#you know there was something i wanted to say

[liloinkoink]

hello hello ddvau fans if you do not know me i do edits for ddvau and i have Known about this chapter for weeks and have been sitting on my rage at HG the whole time. and now it is released i need the people to see he is a bitch ass mf

anyway. starting off here. the very first thing HG says to Grian when talking about what happened is a threat

"i'm here to help you. i'm the best option you got, no one else will"

when i was editing for Doody, this line was just "i'm here to help." but Doody wanted it to come across somewhere in this chapter that HG has all the power in this situation and that HG wants Grian to know that. it was decided that the best spot to include that was right here, right off the bat. HG is Grian's only option and that is as much a promise as it is a threat. no one else will help Grian, and that includes saving him from HG if he doesn't tell HG what he wants to know

and then there's this page. when Grian isnt super forthcoming w info, HG pulls out Jimmy. HG knows better than anyone that Jimmy is completely innocent and that he had nothing to do w the attack--he's a victim here, and HG knows that better than anyone. he also knows, from being Grian and Jimmy's friend as a civilian for years, that Grian cares a lot about Jimmy, and is using that against Grian

he also knows from being a civilian and Jimmy's friend that Jimmy's pro-mutant stance isnt popular, and Jimmy could be framed if HG said something bad about him. HG is trying blatantly to use anti-mutant sentiments against Grian and Jimmy so that Grian will talk, in a moment Grian is already convinced he's going to be arrested for hiding his status as a mutant

(which: note that HG says he heard "rumors" about Jimmy's stance about mutants and his protests against the university's policies--it isn't rumors, HG knows this from being Jimmy's friend and coworker as Scar)

and then here, HG is the only one who was conscious and who was fully present for and remembers what happened during the MS attack. yeah, Tango was also there, but Tango is a known mutant, adn we've already seen people do not trust Tango and think Tango is dangerous--he's certainly not as trustworthy as HG, Superhero, Emerald Soldier, face of the military. he's the one people will trust most. what he says happened is what happened

HG says that yes, Grian’s secret is safe, but only because HG is choosing to keep it. Grian is safe because HG is allowing him to be. HG told everyone that Grian gained wings from the attack, and so HG won't arrest Grian. in this narrative which HG made up, Grian did not lie to the government and he was not always a mutant. HG said it, so it's true, even if he's lying. all HG has to do is change his mind and say that Grian was always a mutant who lied and hid his status from the government, and then Grian will be arrested. HG could change his mind at any time if Grian doesn't cooperate with him. he's very blatantly blackmailing Grian

fun fact! the original version of this line didn't have the "for now," but it was added in editing when Doody said they wanted it to be explicitly clear HG is threatening Grian

what HG says here is the truth. he isn't just representing the law--HG is above the law, and he isn't shy about making sure Grian knows that. he's willing to use anything in his disposal to get the information he wants, and he's willing to use anything available to him to make sure Grian complies with him. disguising it in friendly attitude and cookies and a phone number does not hide the fact HG was incredibly ruthlessly manipulative here

anyway. incredibly fun chapter. one of my favorites. i need DDVAU HG exploded

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, loan shark!price x reader part 1, fem!reader, afab!reader, noncon elements, manipulative price, implied violence (not reader), petting, almost(?) fingering - 3K words - dividers -> @/cafekitsune massive thank you to @pricetagged for keeping me sane writing this

“Mr. Price-” you spoke up, fingers massaging into your temples. 

“Said you can call me John, Sweetheart.” the man interjected with a serious look. 

He was currently hanging your entire life over your head and he knew it, you most certainly were not going to call him by his first name. Noticing your reluctance, he shrugged and leaned back into your dining room chair.

“Look, I’ve been as kind as a man like me ought to be. Don’t know how much longer I can shoulder the loss, and I don't know how much longer you-” He sent a condescending look of concern your way, a hand fishing into his pocket. “-can take the fees. I’m playing the good guy here, y’gotta pay up, lovie.” 

“No smoking inside.” you warned, voice less confident than you would have liked it to be.

His hand paused in his coat before slipping out and up in a sign of surrender.

There was a buzzing silence between the two of you, only interrupted by the occasional tick of your kitchen clock. It was hard to meet his gaze, eyes rooted downwards towards your table under the weight of your rising debt to one of the most notorious men in the city.

“Right then.” he huffed, palms coming down to rest on the table before twitching upwards. “So?” 

“Give me another month to pull something together.” you spoke, wincing when you caught the way his eyebrows quirked in surprise. “-Please?”

There was no telling a man like John Price what would be happening. He was the shot caller, the unequivocal card dealer, it was only by some higher grace that he let your ill manners slip. 

He grumbled for a moment before looking up. “I respect what you’ve got going on in the shop, I do. Lovely place, good atmosphere—we’re both the entrepreneurial type, so to say I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for you-” the thought that he’d lump your small shop in with his exploitative business made your stomach turn. “-but this is a bit much, yeah? Let’s give it up, sweetheart.” 

Your face twisted into a sharp grimace, but that was all you could do—what right did you have to tell the man whose money you were living off of to get out of your house? Even worse, you hated that he had a point; you were so tired of your lackluster sales and mounting bills, but-

“I’m not the only owner, I-I can’t just make decisions like that.” you reasoned.

He looked incredibly unimpressed, nostrils flaring with a dissatisfied huff. “Right, your business partner.” 

“H-he-”

“If it’s what you want, m’sure he’ll understand,” Mr. Price hummed, eyes narrowing. “I think you’ll find my men and I can be quite persuasive.” 

Registering your cautious demeanor, his lips curled upwards.

“Where is the bloke anyway?” John asked in faux-disinterest, disapproval blooming from his tone. “Always sends you to talk to the big mean lender. S’not right.” 

He shook his head and sighed.

���-Seen this play out before, love. He’s throwing you under the bus.” 

Your mouth shut, hard set into a frown—you knew he was right. Your business partner was most likely enjoying his morning in peace knowing it was your apartment above the building—your life about to be uprooted if it all went tits-up. It was hard not to feel played.

Mr. Price’s gaze glimmered in recognition, and slowly, like a languid predator, he was leaning across the table with a large hand over your own. 

You studied the sparse dusting of translucent hair on his fingers, the trimmed nails at the ends of his stocky fingers, his nice, expensive-looking watch—anything not to meet his eyes. 

“S’not worth it,” he urged softly. “spreading yourself thin like this.” he paused to think. “My advice? Liquidate, I'm sure you and I can work something out in the long term.”

You swallowed, throat feeling impossibly dry as you focused on the twitch of his thumb.

“I’ll think about it.” 

“I don’t want to be the bad guy, but business is business, sweetheart—I’m offering you a hand, it’s in your best interest to take it.” he spoke, palm patting over your digits before withdrawing into his pocket. There was a deep breath drawn in through his lips. “Right, I’ll be off then—Unless you want me over for lunch?” 

He chuckled deeply in solus as he stood, reminding you of a proud and awful beast. “Maybe another time then, love.” 

Ideally not.

-

The shop had closed on another unnoteworthy day, only serving to further hammer in Mr. Price’s point. With defeated footfall on the stairs up to your flat, you nearly slipped, shocked by a fist beating on the front door frantically. You slowly turned around, heart pounding from the sound.

“-Christ! Let me in!” Ewan, your business partner cried out from the other side of the threshold.

You hurried to the door; pushed aside as soon as the lock had released.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” you scolded over the shop door’s welcome chime. You were met without response while the man darted for the till. “What are you-”

“Not now,” he growled. “we need to get out of here.” 

Studying him closer, you realized one of his arms had been held up by a makeshift sling, tucked neatly beneath his quilted coat.

“W-what are you talking about?”

He paused, looking up. 

Your eyes widened when the light from the street outside washed over his face. 

“What happened to you?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” he snarled, freshly dried blood crusting at the movement. His head dipped down as he popped open the till. “Price and his dogs want our heads.” 

“I just spoke to him this morning-” 

“Things change—may have pushed our luck a little too far. We’ve got to get out of town.” 

You frowned “I-I can’t just-” 

“Suit yourself.” he snapped, voice dropping to a mumble while his fingers grabbed at whatever they could, stuffing it into his coat pocket haphazardly. “-Sitting duck.”

“Wait—that's our money.” you balked, watching the empty register drawer shut. He offered you a bloody, tight-lipped smile as he sped past you towards the door; in and out like a typhoon.

“Good luck.”

You were stuck where you stood when the door swung shut, absolutely beside yourself in shock as you watched his figure disappear from view into the night. Looking around your shop, it was just as it had been when you closed up, but the knowledge that you were sitting on an empty till, all alone with the looming threat of a less-than-savory money lender finding out you were back to square one for your upcoming payment was not kind as it crashed into you. 

After a sobering moment, you hobbled over to the point of sales, turning the drawer’s lock tentatively. Of course, the tray was as empty as the day you had bought it, save for a spare coin roll shoved into the side. You stared down at the dark plastic, hand clumsily digging into your pocket for your phone. Swiping at the device, you paused, debating for a moment over whether or not to open the banking app; you already knew what you’d see if you did.

Confirming your fears, the log showed a hefty transaction at the branch earlier that day. The account had been emptied right before the banks closed. 

You had nothing to give John Price.

It was all gone.

You stared at your feet while it sunk in. Slowly, you regained the ability to move, making your way over to the shop door and locking it back up before spinning on your heels. The trip upstairs was eerily silent as you slipped into your flat, legs wobbling as you ambled into your washroom and stepped under the hot stream from your showerhead. You let the water run over you for far longer than necessary, only stepping out onto the frigid tile once your fingers had pruned. 

The dinner prep that followed had gone surprisingly smooth, serving as a vessel to pretend the foundation of your life wasn't crumbling away. You replayed comforting thoughts, words passing through your mind like a liferaft just out of reach– you knew Mr. Price, he always spoke gently to you, he would understand, he-

A fat tear fell onto the hand that braced you over the stove, watching the bubbling pasta through bleary eyes. With a shaking grip, you drained the water and slipped the noodles into your saucepan, stirring and sniffling lamely.

You made too much—you had nothing to give and you had made too much. Typical.

Sitting at your table, you ate in near-silence, listening to your clock’s soft ticking as you tried to ignore the afterburn image of Mr. Price across from you where he had sat that morning.

Your fork paused mid-air when the downstairs shop chime rang out. 

Had Ewan come to his senses? 

You closed your eyes and waited for him to call up to you. 

The stark sound of heavy footfall bustling around the lower level was the first thing to alert you to the intrusion—too much noise for one man. Setting down your fork, you stared owlishly at the door to your flat as if it was the last line of defense between you and whatever was happening down there. Through the muffled commotion, you could faintly make out the creak of your stairs getting louder—closer, you watched helplessly as the knob slowly turned.

The door opened a fraction, a thick hand curling around the side to brace it against the three thunderous knocks that echoed throughout the room.

“Come in.” you spoke up once your heartbeat had evened out, blinking as Mr. Price emerged from the dark stairway.

“Mmh, you’re here.” he stared down at you, a pleased rumble rolling around in his chest. “‘Course you didn’t skip town, smart. Good girl.”

He kicked his boots off and drifted through your kitchen; cabinets and drawers clattering behind you while he whistled breathily, dishing up some pasta as if you had made it for him—you do suppose he had every right to, though. 

Your whole body tensed as a palm ghosted across your back. The plate was set down, and the chair beside you was tugged out from beneath the table. 

Your eyes darted to his dish where it sat, steam trailing fragrantly. Mr. Price tucked in, humming lowly despite his tense demeanor. 

“S’good, Love. eat up.” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and grabbed your fork, gaze falling back to your dish as you picked at the food, appetite long gone. Once again, it was you, Mr. Price, and the sounds of your kitchen—an unwelcome sense of Deja Vu creeping in. 

“Your money’s gone.” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

He reached towards you, grabbing your napkin, and patting his mouth. “I know.” he scratched at his beard idly. “My boys are dealing with that.” 

You paled, trying not to think about what would happen to your business partner as you watched Mr.Price fuss with his fork, leaning in to take another large bite; a nauseated feeling washing over you. 

“What's going to happen to me?” you murmured, eyes downcast. 

His fork clattered quietly against his plate as his hand came to rest on the back of your neck, thumb petting at your nape. “That’s what I'm here to sort out, sweetheart.” 

Sort out. It was ugly, spoken as if you were just one of his assets. You nodded; compliance met with a soft, affirming squeeze. 

“We can work something out.” his hand traveled downwards, grazing your arm before landing on the meat of your thigh. “I don’t have to be the bad guy.” 

“Mr. Price..” you spoke after a sharp breath, tears threatening to well up. 

You missed the way his eyes crinkled at your weepy tone, thumb brushing your thigh in comfort. 

“I’ve had my eye on you, love—Would have never lent you as much as I did if I wasn't sweet on you. Thought maybe I’d be able to charm my way into your life but it seems like I only see you when you’re late on a payment.” he laughed hoarsely. A knee knocked into yours as he stood; his chair scraping beneath him. The floor creaked under bulk, two large hands coming to rub at your arms with hot breath and trimmed beard tickling at your ear. “-I’m a hopeless romantic, y’see.” 

“Price!” a voice hollered up, causing the man to straighten with a low growl. 

“What?” he barked, voice aimed downstairs.

“Trucks loaded up, gonna head back to the office, yeah? See if Simon needs any help retrieving the cash.” 

His hands flexed around your shoulders. “Good, lock up behind yourself. I’ll be a bit.”

You froze, looking up to see the looming shadow of a man; profile distinct in the low light. He turned to you, offering a tight grin while a wayward hand trailed from your arm to your neck, caressing the skin as he exhaled deeply behind you, resting your head against his abdomen. 

“It’s okay to give in, love.” he cooed. “Let me take care of it all.” 

You had nearly folded when that little prey animal in your brain stiffened, hackles raising. You stood carefully, sidestepping his grasp.

“No, I-I… I couldn’t impose… It’s alright.” you silently begged for him to understand your polite refusal.

“S’not imposing,” he challenged, glaring down at you. “imposing would be the number of zeroes on the sum you owe me—now you care about my burden?”

“That’s-”

“That’s not how this works, sweetheart.” he laughed. “Now, sit back down.”

You complied, lowering back into the seat shamefully.

“Good.” he exhaled, crouching beside you with hands knotted together. “I always collect what’s owed, that’s one thing you need to understand.” 

You nodded.

“-But I’m not opposed to shouldering burdens where personal interest is involved.” His eyes searched your own desperately, palms unfurling to rest back on your legs. “You understand what I'm saying, yeah? You’ll never pay it off alone, let me help. I could take care of you.”

Overwhelmed, you turned away; the grip on your thighs tightening in response as he braced himself, standing up. A warm hand cradled your cheek as he drew your gaze upwards, free hand looping around your back and lifting you to stand against him like a marionette. 

“I don’t know what to do…” you sniffled as his big palm had begun to rub circles into your back. 

He shushed you. “-It’s okay, love. I can handle it, It’ll be okay.”

You nodded, turning and rubbing your face into his shirt as he comforted you. The entire situation was a disorienting experience. Had you done something so wrong to get here?– had it been a crime to want to live a gentle and quiet life in your shop? 

It was hard to care much for your sense of conviction when the root of your problem looked more like a finely woven cradle; what did it matter if you were to bend the knee to your devil’s appeal at this point? 

Still, it felt as if you were teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“I’m scared.” your lips settled for, hiccuping the words into his chest. 

He hummed thoughtfully, the noise buzzing around the walls of your head as his thick arms hooked around your neck, pulling you in deeper—a trap set without any fuss. 

“It’s okay for you to be scared,” he pressed a kiss to your crown. “There’s no way anyone was getting out of those rates you agreed to, love. Let me help you.”

You stiffened, head raising slowly to look at him. He smiled down at you.

“You definitely won’t be taking care of our finances, yeah?” John joked, letting out a deep, phlegmy laugh before he pecked your nose, pulling you back into his chest and rumbling against your head. “Enough nonsense. You’re tired, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

It was all so domestic—like he hadn’t just shown you his rows of jagged, shark-like teeth. 

His grip relented as he patted your bum. “Go on and get into bed, let me clean up dinner.”

-

So you did, brushing your teeth and feeling incredibly confused as to why you were readily complying. What truly got to you was how tender it felt—had you been so oblivious to his vying interest? You had just assumed he was a rare good-natured lender; though, you suppose neither of these had been true.

John Price was not a good man; although it was a recent revelation in the grand scheme of things, you knew this as a fact now. The other fact of the matter was that it seemed you were most likely the real collateral in the vulturine deal. Had he been playing the long game?

You could hear John floating around in the other room as you pulled an old shirt over your head to sleep in—the kitchen faucet running as you slipped into your bed. It all felt so wrong. 

Your eyes shot open when the bedroom’s aged floor creaked, deer-like paralysis keeping you snapshot-still as the ring of his belt buckle filled the static air. Was he—The rickety bed dipped behind you under John’s added weight, bedframe crying out with every shift of his body that came with tucking himself against you; achy grunts blowing out from his lips.

“Not as limber as I used to be.” he laughed modestly. “Still gets the job done though, I reckon.” 

He breathed for a moment before his nose dipped into the hair at your nape, sniffling around. 

“-Better than I imagined.” he grumbled contently.

Thick hands dipped under your shirt, massaging at the skin momentarily before slipping into your panties, tugging them out of the way. 

“Mr. Price.” you winced, feeling his cold hand on the sensitive skin.

his hands paused as the large man thought for a moment.

“Mrs. Price…” he chuckled after a beat, the hairs on your neck standing up in response. “-See? You don’t like it much, either. Now, what’s my name, love?”

“John.” you mumbled quietly, eyes darting around through the dark of your room.

“Mmh. good girl.” he hummed, hand cupping your cunt and thumbing at it absentmindedly. “Sleep, love. Big day tomorrow, yeah?” 

[sttoru]

sukuna never understood humans. they always say and do things that annoy him in a way. though after meeting you—his favorite little concubine—that annoyance has slowly started to turn into fondness, something he isn’t ready to accept or even acknowledge.

“come inside and quit your foolishness,” the king of curses groans, sighing for the nth time. his four arms are crossed over his chest and his expression is unreadable. he’s exasperated by your silly antics once more.

it’s raining—pouring—yet you’re outside in the courtyard. you’re smiling from ear to ear as you hop from puddle to puddle, enjoying the cold droplets that continuously fall and wet your skin. “oh, come on! it’s fun,” you giggle, urging sukuna to join you.

the pink-haired man only shakes his head and clenches his jaw. he doesn’t see the fun in being out there when it rains. he doesn’t understand why you’re so happy about getting dirty and wet. the kimono you’re wearing is one he specifically ordered for you and here you are, ruining it.

sukuna wants to get angry, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to raise his voice or show his disdain. the smile on your face and your happy giggles refrain him from doing or saying anything too hurtful.

if it were any of his other concubines, he’d probably have punished them the second he saw them being somewhere they shouldn’t.

but that doesn’t mean sukuna isn’t going to talk you out of it. or try to.

“y’ll get sick, brat. get back here i said,” sukuna calls out with a frown. he lets out a low groan of frustration when you simply continue to walk around happily in the rain. are you seriously not aware of how fragile humans are? being in this cold with little coverage is going to make you sick.

sukuna has had enough of your antics. he stomps forward, not caring about the rain that’s wetting his clothes. he just wants you to get inside and dry. he frowns and opens his mouth, ready to scold you.

however, as he closes the distance between you two, his voice got stuck in his throat. the sight that greets him makes his frown slowly disappear. his eyes wander over your face and body from up close, finally noticing just how beautiful you are while enjoying the stormy weather. the pure joy looks good on you.

you’re soaked, clothes and hair dripping wet, and yet you still manage to captivate him. the carefree smile on your face only adds to your charm. sukuna stops just an arm’s length from you, eyes narrowing.

you turn to face him properly and chuckle. “thank you for coming out to play with me,” you comment half-jokingly. you reach out to hold onto two of sukuna’s hands, tilting your head back to stare at him with those eyes.

those puppy eyes that will make even a ruthless monster like him calm down.

sukuna clears his throat and grumbles, “this is stupid.”

you laugh softly as you notice how he’s trying to hide the effect you have on him, though you know better than to address it directly. you wrap your arms around his waist, your bodies now pressed together. you tilt your head with a teasing grin, “reaaally? is it now?”

sukuna rolls his eyes, but doesn’t make a move to push you away. he can feel every curve of your frame pressing against his through your wet clothes and the sensation sure is tantalising.

his large hands move on their own. two settle on your waist while one other creeps up your back to come tangle into your hair, yanking slightly at the strands to make you tilt your head back.

sukuna leans down, his red eyes focused on your parted lips that are calling out to him. his mouth is on yours before he realises it, claiming you in a fierce kiss.

the rain continues to fall around you two, but neither of you seem to care. you’re too lost in the feeling of each other to pull away from the intimate kiss. your lips are moving in tandem, tongues brushing together.

you only pull away when you run out of air. you breathe heavily as you look up at sukuna, seeing the same yearning reflected in his piercing eyes. it makes your tummy tingle—makes you feel all giddy to know the power you have over such an unfeeling man.

sukuna doesn’t say a thing. the tension between you two is only emphasised by the rain. the continuous pitter patter of the droplets seems to only increase with time, making it harder to see, yet also intensifies the unspoken feelings. perhaps now he can understand what humans find so romantic about being in the rain with their someone.

but there’s this all-consuming thought that drives his mind towards a more dark place. looking at you with your kimono hugging every curve, the water drops dripping down your bare skin and your half-lidded eyes staring at him like he’s all you care about—it’s making the king of curses want to devour you whole. a carnal desire that threatens to take over every time he feels that foolish, sappy emotion which humans call love.

sukuna snaps out of his daze and a muscle in his jaw ticks. he grabs your wrist and cocks his head towards the doors leading inside. “alright, let’s get y’r ass inside,” he huffs and starts dragging you off with him, “i don’t want you complainin’ to me when you get sick, y’hear?”

you whine but now better than to struggle. you walk with him, heart still racing as you think of the intimate kiss you shared. you know you’re the only one who gets the privilege to kiss the king of curses, to be so close to him, to have him indulge your silly requests, to have him look at you with such insatiable desire.

it makes you even giddier thinking about it.

you look up at the back of sukuna’s head as he guides you inside of the palace, attempting to convince him to extend your little romantic outing, “can we do it agai—”

“no.”

well, it was worth a try.

[stars-obsession-pit]

“Hello, Mr. Wayne. I’m calling on behalf of the Amity Park police department. I… god, there’s no easy way to say this. We found a dead body, and genetic tests identified you as the next of kin.”

A mixture of icy fear and confusion pooled in Bruce’s chest, and he felt himself lean against a wall for support. “What? Who? But, Damian was just here!”

“Don’t worry, it’s not him.”

“He’s the only blood relative I have.”

The officer sighed. “I dunno what to tell you. We don’t know. Kid was dead for months before we dug ‘im up, so identifying any other details towards his previous identity has been… difficult. Doesn’t even match any missing persons reports. Quite frankly, we were hoping you’d know something, ‘cause we’ve been coming up blank.”

“I will,” Bruce rushed out unthinkingly, his mind still caught up on the word ‘kid’.

“What?”

“I’ll help however I can. Amity Park, you said? Where is that? I’ll book a flight right away."

“No, really, sir. I appreciate it, but you don’t need to do that. No offense, Mr Wayne, but you’re not a forensic analyst.”

The words ‘yes I am’ balanced on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t say them. Batman was the detective, not Brucie Wayne. But Batman didn’t have any reason to travel so far afield to investigate a single dead kid, so Bruce Wayne would have to do.

“I at least want to take a look.”

[nochepsicodelica]

♡ ʕ˶´• ᴥ •`˶ʔ ♡

"Toji, do you love me?" You ask, as if he isn't curled up with you, his head resting on your shoulder so that he can see the stupid videos that pop up on your feed.

"Why would you even ask me that?" He mutters, tilting his head up to look at you.

"You're taking forever to respond. Oh... my heart," you say, your voice forcefully strained while clutching your chest as if you're pained.

"Don't start--"

"It's crumblingggg," you cry out, dramatically. "Oh god, it hurts so much, Toji! How could you? Is this how it feels to have love taken away? I should go outside and tie myself to a pole and see if there are any takers. Maybe, someone will actually want me and give me a warm, safe, and loving home." You give him a hopeful smile. "Yeah... that sounds nice and peaceful."

"Uh-huh, sure. Too bad you're not going anywhere. You get me and our warm, safe, and loving home." You huff, childishly, at that, to which Toji grins. "You know I love your dramatic ass. You keep asking if we can get a dog, but you're basically like if a husky turned human."

You gasp at that, playfully offended, and stare at him in disbelief. "I'll be waiting for your apology," you say, putting your hood on and turning your back to him.

"Baby, come on," he pleads, chuckling. "Come on. You're not mad at me."

"I am. I'm furious," you say, monotonously. "You shouldn't even look at me right now. I'm ferocious," you add, trying not to laugh at your own word choice.

"Yeah? You're a scary thing, right now, 'cause I made you mad?"

"Mhm," you hum, in response, and continue to scroll and watch videos without him.

"Hmm..." He leans over and snatches your phone out of your hands, tossing it towards the end of the bed. You feel helpless as he smoothly pulls your hood off, flips you onto your back, and straddles you. Your arms are pinned beside your head, by his enormous paws. You've been somewhat manhandled into surrender and all you can do is laugh as you look up at him.

"This is your ferociousness?" Toji asks, with a dumb grin on his face when you simply nod and press your lips together, to do a horrible job of stifling your amusement. "I'm so strong and brave, huh?" Again, you nod, unable to contain the giggles that spill out. "What if I... I don't know..." he murmurs, leaning down, closer to you. "Just gave you a little..."

The distance between your lips is closed off by Toji's lips pressing against yours—a slow, savored kiss, that makes your hands go limp beside you. He is utterly disarming, even against your faux grumpiness.

He hums something low against your lips when your laughter begins to bubble up once again. "Mm... You were never mad at me, were you?" Toji asks.

"And if I was?" You say, a gleam of mischief in your eyes and a sly smirk on your face.

"I'll kiss you, again. Is that really what you want?" He says, as if it's a threat.

"You know it. Kiss me, sugar lips," you say, amusedly.

"Why are you like this?" He mutters, rolling off of you and positioning himself beside you on the bed.

"Fine, gravel lips. Rock salt lips, sandpaper lips—is that what you want me to call you instead?" You ask, turning over to face him.

He slings an arm over your waist and pulls you in close. The scent of his body wash smells warmer as it mingles with his body heat. It's relaxing, fitting for the lazy day you've both indulged in. "You don't mean it," he responds, smugly. "I was sugar lips before you decided you wanted to hurt my feelings."

"Whatever," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

"Love you, sassy baby," he says, teasingly. "Don't ever doubt it. Now, where were you going with that question?"

"Well, it was going to be built up to me asking you if you have a Valentine, but then you crapped all over it. Now, it's not cute and it stinks. My plan reeks of failure."

"There's my dramatic girl," Toji utters under his breath, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Why don't you try again?" He says, smiling with amusement. "I'll even play along, alright?"

You sigh, as if it's going to take forever to pick up from where you left off, but nonetheless prepare to retry.

"Okay, fine," you start off, a soft sigh leaving your lips. "You love me, Toji?" You ask once more, already trying not to laugh at the focus he holds on you, like he's answering a survey.

"You know I do," he responds.

"Okay. Are you busy on the fourteenth of February?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you interested in doing something that day?"

"Yeah, you, but go on," he says, smoothly.

"Toji," you chide, with a giggle. "Be serious."

"Fine, fine. Uh, yeah. I am," he answers. "Gotta treat my baby real nice, don't I?" He says, with a smirk.

You press your lips together, and compose yourself before asking the next question. "Do you have a Valentine?"

He tilts his head and deadpans, as if you're playing some sort of joke on him. "Ma."

"Just answer the question, Toji," you whisper, like you're breaking out of the questionnaire you made for him. "Do you have a Valentine?" You repeat, in your normal voice.

"Yeah, I got a Valentine," Toji says, his eyes trailing down your face, to your lips and back up to meet your eyes, again. His hand slides under your sweater and grabs ahold of your bare waist. He loves the layer of goosebumps that rises on your skin when he touches you. You're just so reactive to him. "She's basically an actress with how dramatic she is. It cracks me up, 'cause it's like talking to one of those screaming huskies she's always showing me on her phone." He grins, ready for you to go off, again. "Look at her, look at her. She's about to do it, right now," he says, lowly, his eyes glued to your squinted ones.

"Hmph. If you want me gone, just say so. Here I am, trying to ask you out on a date for Valentine's Day. Trying to show you all my love and affection and... and ugh—you don't care about my effort. You don't care about how romantic I am. So, you know what you're getting instead of wined and dined?"

"What's that, mama?" Toji asks, attempting to stay serious through your little dramatic fit.

"A big pile of nothing. No chocolates, not even a rose. And then at night, i'm gonna make a pillow wall between us, so you can't touch me. I had a gooood surprise for you, too, but you won't get it, until... uhh... I haven't decided, but it won't be on Valentine's Day," you assure.

"Baby," Toji coos, smirking at the light grumpiness in your features.

"No," you grumble, with a huff.

"Pretty baby. My pretty, pretty Valentine," he murmurs, the corners of his lips curling when he sees your facade crumbling. "Oh," he utters, with a soft, barely audible gasp. "Look at that little smile. It's getting bigger... and bigger... and-"

"Stop!" You cry out, through a laugh. Toji takes that as an invitation to pull you in even closer. To see your sunshine-like smile up close and hear more of those uncontrollable giggles as he tries to kiss you.

"Don't turn away from my sugar lips. Kiss 'em," he instructs, reaching for your jaw. With ease, he makes you face him again, soft laughter still spilling past your lips. "Be nice," he says, his voice a low purr. "You're my good girl, right? You'll let me kiss you?"

You sigh, defeated, and stop resisting his affection. "Yeah," you mumble, a confirmation for both statements.

"You're an angel," he murmurs, before connecting your lips once again. You feel his thumb stroking your side, causing your heart to race and goosebumps to surface on your skin all over again. They spread even more when his hand travels towards your back, his fingertips running up and down your spine.

His kisses are soft and slow, yet, still manage to bring heat to your cheeks. You know that if breathing wasn't necessary, he would spend hours on just kissing you, nonstop. Kissing until your lips feel raw and miserably bruised—tender to the touch. Until just the act of him leaning in for a mere peck, has you putting your hands up to his chest to stop him before he gets to your lips, again.

With a soft, final smack of your brushing lips, Toji breaks the kiss. "Say," he drawls, a sly smirk forming on his lips, "do you have a Valentine, sweetness?"

You hum, like you're thinking thoroughly about the question. "No, unfortunately," you respond, wiping the smirk off his face in an instant.

"Baby, you have to answer the question honestly," he whispers, mimicking the way you did before. You crack a grin and nod, compliantly. "So... you got a Valentine, doll?" He repeats, in his normal voice.

"No, I haven't been asked," you respond.

Toji scoffs. "Really?"

"Yeah, you said to answer honestly. I asked you to be my Valentine, but you haven't asked me."

"You asked if I have a Valentine," he corrects. "See, you're not being entirely honest with me," he says, shaking his head and clicking his tongue in disbelief.

"Will you be my Valentine, Toji?" You ask, trying incredibly hard to stay serious, though your lips are quivering, giving away the laughter you're suppressing.

"Yeah, i'll be your Valentine, pretty. Will you be my Valentine?" He asks, in return.

"Yes, i'll be your Valentine," you answer.

"Great. And those plans you made for Valentine's Day... are we still on for that?"

You laugh. He looks like he's genuinely hoping you were joking about shutting it all down.

"Of course we are, baby. The plans were never cancelled. I didn't think you actually believed me."

"You're cold for that, ma. Ice cold," Toji grumbles, earning a chime of your laughter. His hand comes out from under your sweater and travels lower and lower until he's able to grab the back of your thigh and lift your leg over his hip. "Let me warm you up."

[checkeredflagggs]

Scavenger Hunt

pairing: max verstappen x girlfriend!reader

summary: fans are baffled when they spot max verstappen running about Monaco on Valentine’s Day — what’s causing him such panic?

a/n: inspired by the upcoming baby verstappen and little Donut

a/n2: I know there’s a typo in one of the texts but I didn’t want to rewrite that so imagine there isn’t please

Masterlist | Taglist

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Bluesky

user1: it’s so early and on Valentine’s Day…are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?

↳user2: that he forgot to get y/n something and is now rushing around last minute?

↳user1: yup!

user3: it’s so fun to see celebrities act just like regular people

user4: just how early is it over there

↳user5: extremely. I honestly have no idea what he’s doing up right now

user6: early, rushing around, and he’s still kind enough to smile at people…

↳user7: I have no idea how people think he’s a villian

↳user8: right? He’s just a little pookie

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Lando and y/n

Bluesky

user9: another max spotting!

user10: he must have completely forgotten about Valentine’s Day…

user11: wild thoughts thrown into the universe but…are they even still dating??

↳user12: what??

↳user11: neither of them have posted anything about each other in months. By this point in winter break last year, there was like 100 photos of what they were doing and where they were going…

↳user12: omg don’t even say such thing again…

↳user13: ohhh you have a point. I don’t like it but you have a point…

user14: was he up at the crack of dawn or something??

↳user15: that’s what I was wondering…

user16: ok but where was he going in such a hurry??

↳user17: I saw him today! He was ducking into a local bakery and he came out empty handed about 2 minutes later

↳user16: he’s rushing about at the crack of dawn to go to bakeries???

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Charles (and Alex) and y/n

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Bluesky

user18: I saw him this time!

↳user19: well?

↳user18: another bakery and this time he came out with a bag from them. He was still in a rush

↳user19: interesting interesting 🤔

user20: he’s been spotted all over Monaco hasn’t he?

↳user21: At least 4 different locations now yes!

↳user20: have they all been bakeries?

↳user21: as far as we know yes

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Bluesky

user22: he looks so good!

↳user23: he always does… y/n is so lucky…

user24: was it another bakery?

↳user25: it was!

↳user19: hmmmm

user26: did he answer any questions while he was signing?

↳user27: he was chatting with us!

↳user28: did you get anything interesting from him?

↳user27: thankfully he’s still dating y/n — he was laughing because apparently she had ordered donuts from a bakery last night but forgot which one so he’s out and about trying to track them down

↳user28: awwww

↳user19: 📝📝📝

user19: I have a theory!

↳user29: is it completely crazy and out there?

↳user19: no! Well maybe! But I have some proof!

↳user29: oh no…

user19

liked by user, user, user, and 21,823 others

user19: I believe that y/n, Max Verstappen's girlfriend, is pregnant! Facts!

1 — these are the last photos she posted of herself before she went into a soft blackout (she’s only posted a couple of congratulations for Max and the McLaren boys near the end of the season). Those clothes and that pose? Classic for hiding pregnancy — and it even looks like she has a bump in that last one

2 — Max's store has a host of new baby items (cute af and I’ve already ordered some for my nieces and nephews). Why would he seemingly spontaneously start to carry baby stuff? Cause he’s got a kid on the way

3 — the last couple streams Max has done, he’s talked about legacy and the future. Not the strongest evidence but both Max and y/n have said in the past that they’d like to have a kid or 2 when they get more settled in their lives

4 — Max’s behavior today. Rushing all about various bakeries? That just screams pregnancy cravings — I bet that y/n sent him out to get something specific and he was trying to find it/them

In conclusion, y/n is pregnant and I think she’s pretty far along — and they’re trying to hide it

view all comments

user30: oh my god…

↳user31: baby verstappen incoming!

user32: holy shit…

↳user33: I don’t know what to say here

↳user32: I do! user19 you’re crazy

↳user19: just because I’m right doesn’t mean I’m crazy!!!

user34: I don’t think I’ve wanted anything to be more true in my life…

↳user35: big mood

user36: this is such a stretch but god do I want it to be true

Private Messages, Max and y/n

Private Messages, Lando and Charles and y/n

Private Messages, Max and y/n

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 2,913,923 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: our little family is growing — this is Donatello. Thank you yourusername for the wonderful Valentine’s Day surprise!

And baby Verstappen is coming Spring 2025

view all comments

user37: WHAT???

↳user38: it’s just like max to showcase his cats first…

↳user37: well baby Donatello came to the house before baby Verstappen liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1

yourusername: awww I’m glad you like little Donatello

↳yourusername: and that you didn’t mind me sending you all over the place this morning

↳user39: did you really send him on a goose chase today?

↳yourusername: well I had to get him out of the apartment somehow and pregnancy cravings are a good catch all 😂

↳maxverstappen1: schatje…

↳yourusername: you love me really

↳yourusername: and i had to come up with something when you heard me talking about Donut…

↳user39: awww is his nickname Donut?

↳yourusername: no

↳maxverstappen1: yes

↳charles_leclerc: yes 😊

↳yourusername: ugh

oscarpiastri: congrats on the new additions

↳yourusername: thanks Oscar!

charles_leclerc: you’re welcome for helping!

↳yourusername: thanks again Charles!

↳maxverstappen1: yes thank you

↳charles_leclerc: ☺️☺️

↳yourusername: oh yeah max he wants godfather liked by charles_leclerc

landonorris: and i don’t get any thanks for helping?

↳user40: threesome??

↳maxverstappen1: what

↳landonorris: no no no I helped hide the new cat

↳yourusername: ewww no. He hid some of the extra cat supplies for me in an effort to bag godfather

↳maxverstappen1: say goodbye to the potential godfather title

↳landonorris: FUCK

↳charles_leclerc: HA!

user19: I WAS RIGHT!! liked by user53

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @Voidvannie @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 9 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains possessiveness, naoya is yandere and not in a hot way, lol. suggestive content and fluff.

ꨄ words: 14.3k

ꨄ a/n. hello darlings, i know it's only been a week but happy early valentines day, here is my gift to you, hehe. it's time to say hi to naoya. this chapter gives you a few different perspectives, but most of it is satoru's! see you at the bottom ♡ (art by @/dmsco1803 on X )

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 9 // blood and betrayal

"We have a couple of hours before they come back," Remi murmurs, her manicured nails pressing into the polished wood as she eases the door open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

And Naoya steps over the threshold without hesitation, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

Gojo’s estate.

It’s even more extravagant than he imagined—pristine marble stretching out beneath his feet, ceilings so high they seem to loom over him, the decor screaming wealth in a way that makes his teeth clench. Everything here is polished, excessive, a testament to the kind of power Satoru Gojo wields without even trying.

Naoya’s fingers flex at his sides, hidden beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

Tch. Flashy bastard.

Adjusting the brim of his cap, sunglasses shield the sharp glint of his gaze as he sweeps the space. He moves with caution, but not fear.

"Where’s the brat?" he mutters.

“Playing,” Remi replies, flicking a dismissive hand before slinking closer, nails skimming along his arm like she’s entitled to touch him.

Those brown eyes of hers glow with a desperate hunger—wide, hopeful, pathetic. Pressing in, her lips are just shy of Naoya’s ear.

“She won’t bother us…” she murmurs.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he resists the urge to shove her off.

Lapdog.

She’s eager, too eager—always hanging off him like she’s something more than just a convenient distraction. He indulges her, when it suits him. And when it doesn’t? She’s still useful.

With a slight turn of his head, he allows his lips to almost graze the shell of her ear as he murmurs flatly, “The office.”

Remi shivers, mistaking his cold disinterest for something else.

“Right this way,” she hums, syrupy sweet, pleased with herself. “I’ll keep the kid busy, don’t want her recognizing you.”

Naoya doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her as he steps past. Why would he waste breath on something insignificant? No. His mind is elsewhere, locked on a singular purpose.

Leverage. Dirt. Anything he can sink his teeth into.

When he enters the office, it’s eerily still—clean, untouched. It’s clear that Gojo’s staff keep it impeccably tidy. His gaze sweeps over the space and he catalogues every detail—rich mahogany bookshelves, a sleek black leather chair, floor-to-ceiling windows. The space feels open, exposed. Naoya’s lips curl slightly.

Tch. Everything about this room screams control. No paranoia. No signs of disarray. Just an effortless sense of power. Cocky bastard.

As he moves further inside, his eyes zero in on a single framed photograph, placed at the center of Satoru’s desk. With slow, measured steps, he rounds the desk, fingers trailing lightly over its surface before he lifts the frame into his hands. Immediately, his smirk vanishes.

You. Holding that little brat in your arms, smiling like you belong here. Like this life fits you. Like you’re—

Happy.

You should be his.

His jaw tightens as his fingers curl around the frame, the glass creaking under pressure. For a split second, an ugly thought slithers into his mind—he should shatter it. He should put his fist straight through the grinning faces staring back at him.

But instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and flips the frame face down, watching as it lands with a muted thud against the desk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Moving on, his fingers trail along the desk’s edges before he crouches slightly, pulling open the first drawer without resistance.

Folders. Contracts. Documents marked with Gojo Corp’s insignia.

Naoya’s smirk twitches.

Idiot.

His phone is out in an instant, the soft click of the camera breaking the thick silence of the office.

Click. Click. Click.

He doesn’t bother reading them. No need. He just snaps photos of anything that might be useful—financial records, legal paperwork, contract renewals. Everything is neatly labeled, categorized, almost too easy to find.

Fucking cocky bastard.

And Naoya moves with purpose, each movement fluid, efficient. This isn’t his first time going through someone’s private affairs—but it is the first time he’s had to do it himself. Normally, this would be a job for someone else. A grunt. Someone disposable.

But things have changed.

With Toji rotting in prison, the damn Yakuza have begun distancing themselves ever since he got released, treating the Zenin like liabilities rather than assets. Their once-limitless resources are dwindling, and with every door that closes in his face, Naoya only feels his hatred grow.

His fingers tighten around the handle of another drawer, yanking it open. He can’t wait to bring Satoru Gojo down. But when he reaches for the last drawer, the one at the bottom—his grip stills. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

His smirk sharpens.

What are you hiding, Satoru Gojo?

Kneeling slightly, his fingers brush along the handle as he pulls a small, thin tool from his pocket. The lock isn’t complicated—nothing particularly advanced, and it takes seconds. The soft click of the latch releasing is almost satisfying, and as he pulls it open, his smirk widens. But the moment its contents are revealed, he immediately looks down to find—

Nothing.

His eyes narrow as his amusement flickers.

Hm... a distraction? Which means whatever matters isn’t here.

Rolling his shoulders, Naoya exhales sharply before straightening to his full height. He’s wasting time. If Gojo was smart enough not to keep anything incriminating here, then whatever he is keeping must be somewhere more personal.

Upstairs.

His gaze drops to his Rolex watch, then to the door. He still has time. He’ll just have to go deeper.

The house remains unnervingly silent as he ascends the staircase, the kind of quiet that isn’t natural. Most of Gojo’s staff have been paid off for their silence, their loyalty nothing more than a transaction.

Money makes everything easier, doesn’t it?

His fingers trail the smooth banister, and once he reaches the top, he pauses—scanning the hallway. Up here, something feels different… strangely satisfying. Because downstairs had been designed to impress—Gojo’s domain, pristine and curated—a place meant to be seen.

But up here? Up here, the walls breathe. This is where you live.

As his gaze sweeps over the doors lining the hall, he can’t help but notice how everything is perfectly symmetrical—expensive, identical. No labels, no indications, no clues. Just a row of polished wood, concealing whatever lies behind them.

Which one is Gojo’s?

Naoya moves methodically, ghosting through the hallway, and each door he opens only fuels his irritation. A guestroom. A bathroom. A library. He exhales sharply through his nose.

This place is a fucking maze.

His hand falls on the next doorknob, twisting it without hesitation, but the moment it swings open, something inside him stills. Because this isn’t Gojo’s room.

It’s yours.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Fuck…

He shouldn’t waste time. Remi said he only has a few hours. He should keep moving, should focus—but something ugly and possessive coils tight in his chest, sinking its claws into something raw and unsatisfied. And suddenly, his feet are moving on their own.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he immediately can tell that this space is different from the others. Warm. Soft. Laced with something distinctly you—a scent he remembers too well, woven into the very air, clinging to the fabrics, the furniture, the walls.

It doesn’t belong in a house like this.

The rest of the estate drowns in wealth, in cold opulence, in a luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. And this room is expensive too, of course. Everything about your life is different now. But this—

This is yours.

A sweater draped lazily over a chair. A vanity lined with delicate bottles of perfume, small trinkets carefully arranged as if placed by habit rather than thought. Jewelry. Makeup. Some of it familiar. Things that once belonged in his world. Things that were once his to admire. His jaw clenches as he is reminded yet again.

You’re settled here. Comfortable—

Happy.

Pushing a breath through his nose, his eyes drift toward the far end of the room. An open walk-in closet. Of fucking-course Gojo would give you a closet this big. And so, he moves towards it without thinking, but the moment he steps inside, his fingers flex at his sides.

Fucking hell.

Expensive gowns hang neatly along the racks, luxurious fabrics brushing against his fingertips as he trails them over silk, satin, designer labels—clothes that he knows you wouldn’t have worn before. Not when you were with him. But now, it’s not his money dressing you in these delicate, expensive things. It’s Gojo’s.

Gojo has spoiled you.

Lavishing you in luxuries you never had before—never needed. With Naoya, nothing was ever simply given. No matter how much money he had, you were never entitled to it, and you knew better than to ask.

No—with Naoya, you had to earn things. Had to prove you were worthy of them. Had to be grateful for whatever he decided you deserved. And he let you believe in the illusion of security while ensuring you always needed him.

And you did. You always did.

Or at least… you were supposed to.

The realization curdles something deep in his stomach, a slow, simmering heat that coils tight and bitter in his chest. As his fingers linger over a dress, smooth satin, he can envision you in it and his grip tightens.

Money-hungry bitch.

The thought snaps through his mind like a whip, sharp and instinctive, and he exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax before he rips the damn thing. And so, with measured restraint, he releases the fabric and turns away.

But he’s not done.

His gaze flickers toward your dresser now—a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

What else has Gojo given you?

As he trails his fingers across the glossy surface, tracing idle patterns into the polished wood, he realizes just how untouched it is—pristine, perfectly maintained—like everything in this house. Like you now, perfectly packaged, living in a world of expensive indulgence. A world you should have never been given.

When he reaches for the first drawer, it glides open with ease, and his breath slows. Lace. Satin. Sheer mesh. You always had good taste. His fingers slip between the layers, sinking into the delicate garments—the fragile trim of lace panties, the silken slide of fabric that was made to be touched.

Made to be stripped off you.

He lingers, debating something darker, but he exhales sharply, and with little ceremony, he tosses the garment back, sliding the drawer shut. Still, the fixation doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

His gaze drifts to your vanity—a curated shrine of excess. Delicate trinkets, expensive perfumes, meticulously placed cosmetics. A testament to the life you’ve built here. A life you have no right to.

God… he barely recognizes you anymore.

Seeing you at that first charity gala, poised and polished as if you had always belonged in this world, had made his stomach churn. Everything about you had been refined, reshaped, rebranded—until you fit. Until you looked the part of someone who belonged here.

And the worst part?

It suited you. Too well. You looked fucking gorgeous.

Something catches his eye on the vanity—a single tube of lipstick. It stands upright among the rest, and without hesitation, he reaches for it, rolling the cool metal between his fingers, feeling its weight settle in his palm. His breath slows as he uncaps it, twisting the base with careful precision.

The stick rises—smooth, untouched.

Deep red.

The kind of red he’s seen on you before, painted over your lips, smudged at the corners, slick and ruined. The kind of red that stains. You had always left your mark.

He wonders if you still do…

Something bitter simmers in his chest, boiling hot, because the thought of you—fucking Satoru Gojo? Oh, he sees red—the same deep red of that pretty little lipstick.

Jaw tightening, he inhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to shake it off, to think. His gaze shifts, flickering toward your bed, and the tension in his chest loosens just slightly, amusement creeping in.

Separate beds.

His teeth graze his bottom lip as he exhales, slow and controlled. Maybe Toji was fucking with him. Because there was no way you were actually sleeping with Gojo. No. You wouldn’t.

With a quiet click, he shuts the lipstick, placing it back with calculated precision, exactly where he found it. But just as he moves to step away, a subtle glint of silver against the vanity’s surface catches his line of sight.

A heart-shaped locket.

His brow twitches as he reaches for it, fingers brushing over the delicate chain before lifting it into his palm. It’s light. Fragile. But he knows better. Sentimental things like this always carry more weight than they should.

His thumb presses against the tiny clasp, prying it open with careful precision. But the moment it clicks apart, everything inside him stills.

Your smiling face stares back at him—bright, radiant—pressed against Gojo’s side. His lips graze your cheek, your fingers curled around his sleeve, clinging to him.

Something snaps.

A fire ignites in his chest, hot and consuming, scorching every last thread of restraint he has left. His breath pushes through his nose in slow, seething exhales as something bitter coils tight in his throat.

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

That should be his.

His life.

His claim.

His fingers clench into a fist at his side, nails biting deep into his palm, but the pain barely registers. His grip only tightens—tighter, tighter—until something warm, something wet, slips between his fingers.

He blinks, a dull ache spreading through his palm. Then, the color registers.

Blood.

His own nails have carved into his skin, deep and unrelenting, the slow trickle slipping down his wrist, speckling the plush carpet, staining the floor beneath him.

Tch. Sloppy.

“Fuck…” The curse is low, sharp—a quiet snarl as he forces himself to inhale, prying his fingers open. The sting of torn flesh burns now, but he barely feels it. He wants to shatter the locket. Wants to crush it beneath his boot, grind it into the floor, leave it in ruins.

But no. That would look suspicious.

With measured care, he sets it back onto the vanity, his fingers steady despite the tension locking his jaw. Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head and steps back, scanning the room—calculating his next move.

Bathroom.

Without another thought, he turns on his heel, striding toward the en-suite. As soon as he enters, he pulls open the nearest cabinet, snatching a neatly folded hand towel. The white cloth darkens instantly, soaking through with red as he wraps it tightly around his injured hand—twisting the fabric to apply pressure. It’ll hold for now.

His gaze shifts toward the opposite end of the bathroom—to the second door—the one leading to Gojo’s room.

Finally.

With quiet, measured steps, he crosses the room, fingers curling around the handle. The door gives with ease, swinging open into a space that grates against his nerves the moment he steps inside.

Everything about this room pisses him off.

It’s too open, too spacious—like Gojo needs the entire goddamn house to accommodate his oversized ego. High ceilings, sprawling windows, furniture arranged with an effortless elegance that speaks of obscene wealth, yet complete indifference toward it.

Naoya moves with purpose, tearing through Gojo’s things with sharp, practiced efficiency. Drawers snap open, their contents rifled through and discarded without care. Watches, expensive cufflinks—all useless.

…Digimon cards? The fuck is this?

He exhales sharply, irritation mounting. None of it matters. He’s looking for something else. Something he can use. Something—

The next drawer slides open—his breath slows.

Fabric. Soft, delicate. Not Gojo’s.

Your panties.

Here.

In his drawer.

As his fingers brush against the lace, his breath sharpens—fully registering what he’s holding. The material is familiar—the color, unmistakable. His favorite pair.

Realization seeps in, cold and ugly. He grips them tighter, lifting them slightly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers again, slower this time. The answer is instant, undeniable.

They’re used.

Recently.

His stomach twists, a sharp, curdling heat spreading through his ribs as he raises them to his face without thinking—closing his eyes to inhale.

The scent is instant.

The reaction is immediate. His head buzzes with static, a roaring white noise as something vile slithers through him, coiling, sinking deep. It spreads through his chest like rot, like poison, acidic and suffocating.

You’re fucking him.

This isn’t speculation. This isn’t a lie he can tell himself, a suspicion he can twist to suit his own reality. This is proof. Right here. In another man’s drawer. Taunting him. Mocking him. Stained with the remnants of whatever the fuck you did this morning.

“Whore,” he spits the word out through clenched teeth as he shoves the lace deep into his pocket.

His fingers twitch, his whole body vibrating with the urge to destroy, to ruin, to rip every trace of Gojo out of your life until you have no choice but to remember who you belong to. He should burn this entire fucking house to the ground. Should leave nothing behind but ash.

But not here.

Not now.

Not yet.

Grinding his molars, he rips his phone from his pocket, pulling up your contact with a punishing force. His vision blurs at the edges, rage surging through him like a live wire as his thumb flies across the screen.

At first, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. The words spill out, venomous, ugly, a raw, unfiltered snarl of possession and rage.

You little fucking whore. Did you spread your legs for him? You’re nothing without me. I swear to god I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson.

His chest rises and falls with sharp, seething breaths as he stares at the message. His anger, his unraveling, right there in damning black and white. The message hovers, unsent, his thumb poised—

No.

A sharp exhale flares through his nose, and he begins to tap delete. One by one, the words vanish, swallowed by the empty space they leave behind.

He may be seeing red, but he’s not stupid. No. He’s better than this. Smarter than this. Leaving proof would be careless, would be something Gojo could use against him.

Instead, he reels himself in, inhales through his nose, forces himself to recalibrate. He types again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s careful. A reminder—a whisper of something softer.

Something that he knows will send you spiraling.

We need to talk. When can I see you? Just... be good for me.

The second it’s sent, he exhales, forcing his shoulders to roll back, his body still vibrating with barely restrained fury. His eyes track the screen, watching the small confirmation appear.

Delivered.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he rolls his neck, stretching out the tension coiled tight in his muscles. He knows you won’t respond right away—you never do. You’ll hesitate, you’ll overthink. But in the end, you always come back. You always give in.

For now, he still has work to do.

His gaze flicks back to the room, scanning once more, searching. Then he sees it.

A safe.

Tucked neatly into the corner of the closet, hidden but not invisible. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about, but Naoya’s trained eye spots it instantly. A smirk tugs at his lips as he steps forward, crouching slightly. His fingers skim over the dial, testing the resistance. Locked.

Of course it is.

No matter. He’s cracked safes before. It just takes time. He presses his ear close, ready to test the first turn—

But then, a sharp buzz vibrates in his pocket.

His head snaps down, irritation flickering in his expression as he pulls his phone out. And the second he sees the screen, his breath stills for half a second.

Your name. Your response. Faster than he expected.

Okay. You want to talk, so let’s talk. Tomorrow. Noon. Shirogane Park.

His lips press into a thin line. For a split second, he lingers on it, surprised at the speed. At the fact that you agreed so easily. But before he can sit on the thought for too long, his gaze flicks to the time displayed on his phone—

“Shit...”

The safe will have to wait. He doesn’t have time to crack it now.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Naoya pushes off his knees and moves, retracing his steps down the hall. He’s wasted time—too much fucking time. He should be gone by now, should have what he came for—whatever’s inside that safe—but instead, he’s leaving empty-handed, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off.

By the time he reaches the foyer, Remi is already waiting near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot. The moment she sees him, her eyes widen, flickering down to his wrapped hand.

"Naoya, what—?" Her hands reach out instinctively, fingers barely grazing his arm before he shrugs her off, stepping past her without a glance.

She hurries after him, undeterred. "You're hurt," she presses, her voice laced with something too close to genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Not your fucking business." His tone is clipped, dismissive. When she flinches, he barely suppresses an irritated sigh.

Her hands hover near his injured one again, hesitant but persistent. “You’re bleeding all over—let me—”

"Who's that?"

Naoya freezes.

A chill spreads through Naoya’s limbs, stiffening his spine as he turns his head, slow and deliberate, toward the source of the voice.

A little girl. His little girl.

Haru stands just beyond the doorway, small fingers curled into the hem of her dress, wide, curious eyes flicking between them.

His stomach knots, breath hitching before he catches himself. His disguise holds—cap pulled low, sunglasses shielding his face—but for a split second, something ugly and panicked churns in his gut.

Does she recognize him? Can she?

His fingers twitch.

Remi recovers first, voice high-pitched, too eager to smooth over the tension. "Oh, sweetheart, he's just my friend," she coos, stepping forward quickly, placing a gentle hand on Haru’s shoulder. "But he’s leaving now.”

Haru tilts her head slightly, staring at him a moment longer. Naoya doesn’t breathe. Then, to his surprise, she nods.

"Okay."

His shoulders relax—just slightly, relief fleeting—until—

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

He barely has time to process the question before she follows it up with something far worse.

"I like 'toru’s sunglasses more."

A slow, seething heat spreads through his chest, curling around his ribs, tightening like a vice.

Remi laughs, nervous and rushed. "Oh, honey, you’re so silly!" She reaches out, smoothing a hand over Haru’s hair, a little too eager to redirect. "Why don’t you go play, baby? I’ll be right there, okay?"

Haru looks at Naoya once more—just a glance, just long enough to make something curdle inside him—before nodding and skipping back down the hall.

The second she’s out of sight, Naoya rounds on Remi.

"You let the fucking kid see me?" His voice is sharp, cutting, barely above a whisper but full of venom.

Remi flinches. "I—I didn’t know she was still up—"

"Sloppy," he spits, stepping closer, heat radiating off him in waves. "You’re fucking sloppy, Remi. I told you to keep an eye on her. That’s your only fucking job."

"I know, I—"

"You’re fucking useless."

Her lips part, breath hitching as her face crumples, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Pathetic. Annoying.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to cool down. "Just… be good for me, yeah?" His voice dips lower, smoother, but the bite is still there, lethal beneath the softness. "Go upstairs and clean up the blood before they come back."

Remi swallows, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, her movements rushed, frantic.

Naoya watches her go, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.

ꨄ

The limo glides to a stop, the soft hum of the engine fading as Ichiji shifts into park. You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day. The golden hues of the setting sun spill across the Gojo estate, stretching long shadows over the driveway. But even the familiar sight of home does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

Beside you, Satoru lets out a slow sigh, shifting the thick folder of paperwork in his lap. His long legs stretch out in front of him, casual, unbothered—like the weight of today hasn’t been pressing into him, too. His sunglasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, but you can feel his gaze settle on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, reaching for the door handle just as Ichiji steps out to open it for you. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

It’s not a lie—the day has been long, mentally draining in ways you haven’t fully processed yet. Between the looming custody battle, the exhausting legal back-and-forth with Suguru, and the ever-present weight of Naoya’s shadow curling around your mind, your body feels like it’s made of lead.

Satoru hums, shifting the folder under his arm. “Suguru said to bring your documents next time,” he reminds you. “Both for the child support and the ones Naoya served you.”

You nod, stepping out onto the driveway. “Yeah… they should still be in my nightstand.”

Satoru follows after you, stretching his arms above his head before tilting his head with an exaggerated hum. “Your nightstand, huh?” a slow smirk curls on his lips. “Hope I don’t find anything scandalous.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him lightly with your elbow as you pass. “Shut up.”

His laughter follows you as you step through the entrance, but before you can say anything else, the sound of little feet pattering against the hardwood echoes from down the hall.

“Mama!”

Haru’s voice rings bright, lifting the heaviness from your chest in an instant. Before you can react, she’s already barreling toward you, small arms wrapping tight around your legs.

Your heart softens, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as you crouch to her level, brushing a hand through her hair. “Hey, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Did you have fun today?”

She nods enthusiastically, rocking on her heels. “We watched a movie! I drew a picture—oh! Come look Mama!”

You smile, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. “I’d love to see it.”

Satoru steps past you, shifting the folder under his arm. “I’ll grab your papers,” he says, already making his way toward the stairs.

You nod absentmindedly, barely registering his words as Haru tugs at your hand, leading you eagerly toward the living room.

Taking the stairs at an easy pace, Satoru moves with unhurried strides, letting the faint hum of conversation from downstairs settle in the background. The house is quiet, undisturbed—yet as he nears your room, something feels… off.

A figure kneels in front of your vanity, back turned to him, her posture hunched, the rhythmic sound of fabric scrubbing against the carpet breaking the silence. Satoru slows—steps light, gaze sharpening.

Remi?

She doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on whatever the hell she’s doing, her shoulders rigid as she drags a damp rag over the floor in slow, deliberate strokes. The sharp scent of cleaner lingers in the air, but it does little to mask what she’s trying to erase.

Red.

Satoru leans against the doorframe, arms folding over his chest. “What’s that?”

Remi jolts, her body going stiff before she turns halfway, eyes widening like a cornered animal. But she recovers quickly, straightening as she tucks the rag into a small plastic bucket beside her.

“Oh—just cleaning up,” she says too lightly, too quickly. “I—I spilled something earlier. Cut myself while wiping it up. Nothing serious.”

Satoru quirks a brow, his gaze dropping to her hands.

No cuts. No bandages. No blood on her fingers.

His eyes shift back to the stain, lingering just a second too long. The silence stretches between them.

Then, he exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe. “Be more careful next time,” he mutters, brushing past her as he steps inside your room.

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face as she turns back to her scrubbing.

He should press further. Should ask why the hell there’s blood on your carpet. Should question why she looks like she’s barely holding herself together under his gaze. But he doesn’t

Because he’s exhausted.

Because today has drained him in ways he doesn’t have the energy to unpack.

Because he’s trying—really fucking trying—to make sure you’re at ease.

Safe.

You need to feel safe. That much is non-negotiable.

The way you reacted to Naoya’s text? He’s never seen you like that before. That single message sent you spiraling, and he saw it all—the way the color drained from your face, how your breathing turned uneven, how you couldn’t even look at the screen without your hands shaking.

That wasn’t just fear. That was something deeper. Something lived in. And that pisses him off more than he knows how to put into words.

His jaw clenches as he moves toward your nightstand, pulling the drawer open with ease. Just as expected, the crisp stack of legal documents sits exactly where you left them. His fingers curl around the papers, grip tightening just a little too much.

Naoya… fucking prick.

Satoru already had enough reasons to hate the bastard, but now? Now it’s different. Because this isn’t about old grudges or petty feuds—this is about you.

Shaking off the slow burn simmering under his skin, he takes the papers, shuts the drawer with a quiet thud, and heads back downstairs.

His steps remain unhurried, just as they were before, but his mind isn’t. Irritation lingers at the edges of his composure, gnawing at him, but he shoves it down, forcing it into that familiar compartment where he locks away everything that threatens to throw him off balance.

By the time he reaches the first floor, the hum of conversation between you and Haru filters in from the living room, grounding him just enough. Without a word, he moves past the foyer, pivoting toward his office with the folder tucked securely under his arm.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him into the quiet. Everything is just as he left it—pristine, precise. Unlike his office at Gojo Corp, which is more of a curated disaster, this space is controlled. Every document stacked neatly, every file aligned with sharp precision, not a single thing out of order.

And yet… something doesn’t sit right.

His fingers drum against the polished wood of his desk as his gaze sweeps over the room. Nothing is visibly out of place, but there’s a nagging itch at the back of his mind, something subtle but persistent, like an off note in an otherwise perfect melody.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s nothing.

Satoru has never needed much sleep. Four hours is a luxury, three is the standard, and anything less? Just another part of his reality. He’s learned to function on exhaustion, to push through it with the same effortless charm that convinces everyone he’s untouchable, unbothered—unaffected by the weight pressing down on him.

It’s just another mask. One he wears so well, even he forgets it’s there sometimes.

And now, ever since he took over Gojo Corp, the days have stretched longer, the nights shorter. The weight of responsibility never really eases. But with Naoya clawing his way back into your life, with the custody battle looming like a goddamn storm cloud, sleep is even more of an afterthought. Especially since he’s been working on something for you.

His jaw tightens slightly as he exhales, rolling his shoulders.

He hasn’t told you yet—not because he’s hiding it, but because he wants it to be a surprise. A fully staffed, fully equipped on-site daycare at Gojo Corp. Something designed with you in mind. Because he never wants any of his employees to go through the same bullshit you did before you married him. He remembers it too well—how you had to balance everything alone, how the world made it so damn difficult for a single mother to simply exist without constantly fighting for scraps.

He never wants you to worry about that again. And if he can make sure no one else has to deal with it either? Then it’s worth every sleepless night.

Still.

His gaze flickers to the folders on his desk. They look untouched—stacked neatly where he left them. But something nags at him. As he slides one open, flipping through the pages, everything is in order. No missing documents. No sign that anything’s been moved.

So why does it feel like they have?

He’s about to dismiss the feeling entirely, chalk it up to exhaustion, but then his eyes land on something else. His photo—one of you and Haru—lying face down on his desk.

His breath stills for half a second. Did he leave it like that?

Frowning, he reaches out, flipping it over with careful precision. His thumb drags along the edge of the frame, his jaw tightening as something uncoils low in his gut—but he pushes it away.

Nah… It’s fine.

It has to be fine.

He’s too fucking tired to dwell on it. Too drained to pick apart another thread when everything else is already unraveling at once. He needs to reset. A shower, maybe? Wash off the weight of the day, let the hot water unknot the tension clinging to his body.

Or maybe… something else. A different kind of relief.

Your panties.

Still tucked away in his dresser, untouched since his last indulgence in you. The thought alone sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in his stomach, exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by something darker, something hungrier.

Yeah. A ‘shower’ sounds good.

Rolling his shoulders, he stands, dragging a hand over his jaw as he steps out of his office. The sound of your voice drifts through the house, light and warm, blending with Haru’s bright giggles. It stops him for a fraction of a second, just long enough to take it in.

That sound—it’s starting to feel like something he craves.

When he steps into the living room, you don’t notice him right away, too focused on Haru as she excitedly waves her latest drawing in front of you. He lingers in the doorway, watching the two of you—so soft, so at ease, so different from how you’d looked earlier when Naoya’s text ripped through you like a slow, suffocating vice.

Good. You should be at ease.

Closing the distance, he leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek. You glance up, blinking in mild surprise, but he only smirks.

“Gonna get cleaned up,” he murmurs.

You nod, already distracted again as Haru tugs on your sleeve, eager to keep your focus.

Satoru watches you for a beat longer before turning on his heel, heading upstairs—already anticipating what waits for him in his nightstand—eager to rub one out.

At this point, it’s almost routine—indulging in thoughts of you when the weight of everything gets too fucking heavy. Ever since that first time outside the bathroom, you’ve been stuck in his head, impossible to shake.

His hand is already on the drawer handle the moment he steps into his room, fingers curling around the wood as he pulls it open—

Gone.

Satoru stills.

For a second, he just stares at the empty space where they should be. Blinking once, then twice, before rifling through the contents. Pushing things aside. Checking beneath them.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He knows he put them here. He’s messy, sure, but he’s not careless. There’s a method to his madness, an order to the chaos. And his memory? Razor-sharp. Too sharp for something like this to slip past him.

So where the fuck are they? Did someone move them?

Then, from the next room, he hears it—the slow, rhythmic drag of fabric against carpet.

Scrubbing.

His gaze flicks toward the en-suite, the door leading to your room cracked open just enough for the scent of cleaner to seep through.

Remi.

Exhaling slowly, he schools his expression, steps forward, and slips through the bathroom. When he leans against the doorway, she’s still kneeling, still scrubbing the same goddamn spot she was working on earlier. Her movements are slow, methodical.

Satoru tilts his head. “You wouldn’t have, by chance, gone through my nightstand, would you?”

Remi freezes. It’s subtle, a small pause, barely a second, but he catches it. Then, she forces a laugh, shaking her head as she resumes scrubbing.

“What? No, of course not.”

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push—just watches.

Something about Remi is… off. The way she keeps her head ducked, the way her shoulders stay unnaturally stiff as she scrubs. Like if she just focuses hard enough, she can will him away.

Suspicious.

But why the hell would she take your panties? Of all things—that’s a weird fucking thing to steal.

His mind shifts, gears turning, peeling the situation apart and assessing it from a different angle. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe… it was you.

His lips twitch.

Now that seems more likely.

Pushing off the doorframe, he exhales slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turns on his heel. Fine. If it was you, he’ll just confirm it himself.

Descending the stairs, the low hum of conversation meets him before he even steps into the living room. Haru sits on the floor, brow furrowed in focus as she drags a colored pencil across a page. Meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch, one knee tucked under the other, a throw blanket over you, watching her with a soft, easy smile.

Satoru moves behind you, slow and deliberate, dipping down just enough to thread his fingers through your hair, letting them linger.

“Hey.”

You glance up at him, brow arching at that look on his face. “Hmm?”

He studies you for a moment, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you suspicious. Then, voice smooth, he asks, “Did you take them?”

Your expression scrunches in confusion. “Take what?”

“My souvenir,” a slow smirk tugs at his lips.

Your brows knit. “Souvenir?”

“From this morning.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Satoru... what the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs, dramatic and put-upon, as if this should be obvious. “Your panties.”

And there it is.

He watches, thoroughly entertained, as the realization creeps over your features. Your lips part, then press together, heat crawling up your neck, blooming across your cheeks.

“What—my panties?”

He nods, dead serious. “Gone. Missing. Vanished into thin air. They were in my nightstand.”

You scoff, pulling the throw blanket higher over you, half as a shield, half as an excuse to do something with your hands. “I… didn’t even know you had them.”

Satoru tuts, shaking his head like he’s deeply disappointed. Then, without missing a beat, he dips lower, his lips brushing against the soft curve of your neck before murmuring, “Guess I’ll just have to take a new pair… maybe right off you.”

Your breath hitches—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but he catches it. The way your shoulders stiffen, the flicker of heat that rises to your cheeks before you shove at his chest.

“Go away.”

He chuckles, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender, soaking in the way you glare at him, the way you try—and fail—to play it off. He enjoys this too much, watching you squirm, seeing how easily he can fluster you.

But even as he smirks, his mind is already miles away. Because if it wasn’t you… then who the hell took them?

The panties.

The photo of you and Haru—face down.

The off feeling in his office, the one he ignored.

The bloodstain Remi was scrubbing.

One coincidence is nothing. Two is annoying. But this? This is too many fucking things at once. It makes a slow, icy sensation creep along his spine.

Someone’s been in his house.

He lingers longer than he means to, his body still, the gears turning behind his eyes. And then—

“I thought you were gonna get cleaned up?”

He blinks, drawn back to the present. You’re watching him now—fuck, you’re too damn observant. Why is it that out of everyone, he can never hide this façade from you? Not completely—but he tries.

Because if someone has been in the house—if someone’s been bold enough to fuck around where they shouldn’t—you don’t need to know.

He’ll handle it.

This is your home. You should feel safe here.

That’s his job.

Rolling his shoulders, he schools his expression, slipping back into something effortless, easy. “Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “just remembered I gotta call Suguru—something about the case.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, studying him. But you don’t press.

“Oh, okay.”

He grins, tapping his fingers against the couch as he steps back with a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his antics, a small grin playing on your lips.

And then, just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps into his office, and his expression shifts the second he’s alone—the playfulness evaporating.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen before bringing it to his ear. The line rings once—twice—before Suguru picks up.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” Suguru sighs. “What’s up?”

Satoru gets right to the point.

“Someone’s been in my house.”

A pause. Then—

“What do you mean?”

Satoru moves toward his desk, dropping into the leather chair with a bit more force than necessary, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His feet prop up onto the desk, but the usual laziness in his posture isn’t there.

“I mean someone unwelcome,” he mutters, his jaw tightening. “Shit’s been moved in my office.”

Suguru exhales, unimpressed. “Satoru, your office is always a fucking mess. If something’s out of place, that’s probably on you.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Not that office—this one. My study at home. It’s neat. Always.”

Suguru hums, not convinced but not dismissing it. “Alright. Go on.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows braced against the desk, rubbing his knuckles over his temple.

"The files on my desk? They were misaligned, Suguru. Barely, but I know it. My shit was touched."

“Hm.”

“And the picture.”

“What picture?”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “The one of her and Haru. It was face down on my desk.”

Silence. Then, Suguru clicks his tongue.  “Could’ve been one of the cleaners. Maybe they knocked it over when dusting.”

Satoru barely acknowledges the suggestion; his thoughts are moving faster than his mouth—his fingers tap against the desk.

“And then, the panties.”

Suguru coughs. “The what?”

“The panties I had of her,” Satoru repeats, irritation bleeding into his tone. “They were in my nightstand. But now, gone. Like they were never fucking there.”

Suguru goes completely silent for half a beat. Then—he bursts into laugher.

“Oh yeah, definitely sounds like a home invasion,” he chokes out between chuckles. “Panty theft is a serious crime, you should probably call the authorities.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling."You done?"

"No, no, go on," Suguru snickers. "This is getting good."

Satoru forces a slow breath through his nose, rubbing his temples. "Oh, go fuck yourself. You’re missing the point."

Suguru snorts, the laughter still dying in his throat. "Which is…?"

Satoru grips the phone tighter. His voice dips. “Someone was in my room. And…” his voice lowers, “there’s the last thing.”

Suguru hesitates, exhaling slowly. "What is it?"

Satoru leans back in his chair, tipping his head against the cushion as he stares at the ceiling. His fingers drum once against his thigh before stilling.

"I walked into her room earlier." A slow inhale."The nanny was scrubbing blood out of the carpet."

Suguru doesn’t say a fucking word. No snark. No sharp, witty comment. Nothing.

Just silence.

“…did she say where it came from?”

“She said she cut herself,” Satoru mutters. “But there wasn’t a scratch on her. I don’t trust her.”

The line stays quiet for another long, heavy beat.

Then, Suguru exhales. "Alright, let’s say someone was in your house,” His voice is different now—measured, calculating. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Satoru stares at the ceiling, jaw flexing.

“Nothing good.”

"Check your security feed," Suguru says. "Let’s see if your gut is right."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his phone. Yeah… good point.

He doesn’t waste time, flicking his laptop open with a sharp movement, the cool glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. The security system interface pops up, and his fingers move with precision, clicking through menus.

“Pulling it up now,” he mutters, voice clipped.

Suguru hums on the other end, waiting as Satoru scrolls through the timestamps, looking for today’s footage. His eyes skim down the list—

Then stop. His cursor hovers over empty space.

Where the fuck are the files?

Suguru notices his pause. “Well?”

Satoru’s expression darkens.

“It’s gone.”

Suguru’s tone sharpens immediately. “What do you mean, gone?”

Satoru clicks through different dates, different times—nothing. The footage from earlier today has been wiped. His jaw locks as a slow, creeping burn curls at the back of his mind.

"Deleted," he grits out.

A slow exhale filters through the speaker. Suguru is quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “You’re sure?”

Satoru huffs out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You think I’m making this shit up?”

Satoru is pissed. Because this isn’t a glitch—it’s not a fucking accident. The files aren’t corrupted—they’re gone. Which means someone wiped them. Someone inside. Someone with access.

A traitor.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, drumming his fingers against the armrest, his face eerily calm despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

“I’m firing them all.”

Suguru doesn’t react immediately.

“…all?”

Satoru’s voice is cold. “Yup. Every last one of them. Only Ichiji stays.”

Suguru hums. “His loyalty’s not in question?”

“Not even a little,” Satoru mutters. “He’d rather fucking die than betray me.”

Another pause. Suguru knows better than to argue when Satoru makes up his mind. But then, his tone shifts—lighter, edged with sarcasm.

“Alright, genius… so who’s gonna watch Haru if you fire everyone?”

Satoru stills. Fuck.

His fingers tighten against the leather armrest. The daycare at Gojo Corp—his solution, his answer—wasn’t ready yet.

Which means…

Remi.

His jaw flexes, the weight of it pressing into his ribs. She can’t stay.

“I don’t fucking trust her, Suguru.”

Suguru doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I don’t either.”

That should be satisfying—should be a confirmation of what Satoru already knew. But it isn’t. Because it doesn’t change a damn thing.

Satoru drags a hand down his face. “Then what’s the move here? Because I’m not keeping her around just to get proof.”

“That proof could help us in court.” Suguru’s says, voice even. “If she’s working with the yakuza, that’s a direct link to Naoya. You get something on her, you might have what you need to—”

“I’m not putting them in danger for that.”

The words are sharp, leaving no room for debate.

Suguru exhales through his nose. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Then why the fuck did you—”

“Because I ran into Nanami the other day.”

Satoru blinks. “Nanami?”

“Yeah,” Suguru says easily. “At that bakery he loves—the fancy-ass one with the overpriced croissants. He’s back in town from Malaysia.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw.

Nanami Kento.

They went to high school together. He’s former Japan Special Defense Force. Retired. Precise, calculated, deadly when he needs to be.

And—most importantly—not a fucking traitor.

“If you’re going to wipe your entire staff, you need someone reliable to step in. Someone who can make sure your wife and kid don’t get caught in whatever the fuck this is.”

Satoru exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth. Nanami was always the first choice when shit needed to get done.

“You think he’d take the job?” Satoru mutters, “Nanami’s retired…”

“I think you should give him a call.”

ꨄ

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, they are all gone.

Every single one of them—except Ichiji and Remi (for now).

Satoru wasted no time. He never does. The second he ended his call with Suguru, he moved. Immediate terminations. No second chances. No hesitation. A single decision, executed with the same precision he applies to everything in his life.

And still—he isn’t cruel.

They all left with generous severance packages,enough to land on their feet. Because after watching you lose everything—your job, your security, your sense of stability—he decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t do the same to others. Even the ones he no longer trusts.

But that’s where his kindness stops. Because right after that, he made another call.

Nanami.

Now, after the exhaustion of handling this mayhem, Satoru finds himself drawn to the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet—emptier than it’s ever been, the usual hum of staff activity reduced to nothing. But here, in this small corner of warmth, he follows something softer.

Vanilla. Buttercream.

And you.

Standing at the counter, barefoot and at ease, piping delicate swirls of frosting onto freshly baked cupcakes. There’s a faint dusting of sugar on your wrist, the glow of the overhead light catching in your hair, casting a soft halo around you.

God you’re perfect.

It’s a picture of normalcy. And Satoru is starving for it.

It’s too easy to slip behind you—to pull you flush against him. His hands find their place at your waist while his fingers curve against the soft fabric of your shirt. Your warmth is immediate, grounding, and with a soft hum, you let yourself sink into his chest. Taking that as an invitation, Satoru’s chin drops low, brushing his nose against your neck as he inhales the faint traces of vanilla on your skin.

It settles something in him, a quiet part of his mind that’s been restless all day. For a moment, it’s almost enough to let him forget everything.

“Where’s Haru?” he murmurs lazily, lips grazing your pulse.

“In bed,” you sigh, adjusting your grip on the piping bag. “Finally. She fought it, though.”

Satoru smirks, nuzzling into you, savoring the warmth of you against him.

This is good.

She’s asleep. You’re here. And for just a moment, he allows himself to sink into this—this fragile, fleeting sense of normalcy. Until—

“Hey… um. Where is everyone?”

He stills. Just slightly. His face doesn’t change, his hands remain steady against your hips, but his mind clicks, recalibrates.

“Hm? What do you mean?” he asks—light, easy—as if he doesn’t already know exactly where this conversation is going.

You tilt your head slightly but don’t turn to face him, still focused on the cupcakes.

“I dunno.” You swipe a bit of frosting off your knuckle, licking it absently. “Just noticed when I was putting Haru to bed—the house feels kinda… empty.”

A pause.

“No one’s around,” you continue, almost offhandedly. “Didn’t hear anyone in the halls. No one cleaning. It’s weird.”

Satoru exhales through his nose. Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world—

“Oh, yeah. I fired them.”

You blink—hands freeze mid-frosting.

“…I’m sorry, you what?”

“I fired them,” he repeats, just as nonchalant as before.

There’s no hesitation. No buildup, no explanation. He just says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he didn’t just fire the entire household staff in one fucking day.

You stare at him, deadpan, before a breathless laugh slips out.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Finally, you turn in his arms, brows raising as you set the piping bag down.

“Wait, wait—” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “All of them? Just like that?”

Satoru shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well. Not all of them.”

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow. “Okay… so who’s left?”

Satoru knows where this is going, so he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you in—and then, he starts to sway. It’s gentle, lazy—the kind of motion that isn’t about dancing at all. It’s about grounding you, keeping you close, keeping you from overthinking.

“Just Ichiji,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “And Remi.”

The shift in you is subtle, but he feels it—the hesitation in your breath, the slight stiffening in your shoulders. And that? That’s not what he wants.

So, before you can dwell on it, before the worry settles too deep, he smooths a hand up your back, voice dipping softer.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coaxes, pressing another kiss to your skin. “I already took care of it.”

You don’t answer as his swaying continues—his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your hips, lulling the information into you.

“I hired someone new.”

You blink, momentarily distracted. “Oh… huh?”

A low hum rumbles from his chest, and he feels your tension ease just a fraction.

“I hired someone,” he repeats, soft, unhurried. “He’ll be stopping by tomorrow while I’m out.”

That catches your attention.

“Out?” Your brows knit together slightly.

“Mhm,” he says, still swaying. “Me and Suguru are meeting Naoya, remember?”

The tension creeps back in—he feels it, but he expected that. So, he counters—pressing his lips to your temple, hands firm against your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You’ll stay right here. And you get to meet our newest hire. He’s a friend of mine.”

Curiosity flickers through the concern, but your hesitation lingers.

“Okay… who?”

“Nanami.”

“Nanami?”

The swaying slows, shifting closer to stillness.

“Mmhm,” he nods. “Kento Nanami. Met him back in high school. Good guy. Very serious.”

Something unreadable flickers across your face as you drag in a breath, turning back to the counter, reaching absently for the piping bag.

“…okay,” you exhale. “So… what exactly does he do?”

“Oh, you know,” he hums smoothly, slipping behind you again, looping his arm around your waist as he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “He’s just… gonna keep an eye on you when I’m not around.”

Your hands move as you resume piping the cupcakes, but your brow lifts just slightly—contemplating. It’s subtle, but Satoru catches it. Your grip tightening, your shoulders tensing, your lashes lowering—flickering with something unspoken.

You’re worried. And that? Yeah, that won’t do.

With a dramatic sigh, he slumps against you, burying his face into your neck, nuzzling into you like a lazy cat demanding attention. His breath fans the gentle curve of your throat as he whines, “Mm, don’t do that.”

Exhaling a quiet laugh, you remain focused on frosting.

“Do what?”

“That thing where you overthink.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “And make that cute little frowny face.”

You hum, amused but unfazed, continuing your work. Satoru, undeterred, nips lightly at your shoulder.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice dips, a touch more petulant. “I’m talking to you, missy.”

He catches the slow grin creep up your lips as you elbow him lightly.

“I’m frosting, Satoru.”

“Well, I’m suffering,” he huffs, tightening his hold and swaying you side to side, slow and lazy, like a child demanding attention. “Neglected. Unloved.”

A soft laugh slips through your lips as you roll your eyes fondly.

“You’re so dramatic…”

Finally setting the piping bag down again, you indulge him for a moment as he keeps swaying you—rocking you back and forth against his chest. When he speaks, his voice dips, softer—laced with a playful fondness.

“C’mon…” he whines quietly, “I need attention.”

Your sigh is utterly exasperated.

“And I need to finish these cupcakes.”

“Hhmp… frosting is not more important than me,” he grumbles, his nose nudging against your jaw, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “I’m your husband. You have obligations.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, finally tilting your head to glance at him.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Mr. Gojo. Please forgive me for my negligence.”

His smirk stretches wider, smug and pleased, before spinning you to face him, hands still firm on your hips, pulling you close.

“I suppose I can forgive you…” he sighs, but there’s something playful in his expression, something scheming. “If…”

Your brows lift, suspicious. “Okay… what’s that look for?”

His grin widens. “Come with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “Where?”

“The living room,” he says, already tugging at your hand like an impatient kid. “C’mon, I set something up for us.”

And there it is—that signature Gojo glint in his eyes, the one that always means he’s up to something. You don’t budge. Instead, you fold your arms, eyeing him knowingly.

“What did you do this time?”

“No questions,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You’ll have to save those for later.”

You pause, before exhaling, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Then, turning back to the counter, you grab a plate and stack a few cupcakes onto it.

“Fine, fine.” You nudge his side as you pass him. “Lead the way, Romeo.”

And now, he’s practically dragging you along as you enter the living room, grinning.

As you round the corner, the fireplace crackles low, a gentle heat spreading into the room. There’s a small cluster of candles burning low on the coffee table, a cozy mess of blankets on the couch, a few pillows strewn at the edges. And in the background, the quiet hum of a playlist through the speakers—nothing over the top, nothing extravagant, but thoughtful.

Your steps slow, and he watches the way your gaze flickers over the setup—something unreadable in your expression before you glance at him.

“So… this is for me?” you murmur softly. “You did this?”

Satoru plops on the couch, stretching his legs out as he feigns nonchalance. “Mm.”

You arch a brow.

“I meeean,” he drawls, smirking, “I thought about going all out. Rose petals, violinists, maybe a red carpet… confetti cannons. But then I figured noooo, my wife will say that’s too much.”

Your lips twitch—just a fraction—but he catches it.

“Yeah… that would’ve been ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He pats the space beside him on the couch. “So c’mon, sit. Enjoy the ambience. Indulge me.”

Rolling your eyes, you place the plate on the coffee table before sinking onto the couch beside him, your body settling into the mess of blankets he’d thrown. And then—just for a second—he catches it. The tiny, barely perceptible sigh when you lean back. Like you hadn’t realized how much tension you were holding until now.

His gaze lingers. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he lets his arm drape over the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve. Then, his eyes flicker toward the plate on the table.

“Sooo,” he hums, tilting his head, “are those for me?”

You glance at the cupcakes, then back at him, brow lifting. “What?”

“The cupcakes,” he clarifies, grinning. “You made them for me, right?”

A slow smirk pulls up your lips as you pluck a cupcake from the plate.

“Mmm… nope. They’re for me.”

Satoru blinks, visibly affronted. “Uh… excuse me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, he watches as your delicate fingers move slowly, peeling back the wrapper of the cupcake. His eyes flick from your hands to your face, following every movement with an intensity he doesn’t bother to hide.

Little brat. You don’t offer him one.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, lifting the cupcake toward your lips with excruciating patience. And then—

You take the smallest, slowest bite, just barely grazing the frosting with your lips before pulling back, letting out a soft, satisfied hum.

His stomach clenches.

“Mmm…” your lashes flutter as you let the flavor settle on your tongue—exaggerated, taunting.

Satoru stares, pouting as you go in for another bite—this one just as tortuously slow. As your lips wrap around the edge of the cupcake, he doesn’t miss the way your tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of frosting as you pull away.

His jaw flexes.

Fuck that tongue… he wants it all over his cock.

But you don’t seem to notice the way his fingers twitch against the couch, or maybe you do, and you’re just ignoring it. Either way, it’s infuriating.

“Damn,” you murmur, voice light, completely unbothered. “These are really good, if I do say so myself.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he watches you, his smirk sharpening. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Another bite—smaller this time, more deliberate. Your gaze flickers toward him, half-lidded and knowing.

Little fucking tease.

He shifts beside you, stretching his legs out like he’s just getting comfortable, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his fingers flex at the back of the couch, or how his free hand curls against his thigh.

“You know I don’t like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, quieter, like a warning.

You hum, licking another bit of frosting from your thumb, completely unfazed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smirk twitches, almost a scoff, but his eyes darken.

“Sweetheart…” shifting closer, his knee brushes against yours, “you’re a terrible liar.”

As you blink at him, playing innocent, he doesn’t buy it for a fucking second.

“You did make them for me, didn’t you?” he whispers, his hand moves to your thigh, sliding up slowly. “Be honest.”

When your lips part slightly, Satoru thinks you might actually answer him—but then, just as quickly, you press them together again.

He smirks. You started this, and oh he loves a challenge.

Exhaling slowly, he hums, low and amused, his fingers spreading wider over your thigh, brushing higher, just enough to make you shift under his touch.

“Well,” he sighs, dragging it out like he’s deep in thought, “if they’re just for you, I guess I’ll have to go about my night hungry and unloved…”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “God you are so dramatic…”

“And yet…” his fingers wrap gently around your wrist, guiding the cupcake up, just shy of his lips. “You’re still holding out on me.”

As him thumb strokes against your pulse point, slow and lazy, those blue eyes flicker up through his snowy lashes—gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. He leans in just a fraction more, letting the heat of his breath ghost over you hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” his gaze lingers on your lips before trailing back to the cupcake. “Feed me.”

A sharp exhale drags through your nose, and he can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Now you know exactly what he’s doing.

Your lips part, then press together again, before reluctantly, you give in, bringing the cupcake to his lips. And now, Satoru takes his time—brushing his lips against your fingertips, soft, teasing.

His pink tongue flicks out, dragging against the frosting before his teeth sink into the cake, deliberate and unhurried. His snowy lashes lower as he chews, savoring the taste, but more than that—savoring the way you’re watching him now.

Because two can play this game.

Your breath hitches, and for just a fraction of a second, your fingers tremble—barely noticeable, but he catches it. And oh, it does something to him, something dark and satisfied curling deep in his stomach.

Pulling back, he lets his lips brush against your fingertips again—lingering, teasing, savoring. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, he licks away a stray bit of frosting from the corner of his mouth—purposeful, knowing.

“Mmm…” he swallows, sighing in satisfaction. “That frosting is just too good…”

You’re pouting now, and that bottom lip is just too cute. He smirks, running a pad of his thumb through a dollop of frosting. As his eyes drag back to yours, his grin widens.

“I do love buttercream.”

And then, before you can react, his hand moves, his thumb dragging against that pretty bottom lip, smearing the frosting over your soft skin.

You blink, inhaling sharply as a slow smile stretches upward.

“Oops,” he exhales, tilting his head slightly. There is a heat pooling behind those endless blue eyes as he murmurs, “Look at that… you made a mess.”

And he fully intends to clean it up.

Leaning in, his breath warms your skin as his lips barely graze yours—a featherlight touch. His eyes are heavy lidded as his longue flicks out, licking the frosting from your lips—slow deliberate.

He feels your breath shudder, and a quiet hum vibrates in his throat as he savors the taste.

And suddenly he’s kissing you.

It starts soft, coaxing, lips pulling against yours in a way that makes your body react before your mind can catch up. His fingers slide to your jaw, tilting your face up, deepening the kiss, drinking in every pretty sound you make.

You melt into him.

Each drawn-out kiss quickens, moving with purpose now, making him crave more. He groans, sliding his hands to your waist as he shifts, guiding you onto his lap with effortless ease. A quiet gasp escapes you, but he drinks it in, keeping you flush against him.

Your arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

And then—you tug.

A sharp sensation ripples down his spine, a growl catching in his throat. His teeth graze your bottom lip—biting, sucking, soothing. Slow, indulgent, taking his time as he licks away the last traces of sweetness.

Fuck.

You taste like buttercream and heat—dangerously addicting—like something he could get drunk on if he let himself.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours, breaths mingling. Both of you are unsteady from the weight of it. Your lips are swollen and your gaze is hazy as it meets his.

But as he drags his thumb over that plump lower lip again, his lips curl—savoring the way they are slick, and clean from his kiss.

“Hmm…” his voice is smug, husky. “I dunno… tastes like these cupcakes were for me after all.”

A breathless laugh slips past your lips, your fingers still lightly threading through his hair.

“You are so full of yourself,” you murmur, shaking your head. “When have I ever made something sweet that wasn’t for you?”

His smirk widens, victorious. “Ahh… see? You admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—comfortable, unhurried. Your fingers weave through his snowy hair, slow and absentminded, while his thumbs trace lazy circles against your hips, grounding and warm.

It’s a comfortable silence, but as your gaze flickers away from his, you take in the soft glow of the candles, the careful arrangement of blankets, the way everything feels so intentional. The way he feels so intentional.

Exhaling, you tilt your head slightly. “So… can I ask what all this is about now?”

Satoru hums, his fingers stilling at your waist for just a beat before his smirk returns—though there’s something else behind it now—something quieter.

“I wanna play a game.”

You arch a brow, clearly skeptical. “A game?”

“Mhm…” His hands skim down your sides slowly, caressing your hips. “It’s simple. We take turns asking each other questions, and we have to answer honestly.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is this just an excuse for you to be dirty?”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru shakes his head with mock disappointment. “Wow. You’re the one with the filthy mind,” he muses, voice dipping lower, teasing. “Naughty girl. It’s just an innocent game of questions.”

You hum, unconvinced. “Innocent, huh?”

“Yup. Cross my heart.” He grins, tracing an ‘X’ over his chest with one finger. “I’d never use underhanded tactics to get you flustered.”

Pulling back slightly, you level him a knowing look.

“You literally just did.”

His smirk grows. “Semantics.”

Shaking your head, you exhale, your fingers still idly playing with his hair. After a beat, you tilt your head and whisper, “…so what kind of questions?”

For just a second, his grin softens, that cocky edge fading—just a little.

“Anything, really.”

His fingers trail absentmindedly along your hip, his gaze flickering over your face, like he’s memorizing something only he can see.

“I just… wanna know more about you.”

“You say that like I’m some kind of mystery…”

His lips curl faintly, a quiet hum slipping from him. “You are.”

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. “Not really… and we had to learn so much about each other for this fake marriage, Satoru. Favorite foods, pet peeves, how we take our coffee—hell, I know your blood type.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah… but that’s just surface-level shit. Facts, trivia—stuff you’d put on a dating profile.” His voice drops slightly, something softer curling around the edges. “I don’t just wanna know what you like… I wanna know why. I wanna know you.”

Your breath catches for a moment, something shifting in the air between you. And Satoru—he watches the way your expression flickers, the way you hesitate for half a second like you don’t know what to do with the weight of his words.

So, instead of letting it settle too long, he smirks. Tilts his head against the cushions, easy and lazy.

"Alright. Since I came up with the game, I get the first question."

You shift slightly in his lap, arching a brow.

"Mmm… is that how it works?"

"Obviously," he smirks. "Genius privilege."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the way the corner of your mouth twitches. Cute.

"Fine, go."

He hums in thought, fingers drumming idly against your side, watching the way your lips purse, waiting. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face.

"Alright, sweetheart. What's the dumbest thing you've ever spent money on?"

You scoff, lips pressing together, and Satoru already knows whatever answer you give is going to amuse him.

"Oho… I wanna know what your answer to this question is gonna be."

“Mm-mm.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You first, princess.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean back slightly against his hold, pressing yourself a little closer to him.

"Okay, fine," you tap your fingers against his chest like you’re thinking hard. "Mmm… probably one of those water bottles that track hydration. The kind with reminders that light up."

Satoru stares at you blankly. “Uh… really? That’s it? How is that dumb?”

“Well…” You hesitate, then shrug. “It was pointless to buy, because I ignored it. Like I do with most things I don’t wanna deal with.”

His smirk stretches wider at that, a wicked gleam sparking in his eyes.

“Wow. Even a bottle has to fight for your attention. I almost feel bad for it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaking your head. "Yeah, well... it should’ve tried harder."

Satoru presses a hand to his chest, expression mockingly solemn. "Tragic. A hero, forgotten in the darkness of a cabinet. I’ll tell its story."

Rolling your eyes, you swat lightly at his arm. "Oh, shut up."

"Next time, just give me the money, and I’ll nag you to drink water personally."

You scoff. “Like you need the money, Mr. Money Bags.”

Satoru grins at that, because he walked right into it.

“True, true. But think about it—I’d be way more effective. I could send you little reminders,” he pauses, voice dipping lower, "maybe even offer incentives."

Your brows furrow slightly, catching the shift in his tone. "Incentives?"

His smirk turns downright sinful, fingers tightening at your waist just slightly.

“Mhm.” He drags his thumb in a slow arc along your side, feigning thought. “Positive reinforcement. Every time you drink water, I could… reward you.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Okay… you definitely just made that dirty.”

He laughs, tilting his head, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"Yes."

He hums, leaning in close to you. "Or… maybe you just have a filthy mind."

You groan, pressing your palm against his face in a weak attempt to push him away, but he only laughs, fingers tightening at your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Alright, enough about me," you huff, leveling him with a look that only makes him more entertained. "I need to hear your answer to this question."

Satoru hums like he’s really considering it, but then—his lips curl, amusement flashing across his face.

“A castle.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, your hand drops from his face.

“…I'm sorry. You own a castle?”

His grin is all confidence, completely unrepentant. “Mhm.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You stare at him, baffled, before shaking your head. “Um… okay. Where?”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Uh, somewhere in the Alps? Or maybe Scotland—" He pauses, squinting. “Wait. No. It’s in France. I think.”

"You think?" you repeat, incredulous.

"Well, I haven't actually been there," he admits, waving a dismissive hand. “Not my fault castles are kinda inconvenient to visit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling. "Then… why did you buy it?"

Satoru tilts his head. “You ever just scroll through luxury listings at 2 AM and think, ‘Yeah, I need that?’”

"Oh my god."

"But," he continues, ignoring you, "apparently castles require a ton of upkeep. Something about centuries-old plumbing and heating? Also, there’s a moat problem."

Your brows knit together. "Moat problem?"

"Yeah. Turns out, maintaining a functional moat is a logistical nightmare. Plus, I dunno, castles just… aren’t that practical."

“You’re ridiculous…” you groan, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and pulling your hand back into his.

His fingers play idly with yours, absentminded, like he’s holding onto the moment without even realizing it. When his eyes flick back to yours, there’s a lazy kind of amusement settling there.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmurs, lips curling just slightly.

You shake your head with a wry smile, shifting, settling deeper into his lap—letting yourself relax against him, letting him hold you just a little closer.

“Alright, castle boy,” you mutter, tilting your head at him. “Next question.”

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Hit me.”

Humming thoughtfully, your eyes flicker over him, considering.

“Well, since we’re on the topic of money… what’s one thing you refuse to spend money on?”

Leaning back, Satoru stretches an arm over the couch as if this answer doesn’t require a single brain cell of effort.

“Easy. Economy flights.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He levels you with a flat stare, completely deadpan. “Have you seen how long my legs are?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Mmkay… that’s fair.”

“And you?”

You consider for a second before shrugging. “Lottery tickets.”

He scoffs, lips curling in amusement. “What, you don’t believe in testing fate?”

“I know better than to test fate,” you say dryly. “I’ve always had terrible luck. And I hate spending money on something where the odds are literally against me.”

Satoru hums, twisting a strand of your hair lazily between his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp.

“Huh,” he muses, thoughtful now. “I dunno. I’d say you hit the jackpot once or twice.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, really.” His grin lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now, something less teasing—more contemplative.

There’s a beat of quiet, the soft crackle of the fire in the background, the rhythmic sound of your breathing against his. His thumbs continue to ghost your sides, tracing slow absentminded circles.

Then—

“Do you think we would’ve still ended up like this if circumstances were different?”

He says it casually, smoothly, like it’s not sitting heavier in his chest than it should. Your breath catches just slightly, the weight of the question settling between you.

Tilting your head, you search his face.

“Well… would you have even given me a second glance if things weren’t the way they are?”

Satoru’s brow lifts, but instead of answering, his smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Uh-uh now. It’s my turn. I asked first.”

Exhaling, you shake your head.

“I… dunno…” your voice dips quieter now. “But the idea of never ending up here at all… that’s kind of a scary thought. So… I try not to think about it.”

His expression softens—just for a second—before he hums, gripping your waist tighter.

“I think…” He tilts his head, pausing, dragging the moment out just enough to make your brows pinch slightly. “Even if everything was different, I still would’ve wanted to know you.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting that answer.

“…really?”

Satoru scoffs, his grin snapping back into place like it never left.

“Oh, absolutely,” he nudges his nose against yours affectionately. “But can you imagine if I hadn’t? You would’ve lived such a dull, Gojo-free life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Wow, yes, what a tragedy.”

“It would be,” he insists, feigning offense. “Who else would’ve made it their mission to drive you up the wall every single day?”

You huff through your nose, exasperated but fond.

“You loved annoying me.”

“Still do,” he admits, shameless. “But… you were so serious. Always so focused. I had to try to get a reaction out of you.”

You hum, gaze flickering downward, fingers tracing an idle pattern against his shoulder.

“I… had to be.”

Tilting his head, Satoru watches you, waiting. His fingers still trace lazy, idle shapes at your waist. There’s a beat before you continue, your voice softer now.

“Back then… my life was kind of a mess. So… I didn’t have the luxury of being carefree. I was just… trying to hold everything together.”

Something about the way you say it pulls at Satoru’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t know you like this—buried under stress, struggling, holding on by the skin of your teeth.

He hates it, actually.

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t know how. So instead, he moves.

Exhaling, he leans back, stretching his arms with a lazy groan before tugging you down with him. You let out a small sound of protest, but it’s weak, breathless—because you don’t really fight it. And he grins because, yeah, he knew you wouldn’t.

The couch shifts beneath his weight as he sprawls out, adjusting until you’re right where he wants you—resting against his chest, tucked into him.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, warm, grounding. His fingers skate lazily up and down your spine—slow, unhurried, absentminded.

“…comfy?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

“um… yeah,” you admit softly.

Satoru smirks, eyes slipping closed, his grip settling more firmly around you.

“Alright,” he hums, vibrating against you. “What’s one memory you hold onto when things get tough?”

You still slightly, like you weren’t expecting the question. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath you as his fingers trace lazy circles along your spine.

Then, you exhale, closing your eyes.

“Hmm… that’s a good question.”

As you hesitate, your fingers trace an idle, mindless pattern against his chest, until finally, you find your words.

"There was this one night… after everything with Naoya, when I finally got my own place,” you begin. “It was tiny, barely more than a shoebox… but it was mine. I remember sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap wine, eating takeout straight from the container, just thinking… I did this. I got myself here. No one handed it to me, no one saved me—I made it happen. That night, I felt like I could breathe again… for the first time in years."

The words linger between you, quiet and honest, and Satoru doesn’t speak right away, but you feel the way his fingers continue to trail up in down your back.

He hates it.

Not the part where you made it on your own—no, that part is impressive as hell, that part makes his chest tighten with admiration. He’s always loved your strength, your resilience.

It’s the other part.

The fact that you were alone when it happened. That no one was there to see it, to celebrate it, to tell you that you fucking did it. That he couldn’t be there.

“You… really went through a lot all on your own, huh?”

You nod subtly against his chest. “…yeah.”

There’s something in his throat—something thick, something he doesn’t know what to do with. So he swallows it down, exhales softly—then presses his lips into your hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.

He feels it when you still slightly. When the words settle, sinking deep. You don’t say anything at first, but your fingers tighten against his shirt, just for a second, just enough to let him know you heard him.

“…what about you?” your whisper, head still resting against him. “What’s a memory you hold onto?”

Satoru hums, sorting through the years.

“Hmm… there’s one,” he finally says, voice distant, like he’s pulling it from somewhere deep.  “It’s nothing big, but… when I was a kid, my dad would always throw these extravagant birthday parties for me. Like, ridiculously over the top—huge cakes, fireworks, even once had a live tiger.”

You lift your head slightly, blinking. “A tiger?”

He grins. “Yeah, it was cool—until it got loose and almost took out half the catering staff.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He snickers at the memory, but then, his expression shifts. The amusement is still there, lingering, but something else creeps in at the edges.

“Anyway…” he continues, “the parties were never really for me. They were more for appearances—big shows for the business partners, other rich families. But there was this one year where Suguru—” He pauses for a beat, then continues, voice softer. “He convinced me to skip my own party. We ran off to this little ramen shop instead, just the two of us.”

Your breath stills slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

“I… remember sitting there in this tiny hole-in-the-wall place, still in my stupid fancy suit, just eating ramen and laughing about dumb shit. No cameras, no expectations, no pressure. It was just… nice.” He exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, when things get overwhelming, I think about that night. Just the simplicity of it.”

There’s another lingering quiet, stretching between the steady crackle of the fire. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, and as you speak again, your voice is softer, tinged with a sleepiness.

“Suguru… really sounds like a great friend.”

Satoru hums, his fingers trailing lazy circles against your back. “Yeah… he is.”

Tilting his head slightly, Satoru looks down at you. Your eyes are still open, but only just. Heavy-lidded, hazy, like sleep is already tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

You hum sleepfully. “Mm-mm. Just… comfortable.”

“Mmkay… well it’s your turn.”

As your lips pull into a drowsy smile, you allow your eyes to slip shut as you think. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, warmth lulling you further into the haze of slumber.

“What’s… one thing you’d never change about your life?”

Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. He could say a million things. His freedom, his wealth, his power—things people assume matter most to him. But none of it feels right. None of it feels true.

Instead, his arms tighten slightly around you, his hand pressing a little firmer at your waist, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.

“This… right here. You, in my arms.”

“Mmm… yeah?” you hum, voice slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Shifting slightly, you burrow deeper against him before you whisper, “…why’s that?”

His breath hitches.

You say it so simply, so easily, like you don’t know what you’re asking of him. Like you don’t realize you’ve just cracked open something inside him that he’s never let anyone see.

Because the words are there, sitting right at the edge of his tongue, but he’s never said them before. Not like this. Not to anyone.

He swallows.

And then, for once, he doesn’t overthink it.

“Because… I love you.”

The weight of the words settle, heavy, irreversible, and Satoru holds still, waiting for—something. For you to react, for the moment to shift, for the world to feel different now that he’s let those words exist outside of himself.

But there’s nothing. No reaction.

Your breathing has already evened out, slow and soft against his skin.

He looks down—you’re asleep.

A breath of laughter slips past his lips—quiet, a little incredulous. Of course. Of course the first time he ever says it, the first time he ever means it—you don’t even hear him.

His chest tightens, but there’s no frustration there. Just warmth.

Shaking his head slightly, he tugs you closer, pressing one more lingering kiss to your hair before reaching for the throw blanket resting over the back of the couch. He pulls it over both of you, tucking you in against him, letting himself just exist in this moment.

And as his grip settles at your waist, his body melting into the cushions as the fire crackles low in the background, Satoru exhales slowly, eyes slipping shut.

"Yeah," he murmurs, just for himself. "I really do love you."

And this time, he’s okay with you not hearing it. Because he’ll say it again.

And next time, you will.

a/n. awww... i hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. i know the first half is mostly setting up plot, but we have a lot to come... hehe. writing this chapter was a big change up from my usual, and i definitely had a lot of fun with it. naoya is a creep, and not in a sexy way 😅 and the panties are an actual plot point?! whaaaa, betcha didn't see that coming 😂 excited to bring nanami in this storyyyy. and i'm excited for suguru and satoru's meet up with naoya. oh man, i can't wait for all the pieces to fall into place 💕 satoru finally said those three words 🤧 my heart. as always, would love to hear your thoughts. thanks for reading 🥹🫶🏻 -aly → you are currently all caught upꨄ

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[drgnflyteabox]

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices. 

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him. 

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked. 

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles. 

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Picturing it, aye? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can be a good girl for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl, aye? Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away. 

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door. 

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, aye?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

[viridescentelf]

Yandere elf x reader - Valentine’s Day

happy valentine‘s day y‘all 👽

Silas Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru pls go to her and tell she‘s the queen of yandere

since so many peeps asked for more Silas smut, here‘s him „cleaning“ you. Don‘t know how lore accurate this is so pls forgive me if i missed something! i also didn‘t really proof-read so oops 😶‍🌫️

Warnings: 18+, dubcon, noncon, oral sex, general nsfw

—————

His long tongue lapped up your sweet and sour juices. You squirmed, both from the explosive pleasuring scale and his firm grip on your wrists.

You had been telling him about the concept of Valentine‘s Day (some true and untrue things because you could), as he thought it was only humans named Valentine that could celebrate their love on this manufactured holiday. Understanding that it meant showing love to anyone you feel deeply towards - even mothers - Silas hurried to remedy his misunderstanding.

You had never seen the elf change that quickly before. He had adorned some kind of elven festive garb and placed several beautiful flowers in his own and your hair (you watched him from the window scurry around the garden to find them), weaving the stems neatly (and fast) into your strands.

He then asked what humans traditionally did on Valentine‘s Day. You mentioned flowers, chocolates and date nights - trying to skirt around the topic of sex - by using the word „cuddling“. It was something you didn‘t really mind with him, he was extremely cozy to lean into, his soft muscles giving ample cushioning, even if he didn‘t let go of you unless you needed to pee.

Your eyes had followed Silas running into the kitchen and frantically throwing ingredients together to make pralines and chocolates. The house smelled amazing. He hectically returned to the living room where you were reading, chocolate smeared all over his dopy face, to ask if you preferred strawberry or raspberry. You had only gotten to „rasp-„ before he quickly turned to finish his craft.

You had thought this wasn‘t half bad. It was really entertaining watching him cook, bake and decorate with the speed of a doom‘s day dad preparing for the end of the world.

A few hours had passed. Silas had picked you up from the couch and carried you quickly to the dinner table, where he had lit so many candle that you had to blink rapidly through the blinding light. The chocolates were all individually wrapped and adorned with sweet messages. The food he cooked looked amazing, but it was frankly hard to see all of the details through the flickering little fires. Silas placed you on his lap and fed you everything, beyond your stomach‘s ability and despite you saying that you were full.

Feeling woozy from the excess food, you lay catatonic in his arms as every squeeze within the cuddle session made you even more nauseous.

„My darling! I love you I love you I love you I love you!“

He peppered kisses on you as you tried to focus on not throwing up. His kisses helped, whatever was in his weird saliva simultaneously healed you while you knew he was trying to prepare you for what he wanted next.

He hadn‘t cleaned you yet. You had tried to distract him with various other Valentine‘s Day traditions (some of which you made up, like how the greatest act of love is having to do an interpretive dance outside with twigs in your mouth which you watched with absolute glee), but he never missed this part of the day regardless of how hard you tried to get him off schedule. He was relentless that way.

You were still too full to move. He knew this.

Laying you out on the bed, you watched him remove your trousers and underwear. The ravenous glare in his eye always threw you off, every time. It was so menacing and filled with what felt like eons of pent up desire that it shut you up instantly.

His green eyes shimmered as he saw you leaking already, ready for him because of his aphrodisiac sputum and whatever else he added to your meal and chocolates.

He never really told you what he gave you.

What would it matter? You couldn‘t stop him anyway.

Silas‘s head lowered and you instinctively raised your arms to try to push his head away. He grabbed them so fast and held them down onto the soft mattress, that your arms sank deeper into the cushioning.

„There, there…let mama clean you up…“

His grip didn‘t hurt, but it was like cement blocks lying on top of your hands. There was no way you could get them out.

He kissed you. Your body squirmed slowly in response, because it just felt so marvelous. The tongue wreathed out of his smiling lips and traced you, mapping out its course. Your back arched expectingly, but he took his time, breathing his temperate air onto you - warning of the incoming impact.

Silas’ long tongue punched into you and you let out a deep rooted moan you had never heard yourself make before. It snaked through your walls like the invader it was and you felt his hands shake with his own pleasure.

He lapped everything up, your water flooding out of you uncontrollably without a stop in sight.

His mouth wrapped around you and sucked gently, every pop from the release making your spine curl even further. The stinging tingling clenching fiercely and surrounding your entire lower body, every lick, kiss and suction pushing your further.

You climaxed many times, from the penetration and from his feverish licking, every new flick causing your hips to convulse furiously.

He was saying something, but you couldn‘t hear with dark moans escaping your throat. He quickly returned to his task, letting you grow weaker with every orgasm.

You knew hours passed, because the light from the window was dimming. He had feasted on you for so long that the mattress was soaked.

Finally letting up, happy with his cleaning job, he pulled you up into a seated position while his growth pointed like a dagger at your face, his tall stature looming over you.

He huffed, as his giant hand caressed your cheek. Your exhausted eyes stared up at him.

„M-milking time darling…“

[enviedear]

stay, little valentine, stay ｡𖦹° jason todd

🎧ྀི your roommate makes the fateful mistake of passing you, his roommate, off as his girlfriend to his boundary ignorant family. now the both of you are tasked with maintaining a faux romance for the entirety of a dinner at wayne manor—simple enough, right?

wc 4.2k | roommate!jason, lowercase intended, fem!reader, brief mention of booze, cursing, mutual pining, two idiots fake dating…truly what more can i say (a lot, so). please, enjoy my 'funny little valentines' day special ᯓᡣ𐭩

“there’s not enough room in the freezer for the ice trays. either move your booze or enjoy an ice free apartment,” your voice is tinged with annoyance as you stare down your long-term roommate.

he’s laid back on the shared couch, right cushion side, staring back at you with a impish grin on his face, “or, you could finally throw out that cake you bought for your ‘promotion’ party. since, the fuckin’ promotion never happened and it takes up half of my freezer.”

“our freezer.” you add. “and fuck you, i could still get that promotion any day now. i can always unfreeze it—good as new.”

jason seems to be beginning to tune you out as your eyes drift to a new letter on the fridge, stuck on with an ‘i hate gotham’ magnet. the print is fancy, cursive, bold black ink—YOU’RE INVITED—it reads.

“what are we invited to?” you ask, ice tray debacle not at all at the forefront of your mind now. not when you can tell your roommate’s got an invite from his estranged past guardian, none other than bruce wayne.

he hums a reply at first, still zeroed in to the rerun of some prison show. when he finally picks up on your question he sours, visibly, “some idiotic anniversary dinner for dick and kori. we’re not going, you weren’t even invited.”

you pout, “i want to go! why can’t we go?”

jason’s got a stern look on his face now, and you’ve always found it so unnerving how quickly he musters it up—usually so relaxed in your shared domain.

“we’re not going because i told a lie, and if we show up…everyone will know.” he groans, “just drop it, i need a little more time to ride this out.”

suddenly more intrigued, you prance over to him on the couch, flopping down beside him, “a lie?”

“don’t. just drop it.” he huffs at the obvious annoyance on your face, “it’s just stupid.”

“c’mon, we know all of each others ‘stupid’ shit. what was the lie, todd?” you’re being genuine, riddling your appeasement with a sweetly sardonic tone.

finally, after a good minute of staring at a very completive jason, he cracks, “i might have alluded to being in a relationship with you.”

your smile cracks before he even finishes his admission, oscillating between confusion and sheer giddiness—trying to halt the part of your brain that wants to imagine a life where a relationship isn’t such a laughable idea.

you curl your lips to stifle your last giggles before looking back up at him, “why?”

jason shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the question. his eyes dart away from yours, finding sudden interest in the television screen, "bruce kept...asking about my life here. if i was settling in, if i was happy." he runs a hand through his dark hair, "and then, all the others got involved, asking to set me up with people. i needed them to stop asking. and you-" he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, "you were the most believable option.”

you stare at him, unblinking, trying to process his words. "most believable option…” you repeat slowly, testing how the phrase feels on your tongue. a warmth spreads across your chest-whether from flattery or something else entirely, you're not quite sure. "so, what? think i can’t pretend to be your girlfriend for a dinner?" the idea sends an unwelcome flutter through your chest. you curse yourself.

jason's expression shifts, a mix of surprise and something else you can't quite read. "you'd do that?" he asks, his voice carrying an unusual note of vulnerability.

"of course," you reply, trying to keep your tone light and casual. "what are roommates for? plus, free fancy dinner at wayne manor? count me in." you're aiming for nonchalance, but your heart is racing at the prospect.

jason's jaw clenches, a tell-tale sign of him thinking too hard, "it's not that simple. they'll know it's fake. bruce especially—dick and tim too—they’re too observant for their own good.”

"oh please," you wave off his concern, settling deeper into the couch cushions, "we've lived together for what, two years now? we already act like an old married couple anyway. i know your coffee order, you know my work schedule. we share groceries, we fight about ice trays—“ you gesture broadly to the kitchen, "it's practically method acting at this point."

he looks at you then, really looks at you, with an expression you can't quite read. "you'd really do that? pretend to be with me in front of my entire family?"

"of course i would," you say softly, nudging his shoulder with yours. "what are friends for if not to fake date each other to avoid awkward family dinners?" you try to keep your tone light, ignoring the way your stomach flips when he smiles at you that rare, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"fine." he finally concedes, shrugging his shoulders, "but we need to get our story straight. no holes, no gaps—i figured we'd keep it close to the truth. roommates who gradually realized there was something more." he pauses, then adds, "the best lies are built on truth or some shit, right?”

you nod, and start crafting the imagined romance with jason. over the next hour, you both piece together your relationship timeline—how you first bonded over late night takeout after his patrols, the way you'd patch him up after particularly rough nights, and how somewhere between shared grocery runs and movie marathons, faux you fell for him. or him for you—the both of you can't agree on that just yet.

you try not to focus on how easy it is to imagine, how some of these made-up memories feel more like documentation rather than fabrication.

"okay, and when did we actually get together?" you ask, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to ignore how invested you're becoming in this alternate reality.

"three months ago." jason answers quickly, too quickly, like he's already thought about this. "after that night I came home really beaten up, remember? you were so pissed at me for being reckless."

you remember that night vividly—how he ever thinks you could forget, you’re unsure.

him stumbling through the window at three in the morning, blood seeping through his stupid jacket. how your hands shook as you stitched him up, how quiet he was, how close his blanched face was to yours. you’d attributed the racing of your heart to fear, but now…not so much.

"yeah," you say softly. "that works."

the rest of the week flies by in a blur of preparation and anxiety, until suddenly it's the night of the dinner, and you're standing in front of your mirror, wondering if you've made a terrible mistake.

you're wearing a deep red-toned dress that hits just above your knee—something you'd bought on a whim (a fifty percent off sale) months ago and never found the right occasion for. jason had given it an approving nod when you'd shown him, which somehow makes you feel more nervous than reassured as you stare yourself down.

"ready?" jason's voice comes from behind you, and you turn to find him adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. he looks…different. good different. the suit fits him perfectly, and you wonder briefly if alfred had something to do with that. the older man has a penchant for doting over your overgrown battling ram of a roommate.

"as i'll ever be." you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. "but, um, how convincing do you think we need to be?"

jason's eyes meet yours in the mirror, "enough to fool the world's greatest detective," he sighs, "and his army of protégés." he turns to face you properly, and something in his expression softens, but he looks away too quickly for you to discern, "you look really pretty."

"thanks." you mumble, fiddling with your clutch. "so do you. very…boyfriend."

he laughs, but it sounds slightly strained. "that's the idea, isn't it?" he offers his arm to you, "shall we?"

the drive to wayne manor is muted. jason's knuckles are white on the shifter, and you find yourself reaching over to place your hand over his without thinking. he startles slightly, but he doesn't pull away—even keeps contact as he switches gears.

"hey." you start softly, "we've got this. we know each other better than anyone, we live together. besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

jason sighs, his hand tightening slightly under yours. "you clearly don’t know how bruce and tim get at these things. anniversary or not, they'll smell blood in the water if we slip up."

"relax," you assure him, glancing out at the looming trees lining the driveway. "i doubt they’ll care about your relationship timeline when they’re busy fawning over how happy dick and kori are."

jason shoots you a look that clearly says 'don't tempt fate', but his grip on the wheel loosens slightly. "just…follow my lead. and if it gets too weird, we can always fake a medical emergency."

"that...is always an option." you grin, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips when he smiles back.

the manor looms up ahead, and as jason pulls up to the gate, you feel his hand squeeze yours briefly, almost indecipherable.

"last chance to back out." he murmurs.

you intertwine your fingers with his, ignoring the voice in your head that whispers how right it feels. "not a chance, todd. you're stuck with me."

the gates open, and as you drive up the winding driveway, you're unable to shake the feeling that you're about to cross a line you can't come back from. but with jason's hand so warm and relaxed in yours, you're not sure you want to.

jason parks the car in front of the house at the partition, "in case we need a quick exit." he shrugs.

"i think you're too worried, jason. i doubt they'll even question it. you said they wanted you dating anyway, i bet they'll just be happy." your voice is quiet, hand hovering in front of the doorbell.

he sighs, "you don't know these people, they question everything."

before you can reply or try to alleviate his doubts, the double doors fly open. you grab jason's hand in your own and pull him closer, just as alfred sets eyes on the pair of you.

alfred's eyes visibly brighten at the sight of both of you, his normally reserved expression softening into something fonder, "master jason," he greets, a ghost of a smile on his lips, "and miss, how lovely for you to be joining tonight. everyone is very excited to meet you, i fear my few stories were not enough to quell them."

you smile, a real genuine one too, "it's nice to see you again alfred! i hope we're not too late—jason decided to change his tie last minute."

alfred hums and beckons you both inside, "fashionable tardiness, miss. i assure you."

jason, hand now sweaty in yours, chuckles, "he's being nice since you're with me. he's usually irate by my lateness."

you shoot jason a pointed look as alfred continues. "master richard and miss kori have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. their anniversary dinner is a rare occasion they’ve pulled out all the stops for, you see."

jason grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, overachievers.

the sound of multiple voices echos through from a room, and you feel jason's grip tighten slightly. you've heard stories about his family for years now—mostly complaints, occasionally fond remembrances, and everything in between during late night conversations over takeout.

"master bruce insisted on formal dining tonight." alfred mentions, though his tone suggests mild disapproval. you've learned over your visits that alfred much prefers when the family dines in the kitchen.

jason scoffs quietly, "because god forbid we eat somewhere comfortable." you squeeze his hand again, a silent reminder of your emergency exit strategy. two years of living together has given you an extensive library of non-verbal communications.

the dining room, when you enter, is exactly as alfred has described it countless times—grandiose in a way that speaks to old money and older traditions. the table stretches long and elegant, set with what you recognize as the ‘good china’ alfred often mentions.

your muscles tense slightly as you finally notice all of the eyes on you—staring and studying—you have to think before you step.

bruce wayne rises first, and despite all of jason's stories, despite seeing him on tv and in newspapers, you're struck by his presence. "jason." he greets, then turns his attention to you. "we've all heard quite a bit about you from alfred, though significantly less from my son."

you feel jason's posture stiffen, but you're prepared for this. "oh, you know how jason is with sharing things." you say easily, the words flowing naturally after years of defending his privacy to nosy neighbors and concerned coworkers. "though, alfred's probably told you all my embarrassing stories by now."

dick grayson—exactly as handsome as the magazines suggest—breaks into a wide grin. "actually, alfred's been surprisingly tight lipped. just kept saying we should ask jason ourselves." his eyes sparkle with mischief. "which, of course, got us nowhere."

"some things don't need to be broadcast to the whole family." jason grumbles, but his thumb is mindlessly drawing small circles on your hand, a gesture you've learned means he's more comfortable than he's letting on. 

"oh, but this is so wonderful!" a melodic, cheerful voice chimes in, and you glance up to see koriand’r—kori to most—seated beside dick, her vibrant curly red hair catching the light as she smiles radiantly. "you must forgive us for prying, but jason does not often share such…delightful surprises."

"by 'us,' she means her." dick cuts in with a smirk, earning a playful nudge from kori.

"yes, and what of it?" she replies lightly, turning her attention fully to you. "you see, jason is like a tamaranian grisnek—so fierce and protective on the outside, but underneath, he is all kindness and loyalty. how could we not be curious about the person who has captured his heart?"

"great. glad we're all analyzing my personal life at the dinner table." jason mutters, though his hand stays on yours, his grip steady.

"do not be fooled," kori says in a whisper that is anything but subtle, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "jason pretends to be irritated, but inside, i know he is glowing with happiness."

your lips twitch into a smile despite yourself, and jason sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging with mock defeat. "i think i'm gonna need another drink."

kori leans back, laughing softly, the sound warm and lilting, as she looks between you and jason once more. "you are lovely." she adds sincerely, her tone softening. "and jason could not have chosen better."

tim drake, who you've only seen in passing when he's stopped by your apartment to drop off miscellaneous ‘private’ documents, raises an eyebrow. "yes, it's all very sweet." he hums it almost, tone carefully neutral but eyes sharp, studying you.

"sweet indeed." you agree, letting some of your genuine fondness for jason color your voice. it's not hard to fake being in love with someone when you've spent two years memorizing their coffee order, patching up their wounds, and falling asleep on their shoulder during movie marathons. the hard part, you're starting to realize, might be pretending it's all pretend.

bruce barely looks up from his plate as he speaks again, cutting through your blissful thoughts of jason, “a shame i wasn’t aware you two were involved.”

jason tenses beside you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “yeah, well. guess you don’t know everything, old man.”

bruce sets his fork down with deliberate slowness. his gaze flicks between the two of you, assessing, “i never said i did.” his voice is even, unreadable. “but you don’t bring people around often. that’s worth noting.”

jason scoffs, like he couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, unease, probably both.

jason’s hand finds yours under the table. it’s definitely not a calculated move, not a necessary nor obvious display for the act you’re putting on. it’s just—there. warm and solid, his fingers curling around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you don’t let go.

dinner progresses with a strange mix of tension and ease. You find yourself falling into natural conversation with dick about your work, while jason maintains a careful distance from bruce's attempts at engagement. still, his hand hasn't left yours, and you're starting to wonder if he's forgotten it's all for show.

"so—how did you two finally get together?" dick asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.

you exchange a quick glance with jason, settling into the story you've rehearsed. "it wasn't really some big dramatic moment," you say, the lie feeling uncomfortably close to the truth. "we just...realized we work."

jason picks up the thread smoothly, his thumb still tracing patterns on your hand. "she was patching me up after a rough night, mad at me for being so bruised," he says, and you can hear the genuine emotion in his voice. "and i just...i dont know—knew, i guess."

tim's watching you both with analytical eyes, and you wonder if he can see through the charade. "that tracks." he says finally. "you two have always been...close."

"speaking of close," dick interjects with a grin, "i think it's hilarious jason used to insist you were 'just roommates', and yet never went on any of the dates i set him up on. i should have known, really." there's a pout on his face, humourous.

you laugh, perhaps a bit too nervously, "well, we were. for a while." the irony of the statement isn't lost on you. you can see jason watching you from your peripheral, face stoic—but his eyes are soft. the way they watch over you, simply affectionate.

bruce, who's been quietly observing, finally speaks. "i'm glad jason has someone looking out for him," he says, and there's something in his tone that makes your heart ache. "he's always been...independent."

jason's grip on your hand tightens almost imperceptibly. "yeah, well, some things change." he mutters, but there's less bite in his words than usual.

the conversation shifts to safer topics—work, current events, alfred's latest culinary experiments. you find yourself relaxing despite the pretense, falling into familiar patterns of banter with jason, finishing his sentences, and sharing knowing looks.

it's during dessert that damian, who's been suspiciously quiet, finally speaks up. "you're good for him," he declares with all the authority of a youngest sibling. "he's less annoying when you're around."

jason chokes on his tiramisu, and you pat his back automatically, the gesture so natural you don't even think about it. "thanks, damian!" you say, fighting back a smile. "i think."

as the evening winds down and dinner ends, you find yourself in the manor's vast library, having wandered away from the group for a moment of quiet. besides, you feel somewhat redundant against their coded phrases and stories. jason finds you, as he always does.

"hey." he speaks softly, coming to stand beside you. "you doing okay?"

you turn to face him, suddenly very aware of how close he is. "yeah, i'm good. your family's...intense, but nice. just like you said."

he laughs quietly, but there's something different in his eyes. "you're amazing, you know that? playing along with all this. you didn't have to."

"i wanted to." you admit, and it feels dangerous how true those words are. "besides, what are fake girlfriends for?"

jason's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. but then dick's voice calls from somewhere far off in the house and the moment gaps.

"we should head back." jason says, but he doesn't move. "before they send a search party."

you nod, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "yeah, we should."

but neither of you moves, caught in this strange liminal space where pretend and reality blur, and you're no longer sure which is which. even less sure if you hunger for dreams or waking existence—which is which? for a split second, you want to reach out. you desperately want to feel him—to possibly transfer the devotion you’re still too afraid to admit you harbor.

jason’s breath is staggered, coming out forced and shallow. his eyes, darker in the dim light, are flitting between you and the door—until he focuses in on you, fully. you’re too confused as to why he’s getting closer to you to react accordingly when his lips brush yours.

your first instinct is to furrow your brows, still confused. then, you kiss back. hungrily. confusion still fogs your mind, but nowhere near the way jason does. his lips are chapped, plump, and still tasting faintly of expensive dark liquor. his body cages you close him, hands respectfully at your shoulders. of course the only thing you can recognize is jason.

you err on the side respectfulness—opting to tug him closer by the tie. there’s a flash of the memory of him putting it on, and you can’t fight a small smirk from slipping onto your lips. jason must notice, because he finally breaks away to peer down at you.

“what?” he whispers, panting and staring down at your lips.

“what do you mean, what? we kissed.” you still feel giddy from his kiss, but reality begins to settle into you like a winter chill.

jason watches you closely, his expression a mix of smugness and unease, “hmmm—playing it dangerous.” he finally murmurs, shaking his head.

you arch a brow, feigning derision. “you say that to all the girls, todd?”

he exhales a laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “yeah,” he huffs. “that grand number of...you.”

before you can say anything, footsteps echo just outside the library's door. jason instinctively steps back, widening the space between you just as dick pokes his head in. “there you two are! we were about to send out a search party.”

you smile, pushing down the lingering tension. “sorry. just taking a little tour.”

dick’s gaze flickers between you and jason, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “right. well, come on. we're playing charades—and bruce is actually smiling. you don’t want to miss that.”

jason groans, but he follows you and dick back back toward the others. his hand brushes against yours in the hallway, and for a second, you think he’s going to take it again. but he doesn’t. 

charades is winding down by the time you return, alfred putting away various dry erase boards and markers with the kind of efficiency only a butler can possesses.

kori beams when she sees you, reaching out to squeeze your hand. “lovebrids! you have returned!" she gestures to herself and grayson, "thank you for coming—we would like to extend our support to your relationship.”

jason lets out a little breath, like he wasn’t expecting that—like he isn’t sure what to do with the sincerity. “thanks, kori.”

bruce, too, seems slightly less intimidating now. “thank you for coming—you’re welcome here anytime, both of you.” he tells you, and it sounds like a rare offering.

something about it all settles in your chest, warm and unexpected. you’ve spent so much time being jason’s person in private—patching him up, watching his back, making sure he gets home in one piece—that it’s almost startling to have it acknowledged in front of everyone else.

goodnights and goodbyes come soon after, and tim catches jason by the elbow before the pair of you can walk out the door, pulling him aside for a hushed conversation. you linger near the doorway, talking with kori and dick, but you can’t help the way your attention keeps flickering back to jason.

when he finally returns to your side, his expression is unreadable. “ready to go?”

you nod, murmuring your goodbyes as you both step back into the night air. jason doesn’t say anything as he leads you back to the car, but his hands flex at his sides.

the drive back is quieter than before, the easy banter from earlier replaced with something heavier, something neither of you seems willing to touch just yet. jason’s grip is tight on the wheel, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road.

it isn’t until you’re pulling into the familiar streets near your apartment that he finally speaks. “they bought it.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “yeah? i told you so.”

jason’s eyes flick to you for a fraction of a second before he exhales. “thank you, seriously. you were great.”

you glance at him, something warm curling in your chest. “we just make a good team.”

something glints in his expression, something hesitant, something aching. “yeah,” he agrees, voice quieter. “we do.”

the silence stretches between you as he parks the car. you unbuckle your seatbelt, but neither of you make a move to get out. stuck stagnant.

“so, this is was fake...” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

jason’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, knuckles red. “yeah.”

you should leave it at that. you should forget the kiss. you should revert back to just his roommate. you should laugh it off, make some joke about how convincing you both were—but you don't—instead you say, “does it still feel fake to you? us...tonight?”

jason’s breath catches. for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. you almost let doubt seep in.

then, he turns, his eyes dark and searching. “god, no.”

your heart stutters in your chest, and you swallow hard, pulse roaring in your ears. “good. me neither.”

for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off. but you don’t, you won't. and when he leans in—slow, hesitant, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—you don’t.

you decide to meet him halfway, instead.

writer’s note .☘︎ ݁˖ all of my thanks to the helpful, @sunnie-angel for being my beta reader for this fic! thank you again for your services—and your sweet comments on this little story, very very happy to have a moot like you !!!

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[haologram]

hanging by a moment 🍻 j.ww [m]

synopsis: it's been a few years since you've been home for your birthday, and wonwoo can't wait to see you...right? genre: estranged childhood friends to lovers au. fluff, angst, suggestive themes. pairing: photographer!jeon wonwoo x fem!baker!reader | side pairing: kim mingyu x chou tzuyu word count: 15.8k rating: 18+. minors please do not interact. warnings: swearing, alcohol. food mentions. mentions of jealousy, breakups. wonwoo is a little bitter. pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc.) kissing. what to listen to: here is gone - the goo goo dolls ; over you - daughtry ; broken - lifehouse ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; long way home - 5 seconds of summer ; say yes - seventeen author's note: happiest birthday to my baby @wqnwoos ♡ i hope your birthday was full of wonderful memories and you had lots of good food, please continue staying healthy and i love you. [star dividers by @/cafekitsune here on tumblr!]

– LAST YEAR: GOYANGI SWEETS, HARLEM, NEW YORK.

"Since when do you celebrate Valentine's Day, Y/N?" Jeon Wonwoo's voice was staticky on the other end, and you rolled your eyes as you kept swiping icing on the red velvet cupcakes you'd been agonizing over for six days. Trying and dumping mixes, failed taste tests, a few burnt practice rounds all led up to this: you, up at two in the morning on FaceTime with Wonwoo, who was just now starting to finish up his work day.

You hadn't meant to move so far away, truly – or at least, not for this long. Your best friends were all back home, and the drastic time difference did work for some of them – but you rarely managed to catch Wonwoo. He would usually spend his time holed away in his bedroom or out with Kim Mingyu. However, since Mingyu moved in with his fiancée, Chou Tzuyu, three years ago – Wonwoo had the apartment to himself and you were his only company.

"Since when don't you, Jeon? No hot date for Desperation Day?"

"You watch too many movies, there's no such thing. Anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping? You open in, like, two hours." He was right, you did open in two hours.

There was just something comforting about hearing Wonwoo's voice so late in the night. It makes you feel warm, less alone.

And it's not like Wonwoo knew about your recent fight with your boyfriend.

It wasn't anything serious – just you telling him to get a fucking job, and him insisting that his job was rubbing your feet after a long day at work. It annoyed you so bad that you asked him to leave the apartment for the weekend. It's not that Wonwoo doesn't like Euijoo, but he certainly isn't his number one fan. You argue that you can't dislike someone you don't even know, but Wonwoo has made it clear that Euijoo is simply never going to be a part of his life if you're not present to make it happen. It's always been that way with Wonwoo, though. He quietly disapproved of most of the men you dated, even when you were back home – but he never made you feel bad about his perspective. He simply shared when you asked, and he didn't sugar coat it.

Before Euijoo, there was his clubmate, Hansol Chwe. Before Hansol, there was his teammate, Choi Seungcheol. Before Seungcheol, there was Mingyu. 

And every single one got a side-eyed glance, even his best friend.

Slowly, you stopped talking to Wonwoo about guys, because he always seemed to be right about you deserving more. To be frank, you weren’t too keen on not doing what you wanted to do, much less who. 

You and Wonwoo never breached that friendship line, and while you found solace in his irrevocable appreciation for you as a friend, you found it odd that around the time you began preparing for your relocation across the world, he floated away.

So much so that he hadn't even gone to the airport to say goodbye, or give you a hug. You hadn't seen Wonwoo in the weeks leading up to it after you told him you'd be leaving, and he always had an excuse as to why he couldn't call or hang out. You tried time and time again, only for him to eventually say he just didn't have time.

He did. You knew he did, because you saw him all over Mingyu and Tzuyu's Instagram stories. You saw him playing chess with Yoon Jeonghan. You saw him at the art museum with Xu Minghao.

You saw him soft launch a girl on his Instagram story the moment you boarded your plane. His story had been posted twenty minutes before, while you were getting your heart ripped out. You’d gone to New York with eyes full of tears, and not just because you were leaving behind everything you knew. 

Wonwoo was home, and you wouldn’t have him with you.

Nevertheless, Wonwoo was never…directly the reason behind your breakups – at least, to your understanding. You never toed the line of flirting with him and vice versa, you never made your friendship out to be something it wasn't.

You and Mingyu broke up because of school but stayed extremely close. You met his then-girlfriend,Tzuyu, six months into freshman year, and you were the first person Mingyu ever told that he wanted to marry her. You even helped Mingyu build a Pinterest wedding board when he would visit you and Wonwoo.

The others? Seungcheol made the mature decision and broke up with you because of jealousy issues on his part. Hansol broke up with you with an apology and nothing more, and you tried your best to take it in stride. However, taking things in stride is not your forte – which is how you ended up with Euijoo.

Hansol broke up with you at the airport the day you left for New York, the guilt taking over his features as your eyes widened and filled with tears. You had muttered that you understood, that it was fine – but the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to New York was full of tears and sniffling. You're sure the woman next to you had been wondering if you were okay, but you're also almost positive that the fourteen-hour loop of 5SOS' Close As Strangers through your headphones spoke for itself.

You had met Euijoo at a bar a week after you landed in New York. Your apartment had long been ready and furnished, waiting for your arrival. You sullied it that same night by bringing him home, the aura of the apartment darkening the longer he stayed. And stayed, he did. It's like he had nowhere else to go, and you were far too nice about it, too. 

Hence, how he became your 'boyfriend' and how he 'moved in with you.' 

Bullshit; he went home to his mother's one-bedroom condo and picked up a dusty Playstation and a pillow he liked – that was his 'moving in.'

As for why Wonwoo doesn't like him, it's obvious – Euijoo is a loser. He has no goals, no sense of urgency, no whimsical nature – nothing like you. At least, that was what Wonwoo told you the first time you called him from New York…which was over six months since you left Seoul.

You wanted to believe there was a twinge of jealousy in Wonwoo’s voice when you told him about Euijoo. His brows furrowed, he sucked his teeth more times than you could count, and he refused to meet him when you offered to have him say hello.

You couldn't lie to yourself, you knew your relationship with Wonwoo was dwindling. Your calls were growing sparse, he didn’t tell you anything about his personal life, and you still hadn’t gone back home. To him, to your friends, to your parents. The two of you had grown up together, just slightly out of each other's circles. There were two or three people who were your 'friends of friends' that connected you, before Mingyu was the first official bridge between the two of you in the seventh grade. You went on to date Mingyu for three years during high school, before you wound up going to a different university than he did – but attended with Wonwoo, instead. You hated to admit it, but you knew that you clung to Wonwoo like gum did a shoe. You hid behind his broadening frame at fraternity parties, you would ask him over to your dorm (and later, your apartment) for game nights. You eventually started baking for him – cookies, cupcakes, the like. And then you met Seungcheol, on your way to Wonwoo's apartment. You slammed into him, painting his white t-shirt and shorts in pink icing – and you remembered stuttering over your words as you watched his brows furrow while he wiped icing off his stomach. He ended up clicking his tongue, nodding his head and shrugging.

"I guess you can call it avant garde, right?"

The two of you exchanged numbers, and you wound up being late to Wonwoo's place – but at that time, it didn't matter. Not when you scored a date with an older boy that had pouty lips and the thickest thighs you'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. Wonwoo had noticed you were giggly that night, but chose to brush it off when he walked behind you and saw you typing away to an unsaved number.

You and Seungcheol ended up dating for about a year, but the jealousy issues began before your relationship even started. He knew Wonwoo, and they were on the same soccer team – but something about the way Wonwoo spoke about you seemed to tick him off. No matter how often your lips were on his, your hands on his body, your body in his bed – Seungcheol's eyes always narrowed at the sight of Wonwoo floating around you for whatever reason, even if you initiated contact. 

You cheered at all his games, but Wonwoo was also there even if you wore one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You invited him to your bake sales, yet Wonwoo was always the one taste testing your recipes. You invited Seungcheol to your birthday dinner, and Wonwoo was naturally there.

Wonwoo recounting memories of you as a kid at dinner was what made Seungcheol make the decision to break up with you the following week. He paced around his apartment while you sat on his couch, rattling off all the ways that Wonwoo spoke about you that meant so much more than just a platonic love.

And you didn't comfort Seungcheol, or refute his thoughts. 

In fact, you denied them. You said there was no way Wonwoo saw you as anything more than his friend, you insisted that Wonwoo seeing you in the worst moments of your life was enough to make him feel icky about dating you.

It wasn't until Seungcheol crouched in front of you, holding your hands in his that you understood that he wasn't kidding. He told you that part of growing old together and being in love is seeing each other in those situations and still choosing to care and stay. He told you that Wonwoo holding your hair back as you threw up, Wonwoo knowing all your siblings' names and their favorite things, Wonwoo seeing you riddled with the flu and gross stomach bugs…

Wonwoo cared about you far more than he let on.

You left Seungcheol's apartment that night with a heavy heart and holding the stained white shirt from the first day you met him in your hand. It was still soaked in his cologne, and you remember crying yourself to sleep for two weeks straight.

Wonwoo had been there, and when you told him everything Seungcheol had said – he'd apologized.

He didn't deny anything. He didn't refute any of Seungcheol's feelings.

He apologized, for both making Seungcheol feel that way as well as being the straw that broke the camel's back. You hadn't known what to say, so you just offered to let him stay over and bake cookies with you.

He did, and the two of you gorged yourselves on white chocolate chip cookies while watching White Chicks. You cried again while he was there, and he wiped your tears and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He held you close as you pouted into his shirt, the soft scent of patchouli from his cologne settling into your skin as a blanket of comfort.

You also remember peering up at him through teary eyes, and his lips instinctively pressing to your hairline. His mumbled words never left your mind, either.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”

You didn't date again for a bit after that, and Wonwoo made it a point to introduce you as his friend any time the two of you hung out. It made you feel odd, the way he forced the agenda that you were his friend and nothing more when you had no issue just going with the flow. You understood he didn't want a repeat of your relationship with Seungcheol, but it felt like he was forcing something more than just the label of your friendship.

People often asked if something had happened between the two of you — of which you always denied casually. If they asked Wonwoo, he would scoff, as if he were offended anyone would ever think you were more than just his friend. As if it was gross, or repulsive, to see you as a woman and not just the girl he grew up with. You met Hansol the next school year, a cheeky cinematography freshman that frequented your bake sales. Wonwoo met him there as well, and was the reason you and Hansol met formally. Apparently, Wonwoo and Hansol were both in the AV Club, where Wonwoo also met his first girlfriend: Lee Jaehee.

Lee Jaehee...  

She had also been quite the frequenter of your bake sales. She enjoyed your slutty brownies and the strawberry blondies you made, and the two of you had been so close to becoming friends when Wonwoo asked her out. He'd even asked you to bake something for her and you did it happily, free of charge. However, Wonwoo asking her out meant her finding out that you and him went back over two decades, and the same look that settled in Seungcheol's brows, settled in hers. It was painful, to see how she would tense at your presence at Wonwoo's soccer games, ones you'd always attended. It hurt your feelings to see her give you a quick smile before passing by your booths at the bake sales, not bothering to stop by for a nibble or a chat.

It pained you to know that Wonwoo missed your birthday dinner that year to spend the weekend with her, instead. You wound up going over to Seungcheol's apartment that night, and he comforted you as best as he could – by offering a drink and inviting his friends Jeonghan and Joshua over to entertain you. Despite it all, Seungcheol never really held any resentment towards you – but he did have zero problem telling you how blind you were.

You ignored it, too.

You didn’t like the odd feeling you got in your chest thinking about Wonwoo in any way that wasn’t platonic. You weren't stupid – Wonwoo was incredibly profound with a hint of goofy humor. He was smart, and tall…and handsome…God, he was so handsome, it made you want to bite your fist.

So the idea of his hands on you? His lips on yours, his bed being more than just a drunken sanctuary…

It was too much for you to handle. 

You started dating Hansol during the first semester of your senior year of college. He'd just become a sophomore, and everyone around him had been incredibly surprised that the senior sweetheart at the bake sales stopped making her incredibly soft peanut butter cookies. The reason? Hansol, and his allergy to peanuts.

No one said shit after that, only cooing at your boyfriend's blushy cheeks from your attention.

Your relationship with Hansol also came as a surprise to Wonwoo, and he found out in the strangest way – by walking into your apartment using his spare key and seeing the two of you getting frisky in the kitchen and covered in flour. You hadn't heard him come in, and didn't seem to sense his presence in the threshold of your kitchen. You don't know it, but Wonwoo has the image of you burned in his mind. The slope of your neck as Hansol kissed down it, the way your shirt was pushed up to reveal flour-covered handprints on your bare chest, the way your thighs were flexing around your boyfriend's waist… The sound of your whimper into Hansol's mouth.

He then made his presence known by coughing exaggeratedly, and you and Hansol almost slipped. Wonwoo rolled his eyes as Hansol yanked your shirt back into place, clearing his throat and greeting Wonwoo.

"How long have you been there?"

"Long enough to know that there is no way eating flour out of each other's mouths is sexy." Wonwoo had come over to tell you that he and Jaehee broke up, and he did tell you – but on his way out of your apartment. You could barely hear him as the door closed, but you were also trying to finish what you and your boyfriend started in the kitchen — so you filed it to the back of your mind as you invited Hansol to join you in the shower.

It wasn't until after graduation that you decided to open a pastry shop. However, you were unsure that your at-home learning was enough to satisfy a gaggle of clientele – and decided to start applying to pastry schools. You’d already obtained a business degree, which made the idea only cement further in your head. Hansol had been incredibly supportive, even going as far as sending you applications and fee waivers while he was in class and you were driving around Seoul with Wonwoo looking for work for the time being.

Then you got a letter back from a pastry school in New York City, and Hansol was ecstatic. He paid for your flight and even took a week off school to go visit it with you. He wound up setting up meetings with realtors so you could get an apartment, and the two of you even went as far as looking at empty lease spaces where you could open a business.

You accepted the offer, and the school covered your flight back to Seoul and then back to New York City. Your parents covered your first year of rent at an apartment in SoHo, after you sent back videos of you spinning in the SeaGlass Carousel and having dinner at Shuka.

However, something changed when you went back to Seoul to pack your things. You also realized you had done all of this without even mentioning it to Wonwoo, who seemed slightly distant when you finally met him for dinner at his place after packing up your apartment. Mingyu and Tzuyu had also been there. Hansol also seemed distant for a few days, not bothering to answer your messages or calls. You showed up at his apartment, only for Seungkwan to answer the door with a knowing look and tell you he wasn't home. You remember scowling, and pushing past Seungkwan to see Hansol asleep in his bedroom, tucked away with a Star Wars blanket you'd bought him for his birthday. 

You picked a fight, and Hansol wasn’t having it — said he wasn’t in the right headspace to have this conversation, and asked to rain check it for a better time. You argued there was no better time than the present, and his swollen face (whether from tears or sleep, you were unsure) was enough to make you back off for the time being. He quietly asked you to join him in his bed, and you reluctantly kicked your shoes off and did just that.

He promised he still cared, and promised he still loved you, but it felt different, the way he held you. Like a last hurrah, like a ‘goodbye’ and not a ‘see you later.’ Like things were going to end and there was nothing you could do to change his mind.

You couldn't say you were surprised that Hansol broke up with you a month later, but you were certainly hurt. Wonwoo was also nowhere to be reached at this point, your calls going straight to voicemail and your texts going unread. You assumed he'd finally landed a gig, but it was still unlike him to not respond to you, of all people.

At least, you thought that was what had happened, until you saw his Instagram story.

You stopped wondering where he'd been after that.

It had been four years since then. You hadn't gone back to Seoul once, not even for Christmas or when your parents begged you back. You called for birthdays, you sent gifts out two months in advance. You sent photos of your shop, of your apartment, of you and Euijoo.

Your parents didn't really care about the ones Euijoo was in.

You finally opened your pastry shop in the middle of Harlem – two years after arriving in New York, tweaking your recipes to cater to the local clientele. Your shop was always full of customers and you loved what you did – but most of all, the people loved you. They loved seeing how easily you won people over, how you celebrated your accomplishments by putting even more effort into your business, how your employees cared about you and your shop.

You truly became an essential part of some people's lives – Ms. Julianna who came in every morning for a chocolate éclair; Mr. Cortéz came in every Saturday morning for a box of mixed empanadas and one butterscotch cupcake for his granddaughter, Elisa; Mrs. Stegenga sliding in every Tuesday for a strawberry tart and a cup of unsweetened whipped cream for her dog, Harley. 

Euijoo came in everyday as well, but not for a pastry – but to bug you. You'd kicked him out a few times, shoving a warm cinnamon twist into his mouth or an iced matcha with cheese foam into his hand – but he always floated back.

Which was odd, since he didn't have a car and it took thirty minutes to get from your apartment in SoHo to your shop in Harlem. Where he was getting the money for the taxi, or to load his Metrocard was beyond you – the son of a bitch didn't lift a finger.

Now, you're here. You're still at your shop, while Euijoo is likely sprawled out on your king-sized bed, with his outside clothes still on. You're grimacing to yourself as you smooth icing out on one of the cupcakes, your brow furrowed as you hear Wonwoo sigh.

"I miss you." And just as fast as it was said, he moved on.

"Since you're not going to sleep, how was your birthday? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call, I've been slammed with projects. Tzuyu booked me for engagement photos, isn't that crazy?" Much like your friends missed out on your life, you missed out on theirs. Mingyu and Tzuyu opened a restaurant in the middle of Seoul, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu had their first daughter, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu got engaged, and you missed it. You wouldn't be surprised if you missed their wedding, too.

Wonwoo? He opened a photography studio. He did weddings, all sorts of parties, maternity shoots. He did boudoir shoots for a bit, before handing them over to his business partner, Saerom. She had been introduced to Wonwoo through a few contacts at your old university, and he took her on as an apprentice. She now accompanies him to many shoots and gigs, usually taking the reins if Wonwoo loses his patience or gets too overwhelmed.

You'd seen his photos displayed at a few galleries after you left for New York. Your mother went and took pictures of his exhibits, his shy smile hidden behind flutes of champagne. You congratulated him via text, only to receive a thumbs up in response and nothing more.

"Yeah, that's crazy. Listen, Woo, I'm gonna try and focus on this. I'll call you later, yeah?" You sighed, frustration evident in your voice. You watched as Wonwoo struggled not to roll his eyes as he tongued his cheek, before nodding.

"Sure thing. Get some rest."

He hung up before you could respond, and you looked at the FaceTime log. Eight missed calls from Wonwoo over the last few days, three missed calls from Tzuyu and two from Mingyu.

Your friends missed you, across the world. You were missing every precious moment of theirs.

And instead, you were here. Frosting cupcakes at almost three in the morning, while your do-nothing boyfriend enjoyed the warmth of your apartment. Frosting cupcakes, while your parents begged you to come home for a few days at the very least.

The money here was good. It always had been, and you'd built such a good connection with your clientele and you couldn't imagine abandoning it all because you were homesick.

But you missed home. You missed your mother's hearty soups, you missed your father serving you dinner instead of you serving Euijoo after a long day of doing that for strangers. You missed Tzuyu's light laughter, Mingyu's warm embraces…

Wonwoo. God, you missed Wonwoo.

You remember sending him a photo of your storefront as the sign was finalized, the baby blue calling to the eyes amongst the red brick.

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] look at it! goyangi sweets is officially in business! (read: 1:09PM)

Msg From: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] goyangi?

Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡ [11/09] what the fuck are you doing awake? it's 3am in seoul [11/09] yeah, goyangi. i miss you (read: 1:10PM)

He hadn't answered after that.

Sighing, you clicked your tongue and leaned against your stainless steel counter. You grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, prying the warm dessert in half and smearing a bit of frosting on the inside, shoving it into your mouth. You closed your eyes as you chewed, letting your shoulders sag at the sweet treat that made all the stress worth it.

It was worth it, right? The money and the love from the locals, the feeling of physical success…it was enough. It was worth the lonely nights you yearned for 

You wiped your hands, moving to the front of the shop and dragging the metal divider down to block the view of outsiders. You weren't opening the shop today, no. You're going to go home, and kick Euijoo out of your bed and sleep.

That's all you need. Some sleep.

– SOPHOMORE YEAR: SEOUL HAWKS VS YONSEI EAGLES, SEMIFINALS.

"We have No. 08, Choi Seungcheol approaching the goal area for the freekick. Choi is the team captain for the SNU Hawks, and the only PreMed student on the team. He has also scored fifty-six percent of all game-winning goals this season, and we're hoping this kick gets them into the Championship bracket."

You were on the edge of your seat, your frame being swallowed by one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You were alone in the stands for the first time – Mingyu and Tzuyu were stuck at the concessions stand. Unfortunately, you were also the only person on this side of the field wearing an SNU jersey, and trying not to tweak out as you listened to Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin talk about your boyfriend over the PA.

"Oh, oh, looks like Choi is not taking the freekick after all?" Jimin's voice was clear, and the crowd collectively sighed as Seungcheol analyzed the players and shook his head.

You were barely able to sit down as you watched him jog over to his referee, making motions with his hands and arms when you saw Wonwoo crossing the field in a sprint. He slid next to Seungcheol, who pulled him closer into the circle and kept talking. Wonwoo's brows were furrowed as he nodded, breathing heavily before wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "It seems Choi has nominated No.17, Jeon Wonwoo, to take the freekick instead. Jeon is the second in command, dedicating two years of his college career to this team. He's scored sixteen percent of the game-winning goals this season, opting to stay in the shadows." You didn't like that.

"Alright, alright…it seems we're lining up…Eagles are looking fine this year, aren't they?" "Jeon, that's inappropriate." "What, man? You're going to look at Kim Yugyeom and say I'm wrong?" "Jungkook, they can hear you."

"Hey, shit. Here's your soda." Tzuyu slides in next to you, and you don't unglue your eyes from the field as you reach and fumble for your drink. The straw poked your hand as Mingyu slid past you, making you scowl as you swatted his leg for him to sit down.

"Wonwoo's taking the kick? I thought it was going to be Cheol." Mingyu muttered, taking a bite from his hot dog. You nodded, watching as Wonwoo shook his head while still talking to Seungcheol. His hands were moving rapidly, likely explaining why Wonwoo didn't want to make the kick. Your boyfriend only gave Wonwoo a stern look, and you could make out the words falling from his lips.

"I believe in you. Kick the fucking ball."

You watched as the Eagles made their wall, their goalie shaking his legs out. Kwon Soonyoung, you remembered – you'd met him at a frat party at Yonsei a few weeks back. Seungcheol had gone with you, making friends with the enemy (more like scoping out his competition. Sneaky bitch.) "C'mon, Woo." You mumbled to yourself, grabbing Tzuyu's hand for support as she shoved a nacho into her mouth. You were too amped up to eat, this kick was the one that would settle the score – and it was all on Wonwoo.

You knew Seungcheol wouldn't put anyone he didn't trust on this sort of line. Yeah, he had an issue with how close you and Wonwoo were, but his team was important to him – he'd built this one on his own, handpicked, the best of the best. You trusted Seungcheol knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't set up Wonwoo for failure…

…And he didn't, as you watched Wonwoo's kick bounce off the goalpost and straight into the net – just barely missing Soonyoung's fingertips.

"THE HAWKS ARE GOING TO THE CHAMPIONSHIPS!"

You cheered happily, the only one besides Mingyu and Tzuyu – and earned the nastiest of glares from Yonsei students as you ran down the steps of the bleachers. Seungcheol was jumping with his arms around Wonwoo and another player, Wen Junhui, when you pushed past them to get to your friend.

"Wonwoo! That was fucking amazing!"

He just shook his head, aiming the water bottle into his mouth as he gestured towards Seungcheol.

"That's all Cheol's idea. Mastermind behind it all." You whipped around to see your grinning boyfriend being shaken by Mingyu, trying to pry himself from your friend's embrace as you felt the cold splash of the water cooler being poured on Wonwoo. It went down your back as well, making you squeal as you jumped out of the way. Seungcheol reached his arm out to you, and you grabbed his hand as his teammates picked a soaked Wonwoo up and onto their shoulders.

"We'll meet you at the parking lot!" Mingyu yelled as he and Tzuyu trailed after them, and Seungcheol only gave a thumbs up. It was customary that the entire team went to dinner together, usually still in their stinky and sweaty jerseys but Seungcheol had long refused to let the team be represented that way. Everyone went home to get themselves together, then he footed the bill.

"Cheol, that was great! You're going to the championships!" Your smile was hurting your cheeks as he nodded, pulling you into his chest. He was sweaty and overwhelmingly warm, but you didn't care as he plucked the fabric of your wet shirt off your back in greeting.

"You know…you could've greeted me first." "Oh, not this again! Seungcheol, Wonwoo is just my friend." "I know he is, Y/N." Seungcheol said pointedly, but you felt scrutinized under his arched brow. You felt your lip jut out into a pout, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"C'mon, you can come over to mine and change." He swept your hair back over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your neck. You frowned, your hands floating to his wrists as he shook his head.

"Tell me you love me, Cheol." "I love you, honey. Come on."

It wasn't a lie. Seungcheol did love you, but it'd slightly become less of a romantic love as the months pressed on. He couldn't get over the odd feeling in his stomach when he saw Wonwoo's soft gestures towards you, the way Wonwoo served your drinks at the parties you went to, the way Wonwoo behind a camera made you smile easily – far easier than necessary for someone that was just your friend.

He hated how you didn't see it, the way Wonwoo was in love with you. He could see it, and he knew it was the truth: Wonwoo would visibly tense at the sound of your name. Seungcheol remembers when Junhui asked him his plans last week, and how Wonwoo grimaced when Seungcheol said he was taking you on a date night.

He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like feeling like his jealousy was festering in the pit of his stomach while you saw it as nothing more than just friendly banter. Granted – Wonwoo never flirted with you, never touched you inappropriately, he never crossed the line.

But the soft compliments he gave you? The gentle swipe of your hair off your face and the adjustment of your necklaces?

The way he calmly called your name, or sweetheart from across the room…

And you listened.

It wasn't your fault. Seungcheol knew it wasn't, and he felt like a fool to keep feeling so much resentment towards Wonwoo – especially when Wonwoo also made it strictly known that everything he felt was platonic.

It just didn't feel that way.

"I love you, Cheol." "I know, honey. Now…let's get dinner?"

– FIVE YEARS AGO: INCHEON AIRPORT TO LAGUARDIA, NEW YORK.

"I'm sorry."

You were standing in the middle of Incheon Airport, your duffle bag tucked over your shoulder when Hansol dropped the bomb.

"Sorry?" You whispered, your voice shaky as the reality of his words sank in.

It'd been a few days since you packed your last box and dropped it off at your parents' house. Hansol had gone with you, warmly greeting your parents and sitting in your living room, your mother showing him baby photos. You remember feeling your heart race at how Hansol traced your face in the pictures, before glancing up at you.

The wild beating in your chest hadn't been positive, and there was a glint of knowing in Hansol's eyes. The relationship was over, it was just a matter of who pulled the plug, and when. It had been a month or so since you settled everything in New York, and a month since either of you spoke about it. You had gone to his apartment and looked to pick a fight – but the fight never happened. He pulled you into him, and you had snuggled in his bed. You kissed, you watched movies…

But it was a goodbye and you denied it. In your heart, in your mind, you wanted to deny it. It was a good thing, wasn't it? To be in New York and know that Hansol had connections there? His sister lived there. If he wanted…if he wanted, he could come with you. Transfer to a university in New York, and it would be worth it. To study in a place he once called home, to breathe in the inspiration of the city that has been the background of hundreds of films, the breeding ground of insane creativity? And if not…what about you? Were you enough to want to move in with? Did he see a future with you where things were more than just college sweethearts who stayed over at each other's apartments more than four times a week? Did he understand who you were, to the depths – the need to love, because you were overflowing with it?

Did he see a future where you were more than just attached at the hip with Wonwoo?

The truth was, he did. He saw it all with you – the apartment, the marriage, hell, even a kid or two. He saw all of it, a ring and a career alongside you and to see all your hopes and aspirations grow into something tangible. He saw it.

You didn't.

"I know it's shitty of m-me to do this, especially n-now." He held back his tears, but his voice shook with bitten back sobs anyway. "But I can't. I c-can't do long distance."

Somehow, he knew you knew that wasn't the real reason. He knew, from the way the back of your eyes filled with hurt and betrayal, the grip on your duffle making the strap burrow into your hand. The way you bounced on your toes, once, twice – before nodding. A singular tear rolled down your face.

"It's okay. I understand." Your voice had been surprisingly steady as he hesitated, before reaching his arms out. You stepped into them, and somehow felt the weight off your shoulders as he hugged you tightly. "I'll miss you, Sol." "I miss you already, babe. Please call me when you land, okay? I'll be up, I swear."

You had called him when you landed. He'd arranged to have a car pick you up and take you to your new apartment. He finally cried on the phone, and you sobbed with him as you made your bed and settled in.

After six hours of reminiscing and crying on the phone, you hung up for what you thought would be the last time. He wished you good luck, and to call him whenever you wanted. And God, you wanted to.

But just like Wonwoo, you left it alone. Six months, not a single word.

– PRESENT: LAGUARDIA AIRPORT TO JEON WONWOO, HOME.

You looked into the empty space you used to call your second home. Gone were the calming periwinkle walls, the gold-detailed pastry cases. Gone were your cherry wood bar stools, the wicker recliners in the corner, the play areas for children. 

Your shop was gone, and you held the keys in your hand one last time.

"End of an era, huh? Where are you going to go now?" Mr. Cortéz was next to you, holding his granddaughter on his hip as you sighed.

"I'm not sure. I'm going to miss Harlem, but I know that…this isn't home." You said sheepishly, running a hand through your hair. He nodded, patting your shoulder with a sympathetic smile.

"We're going to miss you here, mija. You will always have a place in Harlem with us." To say you wanted to cry was an understatement, but you just blinked the tears back as you allowed him and his granddaughter to envelope you into an embrace. "I left my cupcake recipe with your wife, so you can always make them for Elisa. I'm going to miss you."

"Be safe, okay? Don't give up on your dreams." He patted your back softly, and you held back a sniffle as your leasing agent gave you a soft smile. Goodbyes were never something you were good at, but you couldn't say anything more as you handed your keys back to the leasing agent and turned to your packed car. You grimaced at the sight of Euijoo's neck pillow still in your passenger seat, and you reached in through the window to grab it and shoved it in the trash.

You sighed, glancing up at your empty shop once more before slipping into the driver's seat, gripping the glittery wheel cover. You blinked once, twice, before shoving your key in the ignition and pulling out of your parking spot. 

You truly had no idea if this was the right decision. In your mind, you weren't sure.

But your heart?

You broke up with Euijoo a few months ago, and kicked him out of your apartment. You slowly started selling everything in the apartment, only packing your essentials and finding a wholesale thrift to take all your furniture from the pastry shop. You closed the shop officially a week ago, and did a mass bake sale to finish all your products. 

You went back and forth to Seoul without telling anyone, finding a cozy apartment in Gangnam and meeting with a leasing agent there to open a shop. Your parents long stopped asking you to come home, but you couldn't help and feel giddy as you walked around the city – gorging yourself on hot street food and buying furniture for your new apartment without interference.

Now? You just had to board your plane. You'd sold your car to Euijoo's brother, Hyunjin, and he was waiting at the airport to take it once you left. You had zero plans of telling anyone anything, and you'd be landing in Seoul the day before your birthday. You could catch up on any sleep, and then visit Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant. Maybe get dinner there, maybe catch up with the couple…

Maybe surprise Wonwoo.

Yeah, that sounds like the plan.

"Nice change of scenery, finally took a vacation?" Wonwoo's voice is once more staticky through FaceTime, and you've got him propped up in your new bathroom. You hadn't said anything about leaving New York yet, but you shrugged as you carefully lined your lips.

"Mhm, could say that. Finally get to do shit without Euijoo weighing me down. What are your plans tonight? Going to Gyu's?" You ask nonchalantly, but you can feel your hands trembling as you put down your lipliner. If Wonwoo notices, he doesn't say anything.

"Actually, I'm going to swing by the restaurant in a bit. We always call you for your birthday, you know, so it's funny you called me first." He nods lightly, but you know Wonwoo too well to think he's not even slightly suspicious. "Wanted to beat you to it, I guess. I feel alone here a bit, the resort is super nice but I'm so…ugh, I don't know. I might go out for a beer, see what kind of trouble I can get myself into." You wiggle your brows in the camera, and Wonwoo snorts. He swings his keys in front of him, shaking his head as he speaks.

"Not too much trouble, I hope. Have you talked to your parents yet? I know your mom misses you, you've been even more MIA since you and Euijoo broke up. I commend it, don't get me wrong, but still. Where the hell have you been?" "Healing." You shrug, smushing your cheek with the palm of your hand. Wonwoo doesn't look like he believes you, but you only give him a soft smile. He tries to bite his back, tonguing his cheek as he huffs. 

"You look happier. I like that." "I feel happier, Woo." It's not a lie. You feel so much lighter being back in Seoul, knowing that your family and friends are no more than a train ride away.

You pretend to check your watch, sucking your teeth.

"Shit, I'm going to miss my dinner reservation. Will you still call me when you get to the restaurant? I miss you guys." You pout, tucking your hair behind your ears as Wonwoo nods.

"Yeah, no worries. Be safe, and don't get too tipsy. I can't hold your hair when you throw up from all the way over here, you know." He scolds, making you giggle.

"Got it. I'll see you, yeah?" You nod, and he does the same.

"See you, sweetheart." The call goes dead as your heart registers the pet name, but you immediately rustle out of the bathroom to catch a taxi. You're wearing a black crew neck over a nice pair of jeans, paired with your favorite dirty Chucks in forest green. You grab your winter coat off the hook by the door, tugging it on and shoving your phone in your pocket. Checking the coat pockets for your wallet and keys, you find both in the left pocket and practically slam out of your apartment.

Not having been to Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant definitely proved navigating there to be difficult. You got out a block away from the actual spot, tugging a face mask over your face and pulling the hood of your coat over your hair. You take a deep breath, taking a step forward when you see a tall man step out of a taxi, a black coat covering broad shoulders. Thick frames sit on his nose, the lower half of his face covered by a black mask. You squint your eyes to see closer as he hands the driver a wad of cash, and the crinkle of his nose proves it's exactly who you're looking for.

Jeon Wonwoo.

You stay rooted in your spot as he walks coolly into the restaurant, holding the door open for a woman and her daughter to slip out. The daughter's eyes widen as he moves past them, her cheeks flushing as her mother rushes her off the sidewalk. What a funny thing, to see someone else experience the same things you do.

Over the year that you decided to leave New York, you spoke to Hansol and Seungcheol a lot – even after promising 'this is the last call,' you called them again and again. As it turns out, he too felt that Wonwoo was a bigger part of your life than he could ever be, but it didn't hit him until he found out Wonwoo had missed every single AV Club meeting in the two weeks following him finding out that the two of you were dating. Wonwoo didn't speak to Hansol directly for over a month, until Hansol confronted him and got the answers he was looking for.

Wonwoo had long been in love with you, and had gone over to your apartment initially to, yes, tell you he'd broken up with Jaehee; but he also went over there to confess to you. He'd brought over a bouquet of pink camellias, but left them on the porch in case he caught you at a bad time – and Hansol later found out he threw them away on his way out of your apartment complex.

At first, Hansol had nothing to say on the matter. You were his girlfriend — but he couldn’t lie to himself, the guilt of knowing Wonwoo had been in love with you for so long was starting to eat away at him. With a reluctant heart, he ended things; only for Wonwoo’s dumbass to not make a move and let you slip away to New York.

You'd also heard from Seungcheol and Hansol that he hadn't kept a girlfriend around for too long since – nothing to write home about. He didn't introduce any of them to anyone, just soft launched here and there on social media but mostly kept the "situationships" to himself. 

The only hope you had in your belly was that your plan would go, well, according to plan. You'd ordered a bouquet of flowers, pink camellias, to be delivered to Wonwoo at the restaurant after you arrived. After that…okay you didn't plan anything after that, but spontaneity is cool, right?

You wipe your palms on your coat, taking a deep breath as you walk towards the door. Yanking it open, you hear the doorbell alert the people inside – only to see a few people scattered around. Mingyu is wiping a glass down behind the bar and Tzuyu is sitting on a barstool next to Wonwoo, her left hand sitting atop her belly.

With a huge rock on her ring finger. "Welcome to Hana's! Have a seat anywhere, we'll be right with you!" Her voice is just as warm as ever, and you find yourself forcing your feet to move, ducking your head as you head towards the back of the restaurant. You see Mingyu lean over to grab a bottle off the wall, and you slide into one of the booths where you're out of sight but they're not.

You can hear them start to talk about you, Mingyu pouring Wonwoo a beer and sliding it across the bar.

"Has Y/N spoken to either of you?" Tzuyu asks, and Wonwoo clicks his tongue.

"Yeah, she called me earlier. It was a little odd, considering we always call her. But it's her birthday, I'm not going to badger her for answers. Plus, she's on vacation for once. Can't complain." He shrugs, and Mingyu laughs softly.

"Vacation? Where? Did she say?" "I didn't ask." Wonwoo replies, and Tzuyu snorts. "You'd be a horrible spy, Jeon. Here, I'm going to call her. She's gotten better at answering."  You watch Tzuyu grab her phone off the table, and quickly lower your ringer as far as it will go. She faces the phone towards all of them, and Wonwoo looks unamused as you feel your phone start vibrating in your hand. 

You deny the call, quickly texting her that you're driving to dinner and will call her when you get to the restaurant. A lie, and you can see her frown sadly next to Wonwoo. She puts her phone down, sliding off the bar stool – likely on her way to you.

"Gonna take this order, I'll be right back." She grabs the notepad off the bar, but the ringing of the doorbell grabs her attention. A delivery man with a huge bouquet of flowers slips in, holding the baby blue gift card in his hand.

"For Jeon Wonwoo? Is there a Jeon Wonwoo here?" Wonwoo's eyes go wide, before he clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. That's me, thank you. Does it say who they're from?" The delivery man hands him the card, bidding everyone a good night.

"Well?" Mingyu leans over as Wonwoo puts the flowers down on the bar and flips the card open. His eyes dart back and forth as he reads it, before handing it to Mingyu, who reads it out loud while Wonwoo thumbs the petals.

To Wonwoo,

Thank you for always being someone I can count on, even when I'm halfway across the world. Thank you for looking out for me, and for loving me more than you let on.

Always yours, Y/N.

P.S. Don't forget to call me back!

"Huh." Mingyu clicks his tongue, and Tzuyu grabs the card and scans it. She sighs, holding it to her chest.

"Camellias…" Wonwoo pouts, before his eyes narrow. "They're her favorite. It's like she's trying to tell me something." "Okay, mind reader. What could she possibly have to say that isn't already in the card?" Tzuyu waves it around, and you take it as your chance to slide out of the booth, hands in your pockets. You walk towards them quietly as Mingyu and Tzuyu begin to theorize, and neither of them look your way as you slide into the barstool diagonal to Wonwoo's.

"She probably wants to know what a girl's gotta do to get some service around here." You mumble, and Tzuyu flushes, about to apologize when you carefully slip your mask off.

"But I guess you can treat me, since it is my birthday." You shrug, Mingyu's eyes widening before he covers his face and sinks to the ground behind the bar. Tzuyu scoffs out a laugh, her eyes filling with tears as she pulls your hood off your head, her hands smoothing your hair down gently.

"You're home." She whispers, her belly getting in the way as she pulls you into her. You feel your eyes burn with tears as she buries her face in your hair, your hand moving to pat her back. "I am, I missed you guys." You murmur, and Mingyu hops over the bar to also crush you in his embrace. You can barely see out of your teary eyes, but you can see Wonwoo's cheeks flushed almost as pink as the flowers, the shock in his demeanor evident but he just clears his throat and looks away.

"How long are you here for? A week? A month? Please say a month, you have to meet our kids." Mingyu begs into your hair, and you can barely conjure words as Wonwoo stays silent. "Shit, I'll even buy you a new ticket back to New York if you stay for two months." You don't respond, waiting for the couple to pull away. You wiggle lightly, making them both move back as you wipe your eyes. "I'm here for good. I have a new place in Gangnam, and I'm opening a shop a few blocks from here. I'm…I'm sorry I didn't tell any of you guys." You gesture towards Wonwoo as well, who only tongues his cheek before running the tips of his fingers around the rim of his beer. He nods, "Yeah. Welcome home, sweetheart." "You're not even going to hug me? Some friend you are." You try to joke, and Wonwoo scoffs,before reluctantly sliding off his stool. Tzuyu says something about getting you dinner, skirting out of the way. It seems Mingyu also gets the hint, moving away with the promise of a nice beer.

You're overwhelmed by the same patchouli scent on Wonwoo’s clothes, sweetened with notes of peach as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your own wrap around his shoulders, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest as he breathes you in softly. He nestles his head next to yours, and his breath is warm against your ear as he speaks.

"I've missed you so much, Y/N." He mumbles, and you feel his arms tighten slightly, as if you're going to slip away. "We need to have a serious conversation, though, because I am mad at you."

You scoff slightly, trying to hide your tears as you bury your face in his neck. He rubs your back gently, before pulling away and wiping your eyes carefully. "Later." You only nod, watching Tzuyu carefully walk over with a bowl of hot tofu stew, and Mingyu slides a pint glass across the bar for you.

You spend the next three hours consoling an emotional Tzuyu, and telling Mingyu all about the delicious dishes you tried in New York. He jests that the restaurant would love a pastry chef if you're willing to share your recipes, and you only snort and turn him down softly. You tell them all about Euijoo, only earning scoffs and huffs from the couple as Wonwoo nurses his beer silently. 

You tell them about your shop in Harlem, and how it was actually a call with Wonwoo last year that made you realize that you were unhappy – which made his cheeks flush, but he remained quiet, only nodding along. Tzuyu squeezes his shoulder, and he just nibbles on his lip as you keep talking about all the regulars you had. You tell them about your SoHo apartment and how you often visited the Seaglass Carousel if you were feeling stressed. You promised to take them there someday, if they ever wanted to see what your life was like when you were gone.

They fill you in about their own lives – planning their wedding, having their second daughter in a few weeks. They talk about their oldest, Eunha, and how she's growing up to be just like Mingyu. You hold back tears as they eagerly talk about their budding family and their beautiful relationship, often sharing looks full of adoration and admiration for one another as they spoke. You listen carefully, and Tzuyu even asks if, since you're back, you'd like to be a bridesmaid.

You agree, when Mingyu finally brings out a thick slice of his infamous chocolate cake – one that actually got you into baking but you'd never admit it. At least, not to him.

"Happy Birthday, Y/N! We're so glad you're home, seriously. It's been so dull without you." Tzuyu cheers, allowing Mingyu to light the pink candle in the middle of the slice. You smile softly, tucking your hair behind your ears as they sing to you softly – Wonwoo mouthing along from his stool.

"Make a wish." Mingyu holds it up to you, and you can't help but realize that he's a father now. Tzuyu is a mother, and they have their whole lives figured out. They're so gentle, loving, passionate…and you're still trying to figure yourself out.

Ah, but comparison is the thief of joy.

You close your eyes, sighing before conjuring your wish in your mind. 

You don't notice when Wonwoo takes a quick photo, the flash hidden by Tzuyu's shoulder.

You blow out the candle quietly, opening your eyes to see the couple clapping softly. Tapping the plate, you clear your throat.

"Can I get this in a box? I have some things I need to sort out before the night ends."

Mingyu and Tzuyu share a look, before she glances over her shoulder. You nod as she looks back at you, and she smiles.

"Well, we'll see you more often, right? You have to meet Eunha, and the baby." 

"Absolutely." And you mean it. You mean it as Mingyu boxes up your slice of cake, sealing it into a brown paper bag for you. You inch closer and closer to Wonwoo as the goodbyes become extensive, before splaying your hand across his back. He glances over his shoulder, a jump in his brows as if to say, ready to go?

You bid Mingyu and Tzuyu a good night, and you promise them you'll even try to come by in the morning for Mingyu's mother's oxtail soup. Mingyu says he can't promise there will be any up by the time you come by, but you make Tzuyu promise to save you a bowl. She does.

"When did you sell the shop?" Wonwoo asks as the two of you step out into the street, the cold air making his breath visible as he speaks. "And why didn't you tell me?" You look at the flowers in his arms, how he holds them like a baby.

"I was worried you'd be upset that I gave up." You murmur as the two of you begin to walk seemingly with no direction, earning a sigh from Wonwoo.

“I’m upset that you didn’t even think to tell me anything. I’m supposed to be your friend. One of your best friends, if I’m not mistaken. You move across the world and suddenly that doesn’t matter anymore?”

“Wonwoo, it’s not like that. I just…I should know what I want out of life. I should know where my heart calls home, but it’s only been a person. I’m not sure if the place matters.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair as Wonwoo flags down a taxi.

“Your place or mine?” He mutters, opening the door for you to slide in.

“Yours.” You mumble back, giving the driver a quick smile as Wonwoo shuts the door. He rattles off his address — and it’s the same building as yours.

“…I live there, too.” You whisper, and he clicks his tongue.

“Good to know.” He shrugs, before reaching over and tugging your seat belt on. He clicks in place, choosing to stay silent as the taxi weaves through the busy roads. You want to say something, and you attempt to several times — but he just shakes his head, pressing a finger to his lips as if to say wait.

And wait, you did.

You let him pay the taxi driver and help you out of the taxi. You let him lead you into the lobby, the security guard giving the both of you a curt nod as you duck into the elevator.

Wonwoo only lives a few doors down from you.

“Interesting.” You murmur to yourself. It’s like I’ll always find my way back to you.

He unlocked his door, holding it open for you to slip through. You did, silently toeing your shoes off in his foyer before stepping into his living room. Shrugging your coat off, you watch him flick the lights on.

Everything is so him. From stacked consoles on the side of his television, to a bookcase full of acoustic guitar records and a few thick books. A few of his cameras are strewn on his kitchen table, popped open and film exposed. His record player sits in front of his window, the blinds and curtains pushed open and the window slightly ajar to circulate the air. There is a mug on his coffee table, half full of what you assume to be green tea.

It smells like patchouli, peaches, and home.

His hand takes the bag from you, and he walks past you to place the flowers and the cake on his kitchen counter. He closes his eyes as he tugs his coat off, and you avert your eyes from his form-fitting shirt — opting to turn around and hang your coat on the rack by the door.

“Are you actually here for good? Or was that just something you said to appease Mingyu and Tzuyu?” He mutters, thumbing at the petals of the flowers once more. You sigh, crossing your arms as you sidle up next to him. Your hip bumps his as you lean on the counter, and his eyes avoid yours as you look up at him.

His shoulders are tense.

“I’m here for good, Wonwoo. I missed it here, I missed Mingyu and Tzuyu and I missed my parents.”

“What about me? Did you miss me?” 

His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear it, and you purposely bump your hip to his to garner his attention.

“Of course I missed you.” You whisper, a smile twitching at your lips as he nibbles on his lip.

“Then why didn’t you visit? Why did it take you six months to call me when you first moved? Why…Why did you date Euijoo?”

You feel your chest ache at his questions, the furrow in his brows making you push off the counter, straightening. Sighing, you rest your head on his bicep, the muscle tensing beneath your cheek.

“Sometimes we do things to fill a void, you know? Sometimes we hide from the things we know could be good for us, and look for something we think could be enough, so we won’t ruin or sully what we have already.” You shrug, and he looks down at you again.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I wish I would’ve realized how you felt about me before I left. I mean, I would’ve still gone but I would’ve visited more. I would’ve come back often, tried to make it work. I’m sorry.”

You peer up at him through your lashes, and he just shakes his head.

“My feelings here don’t matter, I’m talking about you.”

“You are a huge part of me, of my life.” You remind him, your hand ghosting over the small of his back as he huffs.

“So you abandoned your life in New York, your dream, for me?” Wonwoo sounds almost offended, and you scoff.

“I abandoned my life in New York because I missed home. I missed my parents, my friends. I miss talking to my friends when we’re all staying up late, not just when I am and I have to go to bed when the gab gets good. I…I missed walking around in the middle of the night with you, and getting heartburn from eating spicy noodles at two in the morning. Can’t I miss home, Wonwoo?”

He clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I guess you can. But you said home for you is not a place, but a person.” 

“I did say that.”

He doesn’t say anything, picking at his nails silently before sighing.

“Did Hansol tell you about the flowers?” He murmurs, and you nod.

“You could’ve talked to me, especially between boyfriends. You had lots of chances, Seungcheol literally aired you out.” You say pointedly, and he rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t going to ruin our friendship because I was feeling something you weren't.”

“And how do you know that I wasn’t?” You raise a brow, and he scoffs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, moving out of the kitchen to go sit on his couch. He leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes as you make your way over and perch on the edge of his mahogany coffee table.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday dinner that one year. I thought if I missed one, it’d be easier to start getting used to not seeing you. I was fully committed to getting over you, to moving on, even if I wasn’t happy with…fuck, I forgot her name.”

“Jaehee.”

“With Jaehee.” He ran his hand over his face, and you sigh.

“That was ages ago, Wonwoo. We move on.” You pat his knee, and he lifts his head to face you. His cheeks are slightly flushed as he takes a breath.

“I don’t want to move on, that’s the problem. You think I haven’t tried? Do you know how many relationships I’ve been in since you’ve left?”

“Mmh, I don’t. Do tell.” You nod, inching slightly closer, resting your elbows on your knees and clasping your hands together. He doesn’t look amused, running an exasperated hand through his hair and closing his eyes.

“I look for you everywhere, and I’ve never even had you. I can’t help but compare every single woman I’ve ever been with to you, Y/N. It’s driving me fucking insane, being in love with you.”

He’s hiding his face in his hands, and you feel your chest grow hot as you hum in response. You shift slightly, your knees bumping his and making him sigh.

“I mean, for years it's been like we're in this odd mesh of limerence and denial. You do something that makes me think, oh, maybe she's into me? You'd seek me out for comfort, for help, for whatever, and I was there. I am there, like an idiot, hoping you'll just get it. Then you date people who are in proximity to me – my best friend, my team captain, the secretary of my AV club. Then you leave. You left, Y/N." 

"I know." You can't recognize the thickness in the back of your throat, the way you swallow around it as he fiddles with one of his rings. "You didn't even come say goodbye, Wonwoo. Hansol ripped my heart out and handed it to me, because of you, and you weren't even there." "I didn't want to see you cry." He mumbles, and you only shake your head.

"You've seen me cry, you've seen me laugh. You've been the reason behind the tears and the laughter. You've seen me in all these weird spots in my life, you watched me date all these men. You were most of the reason as to why these men broke up with me. Yet, you never once thought that I was looking for you?" "Why would I ever give myself that much importance?" He scoffs, and you shrug. "Maybe because I give you that much importance, Wonwoo."

He sighs shakily, leaning back on the couch cushions and swallowing hard. "Did you know I got a few collections displayed in a museum after you left? Your parents went, did they send you photos?"

"Some. I liked the one of Tzuyu and Mingyu in the flower fields." He got up, skirting around your knees and walking up to the bookcase next to his TV. He scours the leather bound books, before a soft aha! falls from his lips, pulling out a green one. He flips it, and you realize it's a photo album.

He hands it to you, sitting back down on the couch. You open it tentatively, your fingers trembling as the photos come into view. They have that digital camera feel to them, a bit grainy and dated. The first photo was old, you could tell just from the image: it was you and Mingyu, sitting around a bonfire at a waterfall you would hang out at during the warmer months, one that went into a lake lined with boulders. You were dating here, and your nose had melted marshmallow swiped across it while Mingyu grinned in the corner of the photo.

"This is an old photo, Wonwoo." "They're all old, you haven't been around." He retorts, before flipping the page.

Another photo of you smiling as you laid out on the flat boulder by the edge of the lake, another of you on the handlebars of Mingyu's bike – you remember that one, it was Mingyu's seventeenth birthday. Another of you with Tzuyu solving a puzzle during one of Mingyu's visits, you and Hansol sharing a cup of lemonade during a snack run after one of Wonwoo's soccer games, you and Seungcheol swinging on a hammock in the park – where you often bumped into Wonwoo taking photos of birds, flowers, life.

There was photo after photo of you, in every moment of your life. There was a photo of the pink camellias he'd gotten for you, there was a photo of his student apartment packed up but one of your cardigans, bright red, stark against the cardboard boxes. This album, full of memories of you through his eyes – without a singular glimpse of Wonwoo, until the last photo.

It wasn't like the other photos – this was high definition, and you remember this photo being taken. You were wearing a pink t-shirt that had belonged to Wonwoo, and a necklace that Wonwoo had given to you for one of your birthdays. You were sitting on his couch, surrounded by Mingyu and Tzuyu. You had a bag of honey mustard pretzels that Wonwoo bought you in your lap, your smile shy and your fingers holding a napkin.

It was the day you finally told them you'd be leaving, just moments before.

And you remember how quietly he'd put his camera away after that, and your friends had settled uneasily around you. Wonwoo sat on his coffee table, eyes worried but masked with a soft smile – just like you were, now.

The album was empty after that, with only two or three pages left to complete it.

"This was an exhibit I arranged for the museum, but I never submitted it. I called it Hanging By A Moment, because that's what…" He takes a deep breath. "That's what this feels like. I feel like I'm just waiting for the moment to end, and I'm not sure in which direction I would prefer it to happen. Sometimes I would stay awake and wonder why I didn't go visit you, but I knew exactly why." You set the photo album on your lap, giving him a gentle look.

"You didn't want to see something that would break your heart." "I didn't want to see you happy with someone else, somewhere else." His voice is thick, and you move to speak but he shakes his head. 

"I didn't want to go somewhere and see you living so well without me, when I'm in shambles without you. I couldn't sleep most nights the first year that you were gone. I found myself still walking towards your apartment with Hansol. Hell, I've even hung out with Seungcheol, routinely, just to feel the influence of you. The essence of what you are, imprinted in the people you've graced with your presence." He's looking down at his hands, a singular tear rolling down his cheek. You feel like you can't breathe around the lump in your throat, as he glances up.

"I don't think I can handle this anymore. I need you to say nothing is ever going to happen between us, that the moment is over. I need you to end this, because if you don't, I never will."

You can't speak, but it doesn't matter – because he keeps going.

"I'd be perfectly content having you within arm's reach for the rest of my life, as long as you're happy. You could be across the world, hell, across the fucking universe and I'd never stop missing you, or yearning for you, or loving you. Befriending you all those years ago has got to be one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made, because I can't imagine a life without you. But loving you, being in love with you? Y/N, that has got to be the biggest grace I've ever been given by whatever God is out there. Nothing has ever been easier than loving you has been, but it is the most painful thing I've ever experienced. So, please. End this, I'm begging you." Your throat hurts from holding back your tears, a soft sob escaping your lips as you turn away. You let the tears run down your cheeks, using your hand to muffle your cries as he just lets his tears drip onto his jeans. You can see, through blurry eyes, the way he wants to reach for you, the way his hands clenched into fists before he shoves them under his thighs. 

It's silent for a moment, aside from shaky breathing and a few sniffles from Wonwoo. You wipe your eyes carefully, trembling hands gripping the edges of the album as you slide it onto the coffee table next to you. He grabs it, using it as an excuse to stand up and move around – Wonwoo always needed to do that after talking. Like he felt the need to exert all his feelings physically.

You also stand, his rug soft under your socked feet as he slides the album back in place. He doesn't turn back around, his hand lingering on the spine of the album as you round the coffee table. You're right behind him, seeing the buried tension in his back and shoulders as he feels your presence. You clear your throat as best as you can.

"I don't want the moment to end." He doesn't move, and you find yourself stepping in front of him, between the bookcase and his chest. He doesn't look at you, but allows your hands to find home on his chest. You smooth his shirt cautiously, before patting him gently.

He glances down.

"You're my home, Wonwoo." You say softly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. Your hand moves to his jaw, your thumb gently tracing circles into his cheek. He has a bit of stubble, despite the cool scent of his aftershave. You can't help but let the sacred words slip from your lips as his eyes bore into yours.

"I love you." He looks away, a shaky sob from his lips making your heart ache as you rest your head on his chest. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, so used to your physical affection in years past that it's just muscle memory at this point – despite his own reserved affections. You're surrounded by his scent, his warmth, him.

"I know it won't be easy. I've been gone for five years, and I've missed so much of your life. I know my apologies count for near nothing at this point, but you can't sincerely believe that I haven't yearned for you every step of my journey away." You're slightly muffled, feeling the metal of his necklace under his shirt as he holds you closer, tighter. He doesn't reply, so you keep going.

"I love you, Wonwoo. I'm sorry I didn't allow myself to feel it before, and I'm sorry that I've made you wait so long. I'll wait, as long as you need me to. As long as you want me to wait, even if I die waiting–" "I'd wait an eternity for you." He murmurs into your hair, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

"You shouldn't say that, Wonwoo." "But I did, and I will. I'd die waiting for you, if that's what it takes."

You sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest. "Are you still mad at me?" For the first time in years, you hear him laugh softly. Your arms tighten around his waist reflexively, a pout on your lips as you peer up at him. "I missed your laugh." He huffs, cheeks tinging pink as he avoids your gaze, carding his fingers through your hair. "I'm still mad at you. I bet you paid a shit load of money for a cab from the airport, didn't you? You could've just told me to come pick you up. I would've done it." "I wanted to surprise you." "Well…what about your apartment? I didn't even get to recommend this place, you probably went through some real estate guy–" "You're just grappling at things to be mad about, aren't you?" "No. I am mad." He grumbles, his lip jutted out in a pout as you smile up at him.

"You sure? Can't I change your mind, my good sir?" You wiggle your brows, and he scoffs, but you see the twitch of a smile on the corner of his lips. He tongues his cheek as your hands move to his face, making him look down at you. "I'm sorry, Wonwoo." He rolls his eyes, your hands squishing his cheeks together. "Prove it." You quirk a brow, "Prove…what?" "That you love me. Prove it." He shrugs, moving your hands off his face and letting them go at your sides. You scoff, gesturing to the air.

"I'm here, aren't I? Isn't that enough?" You cross your arms, a defiant look crossing your features as he sighs. His fingers are warm as they tuck a stray curl behind your ear, your skin prickling as he thumbs at your earlobe.  "Of course it's enough." He mumbles, "You'll always be enough. More, even. More than enough for me."

You think he mumbles I love you.

Your face grows hot as he scans it, eyes heavy with purpose and love. For the first time, you allow yourself to realize how nervous Wonwoo makes you – your heart racing in your chest as you lean closer to him. He doesn't back away, his hand now gently holding your jaw. His thumb rests on the corner of your lip, the weight so comforting. "Kiss me." You do just that, your lips crashing into his as he steadies your body. Your hands fist his shirt as he kisses you slowly, walking you back into the bookshelf. Your back hits it gently, his hands cupping your face softly as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as your fingers circled his wrists. "I missed you so much, sweetheart." "I missed you too, Wonwoo."

He struggles to bite back his smile, your lips pressing a chaste kiss to his before peppering them all over his face. "You can't stay mad at me forever, you know." You speak through kisses, his nose scrunching as you press your lips to it.

"I can certainly try. You know I can hold a mean grudge." "Mingyu ate your leftovers once, Wonwoo. He literally cooked for you everyday of college, you need to let it go." "You're taking his side? Some friend you are." He scoffs, his hands pushing your hair off your shoulders. You wrap your arms around his waist, your chin in the center of his chest as you pout up at him.

"I flew all this way, I confessed my love…and I'm your friend?" He tongues his cheek, swallowing his laughter as he shakes his head. "Well, no. A friend wouldn't leave me for five years and then suddenly show back up–" "Wonwoo." " –And expect me to just forgive her. You could at least try and get in my good graces." You huff, "So you hate me." "No, no. I'm very much in love with you, actually. However, though love is merciful…I am not as much. You said you'd wait." "Wonwoo–" "Ah, ah. You said you'd wait. So you will." He shrugs, running his hand through your hair. He twirls a piece around his finger, "I know that you know how I feel about you, from other people's minds and mouths. I think it's best if I get to show you, truthfully and openly. Don't you?" You say nothing just yet, choosing to stare up at him with a hint of worry in your eyes. He glances down, the hand in your hair coming to gently hold your jaw. "What if you realize you don't want me?" "Oh, sweetheart. I'd be a fool not to want you. Let the sky fall the day I make that stupid decision."

You sigh, moving to rest your cheek on his chest. He hums, running his fingertips across your scalp. 

"It's not everyday you find a muse in someone the moment you meet them. Don't worry about me ever not wanting you, me ever not needing you." You don't reply, feeling your nose burn as your eyes fill with tears. He pats the back of your head, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Come, I need to take your picture. You need to fill the last few pages of that album."

And, you comply. You let him wipe your tears, pressing kisses to your eyelids as he sits you at his kitchen counter. He pulls out a gold candle from his kitchen drawer, sticking it in the cake slice from the restaurant and lighting it carefully. He pushes your hair back, and pulls the pendant of your necklace out to rest in the middle of your chest.

"Smile, sweetheart." He murmurs behind the camera, and you do. You smile, glossed lips swollen from the kisses, eyes full of stars as you stare at Wonwoo behind the flash. "Make a wish, quickly." You lean forward, closing your eyes when you see another flash behind your lids. Smiling to yourself, you blow the candle out, quickly taking it out of the cake slice. He offers a fork, and you lean on your elbows as he takes out a few bottles of soju.

"What'd you wish for?" He asks, unscrewing one of the lids off the bottles. You smirk around a bite of cake, shaking your head as he turns away to rummage for shot glasses.

"I'm not telling you, it won't come true." He scoffs, pulling out a set of shot glasses you'd given him during college. They have Snoopy and Woodstock doodled on the sides – he was always Woodstock, you were Snoopy.

"Oh, come on. Tell me, I'll make it come true." "What are you, a magician? Tell me what else I missed while I was gone." He rolls his eyes, running his tongue over his lower lip as he slides the Snoopy glass over, filled to the brim with fresh soju. You take it carefully, and he raises a brow.

"Tell me your wish, Y/N." You huff, before reaching over to cheers your glass with his. You both knock back the liquor, and you scrunch your nose as you slide it back over to him. He fills it again, and you shift in your chair.

"If I tell you, you'll have to do it." "Stop being so ominous, I hate it when you do that."

He slides the glass back over, only half full as he sidles up next to you. Your hand instinctively wraps around his bicep, and you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

"Promise me you'll make it come true, Wonwoo." "I promise. It's your birthday, sweetheart. I'd bring down the stars if you asked."

– SIX WEEKS LATER: GOYANGI'S HOME, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA.

Wonwoo had done exactly as you asked on your birthday – he kept his word, and tried his best to make your birthday wishes come true. Granted, you underestimated him: he would get both done within the six weeks it took to get your shop open.

After the two of you finished off the thick slice of chocolate cake, Wonwoo asked you to spend the night. You did, and a part of you held back tears as he held you in his arms – mumbling in his sleep. Mumbling about how he loved you, how long he'd waited…

How scared he was you'd slip away, like sand in an hourglass timer.

You'd spent the last month and a half glued at the hip. He took you to visit your parents early in the mornings, who bawled uncontrollably and demanded you'd stay all day. Wonwoo hadn't minded, and he stayed with you for dinner several times – and took many odd photos. He never showed you any of them, but he couldn't let you out of his sight, either.

He accompanied you to all your furniture shopping for the shop, he helped choose the paint, he even went as far as taking your website photos. Which, of course, included photos of you – in the kitchen, in your uniform, making a mess of flour and powdered sugar.

Powdered sugar that he kissed off your lips.

Because neither of you could go more than an hour without seeing each other, you practically moved into his apartment. You were spending almost every night there despite your own bed calling your name like a child does its mother. Wonwoo hadn't been kidding about making you wait, either. He let you kiss him, he told you he loved you, yes – but the dates were casual outings. Dinner, picnics, movies. You had a few game nights, and even went over to Hana's for drinks. You'd decided you were each other's plus ones for Mingyu and Tzuyu's wedding, and submitted such information on your RSVP placards.

You spent time together in copious amounts, something you couldn't ever find a fill of. You made him pastry after pastry, coffee cup after coffee cup, back massage after back massage to ease the tension in his shoulders. He gave you a silver necklace, a small letter W hanging from the center. 

You wore it with pride. He didn't ask you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't let you ask any questions about it, either.

Instead, he made your birthday wishes come true – he asked the Museum of Arts if they still needed an exhibit for the season. When they said yes, he submitted his Hanging by a Moment gallery – with a few new additions. You'd loved it, and had proudly gone to the museum at least twice a week to see it.

Now?

You're both standing in your unopened shop, showing your parents everything. The walls are a muted terracotta with a few tangerine accents, to match the feel of the digital photos of your life through Wonwoo's eyes. You asked him to make copies of the photos for you as well, framing them in thick, gold frames.

All but one, that sat in the middle of them all on the wall. "And this is the final installment." He spoke to your parents softly, before gesturing to a photo split in the middle. One half was you, dressed in all black with the silver necklace he'd given you three weeks ago, and holding Wonwoo's digital camera up to your face. Your smile was peeking out from behind your hand, directed right at him.

And the other half was him. The only photo of him in the entire exhibit – of him holding his digital camera vertically against his face, slightly messy hair and a beige t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him but you loved anyway. You'd taken this photo at a street food stand, and he remembers how softly you kissed his cheek right after.

You stood next to him with a soft smile on your face as your father perused the photos, his eyes watery as he looked at the ones of you in college. Your smile, so young and carefree. Your eyes, full of the same shimmer and light you have now – but now, it's brighter. You seem lighter.

Happier.

You seem like you're home.

"What do you think?" You ask gently, wrapping your hand around Wonwoo's arm. He instinctively covers your hand with his, and your father nods.

"I think you're in love." He shrugs, and Wonwoo's cheeks flush almost instantly. You chuckle, squeezing your hand around Wonwoo's arm before patting his chest.

"I've got some new pastries in the oven, shall we? I'm trying a new recipe." You wiggle your brows at your parents, who both smile as you extend your hands to them. They take them gingerly, letting you guide them into the kitchen. You look over your shoulder, sending Wonwoo a quick wink as you slip inside with them.

And, Wonwoo knows.

He knows you love him, as he stands in this shop – named for him, by you. Walls covered in you, by him. He knows you love him as you smile warmly at him, your eyes sparkling in a way he'd only ever seen with him – never with Seungcheol, or Hansol, or Mingyu.

Just him.

So, what does it matter? The moment, why does it matter? Why not hang onto it, as long as he can? Why not take in every ounce of your light so long as you allow it, and reflect it right back to you? Why not be a mirror of your love, a beacon of the same hope you hold, a star in the sky that also tells you there is something to wish upon?

Why waste it, when he can savor it – the way you look at him, the way you kiss him, touch him, the way you make him feel? How he's gone absolutely mad just looking at you in the mornings, slowly waking up by his side, burying your face into his bare chest? Why waste the moment when he can capture it – your smiles, your tears, the way you cover your face shyly when he compliments you.

Why not live in the moment – the feeling of your lips against his, the way you claw his shirt off, the way you whimper beneath him while fully clothed and untouched? Why not live in the moment, where he gets to hear you laugh like no one's listening, watch you dance like there is no tomorrow? Why not, when you ask him to take the long way home and roll the windows down, singing along to his playlist and feeling the air whip your hair around until your face is frosty from the wind.

Why not live in this moment – when you're so irrevocably in love with him, and he doesn't have to ever question it because you don't even need to tell him? Where you've related him to a cat that always finds its way back home, where you're supposedly the home and you are – but you are also the cat that finds her way home all on her own?

Why not? "Wonwoo? Are you listening?" "Huh? Sorry." He rubs his neck sheepishly, before noticing he's sitting at the bar of your shop, a dulce de leche éclair sitting on a plate in front of him. Your parents are in the corner, holding their own pastries and analyzing the photos once more. You're leaning your back on the bar next to him, your elbows holding you up as you reach over and gently carding your fingers through his hair.

"I said, I love you." "Now, why does it sound like you're scheming? Tell me what you really said." "It is, promise." You chuckle, your hand coming to pinch his cheek softly. He frowns, only making you coo up at him as you brush your lips to his. He glances up quickly, seeing your parents still enthralled by the photo of you and Mingyu at the waterfalls all those years ago. He looks back down, seeing you absently scanning his face as your thumb continues to rub circles into his face.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, before your father turns around and clears his throat. You look over your shoulder lazily, and your father has the pastry plates in his hand. "Your mother and I are going to start heading out now, honey. We've got a long drive back, and I'm sure you want to clean up a bit around here before your big opening tomorrow." "You're right, Dad. Thank you for coming, I'm glad you two could be the first to see it." Your voice is so warm, he can feel all the stress from his days just melting right off him as you walk your parents to the front. He follows suit, lingering behind as you and your parents say your goodbyes. He interjects his own, enveloping both of your parents in a hug before pulling away. You both wave as they get into their car, your mother waving back as they pull into the street and all the way down the road, before their car turns out of sight.

You turn around, your arms crossed as you look up.

"Goyangi's Home. What a name, isn't it?" You sigh, before glancing over at Wonwoo. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your giggle is like music to his ears as your hands rest on his chest, your lip tucked beneath your teeth as you look up at him.

"Well, you're home, aren't you?" "Aren't you, Wonwoo?"

"I am. I love you, you know."

He feels his chest ache in the best way possible, his heart beating twice as fast as you wrinkle your nose at him.

"I know. I love you, honey." So it's fine. It's fine, as Wonwoo lets you kiss his lips once, twice, three times before you slip back into the shop. It's fine, as Wonwoo walks in behind you, his fingers locking the front door so no one mistakes the shop as open. It's fine, as you hand him a broom and make him sweep the shop while you roll out the dough in the back, your hands coated in flour when he comes to steal a kiss.

Or two, or three – until you're pushed against the industrial fridge, his hands wrapped around your thighs as yours tangle in his hair. He doesn't care about the flour. He doesn't care that you'll both be here late to roll out the stupid dough, he doesn't care as long as you're with him.

He doesn't care about the time differences anymore. The kilometers of distance, the aches of missing you. He doesn't care, and he'd do it ten times over just to be worthy of you. 

He doesn't care about how pathetic he might sound as he kisses down your neck, begging you to be his girlfriend, begging you to never, ever leave him again.

He doesn't care about all the painful moments he used to hang onto, because you are the best moment to ever capture.

He cares when you promise that you'll never leave him again, your lips soft against the shell of his ear. He cares when you say yes, you'll be his girlfriend. You'll be anything he wants, for as long as he wants it. So yeah, he'll live in this moment. He'll keep it, hold it, cherish it forever as more whispers float off your lips to one another. I love you.

haologram © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[prlssprfctn]

I think Jason should be allowed to manipulate his family with the "oh, you are my favourite, actually" line. It sounds very flattering to them (because Jason? Jason-I-Want-Nothing-To-Do-With-This-Family-Todd? Admitting you are his favourite? Oh, the hundred per cent bust of ego!) and more to say, this system of manipulation is eternal.

They can argue with each other as much as they want, but none of them would believe the other — Jason Todd is too tsundere to say something like this aloud, to each of them. So, someone is lying. For sure.

(And they are too self-assured in themselves to doubt that they are his favourite. Also, Jason makes every manipulation, specifically individual. So, it is not like he repeats the same confession and reasons. Very believable. Aka: this family needs someone to be open about their love, so they latch on everything and everyone who is willing to admit that openly)

Dick, slightly frustrated: Why are you asking me this favour? You know, I don't usually do these sort of things, I don't really... I don't know, it is too dangerous, I don't like the whole idea.

Jason, face dropping: Oh... Sorry. I shouldn't ask you, just... Dunno, I thought since you are my only big brother, and... Urgh, I guess I am still too attached to you more than to others. You are right. I'll ask Timbers or—

Dick, with his eyes suspiciously wet: oh-

Dick: NO, no. I'll do it. Don't worry. Big brother got your back, Lil Wing!

Tim, frowning: So, am I getting this right — you want me to hack into some system in someone's high school to fix the diploma of a kid who got a ONE bad grade—

Jason: He needs this scholarship. He is a kid of the streets! He can't do it otherwise, and it is not like the world would collapse if you fix one grade!

Tim: Yeah, I don't care about morals, I am just confused. Why would I want to spend my time on this, I am pretty sure—

Jason, dead ass serious: You know I don't like to communicate with this family. I only ever love talking with you, so sue me for thinking you could do me a favour.

Tim, instantly smirking: Ah, so I am your favourite... Well-well, big brother, I guess I can do this.

Damian: I am *not* going to tell you what our father is planning to do with this specific villain. Who do you think I am? An idiot?

Jason, sighing: Damn, and I really thought we had each other's back since League of Assassins.

Damian, scoffing: Emotional manipulation will not work on me.

Jason, all confused: Why would I manipulate you? From all people? I didn't raise you to fall on shit like this.

Damian: Tt.

Damian: Fine. Since, I guess, I owe you for babysitting me...

Bruce: Jason, I appreciate your... strive to help me, but nothing has ever gone well when you worked on cases like that. Let me handle this, and—

Jason, silently sitting down on the armchair, hands on his head: (sniff)

Bruce, panicked: Jaylad?..

Jason: I get it. I really do. No matter how much I love you, no matter how much I keep choosing you over anyone in this family, you don't love me anymore. I really understand it. I... I came in peace with it. I just wished you would tolerate my work... a little bit. You know?

Bruce: No, no, sweetheart, I— I am your favourite?

Jason, sniffling angrily: Who else it could be, old man?

Bruce: Oh. Oh, Jaylad— (instantly hands him the case)

(The family dinner)

Bruce, mentally humming to himself: Oh, these kids have NO idea that I am Jason's favourite because we are connected like that ^•^

Dick, mentally beaming: Oh, no one here has an idea that I am Jason's favourite because I am his big brother and protector! :>

Tim, mentally laughing evilly: Oh, these flops have no idea that I am Jason's favourite and that he wishes I was his Robin!

Damian, mentally kicking his feet: None of my family members suspect that I am Akhi's favourite because he was practically my nanny through all childhood. Tt.

Jason, munching on food: Lol

[wriokitty]

Sukuna is not good at apologizing.

And you? You’re not good at letting go of grudges. The end result is a pretty nasty predicament—you’re mad at him, he’s mad that you’re mad at him, and you’re mad that he’s mad that you’re mad at him. It’s a full circle. The start point and the end point meet and you just don’t know where to begin.

He could always apologize, of course—that would be a lovely start. But he won’t. (He really should, though, you think. It’s his fault).

“Hey,” he says gruffly, “scoot over. ‘S my side.”

You’re taking up the entire bed. A petty, childish, and last resort sort of method to keep him away from you for the night because you don’t think you can handle dealing with him in such close proximity. And of course, you certainly won’t be taking the couch, so that naturally leaves only one option: him.

“Hey. Did’ya hear me?” He scowls, looking at you with deeply creased, deeply furrowed brows and an intense glare that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face. You refrain, however—but only because someone has to be the emotionally intelligent one of the two of you, and it certainly won’t be him. “I said move over—I’m tired as fuck and I wanna sleep.”

“Then sleep,” comes your unhelpful reply.

“They teach you this in the first grade,” he smiles thinly, eyes narrowed into slits as he gives you a sarcastic look, “but you actually have to lay down to sleep. Can’t do that if you hog the entire damn bed.”

“I’m sure they taught you what a couch was in first grade, too,” you counter—and as if to double down on your juvenile, stubborn display of spitefulness, you angle your body to take up more of his side of the bed. “Go ahead and use that if you wanna lay down so bad.”

“And they also teach you in first grade that the couch is bad for your damn fucking back, so move the fuck—”

You cut him off sharply with a rather snobby tone. “That’s not in the first grade curriculum. I don’t know what first grade you went to, but maybe that would explain some of the loose screws in your head.”

He’s had enough. Sukuna is not good at apologizing. And on most days, he’s not that good at being a boyfriend, either. Not by the general standards, anyway. He doesn’t say sweet words or coddle you very much. Sometimes, he’s awkward about affection and doesn’t quite know how to initiate physical touch. And, on most days, he can’t communicate his feelings properly, so they tend to come out wrong. Typically, that manifests in rough, unintentionally harsh words.

He’s not proud of it, but it’s not a switch he can exactly flip off in one day.

But one thing he is good at, however, is worming his way into your soft spot, anyway. It’s a very peculiar, very distinct part of you that for some unknown reason, opens up for him and puts up with his bullshit regardless of what that bullshit is. Fifty percent soft, sweet affection, and one hundred percent stupid, foolish devotion.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

He debates it for a moment—because sometimes even Sukuna doesn’t dare test your limits—before he ultimately decides to go for whatever plan he’s scheming. It turns out his plan involves all two-hundred-something pounds of his bulky, muscled figure draping itself over your body with an exaggerated sigh from him. You flinch, gasping in shock, and he simply gets himself comfortable.

Sukuna is not good at apologizing.

Yet, somehow, he’s even worse at reading the room, evidently. You clearly don’t want him near you, but here he is, arguably closer to you now than he is on the average night.

“Sukuna!” You hiss, trying to push him off as you grumble under his weight, “get off! You asshole, you’re too heavy for—”

“Heavy?” He gasps, “this is considered body negativity.”

“Oh fuck off,” you scowl, “you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what, exactly?” He asks smugly.

Despite it all, there’s something surprisingly gentle about the way he lays on you. His head is perfectly situated to rest against your collarbone, his hands delicately have your hips in their hold, and half of his body is slotted between your legs to keep a good brunt of his weight off of you.

More than anything, he’s a weighted blanket than he is an aggravating boyfriend that you’re trying to avoid.

“Is everything a joke to you?” You glare.

He glares back. Equally as hard, equally as intense, but infinitely more infatuated underneath it all. “No,” he grumbles, “just don’t like goin’ to bed mad. So ‘m here whether you like it or not.”

Some part of you can’t help but soften at that. A small, fractional, tiny amount of you thinks…oh. Oh.

(And yes, there are certainly better ways to express: I would like to go to bed without being mad at each other because I love you too much, but he’s not perfect. Nowhere near it. That much is a known fact quite abundantly by now. But you know what he means, and in you’re being honest with yourself…well, it’s enough.

He’s always enough, even when he seems like he shouldn’t be.)

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble stubbornly.

Your arms wrap around him tightly.

“And I’m still fuckin’ tired and sleepy. What’s your point?”

He tucks his head into the crook of your neck and inhales your scent.

You’re mad at Sukuna. And he’s tired of it. Sometimes, he’s not good at apologizing, and sometimes you’re stubborn about accepting it. In the end, your limbs tangle in bed like this, anyway. You think that’s the only part that really matters.

You sigh, pulling up the blanket to cover yourselves. (Mainly you. He just happens to be there, too, of course. But this isn’t for his warmth, too—it’s just for yours. How cold he is or isn’t through the night is of no concern to you.)

“Night,” he mumbles quietly after some time, “and…and sorry, or whatever. I…well, I just…you know?”

You snort softly at his attempt, giving in and letting your fingers weave into his soft, familiar strands of hair while he relaxes at the feeling.

“We’ll talk in the morning. I love you.”

He smiles a little into your neck. It’s barely-there, but it undoubtedly exists.

“Love you too.”

“A lot, right?” You ask cheekily.

It’s quiet for a moment. You think he’s going to tell you to shut up, or just go to sleep, already. Instead, there’s a hushed mumble of, “yeah. A lot. Now goodnight.”

(You fall asleep rather quickly after that—and admittedly, much easier than you would have if his body was on the couch and not with you.)

Cliche fights before bed that end with a begrudging petty cuddle sesh are my guilty pleasure. My crack if you will

[bet-on-me-13]

Danny is Bruce and Clark's Civilian friend

So! Danny met Bruce and Clark at a Charity Gala promoting his Clean Energy and Technology Company.

It was just something He, Tucker, and Sam had started up after High School to try and do some good in the world, but grew faster than they realized, until they were a rising star in the Green Energy and Technology Business. Really they should have expected it, with Sam's drive for environmental protection and Tucker's love of technology, it was a given that they would push the company farther than anticipated. Danny was mostly just the front-man (aside from helping out Tucker in the Lab sometimes).

The Gala was set up by Sam to raise money for environmental preservation efforts, and Danny was there as a formality since he was the Face of the Business and technically the CEO.

Danny had struck up a conversation with Bruce, having been introduced by Sam, and they were eventually approached by Clark for an interview. He wanted to get their thoughts on the recently proposed Meta Protection Acts, and after the interview Danny decided to give Clark his contact to see if he wanted to do a follow-up. Bruce did the same, and they agreed to talk in the future.

Danny hadn't expected that to be the start of a new friendship.

Bruce and Clark seemed to click instantly with him, and while it took longer they also seemed to warm up to eachother as well. It got to the point where they were talking outside of Galas or Interviews and just called to check up on eachother. It was nice, having friends outside of Tucker and Sam for once.

Oh and also they were totally Dating.

Yeah, it was kind of obvious in hindsight that his two friends had a thing for eachother. Bruce and Clark would always share these looks with eachother before leaving the room, or Clark would check his phone for a message from whenever Bruce texted someone. They seemed to be hanging out without him as well, since they sometimes slipped up and referenced events they experienced together that he wasn't there for.

Of course Clark was publicly dating Lois Lane from his workplace, but listening his coworkers gossip long enough told him what was really going on. Lois and Clark were fake-dating so that Lois could secretly date Superman without being targeted by his enemies as much, and Clark could date a secret partner that none of his coworkers could figure out.

So when he was talking to Clark one day and the man got a text message and suddenly had a bad stomach ache, Danny decided that he should probably let him know that he knew.

"Oh don't worry Clark, I know what's going on. No need to keep up appearance with me around." He said.

"O-oh? Uh, what are you talking about Danny?" Clark asked surprised.

Danny shrugged, "It was pretty obvious in hindsight. The sneaking off, the text messages that got you to leave in a hurry, the secret glances between you and Bruce. After a while it was hard to ignore."

Clark cringed a little, "I just have a nervous stomach, and I have to rush off for work pretty often. That's all Danny."

Danny leveled a glance at him, "So does Bruce also have an upset stomach that just so happens to match up to yours? And why is Bruce following you to your Job? What, is he trying to get a job at the Daily Planet that he owns?"

"O-oh, well- I mean- That doesn't necessarily mean that I'm-" Clark stuttered.

"Calm down man, I'm not going to say anything." Danny reassured him. "It's your business, and nobody has any right to know your personal business unless you tell them. I just figured it out on my own, but I'm not gonna go shouting from the rooftops that Clark Kent is-"

"That's enough Danny, no need to demonstrate, but...thank you." Clark cut him off, "So far only Lois and Jimmy have figured me out on their own, and it's nice to finally have somebody else to talk to about this."

Danny shrugged and patted him on the shoulder, "No problem Clark, if you ever need to talk to me about it I'm all ears."

[slvttyplum]

sukuna and valentine’s day—ever think you would see those three words together? sukuna didn’t get the whole point of valentine’s day but did it anyway just for you, still grumpy and groaning while picking out your favorite things from the store. “here, i got you the damn flowers and chocolates; now stop pestering me.” looking at your smile made his heart full; he couldn’t help but make you happy even if that meant spending money on a “holiday” he denied time and time again. of course, that was just the end result. smiling at you for a few seconds before he began to whine again. he did the same shit every year where the both of you would go back and forth about valentine’s day, and he would groan, saying he wasn’t getting you anything. “use your brain! this is what they want you to do; i’m not getting that damn bag.” then, in the next breath, he would ask how much the purse was—“just in case”—while saying there was only a five percent chance of that happening. sukuna didn’t know peace; he always found a way to put his two cents in when it was time to celebrate something. after finally getting to valentine’s day and admiring how beautiful you looked, his eyes full of love, he just couldn’t let you have the last word. it was foreign to him. he had to let you know every thought that was going through his head; it was only fair since he went ahead and spoiled you, right? “you’re spoiled rotten. i still think this is a load of bull.” a fight all over again, the fight eventually leading to the pretty decorated bedroom he tried his hardest to set up, but it didn’t go to waste, nor did it stop the argument. sukuna’s hands on your hips as he slammed into you, grunting, he tried to talk and spit out more points, but he was consumed by pleasure. he had a fucking loose screw because he was still arguing with you while he stretched you out. “fuck… i just think you need to be appreciative.” while you squeezed around him, sukuna was still trying to prove his point, but he couldn’t think when his cum was dripping out of you. even having the audacity to have you ride him because his leg cramped up, just to keep running his filthy ass mouth. it was all worth it at the end of the day, at least for you; he still found something to complain about, but neither of you would have it any other way. “… you’re not getting anything next year; i’m serious.” until next time. ;)

[sleepyhoon]

i see you (always, forever). - l.hs

synopsis. following your ex boyfriend’s sudden disappearance, lee heeseung seemingly enters your life at the perfect time.

pairing. stalker bf!heeseung x fem reader

genre. dark romance, smut, light humor.

word count. 6.1k+

warnings. swearing, obsessive behavior, stalking, brief mention of drink spiking (doesn’t actually happen), mention of alcohol consumption, person held in captivity, mention of past infidelity, extremely brief mention of childbirth, smut [ consensual somno, oral (fem receiving), p in v, sex toy usage ]. this fic contains dark content and is not at all how i view these idols. minors and ageless blogs dni. 18+ content read at your own discretion.

featuring. hwang yeji & shin ryujin (itzy)

a/n. happy valentine’s day babies!! wanted to do something cute and light but i fear it just wasn’t working out … so this right here is for my dark romance girlies hehe enjoy! drew inspo from the television show “you”! shoutout to bae @yangkkomi for beta reading

Lee Heeseung has the worst case of separation anxiety when it comes to you.

The mere thought of being away from you for too long is enough to send him into a spiral, and you barely even realize the effect you had on him. His naturally clingy nature raised no concerns to you; in fact, you relish in his borderline unhealthy infatuation with you — seeing as your previous boyfriend of ten months disappeared on a random Tuesday afternoon, leaving nothing behind but a note claiming he needed to start a new life.

The week of Park Jongseong’s sudden disappearance was agonizing. Yes, he assured everyone he was okay and simply was moving onto a new chapter in his life, and that no one drove him to make such a rash decision, but something about the situation didn’t sit well with you.

Jongseong wasn’t impulsive in the slightest, and you would argue he was one of, if not the most, mature, level headed men you’ve dated. He was distant at times which often felt unsettling, but had his reasonings and assured you he couldn’t have been happier in the relationship. That was one of your favorite things about Jongseong, how he always knew just what to say to calm your nerves, and how he always had a rational explanation for everything.

Running away so suddenly was out of character for him, and a part of you feared that, despite the note left behind, there was something malicious going on that led to his disappearance.

Your older sister, Yeji, had just given birth and was in the midst of planning her wedding, while your parents deemed themselves as “too busy to deal with your issues”, leaving you to become a shell of yourself without having anyone to confide in. Days turned into weeks of you locking yourself in your apartment, typing your ex boyfriend’s name into the search bar over and over, hoping something new would pop up; but nothing ever did.

After a long, tiring day of Zoom meetings and doing more research on Jongseong, your eyes had begun to flutter shut when a knock on your front door wakes you. Expecting it to be your Doordash driver dropping off a greasy, million calorie cheeseburger and a can of soda, you yell out to leave it at the front door. The knocking persisted, and with a sigh, you dragged your feet all the way to the front door, certainly shocked at the man that stood before you.

You don’t even give him the chance to explain himself before you’re asking, “Why do you look familiar?”

He grins at you, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the cardboard box in his hands. “Unless you’re a book lover we probably don’t know each other; I’m a manager of a bookstore downtown, I’m there all the time.”

“Is it… Brookhaven? You guys have K-pop albums too, right?”

“Book-haven,” he corrects you with a polite nod, “and, yeah, we have albums. Have you been to the shop?”

“A few times.” You mumble, suddenly feeling very self conscious of your outfit choice. With the option to have your camera off during the Zoom meetings, you felt no desire to get dressed for the day, opting to work in your oversized sweatshirt and sleep shorts. 

The unnamed man wore casual clothing — a grey North Face jacket atop a black t-shirt and white cargos — yet, you felt completely underdressed in comparison to him. His gaze was piercing yet gentle, like he carried a certain confidence about himself in a way that didn’t come off as cocky or arrogant. Though, you really couldn’t blame him if he were the conceited type; he was definitely an attractive man.

The silver chain on his neck had been paired perfectly with matching earrings, including a silver hoop on his helix. His hair, though likely not his natural color, suited him perfectly; the subtle curls and waves giving him a classic, boyish look with bangs that fell just beneath his eyebrows.

You clear your throat, gesturing towards the package in his hands, “Are you dropping this off?”

“Yes! Uh, FedEx dropped off some packages at my store yesterday and it looks like this must’ve gotten mixed in,” he explains, extending the package towards you, “I tried calling the number on the label yesterday but no one answered, so I’m just swinging by to drop it off.”

You accept the package, rolling your eyes at the mixup. “FedEx is always doing bullshit.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, “Trust, I’m fully aware. The driver for our block is this old-ass man; I once caught him asleep in his truck.”

You laugh a little too loud at this, inwardly cringing at yourself afterwards as you tuck the package beneath your arm. “Well, thanks for bringing my package…?” You trail off, hoping he’ll complete your sentence by offering you his name.

“Heeseung, Lee Heeseung.”

“Thank you, Heeseung, Lee Heeseung.” You repeat, earning a grin from him.

“No worries,” he responds, fishing something out of his pocket, “and feel free to stop by the store sometime, especially now that you have a coupon.” He says, offering you the small slip of paper from his pocket.

You accept it, eyes widening at the “BOGO FREE KPOP ALBUM” staring back at you. “I…is this real? You really don’t have to.”

Heeseung shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets, “It’s no big deal, I keep coupons on me to hand out, anyway. Plus, we’re trying to make room for more stock.” He says, slowly walking backwards down the hall as he inches away from your door. Like a magnet, your body automatically angles towards him, hoping he’ll say something else.

“You’ll just have to request a manager when you’re ready to use it, regular associates can’t process certain coupons under their employee number.”

You nod, free-hand gripping the doorframe as your eyes follow Heeseung, “What days do you work?”

He shrugs again, “Doesn’t have to be me, I have two assistant managers that are there pretty often.”

“Right, but, when are you there?”

He pauses, titling his head at you before responding, “Monday through Friday, eleven-to-eight. Sometimes I stop by once or twice on the weekends to check in.”

“Will you be there tomorrow?”

“All day, eleven-to-eight.”

The following morning, you had the sudden urge to buy a K-pop album and get another one for free.

Heeseung had spent a good portion of that morning conversing with you from behind the counter, listening intently when you got on the topic of your previous boyfriend’s disappearance. It’s still a touchy subject for you, and probably not the best thing to talk about while getting to know a guy you’re interested in, but Heeseung’s question on how “such a pretty girl” like you was single required a truthful answer. Initially, you feared your response of “my boyfriend went missing” would be enough to scare him off, but Heeseung didn’t seem phased in the slightest.

In fact, in the two-and-a-half months you’d been dating Heeseung there was almost nothing you could say or do that would phase him to the point of genuine concern. Not how it took an insane amount of motivation for you in order to clean your apartment (he was fine cleaning it himself), or how often you’d forget to take your very much needed medication (he was more than happy to remind you every morning and night, and even went as far as requesting a refill when the bottle was nearly empty and picking it up for you). Catering to your every need was just another simple task for him, and you’re more than grateful that the universe seemingly dropped him right in your lap when you needed it most.

Heeseung was patient, understanding, and was absolutely devoted to your relationship. In his eyes, you deserved nothing but the best, and was keen on making sure to provide for you. 

Cooking for you was probably his favorite task. He wasn’t the best at it per se, but improved with every attempt, and you seemed to enjoy his meals despite them not being to his liking.

He’d woken up early this morning to prepare a Valentine’s day breakfast for you, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead as he slipped out of bed and into your kitchen. The original plan was to go all out and cook a ridiculous breakfast feast he’d seen on TikTok that featured cinnamon rolls, sausage, and fluffy pancakes.

He burnt the first batch of cinnamon rolls and decided it best to simplify your feast down to eggs, bacon, and french toast sticks. Slightly disappointed that his original plan didn’t work out, your boyfriend sighs at himself as he pours a glass of cranberry juice before setting it on a wooden tray table. How he made it to your bedroom without dropping everything was beyond him, considering how he was still weak from sleep and could hardly keep his eyes open.

Heeseung pushed the door open with his foot, peeking his head in slightly and furrowing his brows at your sleeping figure. If not from the noise of clattering dishes, he was almost certain the smell of food would be enough to wake you up. He knew you were a heavy sleeper, but never realized how heavy.

“How are you still asleep?” He mumbles to himself with a sigh, setting the tray of food on your desk before retreating to your bed. He digs his knee into the edge of the  mattress, gently shaking your leg in an attempt to wake you. You don’t budge, your slumber remaining unaffected as the sounds of your light snoring continue to fill the room. His fingers trail down your leg until they reach the sole of your foot, his fingernails softly tickling the sensitive area until you’re jerking your leg away in discomfort.

“Weirdo.” You say through a yawn, angling your body until you’re laying on your side.

Heeseung rolls his eyes at your insult, grabbing ahold of your leg as he responds, “A true weirdo would’ve put their mouth on it, you’re lucky it’s just me. Now get up, I made breakfast.”

Waking you up was no easy task, whether it was seven in the morning or half past noon. Heeseung suspects you’re still recovering from sleep debt after all the nights you’d spent lying awake researching Jongseong’s disappearance. The nights you could sleep didn’t typically didn’t last long; it’d either take hours until you finally drifted off, or you’d wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare; leaving you unable to go back to sleep.

Your sleep schedule hadn’t gotten back on track until you met Heeseung, who made sure you were taking melatonin, iron pills, and just about anything that would help you sleep soundly and feel less tired during the day. And while the extra supplements may be working, there was still a lot of sleep debt you were recovering from; an almost concerning amount that made it difficult for you to get up most days.

You groan into your pillow when the smell of Heeseung’s freshly made breakfast hits your nose, your mouth nearly salivating from the scent alone. As much as you wanted to sit up and start eating, your limbs were still heavy with exhaustion. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be up,” you plead, “I promise.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “Y/N,” he whines, “just get up, I wanna spend time with you before work. You can go back to sleep after I leave.”

Today was the release day of author, Shin Ryujin’s, newest sapphic romance novel that Heeseung could not remember the title of; just that it featured a lot of smut, has over twenty-four chapters, and was highly anticipated. Her team had reached out to Bookhaven not too long ago, inquiring about hosting a Q+A session and book signing event on the day of its release. Initially, Heeseung had planned to reject the offer since it fell on Valentine’s day and that type of event required his presence, and he’d originally planned on spending the entire day with you. The payout of said event, however, was more than enough to get him on board.

He’d be leaving the shop and heading over to you around five, and have Sunoo or Jungwon close up, leaving him with just seven hours with you that he’d planned to make the most of. All he needed now was for you to wake the hell up before he has to leave.

You still don’t budge, mumbling something incoherent before the snores resume and you’ve drifted back to sleep.

“Babe,” he says flatly, shaking your leg. “Y/N. Baby. Dude, get up.”

Still nothing, and Heeseung’s on the verge of kissing your forehead and calling it a day, but there is one thing that could get you up.

Slowly, he peels the thick comforter off of your body, relishing in the fact that you chose to sleep in one of his shirts. Allowing himself further onto the mattress, Heeseung’s hand reahes for the hem of your shirt, pushing it up just enough to reveal your lavender colored panties. He pauses, glancing up at you momentarily before lowering his head and nestling it between your thighs.

He starts off slow, placing a light kiss on your inner thigh before trailing his lips upwards. Pausing right at your hip bone, Heeseung’s fingertips move to the core of your underwear, lightly scratching at your cunt through the soft material. Frustrated, he whines your name once more before slowly trailing your panties down and off your legs, discarding of them on the other side of the mattress.

Fingernails digging into your flesh, he grips your thighs as he repositions himself at eye level with your cunt, inching forward slowly until he’s pressing his lips right against yours. It’s gentle at first, much like how he’d kiss you any other time, a few gentle pecks until he was desperate for more.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and finally has his tongue fall flat against your entrance. The groan that escapes his mouth from the contact comes from deep in his chest, his fingernails leaving crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from how hard he’s gripping them.

He licks a long, slow strip along your cunt upwards towards your clit, licking and sucking at the bud as if savoring the feeling of your taste on his tongue. He repeats his movements a few more times, growing desperate as the seconds pass by, each moan and whine from him becoming more desperate and whiny than the last. You shift around slightly, furrowing your brows a bit, but still not fully awake.

Another minute passes by and you’re still asleep. Your body automatically responding to Heeseung’s touches, but they’re still not enough to wake you. He’s not bored in the slightest, though, and would argue that he could probably go on for hours if that’s what it took; but he has to leave soon, and needs you awake as soon as possible.

With a sigh, he kisses your thigh once before twisting his body and reaching over to your nightstand, opening the bottom drawer and digging around slightly until his fingers brush against the rubber vibrator he’d been searching for. It’s an air pulsing one you’d bought before you’d met Heeseung, and when he’d discovered it in your room for the first time, he’d insisted on implementing it into your sex lives as much as possible.

He turns it on, choosing to keep it on the first setting before pressing it directly on your clit. A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the contact, with Heeseung keeping his gaze fixed on your face. Gently massaging the toy against your cunt, your eyes slowly began to flutter open, a loud moan echoing through the room as Heeseung turned the toy up to a medium setting.

You grab a fistful of Heeseung’s hair, yanking him forward until his mouth is on your cunt again. The sudden roughness takes him by surprise, but he doesn’t seem to mind it in the slightest; in fact, he can feel himself stiffening in his boxers from you gripping his hair alone.

Moaning into your cunt, Heeseung does his best to keep the vibrator pressed against you while he eats you out. His desperation was astonishing, his moans nearly being as loud and whiny as yours as he continued.

When you’re finally close, which doesn’t take very long; Heeseung discards the vibrator completely; mindlessly tossing it on the floor to lap at your cunt with his tongue. He presses it flat against you, dragging your wetness up to your clit before sucking the swollen bud between his lips.

You orgasm almost instantly at that, trapping Heeseung's head between your thighs as you come on his face with your back arching off the bed and swears pouring from your lips.

You’re panting as you come down from your high, breath rigged as you drape your arm against your forehead, “Wow.”

“You okay?” Heeseung asks, voice muffled as you finally release his head was still trapped between your thighs.

“Shit,” you loosen the grip, “sorry, Hee.”

“Don’t apologize. Oh my God, I could’ve died like that and would’ve been okay with it.”

Weirdly enough, you don’t think he’s joking.

“Anyways,” he continues, “you okay?”

You nod, pressing your lips into a thin line, “I’m definitely up.”

“Yeah, me too,” He responds, tapping on his painfully hard erection. “Can I…?”

“If you do all the work, sure.”

Heeseung scoffs, already moving to tug his pajama pants down, “As if I ever let you do any of it.”

It’s not a complaint, Heeseung was more than happy being the more assertive one when it came to your sex life. He didn’t mind doing most of the work as long as it meant you were getting off.

When he turns you to lay on your side you let him, resting your back against his chest as he teases his tip at your entrance. You bite down on your bottom lip, hand gripping the bed sheets when he finally does slide himself in. Heeseung grunts into your ear, placing a gentle hand on your hip, “ ‘m gonna go a little bit fast, okay? We don’t have a lot of time.”

He wasn’t exaggerating, either.

At your confirmation, Heeseung pulled out of you entirely before pushing himself back in; his thrusts overwhelmingly fast but not painful or rough. You yelp when he bites down on your neck, though, a habit he picked up upon finding out you enjoy being marked up.

He was certain that neither of you will last long like this, so it doesn’t surprise him that after a few minutes you’re already creeping up on your orgasm. Heeseung takes this as a sign to speed up his already quick thrusts, his nails digging into your hip as he presses his head onto your shoulder.

You finish first with Heeseung just a few seconds behind you, squeezing your eyes shut at the feeling of him filling you up with his cum. As always, he keeps his dick buried in you for another minute longer, only pulling out when he’s reminded of how little time he has.

Sitting up, Heeseung moves a few stray strands of hair out of the way to plant kisses on your face, but you stop him with the excuse of not having brushed your teeth yet before he’s able to properly kiss you on the lips.

He scoffs, “You just came on my face, do you think I care if you have morning breath? Don’t insult me.”

“At least let me eat first so I can get this weird taste out of my mouth,” you counter, reaching over your shoulder to pat Heeseung on the cheek. “Can I do that?”

Heeseung lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, “If you insist. Let me clean you up first, though.”

He stands from the bed, awkwardly pulling his boxers and pajama pants back up before excusing himself to your bathroom. He takes care of himself first before running a rag under the sink faucet and returning to your bedroom.

After cleaning you up with practiced ease, Heeseung discards of the rag in your bathroom hamper and slips back into your bedroom, finally delivering you the breakfast in bed he’d been anticipating all week, a wide grin on his face as he sets the wooden tray down on your lap. “All your favorites: french toast sticks, bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, and a glass of cranberry juice. Bone apple teeth.”

You chuckle at his joke, admiring the feast laying in your lap as you grab a strip of bacon, “Where’s your food?” You ask, noticing there was only enough servings for one person.

Heeseung shakes his head, resting the palm of his hand on your bare knee as he sits across from you, “I’ll pick up something on the way to work, didn’t have time to make enough for both of us.”

With a pout, you take a bite of the bacon strip, “Now I feel bad.”

Heeseung grins, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “Don’t, consider this part one of your Valentine’s gift.”

You’ve finished the first strip by now, moving onto the second one as you use your free hand to retrieve your phone from the nightstand. “Well, at least let me pay for your breakfast then.”

He shakes his head at you, reaching for your phone that you manage to pull out of reach. “Babe, you seriously don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you respond, halfway through Venmo-ing him fifteen dollars, “that should be enough.”

“Y/N…”

“Done! And don’t send it back or else I’ll be really sad, you know gift-giving is my love language.”

He chuckles, using the fork and knife on the tray table to cut a piece of the french toast stick, “Thank you, baby. You spoil me.” He dips the fork into the container of maple syrup before bringing it up to your parted lips, cupping his hand underneath to prevent the syrup from dripping onto the bed sheets.

You hum, cupping Heeseung’s face as you chew, “Anything for my princess. Also, you said this was part one of my gift?”

Heeseung nods, cutting another square off the french toast, “Part two is still later tonight, once I’m off work.”

“Can you tell me what it is now, please?” You plead, clasping your hands together as you jutt out your bottom lip, staring up at him with a pout. For the past week, Heeseung had been teasing about this big Valentine’s day surprise he had planned for you, claiming it would be the “surprise of a lifetime”.

He hums, feeding you another forkful. “I’ll tell you this, when you have the time, you’re gonna have to pack an overnight bag.” Your eyes light up, waiting patiently before speaking as Heeseung continues, “And, you’re gonna have to be dressed up once I pick you up after work. Nothing crazy fancy, just… something nice.”

Heeseung can tell you want to bombard him with more questions, and brings another forkful of food to your lips before you have the chance. “I’ll be picking you up around five-forty-five, ‘m sorry I’ll have to be at the shop most of the day.”

You shake your head, picking up the glass of cranberry juice, “Don’t be, I hope the event goes well. If you have extras, can you bring me a copy of the book?”

“For sure, and I’ll see if I can leave any sooner so we have some extra time together.”

“You seriously don’t have to,” you assure him, taking a sip of your drink, “besides, I have some errands to run in the meantime.”

Heeseung raises a brow at you, “Oh? You’re going out today?”

You nod excitedly, setting the cup on your nightstand, “Yeji and I are taking the baby to a Mommy-and-Me yoga class then doing some shopping.”

Heeseung rolls his eyes at the mention of your sister, setting the fork and knife back onto the tray table. You frown at him, shoulders slouching as you tilt your head, “Why do you hate my sister so much?”

“I never said I hated Yeji.”

“You didn’t have to, it’s pretty obvious. You never wanna talk to her when she’s around and you roll your eyes whenever I mention her.”

Heeseung shrugs, “She’s just not my cup of tea, is all. Our personalities clash.”

Of course there’s more to it than clashing personalities, but you’re not quite ready for the full truth just yet, so he decides to leave it at that. “Anyways, how are Jake and Jihan?”

Your eyes light up at the mention of your future brother-in-law and nephew, “I talked to Yeji yesterday and she said things are good! Jihan is starting to roll over and Jake plans on asking his friend, Sunghoon, to be his best man. Oh, and Yeji says the baby is finally starting to look like Jake.”

“Really?”

You nod, “Mmhm, Jake is so happy.”

“Good for him,” Heeseung mumbles, watching as you take a bite of the eggs. “Gonna have to head out now, but I loaded my card onto your Apple Wallet, ‘kay? Use that while you shop.”

You blink at him, “When’d you do that?”

“Last night, consider it part one-and-a-half of your gift.”

“You spoil me.”

Heeseung grins, “Anything for you.”

The drive to Bookhaven is quiet, with Keshi playing from the stereo as Heeseung made his way to the shop and parked by the employee entrance.

Stepping right into a pile of snow, he shuts the car door behind him before making his way across the street and stopping by his favorite breakfast cafe, Heaven’s Treats. He ordered his usual: two bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches on croissants and two bottles of water; using your fifteen-dollar Venmo gift to pay and tipping the staff with a few dollars cash.

He heads back over to his shop afterwards, unlocking and entering through the employee entrance. Once inside, he unlocks his office door first, setting the bag of food down on his desk before heading into the main area of the shop. Taking a few minutes to wipe down tables and put away loose books, Heeseung hums to himself as he enjoys how quiet and peaceful the shop is. Shin Ryujin was sure to bring in a crowd later today, and he can already tell he’d be leaving the shop with a headache.

Once finished, Heeseung retreats back to his office and shuts the door behind him, grabbing the bag of food from the desk before walking over to the closet door. With a sigh, he opens it up, pushing the file cabinet to the side to reveal the door to the hidden basement. His eyes jot down to the keypad under the doorknob, where he quickly types in your anniversary before twisting the knob and pushing the door open.

Staring down at the wooden staircase, Heeseung sighs once again, “Let’s get this over with.”

Carefully, he retreats down the steps and into the basement, looking over into the glass chamber and finding Jongseong, your ex boyfriend, sound asleep on his mattress. Heeseung chuckles once he’s made it down the stairs, walking over to the pass-through attached to the glass chamber and opening it, sliding in the breakfast sandwich and bottle of water before shutting it with a loud click!

Heeseung retreats over to his desk and computer monitors that sat opposite of the glass chamber, sitting on his office chair before grabbing and turning on the intercom microphone. “Sleeping in?”

His voice comes out ten times louder in the glass chamber’s speaker, jolting Jongseong out of his sleep as he presses the palms of his hands onto his ears. “Jesus fuckin’… is the intercom necessary?! You’re right there! I can hear you through the glass!”

Heeseung shrugs nonchalantly, setting the microphone back on the desk, “You’re a heavy sleeper.” Jongseong sighs in response, rubbing his eyes as Heeseung continues, “Brought you breakfast, it’s in the pass-through. Eat before it gets cold.”

“How do I know you didn’t do something to it? Sick fuck.” Jongseong spits, arms folded across his chest as he stares at Heeseung through the glass.

“Do something like what?”

“I don’t know, spike my drink like last time?”

Heeseung lets out an agitated groan as he slumps in his chair, retrieving his own food from the takeout bag as he responds, “How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t fucking drug you that night? You actually made everything a lot easier by getting blackout drunk at a fucking nightclub.”

“Yeah, and if I didn’t blackout? Then what?”

“Who cares? It doesn’t matter, what matters is that you’re away from Y/N.”

Jongseong shivers at the mention of your name, immediately looking away from Heeseung and focusing his attention on the food in the pass-through.

Around six months ago, you’d showed up to Bookhaven hand-in-hand with Jongseong, and Heeseung had been enthralled with you ever since. He spent is every waking moment doing his research on you, which included doing a deep dive on the people closest to you: your immediate family, close friends, and stupid fucking boyfriend.

Heeseung knew the moment he laid eyes on Jongseong that he was no good for you, and was clearly putting up a facade when the two of you were together. Heeseung saw right through it, how quickly he’d pull out his phone to snap a text when you were looking, how he’d roll his eyes whenever you got too excited about something, how he almost never responded to your PDA — he was the fucking worst, and you deserved so much better. You deserved Lee Heeseung.

Days leading up to Jongseong’s disappearance, Heeseung had been watching him like a hawk; cyber-stalking him as closely as possible without being caught, until, finally, Jongseong decided to go clubbing one night.

Heeseung’s original plan was to wait until Jongseong was slightly drunk and knock him out, but Jongseong getting blackout drunk on his own accord made things way easier for Heeseung — all he had to do was pretend to be a friend to Jongseong and convince everyone else he’d be getting him home safely.

Dumbasses, all of them.

Jongseong stands, scratching the back of his neck as he walks over to the pass-through.

“Anyways, it’s Valentine’s day,” Heeseung says after biting into his own sandwich, “you have any plans? Oh wait.”

Jongseong rolls his eyes again, mumbling “Fuck you” under his breath as he retrieves his food and drink. He inspects the sandwich thoroughly before taking a bite, chewing slowly as if trying to taste each and every spice and flavor.

“Wait,” Heeseung speaks, suddenly realizing something, “if you just woke up, that means you missed the show.”

Jongseong rolls his eyes a third time, already knowing what Heeseung was getting at. “I’m sure I didn't miss much.”

Heeseung swivels around in his office chair to face the three monitors, each one surveilling different areas in your apartment. You were blissfully unaware of the hidden cameras he’d set up in your home that have been recording your every move for months on end. He’s doing it for your own safety, really; keeping an eye on you at all times.

You’re in the kitchen now, loading up the dishwasher with music playing from your phone, stopping every few seconds to belt out the lyrics or make an attempt at doing the choreography. Heeseung enjoys watching you like this, when you truly get to be yourself because you think no one is around.

He grins, switching over to the center monitor and hitting the rewind button until he sees himself entering your bedroom, “There we go.” Heeseung monitors himself closely, watching as he sets the tray of food down on your desk before walking over to your mattress.

He moves out of the way so Jongseong has a better view of the screen, a smug expression on his face as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. The monitors were on at all hours, meaning the only entertainment Jongseong had was watching you stroll around your house. Weirdly enough, it pleases him to keep an eye on you like this, making sure you’re still okay after all this time.

He can do without watching you and Heeseung have sex, though.

Jongseong turns his head away the moment Heeseung removes the blanket from your body, groaning in disgust as he takes another bite from his sandwich. “I don’t need to see this.”

Heeseung shrugs, mumbling, “Your loss” as he speeds up the replay. He prefers to focus on the key moments anyway, like the face you make right before you come on his, or how your entire body tensed when he leaned down to bite on the nape of your neck.

As arousing as it was to play back all those moments, he primarily used it as a personal study guide on what you liked the most, so he’d be better at pleasing you going forward. This behavior had started before the two of you even got together, if he’s being completely honest. One simple, playful retweet from you about preferring to receive oral rather than give it had him ordering a pocket pussy the very next day to practice on.

The first time the two of you hooked up, Heeseung had spent approximately twenty-four minutes going down on you, only stopping when you expressed concerns about his jaw locking up — not that he cared.

“Wait a second,” Jongseong pauses, crumbling the empty food wrapper into a ball before tossing it to the floor, “what happened to that big breakfast feast you kept talking about, huh? With the, uh, the pancakes and cinnamon rolls?”

When Heeseung doesn’t respond, Jongseong continues taunting, “What, realized you couldn’t do it? That you can do something as simple as prepare a meal? Wow, are you—”

“Shut up, dumbass.” Heeseung interrupts him with a shake of his head, swiveling around in his office chair until he’s facing Jongseong, “You think you’re better than me because you know how to cook? Go on then, cook something. Go to the stove and prove you’re better at me than cooking.”

Silence falls between the two, with Jongseong glaring daggers at Heeseung as he tightens his fists.

“Oh, wait,” Heeseung continues, tapping his chin, “you can’t cook; you’re trapped in my basement while I fuck your girlfriend.“

“Whatever.”

“Oh, now it’s whatever, but just a second ago you were so much better than me for knowing how to cook — you also know how to lie and cheat.”

“Whatever, Heeseung, just drop it.”

“How do you think Y/N would feel if she found out you were cheating on her with her own sister? How old do you think Jihan will be before Jake realizes why they look nothing alike?” Heeseung questions, tilting his chin at Jongseong, as if expecting a legitimate answer.

The mere thought of Jongseong and your own sister getting together behind your back is enough to make Heeseung gag; he couldn’t fucking believe two of the closest people in your life would deceive you like that. It was beyond disgusting, and he had a strong distaste for Yeji the moment he found out.

Ashamed, Jongseong turn away from Heeseung’s gaze. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

Heeseung rolls his eyes, turning around in his seat until he’s facing the monitors, “Anything involving Y/N is my business, fuck-face, including you and anyone else that bothers her.”

He navigates the surveillance controls until he’s back to watching you in real time, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smile when he sees you facetiming someone. He shushes Jongseong, who hadn’t even been speaking, as he turns the volume up in order to hear you better.

“…and I think he looks just like you, seriously…Jake?…I mean, I don’t know…I’m not really seeing the resemblance yet…”

Realizing who you were talking to and what the topic of conversation was, Heeseung clicks his tongue, “They may even find out sooner than you think.”

The sound of Yeji’s voice through the speaker has him rolling his eyes as he turns down the volume, not that it mattered, considering you disappeared into the bathroom a few moments later.

“Hey,” Jongseong taps on the glass, “let me ask you something.”

“No.”

“Why do you have a camera in every room except the bathroom?”

It’s a genuine question, but it comes out more perverted than Jongseong had intended it to.

As if the answer was obvious, Heeseung raises a brow as he responds, “I’m giving her privacy, pervert.”