#what if . what if the. the. they. the. you know what i mean ??

[jarlskona-evilyoyo]

Listen you can have Rumi be a top in your fics all you want, and I can even believe it a LITTLE bit, but there is no way in god’s green earth that she’s calling anyone a slut. I don’t care how much Zoey might want her too— she’s incapable of any kind of dirty talk.

[kensatou]

"This feels kinda raunchy. How'd we end up like this?" "The heck, dude? This was your idea!" "I mean, you wanted to know what's inside me. Right?" THE SUMMER HIKARU DIED / 光が死んだ夏

[rawme-price]

Hear me out...mean Dom ghost and pillow princess reader having to do all the work as punishment 🤔

Mean Dom ghost who thinks hes punishing you by making you ride him....hes very wrong.

Sure, you started out whiny, upset and overwhelmed at being made to ride him. He usually does all the work, and you cant even get a good angle! Ur thighs are working overtime, hips twitching as you experiment with different angles and paces.

The whole time, ghost is doing his usual routine, leaning back with thick arms crossed. "Hm. Looking pathetic, darling. Can't even ride me without help? Useless, aren't you?" All while mentally trying to to cum at the sight of you working urself mindlessly over him.

When he feels himself getting close, ghost warns "if you dont finish by the time I do, then you dont finish at all. 's not my problem you don't know what to do."

His warning only turns you frantic, rutting into him harshly in a way that has ghost moaning in approval. His spills into you with his head thrown back, ur hips never pausing as you milk him dry. He moves his hands to grab ur hips, fully intending to make u stop, but you smack his hands away with a growl "dont you fucking dare."

Youve never talked back to him like that, never slapped him away. Something about seeing you use his body for ur own pleasure (hes well into overstim by now) does something for ghost. He leans back when you press hands into his chest, stomach clenching and breaths leaving him in sharp pants.

You hardly even aknowledge him, fucking down until you finally, finally finish. Ghost thinks thats it, surely you must be tired, but after a few seconds ur hips shift again. And oh god- he can feel his dick twitch in interest, and thats all the encouragement u need to keep going.

By the end ghost is moaning like a whore, tears at his lashes and babbling exactly the way you do when he fucks you. "Ha- fuck, baby- please, please- i cant- fuck, like that- i dont-" unable to tell if he wants more or less. You give him mercy, coo about hoe cute he looks, and you both slip into a warm bath together. The whole time ghost is thinking about how nice is was to forfeit control, to be given pleasure and made to take it.

...hes got some self-reflection and maybe some kink negotiation to do later.

[luveline]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[bebethsas]

ooooo yaaaas, love it when the characters accidentally reinvent the sexual wheel :3

I think 50 shades of grey did so much damage to BDSM writing in fic and like not because I think fic writers were taking inspiration from it, but we did get a lot of detailed explanatory posts about all the different ways in which those guys were Doing It Wrong, which is not in and of itself a bad thing but since then everybody got so hung up on making sure everybody in their fics was nothing like 50 shades of grey and actually demonstrates that yes I do understand the principles of safe sane and consensual and the traffic light system and safewording and aftercare and checking in that now everybody fucks like a 101 handbook and I think we've only just recently started to recover from it. love me a dynamic where it's two repressed freak idiots who accidentally invent BDSM all on their own and have to come up with the strangest most deeply harmful ways of navigating that situation

[tonycries]

BAD DESIRE.

Synopsis. The best way for him to apologize? Fúck.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, rough s, angry s, matíng presses, PÚSSYDRÚNK men, manhandIing, spítting, p talking, making them whímper, mentions of marathons, creampíes, cúmplay, CEO!Nanami, slight bréeding, GOJO’S POWERS, squírting, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, jealousy (Ino’s side), pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Smooching you if you get the song ref for the title-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Make him whimper!?

“God-” Toji rasps, he groans. Head thrown back as he’s slamming the tender, pink underside of his tip into your slippery entrance, “God, you’re milking me dry, ma.”

With a roughened hand clawing onto your hips, he’s fighting off the urge to make you slow down your relentless ridin’. Instead looking up at you with a tilted head, usual smirk wobbly- “What more do ya want from me?”

“Hmmm, I dunno.” You’re tapping your chin in faux-thought, still reeling from your nth high of the night. Another one of your hands presses between Toji’s flexed pecs, “How about an apology for missin’ our date today, hm—?”

An apology - an apology.

He grunts, “Again- hck!” Cut by a squeeze of your wet walls, cushioning his rovering length. Toji’s been apologizing for hours at this point - and he had to make you accept his plea. Soon. 

Otherwise you were going to make the big, bad Toji Fushiguro whimper. 

And he couldn’t have that- oh, he couldn’t shatter his tough façade just as soon as his beautiful girl was riding him to madness. 

So Toji’s grinding those mean hips of his into yours, thoroughly brushing the throbbing girth of his cock near your soft g-spot. 

Again and again. He’s rapidly ruttin’ his flared ridge back and forth down that lil’ spot until you’re seeing stars, “See? See?” Gnawing down on the insides of his cheeks so that he wouldn’t sound as ruined as he really was right now. “Doesn’t this show how utterly fuckin’ sorry I am, doll? Isn’t this pretty pussy of yours hah- tired of being mad?”

Toji coos as saliva starts to fill up the inside of your mouth, leaking down each side of your lips. You just couldn’t help it with the sheer stretch- “W-well, maybe….”

You were simply no match for his utter size, and he knew that. 

Length so long that he could easily stroke your spongy cervix with the edge of his rock-hard tip, “Because m’reeeeally sorry for taking that stupid mission n’ missing our date. To you, to…” He’s spreading open your cunt with a fat thumb, just to watch the way your tight hole swallowed up something so massive. And the side of his maw splits with a lecherous grin, “-her.”

You gasp, feeling Toji guide one of your hands to clutch at his neck. “See? Hold onto me, mama- fuck! Feel me.”

“Hmpf- it was a really nice café, too.” You’re pouting stubbornly, and you swear you could feel the way his plump, weeping orifice twitches at how mouthy you still were. 

How much your entire body was loosening up after each thrash of his furious cockhead. 

And Toji was fucking you just the way he knew you liked - with long, sloppy strikes of his orifice slidin’ down your walls. Right across your g-spot so that you’re feeling the drag of his veins once he bottoms out at your cervix.

Repeatedly. 

“Mhm, but I have something- fuuuuck, even sweeter now.” He was laying it on thick. Toying out a cute heart on your clit, the sensation makes your fingers instinctually squeeze his gasping airway. 

Something you didn’t think would make him shiver, would make him spank his hips up into yours with a resounding plap! of skin-on-skin. 

Almost reflexively, Toji swats the right side of your ass cheeks with one of his hands, before immediately having the sense to look apologetic. “Ah, uh- whoops.” He chuckles, such an unabashed glint in his darkened eyes, “I still am sorry about the date, doll.”

That makes you clench and oh, you don’t know who’s more gone right now. 

You, with your head thrown back, lashes blinking rapidly at the dull thuds of his cock reaching for your womb. Or Toji who takes a solid few seconds to catch his break - making sure he didn’t sound as needy as he felt. 

He’s peering up at you through long, dark lashes, “Sooooo? Am I forgiven? M’I finally gonna be able to stuff you full- oh, fuck!”

But he wasn’t getting off that easy.

And you’re watching in real time at the way that Toji’s hazed, mossy eyes widen- the way his gruff baritone cuts off with a hitch. The way that he’s gritting his gleaming white canines into a snarl as you crash your hips backwards. 

Sloppily stumbling through your pace, you furrow your brows down at your stunned boyfriend. “You just want to- ngh- you just want to cum i-inside-” 

He’s scoffing, “Well, with a pretty pussy like this can ya blame me-” Only to get interrupted by the slight pressure of your hands on his wide neck. Lurching his body up into a ruthless rut once more, you’re counting about three impacts of his globular crown pushed all the way into the bottom of your pussy. “F-fuck.”

And what you didn’t expect was to look down and spot a bright, crimson blush highlighting the tips of Toji’s ears.

You’re almost raising your hand off of his throat in surprise, before- “Don’t you fuckin’ move a hand, ma.” He’s keeping you pinned on top of him, riding him as you choke Toji’s throat. “S’that how it is then? Is it?”

“T-Toji-”

“Fine then-” He tries biting down on the plushness of his bottom lip- before he’s giving out and sounding a soft whine. And you’re barely even registering it before the fleshy tip of his shaft juts back into your womb, ravaged and red. 

Tone breathy, octaves higher. You almost have the sense to ask whether he was okay- “Fine- fine. Fuck- y’fucking win.” There’s another slap! to the globes of your ass that make your poor ears pop with pressure, “Her, too.”

He’s spitting down at your dripping wet pussy, greedy jade gaze narrowed. 

And before you can utter out a word-

“I-I’m sorry, doll.” He was sincere. For perhaps the first time tonight. Hypnotically, Toji’s pussydrunk by the sensual swivel of your hips. Those messy figure-eights designed just to drive the hulking man wild, “I really, really am.”

And it makes him whimper. 

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Marriage Duties.

“You broke your promise about overtime, Kento.”

“I know, my love, I know.” Your husband’s breathing out in scorching puffs against the side of your neck, deep vibrato making your thighs twitch together. “Let me make it up to you-” Kissing right where your throat was most tender, “-please?”

And it felt like minutes - maybe even mere split-seconds later that Nanami Kento had you bent over the cool mahogany of his office desk.

Papers flying askew, your mouth agape as he sinks in his thick, swollen cock. So hard that it felt like he was about to burst with the first sweetened touch of your walls, enveloped so nicely inside. “Oh- oh…”

And you’re whimpering, feeling the metal band of his wedding ring brush your skin as he’s pushing your satiny skirt up to take a good look at your cunt from behind.

“Yeah?” Whispering deeply, “S’a niiice stretch, huh? Been a real awful husband, darling.” Fuck, he really had lost track of time tonight - staying up late in the office past everyone’s clock-out time. Even when he promised you he wouldn’t- Nanami was sure he’d still be stuck with his piles of papers if you hadn’t stormed into his office with the intent to drag him home. “Must’ve been so haaah- lonely, huh?” 

You claw at the firm table, the nameplate engraved with ‘CEO NANAMI’ - “I was-”

“Not just you, my wife—” And there’s something there in his voice - something that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

Your tastebuds flood with watery saliva at the probe of his throbbing length, Nanami leans back and tuts at the snug resistance of your hole. Palm weighing down at the base of your arched spine to push past the tightness with a slurp! “Her, too. My wife’s poor, pretty pussy, bet she was so, so–”

And then he’s trailing off- fuck, he can’t even finish his damn train of thought. 

The feeling of your soft, gooey cunt meltin’ all around his cock after hours of nothing but documents?

Oh, he was close to losing his damn mind-

“K-Kento—” You’re singing out in that pretty voice of yours, hips attempting desperately to buck back past his flared mushroom tip. The sheer size of him was just so big that your eyes roll all the way backwards at the stretch, “Fuck- want some more please-”

Oh.

He thinks he already has lost his fucking mind.

“Anything. A-anything for you.” His voice breaks.

Then Nanami gasps, he tugs on the velvet of his work tie - barely giving you even a second to register the chafing of the fabric against your wrists. 

N’ then you’re all tied up and pretty for him, your hands pinned behind your back for him to pull on like you were some glorified ragdoll. “I can- fuck- I’ll make love to you l-later, darling.” Nanami’s blond brows knit together at the sticky pressure of your cunt, the way he was sliding in so deep it’s like your walls were gluing to his mazin’ shaft. “Right now I really want to…fuck.”

You’re gasping, never in your life had your tender, loving husband spoken like this. 

“O-oh, Kento—” Never had he clawed onto the flesh of your arms like he couldn’t stand to be apart for a mere fucking second. Nanosecond. 

Hips pushing down without a moment’s warning to strike your battered cervix, so hard that you’re being pinned against the wood of the furniture. Pulling on the restraint - hard, fast - he’s lifting you onto his hips so high it felt like you were dangling in midair. “Y-you’re in so deep, ngh, fuck-”

Again. And again. And again and again Nanami’s slamming one meaty knee up onto his desk - hips loud, voice low. “Mhm, let me show you how fuck- sorry I am, my love.” One of his hands let off from your back to walk down the front of your tummy, precisely finding that one spot his plump tip was scouring into. He presses down, down, down- “All the way up to here- how much I missed you.”

“B-but what if someone hears?” You’re wailing out a whimper, ears ringing with the recent strikes after strikes of clammy skin, of his v-line jutting against the globes of your ass. 

“So let them hear.” Oh- you could practically make out the dangerous twitch in Nanami’s grin, he’s plastering his washboard abs to your spine just to make you squirm. “They should know how hah, fuck- dedicated the CEO is to his work. And- and more importantly-”

Each one of his syllables drive you wiiiild- because your husband’s sticking the bright-red crown of his cock against your g-spot, your cervix, everywhere and anywhere into your nooks and crannies. 

Harder and harder until a far leg of the polished desk protests out a crack! 

You gasp, hear swivelling to where he’d seemingly broken the office desk- expecting your husband to promptly stop before-

“M-more importantly-” But the only thing Nanami does is carry out in his crackling tone, fitting a palm underneath your neck to lift you bodily off of the now-ruined table. Plastering you to each glissading ridge of his abs, strong arms the only thing holding up your weight right now. “How sorry I am for neglectin’ my wife tonight…” Such gentle lovin’ in his tone, though he’s fucking you like he hated you. “-my wife.”

Like he was criss-crossing your glassy pupils with each push of his cock, worshipping. The softness of his mouth touches upon your neck, “-my beautiful, beautiful wife who’ll be lucky to walk out of this office.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Sorry (not sorry)

“Sugu, I t-told you I didn’t want him killed off-”

“My mistake, gorgeous.”

You huff down at your reverent leader - the exact same one who was acting like he didn’t just finish off one of his followers for daring to utter a wrong word about you. One syllable and he was done for. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Heh, well-” Geto’s batting his stark raven lashes up at you, voice nothing but a croon as he’s rutting his leaky cock between your thighs. “-fuck me, then.”

And it was dangerous- oh, it was dangerous for his bulging, pierced tip to swab its way through your pussy’s insides. Pinpointing each n’ every soft spot that makes your toes curl, Geto’s kissin’ just the edge of your g-spot and makes you groan. “I already am.”

SMACK!

Ruthless, he’s swatting the teary slope of your cunt with an open palm- tongue lolling out deliriously to catch the stray speckles of slick that splash out of you. He purrs, “You better try harder if you really want me to be hah– sorry, gorgeous.”

“B-but-”

“Harder.”

Lips all wobbly, you’re biting back the sobs in your throat as you try to grind down harder on Geto’s upright length.

Shuffling your shaky hips down from side to side to help sheath every solid, sloppy inch of his cock. The metallic orb of his Prince Albert’s piercing mazes between your walls like a spotlight, all the way up to your cervix. Your womb- “Shit- shit, you’re in so hck! Deep-”

“Ah ah-” Your entire body’s shaking - always on edge with the lecherous drag of his aching girth. 

Fucked oh-so-nicely by the lavish lines of his veins that you don’t even recognize - don’t even register - the strong arms that wind ‘round your waist. “No running.” Geto chuckles darkly, pinning down your restless hips from flinching with each puckered kiss against your g-spot. “Why are you hngh- running? M’I the one apologizing or are you, hm–?” 

Pinning you down. Stopping you from escaping. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

And he’s had enough of your stumbling cadence, had enough of the way it was agonizing to sit through the lazy drags of your cunt. No matter how cute it was when you were trying your very best. 

Squelching up n’ down in fervent half-thrusts, Geto’s heavy balls clench once he’s clinging onto your waist and shoving you down. The back of your ass hitting the toned lines of his pelvis with a plop!

“See-” Drawling out, your boyfriend has both hands clawing at the sides of your body. Easily manhandling your trembling self until you were gulping his cock furiously between your legs. In and out in and out. “See, pretty girl?” 

All the way from the glazed, ruby-red curve of his tip down, down, down till that fat circumference of his hilt. “This is how you fuck a guy sorry, see?” Breath hitching, your mouth waters once you’re watching the beefy biceps of Geto’s arms bulge with each motion. 

He was just so unintentionally sensual - inky hair splayed out like a halo, maw drooping open with every clench of your walls ‘round his veiny shaft.

Your snug entrance closes ‘round his slit and he finds himself bucking- “Fuck- fuck, see now m’reeeeeal sorry.” Sweaty head thrown back, Geto’s peeking through his long lashes to take in the utterly filthy sight of his glistening cock disappearing between your pussylips. “Really, really sorry…”

And somehow you’re managing to sound out, “S’that it?”

“Oh?” His head snaps up in interest, “Something to say, gorgeous?”

With a brief puff of breathy laughter, Geto’s toying his slender thumb over your outer pussy. Collecting every dewdrop of glazed slick, he’s carefully avoiding your neglected clit. “Something she wants to say?”

And you don’t answer - you can’t.

Not when the bashing massage of his cock was rendering you speechless, not when you were being driven wild by the tender touches between your legs. 

So the only thing you can mindlessly carry out is to grab ahold of Geto’s pale wrist- shoving it deeper right where your puffy clit needed him the most. “Please- please.” You’re dripping out a thin layer of your sap all down his forearm, letting off the filthiest noises as you buck. Taking every shred of will within your body to keep your voice even, “I mean- more. More- m’not gonna last.”

“Oh.” He’s gasping, “O-oh.”

And you would’ve expected a sniping word or two to escape him - but the moment your needy demands ring in his ears, Geto’s ruined.

The very tips of his ears burning red, he’s staring at you with a partially-gaped mouth. “I- fuck, atta girl- my pretty, pretty girl.” Mouth stretching into a sleazy smile, Geto spanks the front of your pussy once more before drivelling his hips up into you like a madman. “Tha’s how ya do it- milk me dry- milk me, oh, that’s how ya make me sorry.”

You’re echoing out stupidly, spittle leaking out like a waterfall down your chin. “Milk- ngh- sorr-”

“Not you bein’ ngh- sorry, pretty girl.” Geto’s rolling his amethyst eyes, you were just too cute when you were fucked all stupid on his cock - not that he could admit it right now. “I’m sorry- sorry for heh- defending your honor-”

Words slurring until he was just babbling, cock stirrin’ upwards several times a second. It’s like he was trying to mold your walls to every curve and ridge of his length. 

Watching through a greedy, narrowed stare at the way his creamy pre defiled your cunt, quivering. So close. So sinful. “Sorry for fucking you silly, my pretty girl-” The clammy edge of his thumb sticks to your clit, pressing down. Hard. “-and I’m sorry for…”

And he’d timed it just right. 

Exactly for the sultry second your cunt was exploding with your high - gushing out in splashes of thick, glittery slick. Flooding down the ladder-like muscles of your boyfriend’s core, his glistening base- and he’s struck with a pang of disappointment at the fact that it wasn’t splashing all over his face.

And you can only watch with strangled breaths, as he’s reaching over a few ravenous fingers to smear over the puddle you were making. Eyes still specked with white, veins electric at the icy nudge of his pierced tip-

Geto brings his drenched fingerpads up to his mouth and sucks, “-sorry for makin’ you squirt, gorgeous.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - HYPE BOY

“Sh-shit-” Choso’s babbling underneath his breath. Pants a little unsteady, half-lidded eyes struggling to even stay open as he makes an utterly creamy mess of your pussy. 

His long, pink-tipped cock weeps out ribbon after ribbon of cum deep within your walls - and he’d just put it in. Oh, Choso feels fucking mortified, just a single squeeze of your sweet, syrupy cunt and he’s cumming? 

Fuck. Your boyfriend feels the squelching masses splash against his length n’ whimpers, there’s just so much. “M’sorry-”

“Aw, no need to apologize, Cho.” You’re winding your fingers through his clammy brown locks, tugging ever-so-slightly in a way that makes the bulbous edge of his shaft twitch. 

Choso’s rosy pink lips quiver, “B-but-” And then he’s planting an experimental thrust- finding his breath caught at the noisy sluuurp your core lets off. Decorated with the most sloppy wads of seed that glue to your outer pussy, “But m’sorry-”

“Baby-”

“S’just-” Something in his gaze was almost panicked- he needed you to understand, to see. How were you not marvelling at the lecherous way your cunt sucked up each ounce of his ivory white cum? How were you not hypnotized exactly like he was? “A pretty pussy like this?” 

And the smooth edge of Choso’s thumb digs into the side of your pussylips, stretchin’ you out wiiide open for him. “Like- like this?” Taking the sinful opportunity to press his fingerpad on top of your clit like some cute button. “Oh, m’sorry, baby. She deserves to be f-fucked properly.”

Gasping at the words that were falling from your sweet, loving boyfriend’s mouth. “Cho, s’that really you?”

“No- yes. Fuck.” He’s sputtering out, breathless. 

One hand clawing at the base of your treacly cunt, rubbing his doughy fingertips allll down where you were leaking. The other pushin’ back his sweaty bangs, he was just pussydrunk. “I don’t- I don’t even know anymore just- m’sorry, baby. Sorry- fuck, m’sorry. Hold those pretty legs up f’me so I can apologize to nghh- your cute cunt, please?”

“O-oh, fuck.” Choso’s fucking you low and slow, just teasing the curvaceous crown of his shaft against your g-spot. And it’s with such Herculean effort that you’re managing to loop your hands underneath your thighs, pulling upwards. “Like- like this–?”

“Sorry- sorry, my baby. My pretty girl.” He’s panting underneath his breath, capped knees nudging the sides of your hips to further make you squirm. “Some more, please?”

You don’t even feel like you can breathe as you’re obliging his sinful whims, hamstrings scorching with the stretch of holding your legs higher. “Like this?”

“No- some more.”

And this time he isn’t pleading with you - Choso’s taking it.

He’s grabbing matters into his own hands; positioning your thighs underneath his firm deltoids, bullying them all the way down, down, down until your knees strike your tits. Folding you into a- fuck, he had you in a mating press. 

One palm placed beside your head, the other smearing your glossy folds open- just for him to purse his lips and spit. 

That was how he was apologizing. 

“She deserves to be fucked r-right-” Choso rasps out, syllables taking on a guttural edge. His eyes shift between your face n’ your overspilling pussy like he couldn’t decide which pretty pair of lips he was addicted to more. “Sorry- fuck. How m’I gonna fuck her right if I k-keep cumming as soon as I put it in—?”

And he wasn’t just splurging out wads of cum each n’ every time he put it in, Choso’s pretty fawn eyes were glassy with tears. 

A singular pearly drop trickling down his cheek at just how good it felt to have your spongy cervix kissin’ his sensitive tip. Again. And again. And again and again- 

“I know how you can, mm, make up for it, Cho.” You’re starting off with a whine, shaky arms finding their way around his neck. You were seeing stars, every rugged jackhammer of his cleanly lifting the edge of your ass off of the bedsprings.

“How-” Choso begs, he ruts. Rovering the cum-glazed globe of his cock over n’ over like he’s trying to pound the answer out of you. “Please tell me- tell me, baby. I wanna please you. Wanna fuck you. I can beg–?”

“No need to beg—” Because he already was, that is. 

And your mouth quirks up into a lewd smile- taking his stray hand off of the creaky mattress, you’re pressing it down on your tummy. Hard enough that he could feel the thick rovering edge of his cockhead spear your insides somewhere deep within.

Fuck, it’s like he could make out the outline of his cock. Staggering, Choso’s widened pupils follow each pathway of your tummy bulge, mouth falling into a cute ‘oh.’

“I want it, Cho–” Harder. Deeper. Your ankles lock around the back of his neck and he thinks he’s seeing heaven. You pat the area of your stomach above your womb, precisely where his rounded tip was striking. “Riiight here, m’kay?”

“Th-then I won’t miss.” Choso gasps, like a prayer. So cute n’ blushing as he’s nodding once in determination, “I’ll…”

He’s trailing off at the mere idea - but that doesn’t stop Choso Kamo. 

Oh, right now he doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to. His hips were out of control, drilling into you like he’s crazed - quick, stinging half-thrusts that make him feel feral every time he’s bashing your poor insides. 

“Gonna breed you then- baby- oh.” Taking ages to finish an entire fucking thought, Choso could barely even think with the way your pussy was gushing around his length.

The fatness of his crown mazes past your g-spot, making sure to just rub his puffy veins against that bundle of nerves. “Like you deserve- like she deserves.” The curved, weepy end of his shaft pries apart your walls until he finds the door to your womb. “Gonna breed this pretty pussy the b-best it’s ever- nghhh.”

Until Choso’s knock-knock-knocking his rock-hard tip against that tender spot. He stares dead-on into your eyes as you feel the polished girth of his cock push in a few stray wads of cum.

Oh, his mouth was already salivating—“And I hah- won’t apologize for it this time, baby.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - “S’not me, ma…”

And the deadpan glare you’re shooting at the King of Curses would’ve been more impactful if you weren’t completely and utterly fucked. 

Batting your teary lashes, the first response out of your mouth is a shrill whine—“A-as if.”

Eardrums popping with the pressure of having two thick, throbbing cocks shoved into you. Sukuna’s swervin’ his hips up to reach a particular spot deep inside that has you seeing white, nearly enough that you’re missing his dark chuckle.

“S’really not my fault- come onnnn, mama.” He’s rolling his crimson eyes, two palms idly grabbing your ass to help you bounce up n’ down his ravaging lengths. “Ask him to apologize, not me.”

Him - Sukuna’s smug, smirking second mouth. Monstrously big and slashed across his glissading abs, it’s almost as if it has a mind of its own once a prolonged tongue comes out to slather your inner thighs with his tastebuds. 

Again n’ again for the nth time tonight. 

And that was exactly what got the fearsome king in trouble - letting his mean mouth have too much free reign. You were thoroughly overstimulated and had no fear bringing him to his knees. 

The slimy end of its muscle tickles down your slit, “See- fuck, honestly how could you blame him?” Sukuna scoffs, slouching behind the ancient headboard to give his cursed mouth more space. “With such a pretty pussy all on hah- display. D’you enjoy driving me fuck- insane, woman?”

“B-but m’so sensitive.” You’re mewling, head throwing back the very second he’s starting to slurp up every wad of slick spraying out of you. Right down his throat. 

A hand comes spanking down on the globes of your ass cheeks, Sukuna raising a pink brow. “Mmm, my dessert’s sweet and sensitive, heh?”

Huffing n’ puffing, you’re torturously circlin’ your hips in lecherous figure-eights. Watching in awe as his second mouth completely salivates at the feeling of stirring around your hot insides. And Sukuna won’t let you fucking stop- no matter how many times you’re keening at the drag of his sloppy tongue between your silvery slit, no matter how many times you twitch.

“Shit-” Your throat wrecks with a tiny sob, sensing his tongue swirl around your throbbing clit. Every glide of your cunt down his vein-covered cock only brought you closer to his mouth. 

And your hips thrash back and forth on top of his own like you didn’t know whether you carnally wanted more or to simply run away. “Oh my god-”

“Ah ah- where are we goin’, huh?” Sukuna grins, holding you back down with a good handful gripped onto your ass. 

He hums as he notices the way his second mouth was practically glued to the folds of your cunt. Squelching away with every long, lavishing kiss up against your clit, “Oh? Greedy thing. Guess we hafta heh- take care of that.”

Oh, but Sukuna’s way of ‘taking care’ of things was to arch your sweaty back and drill his rock-hard cocks into you like he was crazed. 

Pump after pump; he’s lodging his dual tips back against the bottom of your pussy and snickering as you squeal. Hips lurching off of the luxurious bed to thoroughly fill up your every nook and cranny, “See? Aren’t I such a haaah- good lover, human? Look at me takin’ care of you.”

“Oh b-but–” You’re managing to gurgle out through your moans, nails clawing for purchase on his bulging pecs. “-you’re only making it worse.”

He grins, “Haaaah? S’not me. Don’t talk outta ya pussy, spoiled brat.”

He knew what he was doing - knew the way that manhandling you nearly into midair to ride his twin cocks only made that mouth of his more ravenous. 

Chasing after your hot, puffy core, the muscle of his tongue stretches out looong and wide to lick between your pussylips. That curled tendril of its tip aiming to reach for your tight hole inside-

“Up, up, up- Harder, mama.” Sukuna’s beady eyes dart down, feeling the warmth of your syrupy slick seep down to his own tattooed thighs. Honestly, he always did love making such a mess of you. “Unless you want him to- oh, too late.”

His cursed tongue was already tuggin’ on your elastic entrance. Chuckling as he’s feeling the way your shaky pussy cleeeenches, “Oh my god- ngh- don’t know if I can take a-all three, Kuna?”

“Awww, too bad.” Mockingly plastering a pout upon his stern lips, “If I had a third mouth I could hah- eat you out while I fuck you with both my tongue and my cocks.”

And it sounded nearly too filthy for your ears. 

The only response you’re letting off being the drenched sluuurp as he’s trying to fit his cursed tongue between your pussylips. Pushin’ and pushin’ - you swear you hear his monstrous mouth grumble at the snug resistance. 

The honed tip just finding its way inside, curlin’ deeply against the goopy roof of your pussy. “Squelching and squelching- heh, so chatty. You sure she’s not your second mou-”

“Sukuna–” You’re grumbling, completely stupid on the way he was ruining you. A fat wad of pre splatters out somewhere near your cervix and you find yourself drunkenly hiccuping. “O-one more word out of this mouth-” Tapping the pursed, plump mouth on his unfairly handsome face, “-n’ m’not riding you for a month.”

And no cursed energy might have brought down Ryomen Sukuna, no battle may have struck fear into his devilish heart.

But you could. 

And you did. 

This makes him hitch his feverish breath, this makes him buck his dual cocks wildly with a hiss. Two bruises formulating at the back of your cunt, Sukuna’s mean mouth slipping between your folds to give your clit an apologetic lil’ peck.

His rough baritone damn near breaks as he whispers, pulling into a steady cadence of strikes to your exact g-spot. “S-sorry, my wife…”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Beggin’ you!

A whine lets off the very second that Ino’s dragging his thick, pinkish tip between your leaky pussylips. “Won’t you believe me, sweetness?”

Letting off noisy slurps as he’s sliding his bulging cockhead vertically up n’down- “Please?” Up n’ down, up n’ down. “Please?” 

And you can only moan as he’s craning his head over with cutely furrowed brows, angling those slender hips oh-so-precisely to graze against your sweetest spots as your boyfriend sinks in. Inch by solid, throbbing inch. 

“My pretty?” Ino babbles through his wobbly lips, heady eyelids fluttering with each quiver of your insides. Each impatient rut of his hips. Each smack of skin-on-skin that makes him hiss. “My wiiife–?”

Fuck- the two of you weren’t even engaged, yet. And Ino was just too drunk on the feeling of your sickly sweet pussy, mouth watering every time his cockhead slipped across your textured walls. 

You’re scoffing, arms finding their way around his neck, “You’re just s-hah! saying that because you got jealous today, Taku–”

“I wasn’t jealous-”

“Takuma.”

And that makes him crinkle his nose, remembering that lil’ incident just a few hours ago when he’d picked you up from work. But in his defense, that new coworker of yours was getting way too close to you, and looking at you way too similarly to how he looked at you.

So you really couldn’t blame Ino for being a little…hostile towards the other man.

For uncharacteristically holding onto your pretty neck and usin’ the pressure to drag your body down to meet his hips. Rough. The stinging sensation makes him damn near growl out- “M’not jealous.” Almost as if to prove his point, he’s digging the neat semi-crescents of his nails against your skin, vulgar strokes coming down hard. “I-I’m really not…but...”

Amused, you’re raising a brow for him to continue.

One that he’s slowly n’ yet surely fucking away from the cute expressions on your face. Letting the slobbery edge of his tip slap the roof of your cunt in punishment. “-but if it means I get to ngh- fuck this pretty pussy silly in apology, then…”

“So you reeeeally weren’t jealous?” 

Checking the hold on your throat to make sure he’d scraped in the indents of his nailmarks, “Not at all.” And then Ino lurches his gaped mouth forwards to bite straight into the crook of your neck, leaving teethmarks for days. Just in case. “Not at a-all.” 

Leaving you to only gasp and whine like his favorite song every time the spheroid of his cock was bludgeoning against your cervix now. Probin’ in deep until you swear you could feel him bruise your poor innards, “Definitely not jealous.” The thick edges his fingers start to thumb between your sappy slit, “Definitely-”

And it wasn’t just any pattern he was drawin’ out on your treacly cunt. Ino tugs apart your saturated folds to press down on your clit and motion out a long ‘T-A-K-U’.

“-n-not jealous, pretty.”

Oh, but he was pounding you into the mattress like anything but.

All the way until your cheap bedsprings were squeaking constantly, until your taste buds tingled with the sensation of him rummaging your insides. Your voice croaks out hoarsely, “A-and you have hah- nothing to say about the way you scared off the new intern-”

“Tch, no.” Your sweet, gentle boyfriend has the audacity to roll his fawny eyes at the mere thought of him. It was honestly cute how protective he could be, smashing the honed target of your g-spot like he was trying to make you forget the other man.

The hand glued to your neck manhandles you upright enough to crash your lips into his. Ino gnaws down on your cute lower lip like bubblegum as you’re murmuring, “And if I tell you not to do it again-”

“Maybe.”

“And if I put a sex ban-”

“No, wait-”

And oh- oh, you knew that those very words would drive Ino wild. 

You just didn’t think that it would make him snap - with whatever’s left of his poor sanity. With his hazy mahogany eyes widened, mouth downturned in slight panic- “No. No no no no no- fuck.” He pins you down with the tensed core of his body, as if you were about to run away any second now. 

Already feeling pussydrunk tears welling up behind his lids- “Come back.” Pinning your restless hips with the muscles of his abs, “Wait- wait m’completely in the wrong-” Uttering a gasp, Ino slaps his doughy fingertips down on your clit. “It’s me- Hah, I got jealous, sweetness. Y-you don’t need to do something like th-that…”

And you don’t know whether that leaden ball stuck in your throat is a bunch of giggles or whines.

 “S’that sooo–?” Because Ino was spearheading his upright cock like he was frenzied, over n’ over n’ over until your eyes sprinted all the way to the back of your head. You just wanted to tease him- “So you’re sorry, baby?”

“Sorry- s-sooo sorry, pretty, mhm.” A slick line of drool trails down the side of his lips and Ino finds himself jolting as you kiss it away. “Was totally wrong, completely wrong hah-”

He’d never looked more ruined- long lashes fluttering hazily, mouth babbling away, cheeks flushed innocently. But the way that he was pressing his thighs against yours, pushing them up into such a mean mating press was anything but innocent. 

“W-well, maybe not completely wrong, Taku–” You’re starting off, and the fat, bulbous crown of his shaft jolts at the mere sound of your voice. “I should tell him to back off-”

“Completely wrong.” He cuts you off, entire toned body still wracking with the aftermath of your little threat. Of the way your warm cunt was sheathing him so lecherously that he could barely even think, barely even breathe. “I’m completely- completely, oh-”

Barely do anything but swallow the whimper that cracks at the back of his throat as he opens your jittery legs up wiiide enough that you’re hissing at the stretch.

Plump, pursed lips spitting straight down your slit. Ino wastes no time drawing out his familiar little pattern all over you glossy, oversaturated cunt, branding his name to your puffy core - T-A-K-U-M-A. 

There’s something feral in his eyes, his hitched tone- “So let me make you squirt to make up for it, pretty~”

♡ GOJO SATORU - PLEASE ME!

“I s-said m’sorry-”

“Satoru, I never told you to-”

“Oh, you want me to apologize again, sweetheart?” Gojo’s cutting you off with a hoarse chuckle, a hooked finger pressing against the blindfold dangling stupidly ‘round your neck. He’s using all his brute force to draaaag your limp, shaking body backwards into his. His rough tone lilts, “Oh noooo— Guess I hafta listen to the wifey, then~”

It’s been like this ever since he’d come back from that damn special-grade mission. 

Powers overworked, body trembling, limitless shattered where he’d let himself get hit by a sex technique of all things. And you’d lectured him on his recklessness, of course, but you never thought it would end up like this.

With you on all fours across the sprawling bed, your husband towers his chiselled body from behind- leaning over to spit a wad of saliva that sticks to your glossy lips.

“F-first, m’apologizin’ to you for bein’ so careless today.” And then he’s barely hesitating, barely even thinking before planting a firm kiss to your gaped maw. Humming at the sweet, sweet taste of you, “And then, m’apologizing to her—”

Gojo slouches back sexily, taking a right second to admire the vision of your glistening wet pussy before he adds to the mess. Spitting onto your cunt,  “H-heh, and then…”

And then comes the real apology - the stinging crash of his hips striking yours, sloppily. 

Thump-thump-thump- his fat, ridged shaft pokes n’ pokes all the way near your cervix, makin’ each knotted-up ribbon of cum inside splash around. And you can feel each veiny inch of him making your toes curl, every lick of his mushroomy tip bashin’ rhythmically against your womb. 

You’re whimpering out the cutest strangled whines- “Sh-shit- oh my godddd- ngh, Toru, what did I tell you-”

“Shhh sh sh—” Gojo’s hushing your strained voice, and just a single glance over your shoulder gifts you the most lecherous sight. 

The strongest; with his cloudy brows knitted, sweat gleaming down his temples, mouth falling agape with every suckin’ squelch of your pussy. 

He’s fucking run ragged every time he’s stirring up your insides- and he can’t stop. Babbling away, “I told you I’ll apologize-” The breathy pants of his pleas strike the back of your neck and make you shiver. Make you clench. 

It makes Gojo slap his v-line up against the globes of your ass with a moooan, “No need to- hah- go easy on me.” There’s something feral about the way his hazed sapphire eyes snap open at the mere notion, almost in panic. “Please don’t go easy on me- s’my fault- hah- I’ll apologize. I’ll apologize-”

You’re wailing, hands fisting into the dampened sheets of your bed. “B-but I already told you you don’t hck! need to apologize for getting hit by a-”

“But I want to.” One of Gojo’s hands cling onto the side of your waist, guiding you easily backwards. The other squeezing on his blindfold, squeezing your airflow. Manhandling you. “You deserve it.”

The roaming edge of his thumb sticks against your swollen folds, pullin’ them just enough to the side so that he can slither his digits down to your clit and press-press-preeess. 

“She deserves it…” And his tone makes you shiver. “-for all m’gonna heh- do to her.”

He wants to be the one crawling to you, begging, pleasing. 

Every relentless pap! of your husband’s hips makes the pale skin of his pelvis redden, makes his entire body sheath with flickers of blue lightning. He’s pumping his ravaged, aching cock into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. 

Not that he ever would. 

“N-never–?” You’re echoing out through unsteady breaths.

Only for Gojo to tilt his head juuust to the side with a grin, barely even ripping his gaze away from the filthy way your tight hole was swallowing his cock. Over and over. “O-oh- did I say that out loud?”

Fuck, your peripherals widen, you weren’t making it out of this alive. 

And Gojo wasn’t sure whether it was that damn technique or simply you that had his mind feelin’ all melted like this. 

Like he could barely even keep his eyelids open with every tender graze of his shaft. The throbbing veins of Gojo’s cock slide down your soft g-spot and make you jolt, “H-how many times are you going to- ngh- apologize, Satoru-”

“I’ll apologize over and over-” He’s departing through a heated gasp, knobbly thumb ringing out a loud squeeelch as he’s drawin’ cute hearts on your clit. “Won’t stop- can’t.” As he’s letting his cursed energy flare on the fringes of his digits, sending sparks running between your legs. “Again and again.”

Every syllable strikes your core - and your bruised g-spot. Thumping the round, thickened crown of Gojo’s cock in a solid bruise against your favorite areas. Repeatedly. “Forever and-” His voice cracks. “-e-ever if it means I get to fuck this cuuuute lil’ cunt of yours like this. Don’t you know you’re always right, my wife?”

“Sa-t—ngh, Toru–!” Your eyes flutter as you’re pounding your body back in an effort to match his mean pace, “Fuck- fuck, your powers-”

“Yeah- always right.” Like a mantra he couldn’t pause, like the power he couldn’t help but buzz through your puffy core. He was just in awe- “Always right. Always mine.”

And there’s something in his Six Eyes that makes him notice it first- the tiny lil’ explosions of pleasure sprinting down your spine. It makes Gojo count underneath his breath–‘three’ Giving your clit a good pinch, ‘two.’ 

Spearing the slimy tip of his cock straight into your g-spot n’ holding it there for your body to tremble at the shockwaves. Then a final, victorious ‘one’ as you crash into your high.

“I-I’m cumming–” Though, it sounds more like a question, like your orgasm was the one to crash into you. You can’t do anything but shut your eyes at way your mind was just spinning, “Shit- sh-shit, m’really, ngh-”

Letting your husband powerfully scrape every hidden inside of your walls, he’s fucking you through your high like he’s molding himself into you. 

And at this point you’re just drooling with every spank of his hips- something that Gojo notices with a grunt. Leaning over so his textured tastebuds lap greedily at the specks of spittle leaking down the sides of your pretty lips. “Mmm, see- does this show that I’m sorry en-”

Only for him to be cut off by your own mouth, tackling him into a sweet, sweet kiss.

A single peck.

Barely a graze. 

And that was all it’s taking for the big, bad Gojo Satoru - the one begging at the feet of his wife for forgiveness - to cum. To slather your dewy insides with a generous coating of his ivory cum whilst he chases your lips with a heavy groan—“Oh, oh fuck. Better- fuuuuck- better take it all, every single drop. S’my apology to you, my wife, so you better take it alllll.”

“Taking oh–” You couldn’t even speak with the way you felt full all the way up to your lungs. Every sloppy stripe of sap gushin’ out of your entrance until Gojo’s cock manages to pump it back in. 

Slap after slap of frictious skin. 

And he wasn’t just overstuffing you - he was rummaging your insides. Gasping, shuddering, twitching from the glazed crown of cockhead. The sensitive base of his length paints with a circle of white as you whimper, “Ngh- so full. Feel so full, Toru.”

“Full?”

And that’s when you’re noticing it. When that rational part of your brain unfogs with the last few tingles of your orgasm, just enough for you to realize-

He was still so, so hard. 

Leaning in with such a sleazy grin—“D’you want me to apologize for that too, my wife?”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[not-a-lame-llama]

Watching the new Superman movie was actually life altering. You mean to tell me Krypto is in it and he’s GORGEOUS and AWFULLY BEHAVED?

Guy Gardner has his ugly asf bowl cut looking thing, Mr. Terrific’s mask is gorgeous, Lois Lane is a mf queen. Did I mention Mily Alcock as Supergirl yet? Because it’s good. It’s so good.

And then there’s also the message and the emotions. People in brightly colored costumes are saving the planet one little squirrel at a time while cussing and telling you it’s punk rock to be kind. Plus, Clark Kent is just a little farm boy whose daddy cries when the world mistreats him. If that isn’t film then I don’t know what is.

[j3llyc4kes]

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d be shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t

[heesmiles]

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere Bunny that you rescued from a lab.

Yandere m. x gn. Reader

Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI ! Tw. Dubcon, Yandere, Nfsw themes, Implied animal abuse, codependency

2.2k words

He was small. His bones jutted out under his skin, his frame shrunken and his red eyes empty and wide: he looked like he’d been locked in a box and had only been let out seldom. His arms and legs were covered in small, tiny scars that looked far too precise to be done by himself. He was like a ghost, sitting there in a tiny room while not focusing on anything.

You were an intern, only supposed to be there for a few weeks at most. Your tasks usually boiled down to running files all over the various halls and floors and helping whenever a spare hand was needed. You weren’t meant to do more than pass through and get a recommendation before leaving never to speak of what you saw ever again.

But you didn’t. No, you took one look at the bunny sitting on the edge of a medical table and felt the urge to get him out of there no matter the cost. You begged your supervisor to let you take him home that evening.

“Who? Him? Number 23? I suppose he’d been here for a while… well, there’s always more of them I guess.”

You got the go ahead almost immediately. They didn’t ask if you had the space back home, or if you even had any experience owning a Demi-human. They just handed you a bunch of papers that would absolve them of all liability as he sat there, staring at the ground as you signed quickly. The whole decision was impulsive, utterly unplanned, and you hardly blinked before you were standing in your apartment with the rabbit standing there.

“Uhm so…. So this is your new home!” You said nervously, spreading your arms out wide. He didn’t react. You flinched at that, your smile faltering a bit. You didn’t know what you had expected in all honesty.

Yandere Bunny who is quiet and withdrawn for the first couple weeks you have him.

You hadn’t figured out what to call him yet. You asked for his name once, but based on how the lab was run, he didn’t have one to begin with. You hoped that he would eventually choose one if only to make things a bit easier.

He didn’t really like to be in the same room as you if he could avoid it from what you noticed. He would hardly eat if you were watching him, so you made a habit of leaving his plate out (All healthy, steamed veggies with some fruits on the side. He seemed to really like the latter.) before walking to another room under the guise of some random chore. It was the same for sleeping. He seemed to not like the idea of you finding him when he eventually succumbed to his tiredness, nor did he seem to really be comfortable anywhere out in the open. You would find a little nest of blankets and pillows in different cupboards, closets, and tucked away corners from day to day. He would never pick the same place twice in a row. Honestly with how small your place was, you were impressed that he even managed to do so at all.

Yandere Bunny that only seemed to open up when you assured him that he wasn’t going back to the lab.

It was an odd conversation. Meaning, it wasn’t a conversation at all. It was mainly you doing the talking; you explained that yes, this was his home now, and no, he wasn’t going to return to his old one. His eyes had widened, and he parted his chapped lips as if to say something before he cut himself off and turned to the side. It was about a week after that when you heard him speak for the first time.

“Thank you…” He mumbled quietly, his ears perked up and twitching in alert as you set down his meal on a nearby table. You blinked. He was halfway across the room, peeking up at you from behind the back of the couch.

“You’re uh… welcome,” You said before turning to leave, your heart filling with a bit of hope.

Yandere Bunny who started to become more interested in you as time went on.

It started small with him starting to stay in the rooms you were in, or with him coming out of his hiding spots more often. He liked to watch you do your daily routine, and you started to leave the bathroom door open when you were doing your skincare so he could see what you were up to. It was a silent thing, with him becoming more and more comfortable with being around. The day he sat down on the couch with you, you nearly jumped out of your skin in surprise. It had taken everything to not jump up with joy.

He even followed you into the living room while carrying his meal, almost as if showing off that he was eating. From then on, you lingered after leaving food out, and he would start to dine while you were there. It even got to the point where you could eat in front of him as well. He’d gained a healthy amount of weight ever since he started living here, and his skin and fur looked more shiny and bright now too. It brought a smile to your face knowing that he was getting better, and he always blushed when your gaze settled on him for too long.

Yandere Bunny that likes to have his hair brushed. 

Not his ears. Never his ears. He was shy when he asked you for help one day, holding out the comb as he stood sheepishly. You both sat on the bed as you gently worked the teeth of the brush through his powder white locks, his little cottontail twitching happily while he stayed facing away from you. He was making a habit of grooming himself around you more, being more vulnerable. You didn’t want to push him when he was finally settling in, but you couldn’t help how excited you were.

It didn’t help that he was starting to build little nests on the couch and on the bed. You asked him if he would like to have his own place to sleep, but he just shook his head. 

“I like how it is… it smells like you,” he mumbled and fidgeted with the sleeve of his sweater. You didn’t press him on it. It was nice to wake up with someone snuggled up besides you, anyways. 

Yandere Bunny that gets upset when you leave for the day. 

After he was used to being around you, he would stamp his feet when you grabbed your keys.

“Please?” He said anxiously as he followed you from room to room. He had been more nervous now that you had gotten your new job, and this begging routine had been a fairly recent development. “Why do you have to go with them? It’s safe in here…” he pouted, looking nearly in tears. He hovered near the door like it was going to stop you. You felt bad, you really did. Especially because your absence during the day really seemed to stress him out.

“Don’t worry,” you reassured him. “I’ll be back later tonight. You know this is just for a little bit, right? I’ll be working from home soon enough,” you smiled, but he frowned and kept silent. 

Having to actually leave him alone for most of the day made you feel bad as well. He was extra clingy and touchy when you would come home. It was a huge leap forward compared to how he was before, so you couldn’t exactly complain even if it was just a bit suffocating.

Yandere Bunny who becomes excited to tell you his new name.

“It’s Vasco!” He blurted out when you walked through the door. He had gotten all dressed up, brimming with excitement. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, glancing around as he tried to hide how eager he was. “I’ve been able to think about it while you were gone and… and I want you to call me Vasco,” he repeated with a little nod. You were tired from work, but his bashful demeanor had you relaxed and in a good mood in no time.

“That’s a perfect name. I’m glad you shared it with me,” You beamed and walked into the kitchen. You pulled out a little container of food from your work bag and placed it on the counter. It was a little box of strawberries, his favorite. “It’s a good thing I got these then,” You smiled, practically grinning from ear to ear. “Guess I just had a feeling that today was gonna be special.”

Vasco, as you now knew him, suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist, his face buried against your shoulder and back. You could feel his soft ears brushing against your scalp, and you blinked before you relaxed and reached back to gently pet his head. The sun filtered in through the window, casting everything in a hazy, perfect glow.

“You’re the only one who knows it…” he whispered, his long lashes fluttering against your skin. He was practically melting against you, and you hummed softly to comfort him. After a while there, you realized he wasn’t going to move from your side. You reached forward and grabbed the fruit, running it over with water before holding it up from him to nibble on. 

Yandere Bunny who’s very dramatic when you actually start to work from home.

When you sat at your desk, he made it a point to shove himself into your lap and whine for your attention. It was slightly exhausting, but he was so damn cute that you couldn’t say no. 

“You’re such a brat,” you teased, no real malice in your words. You really had been spoiling him to no end. He got everything he wanted, whether it was either your affection or food, but you didn’t mind. Not that you didn’t like Vasco when he was skittish, but it was a relief to know that he felt safe and comfortable enough to even be demanding of you in the first place. Your hand settled on his lower back, rubbing circles into his skin while you worked with your other. 

Yandere Bunny who steals your clothes in order to snuggle with them. 

You didn’t really know why he did it. After all, you’re usually right there, but it’s like he needs more somehow. He rubs his cheeks against the sleeves of your jacket when you actually have to focus on your busywork. You tried to put your foot down and take them back on occasion, but you let him have what he wanted. If it made him feel comfortable while you're not paying attention to him, then what's the harm?

Yandere Bunny who has… certain tendencies that become harder to ignore as time goes on.

You really didn’t want to think that Vasco would ever do anything to hurt you. Not when you had done so much to help him and understand what he was going through, but he was doing things when he thought you weren’t looking. At night, he would wrap himself around you and make odd, breathy noises before falling still. 

During the day, he didn’t act any different from what you could tell, but for all you knew he was being sneaky. It felt odd to suspect your beloved rabbit, but you couldn’t deny your stomach twisted oddly when you found a little stash of your underwear in one of the cabinets one day. You said nothing. How could you when he was looking at you with those big, trusting eyes?

You found white stains on your sheets and blankets all the time now. It escalated to the point where you had to buy another couple of sets of bedding in order to not have to wash them every day. If Vasco noticed your growing unease, he didn’t choose to mention it. In fact, he only seemed to be emboldened by your lack of reaction. His cheeks started to become flushed nearly constantly, and he liked to nibble on your fingers and shoulders whenever he could. It was cute and relatively harmless, so you let him and just kept petting him while his little tail bobbed happily. He would smile and snuggle up against you while begging for fruit or for you to brush him once again.

Yandere Bunny who you just can’t refuse.

You were honestly hopeless. Every time he looked up at you with those big, needy eyes, you were reminded of how he looked back when you first rescued him. Back then you had promised to do everything you could to make him happy and to get him to trust you. You wanted him to feel like this was his home, and that you would always be there to give him what you needed. So when he was pulling at the waistband of your pants, his ears all perked up and eager, you couldn’t find it in yourself to say no.

“Please, please [name],” he whined, tears dotting his eyes. He pressed his nose into your crotch as he let out a little sob. You jumped at the sudden contact, your hand flying down to stop him before his breathy pleas reached your ears. “It hurts… I realllyyyyy wanna put it in you,” he panted and tugged down your clothes. You stumbled back, falling onto the couch with a little gasp. He crawled forward, the flat of his tongue dragging along your sensitive flesh, and you shuddered. “You’ll help me, right?” Vasco’s mouth hovered over your pelvis, a bit of drool slipping from his pink tongue. He didn’t really need to ask. Not when he knew you’d spoil him no matter the cost.

[hearts4hughes]

THE SPACE BETWEEN FRIENDS

bsf!clark kent x reader | notes: how i yearn for best friend clark kent😭

“you’re telling me,” you furrow your brows. “that you’ve never kissed anyone before?” your voice isn’t judgmental, it’s just surprised. wide-eyed and honest in the way only you can get away with.

clark shifts beside you on the couch, suddenly very aware of how close your knee is to his. the cushion dips between you, and it’s almost comical how stiff he goes when you lean in, just slightly, waiting for an answer. he clears his throat. scratches the back of his neck. classic stall. “no, i’ve kissed someone before.” he finally sputters out. he doesn’t continue. so you just look at him. head tilted, brows raised. after a beat too long, he caves. “just…not in a long time.”

your lips part. a smile tugs at the edge, soft and amused. “how long is ‘a long time’?”

he squints, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on his sleeve. “senior year.”

you blink. “high school?”

“…yeah.” his voice is an octave higher. he tugs at the loose tread until it pulls away from his sleeve. you sit back a little, processing. not because it’s weird, but because it’s him. clark kent. six-foot-something, save-the-world-on-weekends clark kent. the man who picks up your favorite takeout without asking and always remembers your deadlines better than you do.

you’ve kissed a fair number of people. not recklessly, but you’ve lived. you’ve loved a little. you’ve made mistakes. and somewhere along the line, you learned how to be sweet about it. and now he’s sitting beside you blushing and nervous. all broad shoulders and big hands, like he doesn’t realize how stupidly kissable he is.

you tilt your head again. “can i ask why?”

he shrugs, eyes still on his sleeve. “i guess i just…haven’t wanted to. i haven’t had the time.” the room feels smaller, or maybe he feels out of place. his palms are suddenly clammy. he wipes them against his pants and prays you didn’t notice. “when’s the last time you kissed someone?” his voice is sheepish.

“i don’t know.” you lie. you know exactly when it was, but you don’t want to upset him. he exhales deeply. he can hear your heartbeat increasing, the blood sloshing a little faster in your body.

“y/n,” he raises a brow. “you’re a horrible liar.”

you smile, small and caught. “okay. i know when it was.” your eyes flick to the floor. he waits. doesn’t press. doesn’t rush you. but he’s looking at you now—really looking. like the world might tilt depending on what you say next. “a few weeks ago,” you admit. “some guy from a club. it was—it was nothing.”

he nods, slow and unreadable. his eyes drop for a second. something pits in his stomach—mean and sour. he swallows harshly. he hates how your answer affects him. it shouldn’t. you’re just friends. but the thought of you and some other guy makes it hard to breathe.

“clark?” your sweet voice brings him back to reality. his gaze moves back to you. your closer than he remembers. you smell like vanilla and something addictive. “it meant nothing.” you reassure. your hand rests on his. his skin tingles where you touch.

he nods once again. his eyes flicker between your hand and your lips. something possessive rushes over him and before he can stop himself, he leans forward and captures your lips. you gasp, the sound swallowed into his chest.

clark’s not thinking anymore. he’s moving on instinct, driven by desire months in the making. his mouth presses against yours like a confession. like he’s trying to say i want you without using words he’s not sure he deserves to speak. you don’t pull away. you should, maybe—just to get your footing, just to think. but your hand tightens over his instead, and when he tilts his head to kiss you deeper, you let him.

his hand ghosts up to your cheek, hesitant but warm, the way a man might hold a thing he’s spent his whole life aching for. your lips part, slow and cautious, and he makes a quiet sound at the back of his throat, like this is the exact taste he’s been dreaming about and finally, finally, he gets to have it.

the kiss doesn’t burn. it blooms. it’s steady and warm, curling through your chest like light flooding into a room that hasn’t seen morning in years. when he finally pulls back, just a few inches, his forehead rests against yours. his breath is ragged. yours isn’t much steadier. his eyes are closed. like he’s scared to open them. “i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean to—I didn’t plan to-”

“don’t apologize,” you say. your voice is breathy, lips still tingling. “you didn’t do anything wrong.” his eyes open then and there’s so much in them. longing, relief, a kind of fear you can feel in your own bones. “you meant it, right?” you ask quietly. “the kiss?”

he nods instantly like there was never a question. “i’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” he says. “i just didn’t know if i should. or if you’d let me.”

your smile returns, just a little crooked now. “i was starting to think you never would.”

he lets out a soft, nervous laugh. “i didn’t think i was your type.”

“you’re not,” you say, teasing, fingers brushing lightly up his arm. “you’re even better.” he blushes something fierce. you meet his eyes, and for once you don’t look away. you lean in again. when your lips meet his again, there’s no hesitation left. just want. just warmth. just him.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty @bewitchedarchive @yelqze

[verynormalthoughts]

My favorite little lemonade factoid is that this is a racism thing and not a borders or language thing. What everyone else calls lemonade has always been and will always be what lemonade is.

It was originally, as far as we can tell, made in Egypt using lemons, honey, and dates, and was called "Qatarmizat" as we would say in English. In the 1600s at some point, it came to Europe, and our first documented usage of the word Lemonade is in 1663.

In 1767, over a hundred years later, Joseph Priestly "impregnates" water, creating carbonated water. In 1833, we start getting documentation of British Lemonade, it being carbonated, without dates or honey, and the British at the time claim to have invented it as a fizzy drink.

Once again, the British stole something from Africa and then claimed to have invented it. Australia, ever eager to maintain the British empire (they get really mad if you point that out) often acts as if this is all nonsense and everyone just needs to learn to do it the right way (British Colonial way).

Almost everywhere you will see call the carbonated beverage the stolen name was at some point a colony. It has been adopted in some other countries in Europe, but you'll note they're all places that dealt heavily with the British.

I'm not saying it's racist to say it for the carbonated beverage, but it is objectively incorrect, and insisting it is the good and right and correct way is furthering a really stupid piece of anti-African history for no real reason.

Also, shout-out the middle east, adding mint was an incredible idea and has bettered my life significantly.

an australian walks up to a bar

[akajustmerry]

the most significant source of antisemitism on earth right now is zionist ideology, point blank. Zionist ideology is not and never has been mutually exclusive with Jewish people. Zionism, however, is an ideology that Zionists go to great efforts to make synonymous with Jewish people. Not all Jewish people are Zionists, and not all Zionists are Jewish (see: every US president). But Zionists want nothing more than for people to believe that a Zionist state must exist because of negativity toward Jewish people. And do you know what is making the world view Jewish people negatively right now in this very moment? look no further than the IOF soldiers burning the star of David into the heads of Palestinian hostages, look no further than the self-proclaimed Jewish ethnostate where people protest in the streets for their army's "right to rape" Palestinians, look no further than the spineless world leaders co-opting the definition of antisemitism as a means to squash freedom of press and speech in the name of "Jewish safety", look no further than a rogue Jewish nation of violent settlers who call Palestinian babies terrorists, look no further than the Israeli WhatsApp group chats with 10s of 1000s of members mocking the mutilated bodies of Palestinians, look no further than the IOF soldiers proudly displaying their menorahs in the rubble of Palestinian homes and lives they've destroyed, look no further than the Israeli lobbyists throwing money at foreign governments so their policies are sympathetic to an ethnostate committing genocide - I could go on but I'm so tired. I'm exhausted. I'm sorry, but antisemitism is not a unique form of oppression that deserves priority over any other. yes, antisemitism is a very real and harmful form of systematic prejudice, but it is not more important than anything else. zionists' effort to elevate antisemitism above all other forms of bigotry, and most grousomely and unforgiveably, elevating antisemitism to take precedent over the lives of millions of Palestinians and Arabs in the form of genocide by Israel is the biggest source of antisemitism on Earth. i don't really care who I piss off by saying that anymore. I just watched a video of a Palestinian man weeping over the limp body of his wife, and her brain matter was all down his shirt, and it's not even close to the first or last video like that I've seen today. But what are the majority of world leaders who could make a difference to this doing?? cracking down on "antisemitism" by equating it with anti-zionism so they can gut what little free communication rights we have for the purpose of protecting a Jewish ethnostate as it murders Palestinians and Arabs en masse!!! if, after almost 2 years of watching video after video of soldiers proudly wearing Jewish iconography as they torture, rape, and murder Palestinians at large, your main concern is STILL negativity toward Jewish people, there's something really fucking wrong with your priorities. you've fallen for the propaganda. you're racist. the defeat of zionist ideology, ending the existence of a terrorist Jewish ethnostate, and freeing Palestine from Israeli-zionist tyranny will also kill one of the most significant sources of antisemitism in the world. Recognise that, and prioritise liberation for Palestine from genocidal zionist colonialism. Or don't, and hope the shame doesn't brittle your bones. if you hate Zionists, zionism and Israel giving Judaism and Jewish people a bad rep, consider putting an end to the state of Israel and the ideology it represents, instead of blaming and punishing the ideology's victims.

[ebodebo]

SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT! │ clark kent

You and Clark have a fight. You leave his house and go to the Daily Planet after hours to work and calm down. Clark finds you there and helps ease your mind.

CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, oral sex (fem!receiving ofc,) vaginal fingering, hair pulling (rawrrr his curlsss,) arguing, playful banter, TEASING, & no use of y/n.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: been thinking about making this little fic since i watched the movie and i finally finished it! i need this midwestern goober so bad. it’s not even funny. on that note, i hope you enjoy this horny concoction!

"You're giving me a headache," you sigh, taking a deep sip of your water as you lean against Clark's kitchen sink, watching him hurriedly untie his tie. Your voice is tinged with frustration and exhaustion.

"Oh. Am I?" he replies, sarcastically tossing his tie onto the coffee table.

You set your glass of water down on the counter and massage your temples. "Clark, I know you care about me. You want to keep me safe, but I feel like you're suffocating me," you say earnestly.

He walks over, his voice firm and unwavering. "I'm trying to protect you. You don't understand the risks."

You shake your head with a humorless laugh. "For Christ's sake, Clark, you secretly arranged for someone to escort me home after brunch with Jimmy. You didn't even ask if that's what I wanted. That's not trust,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark mimics your stance, crossing his arms over his chest, a hint of frustration in his tone. “I trust you; you know that. I just don't trust most other people.”

“You’re interfering with my work,” you accuse.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he responds, tilting his head.

“No?” you answer, your tone sharp. “You’re still trying to convince me to drop my exposé on that crime ring in Gotham because it’s too ‘cliché.’ But I know you’re really just worried about me getting hurt,” you say, giving him a knowing look.

He bites his tongue before speaking again. “Do you honestly believe those criminals wouldn’t come after the pretty news reporter who put them on blast?”

You give him an unamused look, your anger simmering just beneath the surface. "What about the other night? When I was walking home from the library, and you swooped in out of nowhere, 'coincidentally' walking me home. You didn't trust me to take care of myself then, either, even though I'm perfectly capable," you assert, your displeasure evident.

"I'm not saying you're not capable," he replies, spreading his hands in a placating gesture.

You take a deep breath, eyeing him for a moment before uncrossing your arms and resting them at your sides. "It just… it feels like you're more concerned with protecting me than actually being with me."

"That's not fair," Clark’s voice rises, his jaw clenched with tension.

"Fair? You're the one who's being unfair. You try to keep me in a bubble and control every situation." You flail your arms to emphasize your point. Clark opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "And for the love of God, do not blame that on Superman. Just don't."

"In case you forgot, I am Superman. He's a part of me. You knew that going in," he declares confidently, lifting a finger to point at you.

You roll your eyes and push off the counter, your feet padding around him. "Whatever, Clark," you mutter, feeling fatigue take over.

"No, no. Don't 'whatever, Clark' me," he says, turning his head to fix his piercing blue eyes on you as you walk toward the couch to grab your jacket. "Just—at least look at me," he pleads, his voice tinged with desperation.

You spin on your heels to face him, scowling slightly. “Just tell me—are you my boyfriend or just Superman trying to protect a civilian?”

His lips press into a flat line, clearly showing his frustration. “Don’t do that,” he replies, his voice strained.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Do what, Clark?”

He twists his head and closes his eyes in a display of impatience. “You always bring that up when we argue,” he snaps.

As you adjust your jacket and stride toward the front door, you mutter under your breath, “It’s hard not to.” You look up to lock eyes with him; his gaze is already fixed on you. “I just... I need some space.”

“Okay,” he nods lightly, wiping the exhaustion from his face before lazily pointing to the couch. “I’ll take the couch. You can have my bed.” He turns on his heels toward the couch, swiping a pillow off the cushion. 

“No, Clark,” you begin, your voice catching in your throat. “I just—I need to be away from you.”

He turns around, a pillow in hand, a stunned expression on his face. “You’re leaving me?”

You take a deep breath, trying to muster more courage. The way he looks at you, his bright blue eyes sunken and sorrowful, makes you want to run and jump into his arms, but you resist.

You need him to respect your bodily autonomy.

“I just need to be alone,” you say firmly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “At least for the night.”

He stares at you for a moment before nodding. “Okay, fine,” he replies, glancing away as he tosses the pillow back onto the couch. “Whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle. “Goodbye.”

“Will you—can you at least text me when you get home?” His voice is so soft that you almost miss it. “So I know you’re safe?”  

You pause, caught in a moment of indecision, your silence lingering in the air.  

The door swings open and then closes with a soft, definitive click.  

You should have responded, but the fear of breaking down in his kitchen left you speechless.  

Clark's gaze remains fixed on the front door until he catches a whiff of your perfume, making his vulnerability crack through.

At that moment, he realized he couldn’t hide behind the bright cape or the shiny name. 

He could feel the full weight of his humanity, and it was crushing. 

The Daily Planet, although it is your day job, has always served as a sanctuary during times of unrest after hours. However, being here now is giving you an even bigger migraine than you already have.

You feel the strain in your eyes as you stare intently at your computer screen for the third hour. Your fingers tap anxiously against the keyboard as you struggle to find the right words.

The cursor blinks ominously behind the few words already on the page, a silent mockery of your writer's block. Doubt and frustration seep in, clouding your thoughts and making it even harder to focus.

Your mind keeps drifting back to your fight with Clark. 

The look on his face when you turned down his offer to stay over feels like a weight pressing down on your chest. His expression was filled with pain, as if he believed you would never return to him.

You stretch your fingers, trying to stave off the creeping carpal tunnel, before sinking back into your chair with a soft squeak.

"Thought I'd find you here," a deep voice booms from beside you, making you jump and whip your head around to see who spoke.

"Shit," you curse, holding a hand over your heart, and find Clark standing there, still dressed in his white long-sleeve shirt and black slacks. "You scared me," you admit. "What are you doing here?"

He sticks his hands in the pockets of his pants. "I came here for you."

You exhale a sigh and turn to look back at your computer screen. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Clark," you confess, squinting to read the few words on the page.

"You don't have to, sweetheart," he says, taking a few steps closer. "Just hear me out, okay?"

Your eyes remain fixed on the screen until you feel your chair being spun around, forcing you to face him. "Clar—" you start to say, but he interrupts you, his hand still on your chair.

"You're stressed. I get that," he begins, looking at you with intensity. "You work too hard and don't sleep enough."

"I also have a boyfriend who doesn't trust me to take care of myself," you interject, raising an eyebrow.

He pulls back his head in faux shock. "Hey, who's this other boyfriend? Do I need to fight him?"

A smile breaks through your lips as you playfully push against his chest. "Shut up, you dork," you tease, your tone light.

Clark smiles as he glances at your computer screen. "Let me see this," he says, already moving behind your chair to take a closer look.

You turn to him, aware of him hovering over your shoulder. "I'm just working on this exposé. It's nothing."

"Mhm. Nothing is right," he teases with a playful smile, his dimples showing. "There's hardly anything on here."

"Hey," you point to the very few words on the page. "Don't you see the top line?"

He leans in closer. "Oh, yeah," he replies with a sardonic tone. "I have to keep an eye on you. With just those three words, you'll have me out of a job in no time. Very hard-hitting stuff," he jokes.

You turn to look at him, perhaps to throw another playful jab, but instead, he seizes the moment to kiss you deeply. His lips are warm and soft, and the taste of his breath takes your own breath away.

"You didn't text me," he murmurs against your lips.

You almost don't register what he's saying. "I didn't say I was going to," you reply with a dry mouth. "I thought that implied I wasn't going to."

“Oh, is that what you thought?” He presses another kiss to your lips, pulling back slightly to speak. “I know you can take care of yourself. You’re my tough girl, right? But it puts me at ease to know that you’re safe.” He kisses you again.

“Mhm,” you hum against his lips, your lips brushing against his. “I just need you to respect my boundaries, okay? You can keep me safe without suffocating me,” you bring your hands up to touch his cheeks lightly.

He leans in closer, his voice low and husky. “Was that so hard?” 

You pull him closer by his cheeks, whispering, “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”

As soon as the command slips from your lips, he leaps into action. He kisses you with an intense passion, a fervent need that consumes you both.

His hands gently cradle your cheeks, deepening the kiss with each passing moment. They then slide down to your waist, pulling you closer as you find yourself pressed against the desk, the kiss never breaking.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, skimming across your bare skin and making you shiver. “Are we really about to have sex in the workplace, Mr. Kent?” you ask, breathless, as your fingers thread through his curls.

“I think we are, sweet girl,” he breathes, moving to pop open the buttons to your blouse.

He shoves the blouse off, pressing hot kisses against your collarbone. “I hate when we fight,” he murmurs into your skin, his hand gripping your ass through your pencil skirt.

“Certainly makes for an enticing night,” you say, tilting your head back so Clark can kiss up your neck.

He pulls back for a moment, fidgeting with his belt. You move your hand to stop him, locking eyes with him. “You want to take care of me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he replies without hesitation.

“Then, show me. Show me how well you can take care of me,” you say, biting your bottom lip as you slide onto the desk, opening your legs wide enough for him to see your red lace panties.

His eyes glance to look at your panties as he stands with his hands on his hips. “I thought you didn’t want me to do that anymore,” he darts his tongue across his lips, eyes still honing in on your cunt.

“Get on your knees, Clark,” you direct, voice low, letting your heels drop to the floor.

He smiles, his dimples appearing. “You’re demanding,” he accuses, with humor, as he sinks to his knees, big hands coming to rest on your thighs.

“And you’re not putting your mouth on me fast enough,” you whine, head tilting back as his grip tightens.

“Oh, you mean like this?” He leans in, pressing a deep kiss on your cunt, your panties rubbing against your clit gently. 

“Fuck—yes,” your hand drifts to rest on the back of his head, putting him where you need. “Just like that,” you encourage, pulling him closer. 

He brings a finger up, pulling your panties to the slide so he can feel your bare cunt on his lips, already twitching and wet under his lips. His tongue flicks against your clit, making you surge forward. “You’re sensitive,” he mutters into you.

“Well, your tongue is in my—ah, Clark,” you moan, back arching, feeling his tongue drag across your aching clit.

He pulls his head back slightly. “What was that, sweetheart?” 

Your hand rests on the edge of the desk, knuckles white. “Goddamn it—you… you,” you say, voice strained and breathless.

“Took your breath away, did I?” His tongue slides across your puffy clit, eliciting a whimper from you.

His hand braces impossibly tighter on your thigh, and you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your skin as his skillful tongue prods against your needy bud.

You're practically grinding against his face, trying to chase your high. Your finger in his hair pulls him up to look at you with one of his curls. “Give me your fingers,” you order, the thought of release burning away at your senses.

He obliges; naturally, he’ll do anything to please you.

“Mhm. See,” he tuts. “Demanding,” he hums as he brings two fingers up to push in and out of your greedy cunt, not allowing you time to respond. Your head is tilted back as your loud moans fill the office.

“Ah, listen to that. Music to my ears,” he says, eyes hyper-focused on his fingers plunging in and out of you. “They’ll hear you all the way in Gotham.”

“So, let them—fuck—so… so close,” you manage to choke out, his fingers making you fall apart faster than you expected. 

“Yeah?” he prompts through a breath. 

You nod your head, your lower stomach tight and skin sizzling as you come undone, your thighs trembling on his fingers as you come.

You glance down at him, your eyes heavy with fatigue. “Shit,” you curse with a dry laugh.

He makes you laugh as he moves to stand, watching you before brushing the hair out of your face. “How’d I do?”

“There’s always room for improvement,” you toy, your chest still heaving.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, yeah,” he replies, stepping closer to dip his head to kiss you, sweet this time.

Well, aside from the fact that you can taste yourself on his lips.

He pulls back, studying the glint in your eyes, a silent conversation passing between you. “Am I still your Superman?”

“No,” you begin, wrapping your arms around his neck, making him raise a confused eyebrow. “You’re my Clark.”

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: i clearly got carried away with the dialogue, but it's always my fav part lmao i hope you enjoyed! muah!

[madamechrissy]

Arrogance and Affection - taglist

art in the banner by @scarlettismm on x

Pairings - Satoru Gojo x F! reader

Summary- There is just one man you cannot stand, infuriating you even as your family is vacationing in the pretty English countryside before the season starts, and that man is Mr. Gojo. From a high up family of great means, a life vastly different from the provincial life you grew up with, he is by all means 'the catch of the season'. He's arrogant, he's irritating, he's pretentious - as all the ladies flock to him, you hold just no interest - but the thing you don't know is he's hopelessly in love with you.

Contents/warnings- Cute and full of witty banter, lil bit of enemies to lovers, Satoru being a little arrogant hottie, fluffyyy, smut at the end - gonna be a long oneshot! (Based on Pride and Prejudice, Gojo is basically Darcy)

A/N- this is a oneshot to go with my mootie @lily-bisque's adorable summer bash event!

Preview below, taglist opennn- should be out soon! <3

Mr. Gojo leans against the pillar, watching as you quite literally frolick around the dance floor on the arm of another gentleman. After making sure to let him know what you think of him. Your carefully coifed hair bounces as you dance along with your friends while the set changes, hands joining as you all dance in a circle, your eyes catch his for a moment, he makes sure to quickly look away.

"She told me I'm arrogant," he complains to Mr. Geto, who is sipping on his crystal glass of brandy next to him. "And she told me I'm conceited, would you believe that!?"

"Ah, no indeed, Satoru. You, conceited?" Satoru glares, narrowing his blue eyes at his 'best friend' Suguru now. "Perish the thought!"

"Oh, you could at least disagree with her?"

"For telling the truth?"

"Tch," Satoru sighs now, jaw tensing when he looks back at you, having single handedly made him furious and further intrigued, with your bratty, witty little mouth. "She could have been kinder, doesn't she know she has my heart?"

"Have you told her you even like her, let alone are utterly infatuated with her?"

"No!? Why would I?" Suguru rolls his violet eyes, snatching up a glass from one of the butlers, handing it over to him.

"You look like you need it," Satoru indeed does need a drink, slipping his hand against the coat pocket, where that letter he's had for months sits. "What is it?"

"I may have penned her a letter, letting her know all the reasons she should desire me," he grins, and Suguru snorts. "What!?"

Your eyes catch his again, spinning in a gentleman's arms, he's kind and sweet and not at all infuriating like Satoru Gojo is, but for some reason, you can't stop thinking about him. You can't help but want the man that drives you insane - not that you'd ever admit it to him.

"Is something wrong, Miss?" Your partner asks, you shake your head and smile, while Satoru's bright blue eyes burn holes into your back.

"Just a little parched is all," you murmur, he offers to get you a drink, a hand on the small of your back, while you try to clear your mind of Mr. Gojo's arrogant words.

"Should I do more than list these reasons," Satoru asks eagerly, unfolding the letter now. "Should I include all the reasons I'm amazing?" He smirks, and Suguru pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Good luck with that, Gojo."