such rage.

That same expression was on your face now, and he would never tire of seeing it. However, there was one problem: he was getting a little too excited from seeing you like this. This was not the right time for such feelings. He was on his way to work, for goodness' sake. The last thing he needed was for his coworkers to notice how 'affected' he was by his girlfriend first thing in the morning.

To avoid letting his excitement escalate, he quickly took out his phone and started playing around with it, eventually settling on taking selfies using the mirror on the visor to distract himself.

"Man, I look good today," he smirked.

"Oh yeah? We'll see how good you look when you have to walk yourself to work tomorrow. This will be the last time I'm dropping you off, Park. That goddamn car of yours better be all serviced and ready by the end of the day."

His grin vanished at your words. "But babe, we're having such a good time. Don't you like spending a few extra minutes with me, hm? Besides, the guys at the workshop said it could take a few days if the spare parts don't arrive on time—" he was cut off by the deadly glare you shot him.

"If you think being stuck in an unnecessary jam and being late to my own job because of you is a good time, you need to reevaluate your priorities," you said coolly, eyes on the road as you overtook all the drivers from hell and sped toward his office building, which was thankfully not too far from yours.

"Yes, ma'am."

Seonghwa wasn’t sure how to feel hearing those words, but he supposed he finally understood what it meant to be both scared and turned on at the same time because damn, that was hot.

Before he could dwell on those feelings for too long, the car slowed to a stop, and he realised you had arrived at his workplace. After shifting the gear to park, you turned to face him, your usual warm smile greeting him once again—the smile he adored, the one that had stolen his heart, the one that made him realise you were the one.

"We're here, Hwa! You know I don't mean any of those words, right? I'll drive you whenever you need me to. Now go before you're late."

Just like that, his angel was back.

His heart melted all over again as he leaned in to press his lips firmly against your invitingly pink ones, not caring if he ruined your gloss. That was what you deserved after all the things you had just said to him. Call it his little payback if you will. To his delight, your eyes fluttered shut as you kissed him back, just like the sweet angel you always were, giving in to him without fail.

Pulling back slowly, you sighed, "Go. I'll see you after work. Love you."

He bit his lip, feeling your thumb swiftly wipe your gloss off his lips. "I love you too, babe. God, you drive me crazy."

And he meant it.

You giggled, pushing him away by the chest. "You do the same to me, Park Seonghwa."

As he got out of the car, his heart pounded in his chest, still reeling from the emotional whiplash you had given him. Feeling hot from the experience, he loosened his tie to cool off before entering his office. Oh yes, he couldn't wait to be picked up by you this evening. Unlike now, he would be able to show you just how crazy you made him once you got home tonight.

Just you wait, you little devil.

ATEEZ Masterlist

I... this is self-indulgent as fck, that's all I'll say HAHA this was the only thing on my mind as I was driving home from work today. I'm usually sweet as an angel (it's what most people say about me) but good lord, I'm unrecognisable whenever I'm on the road.

Sacrificed my workout time to write this because priorities LMFAO

Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this random timestamp and as always, let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01 |

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho |

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline |

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1 |

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha |

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte |

@bangtannie7

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[baibeebrii]

Timothee Chalamet- highschool au

nerdy!reader x popular!timmy

18+ mdni

my writing is everywhere. i had to get this idea out. lol

warnings- rough sex, praise, simp timmy, down bad timmy, semi public sex, all consensual, adult reader(18), cursing, corruption kink, timmy’s a bit of a stalker, squirting

info - nerdy reader gets invited to timothee’s end of the year party, shocked, she goes.

her surprise, it was all part of timmy’s plan of confessing and finally getting you as his.

in any way he can.

senior year, best way to put it. not going well.

you were in your last year of highschool, still the same you as you were in your first year. school oriented and focused. your only priority was getting into college. so that’s all you focused on your four years.

you were so smart, acing all your classes with straight A’s and even some college credits. you were the person people would come to for notes, or help and you always helped your classmates. you were just that type of person.

which is what made you catch timothy’s eye, he loved staring at you during class when you were turned away from him helping another classmate work out a problem, the way your hair fell in your face, making you push it behind your ear, watching how you bite your lip when really focused ok something. admiring how gorgeous your body was. from the curve of your chest to the curve of your hips. you were remarkable in his eyes, and he so badly wanted you to feel it.

you were the top of every class, straight A student, never going to party’s, always home studying. so when timothee hands you an invitation to his party, you were nothing but shocked, and a little confused.

“is this for me? or do you need me to give this to someone else?” you ask, because surely it’s not for you- right?

“uh it’s your invite, has your name on it” timothee smiles and points to the envelope, where your name was written in pink cursive.

“are you sure you want me there? i mean i’ve never even been to a party” you chuckle, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. embarrassed that your life is well.

boring.

“well yeah, i mean unless miss perfect has some studying to do?” he laughs, hoping you say no.

you smirk, “i guess i can push some studying aside to come to the infamous timothee chalamets party”

he smiles, gives you a nod and walks to his next class.

why is your heart beating so fast? and why do you feel hot and tingly all over.

you’re snapped out of your thoughts when your stack of books are pushed to the floor.

“what do you think you’re doing?” sara basically hissed at you.

ah sara, lead cheerleader, most popular, blah blah blah.

you get it? the school bully.

you say nothing as you grab your things and turn to walk away, not even giving her the time of day to ruin the high you’re feeling right now.

but that was only seconds before you’re pulled out of your thoughts again, by a hand on your shoulder spinning you around.

“i asked you a question, bitch. what do you think you’re doing? you’re not seriously thinking about showing up to that party?” she sneered.

“um actually, i am. thanks” you try walking away again, only to be pulled back.

“if i see you there, i will ruin your life. stay away from him”

you couldn’t understand the drama behind boys? she’s threatening you, over a boy? so weird.

last class of the day? done. school was finally done. couple months of studying and you’ll be off to college. you couldn’t wait.

but more importantly. timothees party tonight.

oh god.

what the fuck were you going to wear?

you ripped apart your closet. desperate to find something, anything.

finally, the perfect skirt and shirt.

the cutest black mini skirt and a white baby tee with a red star.

you couldn’t lie, you looked good.

maybe too good.

but you’ll never see these people when you go to college. so let’s have some fun.

you put on some mascara, a nice wing eyeliner, and a red lipstick. you left your hair down, but brought a hair tie in case you got hot.

driving over there, you were an anxious mess. you almost turned around thrice but right on time. you pulled on his street. parking a bit away.

walking up to his house, you can already hear music blaring and see a bunch of people standing around.

do you knock? do you just walk in?

luckily some people were coming beside you and just walked in, so you slipped in with them.

inside, you looked around. drinks were in the kitchen, and there was a snack table.

your eyes scanning the room for the host, not finding in in the large crowd you decided to head to the kitchen, get something to drink.

you turn around and bump into someone, nine other then timmy himself.

“ah y/n you decided to come” he gleamed at you, little brush creeping on his face.

“ah yeah, couldn’t miss your party” you laugh, as if you’ve ever been to a party before.

“come on, let me give you the tour”

timmy took you all around his house, showing off everything he could to impress you, and it was working. who knew the most popular boy in school was secretly a huge star wars nerd? you loved it.

you make your way back downstairs, timmy running to get you guys something to drink, you stand kinda in the corner, not wanting to get bothered as you waited.

you can only hope so much, “hello cutie, you dress up nicely” some boy basically growled at you he was so intoxicated.

“do i know you?” of course you knew who he was, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“we go to the same school?” he slurred out, this was seriously such an ick for you, do people really enjoy this.

before the boy spoke again, timmy showed up, wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you in.

“problem?” he said looking towards the boy.

he stammered son incoherent words before walking away, you sighed. gross.

“let’s go upstairs, yeah?”

agreeing quickly, you follow behind him to his bedroom, him closing and locking the door before sitting on his bed with you.

“here, try this drink” he says placing a solo cup in your hand, “it’s a creation of my own”

you smile and take a small sip, smelling the alcohol. but to your surprise it tasted like straight up juice. taking another sip you look even more surprised.

“this is alcohol?” you giggle.

“ahh yeah, made it so you wouldnt taste the alcohol” he smirked.

taking another sip, your cup is already half gone, starting to feel a bit fuzzy yiu place the cup down.

“i’m gonna tap out, don’t want to get too intoxicated. need to drive home”

“smart, ill stop too. let’s just talk” timmy smiles at you grabbing both your cups and placing them on the night stand.

“sooooo what made you invite me timothy? i don’t think we’ve ever talked much” you laugh.

he just stares for a second, “why wouldn’t i invite you? i like you” ending the sentence in a smirk.

you just stare at him, likes you? how? we barely know each other.

before you could say anything timothy continues, “i’ve been paying attention to you y/n. you’re so pretty in class, the prettiest.” he says moving closer to you.

“the way your bangs frame your face when you’re reading, or how they fall in your face while you’re writing. the way your skirt rides up your thigh from sitting” you looks you up and down.

you’re speechless, shell shocked even. did he really just say that? or did you drink more then you thought.

timothy just giggles at you, pulling you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“ah but don’t worry, i catch the way you look at me. such lust filled eyes for someone so pure” his eyes darken.

no like seriously darken, you’ve read this in books but you didn’t think it was actually possible.

your heart rate quickens, rapidly beating in your chest. you can’t help but to feel the heat rise up in you.

“timothy, are you drunk?” you finally speak out.

he laughs and shakes his head a bit, “i’ve barely drank baby, wanted to be perfect for you” he puts his face in your chest, inhaling your scent.

he groans, and pulls you closer, hands sliding down your back to your ass.

“i love watching you in class, or walk down the hallway. watching as your ass jiggles with every step, the way your tits bounce, i could eat you alive”

your cheeks darken a deep red, you could feel his hard cock twitching on your thigh.

“do you want me just as bad as i want you baby?” he innocently asks, pulling the hem of your shirt up.

you nod as you help him take your top off, boobs bouncing out of the shirt. sitting so pretty just for him.

“god they’re so much better then i imagined, so pretty” he says taking a bud into his mouth ducking gently while his other hand went to massage your left boob.

you make a small noise, this is all new to you. a virgin in every way.

“ahh timmy, wait” he instantly takes himself off you looking into your eyes.

“are you okay?” the sincerity in his eyes and voice is beautiful.

“i’m fine, i just want you to know this would be my first time” his eyes flickered.

“i’d be the first to have this body” he growled flipping you over so he’s on top of you.

he attacks your neck with sloppy kisses as he rubs down your body.

you’re making noises, so many small whimpers and whines.

it’s driving timothy crazy, he doesnt know how long he can contain himself.

“i need you baby, please?” the desperation in his voice was overwhelming. you nod your head and your skirt is flying off along with your underwear. his pants are being unzipped and pulled down

his hard cock popped out smacking his stomach, almost to his belly button. your eyes widen, that will not fit.

“don’t worry baby, i’ll go slow. you make all the calls, understand?” he doesn’t want to hurt you, he wants to take care of you. wants you to be safe and comfortable.

you nod, he spreads your legs and positions himself between them. he gives you a glance and you nod.

he slowly starts to push inside you, you’re so wet for him and he groans as he slides in.

you’re feeling nothing but good. this is better then you could have ever imagined.

he’s almost bottomed out before he stops, “are you still okay? need me to stop?” he rubs your face, brushing your hair.

you huff out a yes, before he pushes all the way in, the gasp you gusped was enough to stop your breathing for a second.

“god you’re so wet and warm for me baby, such a sweet girl for me” he slowly starts rocking his hips, needing to feel you.

you moan out, letting timmy know he’s doing well, quickening his pace he lets out small grunts and moans.

you’re a moaning mess, moans and curse words leaving your lips as timmy has found himself at a fast but harsh pace. he’s fucking you so deep, reaching spots that make you feel stars, his cock sliding almost completely out before slamming back in.

the way your pussy clings to his cock, sucking him back in is driving you crazy.

your pussy is absolutely dripping around him, you feel fucking amazing.

the way he’s fucking you is so intense the coil in your stomach is about to burst.

feeling like you have to pee, but the pleasure is so good you can’t help but to let everything go.

your orgasm shocking your core, timmy slowly fucking you through it. placing soft kisses along your collar bone.

“that’s it, such a good girl.” praising you as you cum all over his cock.

regaining composure you look down, his stomach is soaked, he’s soaked in your pussy juices.

“baby i think you just squirted.” he smirks running his fingers on his stomach before placing them in his mouth, “and you tastes delicious”

he flips you over so your on your hands and knees, you’re a bit wobbly but keep standing as he slides his thick cock back into your soaking pussy.

he quickly returns to his ruthless pace, slamming his cock deep inside you with every thrust, keeping this same ruthless pace but god it was amazing.

his grip on your hips are sure to leave bruises as you pounds your tight little pussy.

he reaches for your hair, tugging it back and using it as leverage to fuck you even deeper, you scream out. he’s hitting your spot over and over. fucking you senseless.

“ahh baby, i’m getting close. where do you want my cum?” timmy says breathlessly.

you moan out “inside, please”

that only makes tummy’s pace faster as he wants to so badly fill this hole.

you can barely hold your self up anymore, absolutely fucked out.

timmy’s rhythm starts to fall out of line as he’s getting closer, his grip on your tighter as his moans become louder.

few more thrusts and he’s cumming deep into your pussy, his whimpers as his orgasm rushed through his body is enough to make you cum for a second time. fluttering your walks on his twitching cock creates the best overstimulation for timmy. moaning again as he slowly thrust into. fucking his cum deeper inside you.

his little whimpers as the overstimulation is getting to you both.

he pulls out slowly, helping you lay down, before getting up and walking to his connected bathroom grabbing a wet rag and a glass of water.

he cleans you up and hands you the water, before cleaning himself.

he grabs you a shirt from his drawer as well as finding your underwear.

he slides your under wear up your legs, pulling them on, and helping you put the shirt on before pulling the blanket up and pulling you in.

“you’re okay? nothing hurts?” he asks as you runs his fingers through your hair.

“i’m good, more then good” you smile into his chest.

he laughs, “good, i didn’t want to hurt you, but i’ve been fantasizing about you for so long.”

“you drive me crazy y/n, i need you to know that”

you just laugh, he laughs with you.

silence passes between you, before timmy speaks up again.

“be my girlfriend y/n?”

you look up to him, innocent eyes he’s displaying and shake your head yes.

his giddy ass smile gives you butter flies before he pulls you in closer, and drifting off the sleep with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i don’t know. this was just an idea i had to excute quickly.

hope you enjoy!

[mymegrokosmos]

Seventeen talking you through a panic attack.

Seungcheol - Notices right away that something is off the minute you shift away from his touch or make an excuse to step outside for a moment. Will follow behind, giving you a little space but with a concerned from furrowing his brows as he asks what you need or how he can help. WIll offer his jacket if it’s cold and just sit or stand with you, murmuring about nothing to help you calm down if talking you through coping techniques isn’t what you need from him in that moment. If it is, he’s there calmly talking you down and only a step away if you need a hand to hold or his arms around you (for grounding purposes of course, not to reassure him). Demonstrates your breathing techniques and offers you something solid and steady (himself ofc) to lean on as the shaking passes once the anxiety fades and the adrenaline you’ve built up floods your system.

Jeonghan - Doesn’t say anything but notices the way you’re slowly inching away from him. Will be sneaky about it, positioning himself to buffer you from whoever else is around and making himself the centre of attention to pull any focus away from you. Keeps an eye on you and will quirk an eyebrow or tilt his head to ask how you’re doing. Will tease you about how much you need him and how you can’t live without him later if you take the hand he holds out in support, mostly  to keep you from going into shock as the adrenaline wears off and not because he’s a little bitch. Nope. Definitely couldn’t be that. All jokes aside will body check anyone to get to you if you’re not in his line of sight when it happens, you are his priority and if it means an excuse to do a little violence or get a little even with one of his members he is so game. Tucks you in and insists you get lots of rest after, using the excuse of you being extra clingy to steal as many cuddles as you’ll let him.

Joshua - Is a little oblivious at first but the minute you tug at his sleeve or make panicked eyes at him he’s pulling you away to get some fresh air and checking that you’re okay. Will ask you a thousand times what you need, how he can help, if he can get you anything. He’s just a worrywart who hates seeing you not feeling good, especially when he can’t just fix it with some home baked cookies or a big hug. Will insist on doing everything for like the next 48hrs because you are getting babied pls make the most of it. Definitely runs a hot bath once you’ve calmed down and talks you into sharing a long soak with you. Not so he can hold you because he’s the one needing calm now, but because it’s good for you or something. Makes you tea and insists on doing your skincare for you, he just wants to be helpful and needs to keep moving so he can stop overthinking that you’re really okay afterward. Please give the man some kisses and take him up on that bear hug or cuddles and a cute movie.

Jun - Somehow this man always seems like he would be good in a crisis. He might be panicking on the inside but outwardly he’s very calm and stoic. Will absolutely be your rock. Soft voice, slow movements, tone gentle he will treat you like a spooked cat. Knows just how to help soothe you. Will sit with you on the floor and ramble to you so his voice becomes the only background noise you can focus on. Will wrap you in blankets if you’re cold or hold you on his lap if you need physical touch, whatever it is you so much as hint at it and he is on it immediately. The way he knows what you mean when you’re struggling to articulate yourself should be studied. Is very aware of how big he can seem and will do his best to make himself as small and unintimidating as possible no matter how silly it might look to others around you. Is definitely putting his coziest sweater on you and cooking something warm to help you feel better once the adrenaline crash has settled a little.

Woozi - Convinced this man carries snacks wherever he goes just for such occasions. He knows the crash can take a lot out of you and he is always prepared to help you ride out the aftermath with one of his hoodies, a blanket, a hot drink and something sugary. The type to sit in silence with you so you know you’re not alone and let you make the first move. Will let you be the one to reach for him if you need to but stays close enough that you don’t have to stretch to do it. He’s sitting so close you can feel the warmth of his body but if it’s too much he won’t be offended when you move away or step outside for some fresh air. He’s listening, watching and waiting to your cues attentively. Already ordering your favourite warm meal as he notices you starting to calm down, knowing you’re going to be cold, tired and shaking. Yes this time you can use his bicep or chest as a pillow and he won’t even whine about it. Probably keeps pillows in his studio and brings electrolytes everywhere he goes just in case. He’s prepared to make this the least uncomfortable experience it can be for you.

Hoshi - startled at first. Surprisingly good at talking you through it or talking you down, whichever you need that day. Will hold your hands in his and rub them for warmth as he chats to you. He can ramble for hours if it helps, the chatter taking your mind off of spiraling. Happy to sit with you for however long it takes, bringing you blankets or something to cuddle or herding Latte over to give you some love periodically. Doesn’t ask questions until later. Would like feedback on how he can better help you or what he did well and what he didn’t after. Please help him help you, he just wants to make it a less awful time however he can. Clinging to you once you come down, insisting his body heat will keep you nice and warm while he lets you order whatever you want to eat as long as you share with him or get him something too. King of the distraction technique. And his optimistic happy personality has you smiling again in no time because emotional support Hoshi is so very real he’s just a real life squish. It’s impossible not to find joy in his presence, especially when he’s so focused on making you smile.

Wonwoo - Another one who is happy to sit in silence with you if that’s what you need. Will stay close or make sure he’s making noise while he does things so you know he’s around. Holds out a hand to you first, letting you decide if touch is good or bad right now. Depending what you need will either hold you close, your head tucked under his chin while he rubs your back so you can match your breathing to his steady heartbeat or just curl up beside you watching something quietly or reading. Will hum softly under his breath and get you some water, helping you hold the cup when your hands shake. Will ask if you need anything or if there’s something he can do or get you. Brings you snacks and cuts them up into small pieces for you. Very patient and steady. The type who knows his calm will help so he stays steady until you’re able to breathe through it and come back down again. Has pre-prepared goodies stashed away specially made by Mingyu to help get your sugar levels back up afterward but you have to eat something healthy first because balance is important after all.

Mingyu - Now, he knows it doesn’t help but he can’t not panic. Eyes wide, frantic pacing, mumbling to himself as he talks through what steps he’s supposed to take. You have a list on the fridge for just these kinds of situations. He’s practiced. He’s got this. Will figure it out after a few minutes. The best kind of person to have around if it’s a physical touch craving kind of panic attack, he will wrap you in the warmest tightest bear hug that holds you together so well you feel safe even in the midst of the worst of it. Buries his face in the crook of your neck, rubs your back, holds your hand and rubs his thumb over your skin. Will set you on the counter after in one of his oversized sweaters while he cooks you something to refill the energy you’ve lost and lay with you, playing with your hair until you fall asleep. Only then is he letting out a breath and actually relaxing. High alert sweet puppy boy who means well and stays close to be the emotional support however you may need him.

DK - Also one to panic right along with you at first before getting it together. You’ve talked him through this and he has a list on the fridge just in case he forgets his head. Very sweet. The type who sits with you and tells you stories, catching you up on his day and just talking to you so you don’t feel alone as you ride it out. He’s making you tea or hot cocoa, feeding you soup, wrapping you in soft blankets and putting on your favourite comfort show. WIll read your book to you if you’re shaking too much or just let you settle your head on his lap and sleep it off if that’s what you need. Hands in your hair, he’s very gentle and cautious not to set you off when touch is a bad sensation for you. Always checking in and asking how you’re doing. You’ve got a non-verbal system in place and he has them down pat. His quiet care and soft smile are very reassuring. You’re in good hands and he’ll cuddle you to sleep later and hold you through every nightmare. You’re a team and you know he’s got your back every time. Even when you can’t think straight enough to remember it.

Minghao - Another one who treats it calmly and matter of factly. He knows just what helps and what doesn’t. Keeps his pace slow, his voice soft, and his smile ready. His touch is always gentle but he’s there to reassure you with a head pat, a hand on your shoulder or a kiss on your temple. He’s right there and he isn’t leaving. If you need to sit for hours just holding his pinky he’ll be there. Happy to read or talk to you if the steady rhythm of his voice is calming, his presence alone is just soothing. He’s not noisy, he’s very quiet and slow and approaches you like a startled animal. Making sure you eat something, hydrate and get some rest once it passes. The type to pull you against his side or lay your head on his lap and tuck you in telling you to take a nap no matter what time it is. He’ll keep the bad dreams away while you recover. He even has snacks, water and your favourite things on standby to deploy as needed until you’re feeling better.

Seungkwan - Very much trying not to freak out and has to take a minute to get himself together first but he’s got this. One of the talking your ear off to distract you and himself types. Very much has every snack under the sun ready to spoil you with once you’re past the worst of it. Making you hot tea, worrying over you like your best friend’s mother. He's wrapping you in blankets until you’re too hot and making you laugh with the over the top care. You know it comes from a good place. He’s just trying to do everything he can think of. Makes sure you’re well hydrated. He’s happy to hold you and help you with your mug if you’re shaking too much. Puts on your favourite songs and sings along just for you. He’s going to need a minute once you’re sleeping to calm himself down but he’s going to be there right beside you through it. Holding your hand, braiding your hair back out of your face, even doing your nails or makeup if it will take your mind off of spiraling for a few minutes. Whatever you ask for at the moment, he’s doing.

Vernon - Definitely freaking out a little inside the first few times but remains calm on the outside. Once he gets into a routine and knows what to do, he’s very chill with it. Number one following the plan you outlined he’s talking himself through the steps in his head as he gets you through it like a champ. Keeps his voice soft, puts your hand on his chest so you can feel his steady heartbeat as he talks you through your breathing. He knows all your coping mechanisms and tools. Has them ready. Happy to sit there with you for however long it takes and is definitely ordering food, you trapped against his side with one arm thrown around you as he pulls up his favourite delivery app. Rambles to you happily about his latest special interest while you come down, head resting against yours after he’s wrapped you in one of his jumpers and tucked a blanket over both of your laps. He makes it feel very normal and easy. Couch naps for both of you while waiting for the food.

Dino - Another one who means well but is so utterly helpless at first. He is worried. He is panicking. He is not sure he is breathing. Oddly enough his freak out makes you feel like the calm one. It pulls you out of it sooner when you have to be the one to pull him into your lap and hold him, fingers threading through his hair as he whines and mumbles into your chest. He’s warm and his arms around you are grounding. The type that’s great for when you need touch, he’s always wanting to hold you and be attached. Clinging as long as you’ll let him. Talking your ear off about how the hyungs have annoyed him lately and what you should have for dinner and anything new he hasn’t had a chance to tell you yet. Nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck and his soft breathing lulls you as he falls asleep. It’s easier to breathe when you’re watching his sweet innocent sleeping face. You’re safe here if he’s safe enough to fall asleep. Baby just loves you a lot and hates seeing you struggling.

[xxsabitoxx]

My Personal Upper Moon 🍆 Ranking

Warnings: if it isn’t obvious already, this post is taking about the Upper Moon’s and my personal HC on their dick sizes. If that makes you uncomfortable in any way, just keep scrolling

A/N: I was actually very surprised by the amount of comments on my Hashira version of this HC post. So I feel a little more comfortable with giving the Upper Moons a go, especially since someone asked if I would do it eheheh. That being said, these men are demons, therefore you may find my size rankings to be a bit unrealistic. But I’m not gonna go crazy and say Muzan has a dick that’s 2 miles long.

This post includes: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Hantengu’s clones (Karaku, Urogi, Sekido and Aizetsu), Gyutaro and Kaigaku. And no Gyokko cause that man doesn’t have a dick, period.

In a category of his own: Muzan Kibutsuji

Muzan clearly deserves a category of his own for one particular reason: he’s able to alter his appearance.

Therefore, he’s able to change the size of his dick whenever the fuck he feels like it.

And don’t try and say that stupid cause he can literally change gender and age so changing his dick size isn’t out of the question

On average, Muzan prefers to have a larger dick, mostly because he’s a pussy ass bitch man that needs that kind of confidence down there, if you get what I mean.

Typically soft: 10.5

Typically hard: 11.7

But he can make it as big, small, curved, wide, as he wants

When he wants to torture your ass, he’ll make himself as girthy as he sees fit just to watch you cry and squirm and beg for something a little smaller.

Anytime you get “comfortable” he just increases his girth until you’re crying again. Your pleasure is never his first priority, it’s always his.

1. Kokushibo

Among the demons, it should be no shock that Upper Moon One has always been packing. This man is petrifying so it’s only right that his dick is equally as intimidating as him

Even as a human, this man’s dick was deadly. You can’t change my mind either.

Just in case you’re wondering, Yoriichi is bigger

That’s beside the point, Kokushibo has a lot to work with down there. Whether it’s hard or soft ngl

When soft: 9.5

When hard: 10.7

He’s long, girthy and curves slightly upwards. He’s heavy too, your jaw will certainly hurt by the time you’re done with him.

He’s the type to put a pillow or blanket of some sort under your lower back as he fucks you. Mostly because he’s not clueless to the fact that his dick is big

Kokushibo is the type to ease you into it though, he’s stern but he has a teeny bit of empathy when it comes to fucking you. Unless you’ve pissed him off ofc.

2. Akaza

I know this one is gonna be controversial, especially since I’m putting him above Douma but hear me out.

This man has audacity, which means he got a big dick. No demon is acting like Akaza and having a small dick to go with it. Nuh uh, no sir.

Akaza is sitting pretty knowing damn well his cock is bigger than Douma’s and it actually something Douma taunts him with… which you think the roles would be reversed but hey…

When soft: 8.5

When hard: 9.7

He’s straight, no real curve to him and he has a single blue line going up the underside of his shaft and one that wraps around just before the head of his dick. Like as in the lines that cover his body lol

Akaza is probably the “gentlest” of all the upper moons because of the respect he has for women

That’s not to say he isn’t rough with you, but he definitely cares about your pleasure and feelings more than Douma or Muzan would for example

He’s pretty confident in himself though, at least that’s how it seems to you. He knows what he’s doing to say the least

3. Douma

Alright listen, this man is still packing down there so don’t get mad at me for putting him at third.

His dick is smaller than Akaza’s but not by a ton. Let’s be honest Douma is probably the straightest and gayest demon to ever exist. The embodiment of bisexual LMAO

How does Douma know Akaza’s dick is bigger? The world may never know

When soft: 8

When hard: 9.2

It’s pale like the rest of him, a pretty noticeable curve to it as well. He has some prominent veins because of how pale he is. His tip is like a pinkish gray (idk why I felt the need to include this)

He’s pretty girthy too, so he definitely will make your walls stretch uncomfortably if he doesn’t offer you foreplay

Douma is rough, selfish and truly only cares about his own pleasure but he likes watching you whine and squirm while being impaled on his cock

Douma also has a thing for “belly bulges” so he will fuck you in some odd positions if he means he can see his dick from the outside… if ya know what I mean

4. Gyutaro

Listen, plz just listen cause I promise you I’m going somewhere with this. Cause I can already hear y’all being like ???Scrawny ass Gyutaro is in 4th??? Yes. He is.

Gyutaro got himself a bit of an upgrade when becoming a demon. He for sure does not look like he did a a human. By that I mean he’s taller than he was (even tho he’s hunched)

What I’m tryna get at is demon transformation made his dick bigger and Imma live in my little fantasy world

When soft: 6.5

When hard: 7.2

Gyutaro’s dick is as curved as his spine and as thick as his tiny ass waist. He’s got length but not crazy girth.

Even if he’s rough, it feels good. Like there isn’t a ton of discomfort if he goes in raw with no prep cause he wants to punish you, he’s like the perfect amount of stretch

He’s mean, verbally and physically but at the same time he’s a fucking sucker for your body so he can’t really say much without whining and groaning

He’s got some confidence in his cock but he’s also a bit envious of the other upper moons

5. The Hantengu Clones (Sekido, Karaku, Aizetsu, Urogi)

I’ve talked about my dick HCs for these four in my A-Z NSFW alphabet and I was tryna be realistic. However, when it comes to this post, fuck being realistic.

Sekido when soft 6.2 | when hard 7.1

Karaku when soft 6 | when hard 6.9

Urogi when soft 5.9 | when hard 6.7

Aizetsu when soft 5.7 | when hard 6.5

There is so much to say here but honestly my brain is malfunctioning so I can’t even delve into it

Regardless, the four of these demons fuck very differently and use their dicks very differently

Sekido and Urogi have no curve, Karaku has a slight curve and Aizetsu’s curves upwards

Hantengu himself had a 3 inch dick and you can’t tell me otherwise. Pussy ass bitch

6. Kaigaku

I hate this little bitch but I’m including him so I can rag on his fugly ass. Kaigaku simps I’m sorry but I can’t stand him

This douche has the smallest dick among the upper moons. This is full Kaigaku slander.

When soft: 5.2

When hard: 6

I’ll give him a decent dick tho cause boy does he have the fucking audacity

That’s all I’m gonna give y’all cause I ain’t wasting my time on him GOOD BYE I didn’t even tag is ass