#// somewhere between sleeping and dreaming and waking...

[pichichuu]

i loved ur jinu abby threesome omfg

could we have abs riding with abby 🙈

omg thank you heheh 🫣 im gonna be honest i didn't see the appeal to this at first and i talked to one of my friends about it and now it's a need omg

anon you have a beautiful mind...

and yes i think im a comedian for this title

m.list

Rise & Grind

abby saja x reader, mdni!

tags: fem reader, a little somnophilia (he wakes up right after you do), grinding, mutual mast., use of 'girl', gentle dom abby, cumshot, praise, teasing

dividers by @steddiecameraroll-graphics

the morning's soft sunlight filtered through your curtains, bringing the room slowly to life. your heavy eyelids blinked awake, not yet aware of the aching between your thighs, residual from a dream.

coming into consciousness, you find yourself draped across a dozing abby, barely still asleep. your thigh is splayed across his lower torso, most of your leg resting between his. your hips gyrate softly against the band of his boxers. you didn't even realize you were doing this.

shit.

it feels so good to relieve that tension.

dark eyebrows knit together, twitching as abby comes to life, quick to understand the situation.

"good morning to you too, pretty girl," he groans, morning voice deep and raspy and going straight to your core.

he kisses you, hands wandering to your hips. his fingertips play with the band of your panties, lifting the edges between two digits and dipping fingers underneath the fabric. reluctant to break the kiss, he breathes into your mouth,

"How did you sleep?"

he doesn't need an answer, nor does he expect one. your hips tell him enough.

"lift," he instructs you, pulling your panties to your knees when you obey him. you kick them off the bed to somewhere on the floor, keeping his loose t-shirt on.

broad palms wrap around your hips as he guides you onto his stomach, flexing his abs.

"wanna feel good, yeah? let me watch," he drags your hips along his abs, clit catching on the band of his boxers with every motion. your wetness is still building, not yet pooling onto his skin, and the friction feels delicious.

long fingers hold your plush hips in a firm grip, pushing you down against his skin. slowly, he pulls your naked pussy up his stomach, abs firm and prominent. the texture of the ridges teased your clit, the movements pulling your lips apart. your arousal spread on his muscled stomach as your lips parted in a whispered moan. your hands splayed across his chest, pinky brushing across his nipple and making him twitch.

with the addition of your slick, your gliding picked up speed, a wet squelch punctuating the end of each stroke. his grip loosened as you began to take control of your movements, head falling forward as you rubbed your soaked pussy on his muscular abs.

the cords of his muscles rippled as he sat up slightly. you could feel each movement, each twitch with your clit; the feeling was heavenly.

moving his hand from your hip, he stretched lazily with one arm. his back lifted off the bed, arm stretched out, his other hand gripping your hip tightly, typing bruises into the fatty flesh. his movements stretched his abs, your walls fluttering in response to the new sensation.

with a cocky smirk, he flicked your clit, humming as you whimpered, body starting to crumble on his.

"Thas' it, lemme hear you," he rasped, voice just above a whisper.

your juices coated his abs completely, sheets at his sides showing patches from where your wetness had rubbed off of him. with each stroke along his tensed stomach, you felt his hardening bulge against the curve of your ass. you gasped when you noticed, a hungry gaze spreading across abby's face that made you squirm.

reaching his hand behind you, he peeled his boxers down slowly, dramatically releasing it so his flushed cock hit against your ass with a smack!, the tip catching under your shirt.

you pushed back, moaning at the eroticism of the sight under you. his hand splayed across his abs, palm gathering your slick. reaching toward your face, he prodded your lips open with his middle and ring fingers with a simple "suck 'em." you took the digits into your mouth, warm tongue swirling around the pads of his fingertips, arousal and saliva coating the skin.

he pulled his hand away with a pop, hand forming a tight fist around his throbbing cock. he pumped it in slow strokes, the rhythmic movement of his arm making his abs twitch under you, pulling a breathy moan from you.

beads of precum gathered at his blushing tip, the fluid forming a sappy string from his throbbing dick to the soft fat of your ass. he smeared the tip across your skin as you rode his abs, the sensation overwhelming.

it was too much– your slick glistening on his hardened abs, rigid muscles flexing as you ground on them, his hand digging into your hip, ensuring the pressure hit your clit just right, the lewd squelch of your fluids on his cock as he fucked his fist, his hot tip sending an electric sensation across your ass.

you shimpered, hips frantically rutting on his rock-hard abs, his hand holding you firmly, stilling your hips.

"wanna cum, baby? better ask nicely," he teased, voice rough and steady.

"pl-please, please luh-let me hah- let me cum abby!" you whined, voice trembling in tune with your body, hands grabbing at his chest, trying to find something to hold onto.

moving one of your hands to his shoulder, his voice rang out like he was amused at your attempts to beg him. "not with your mouth," he grinned, moving your hips and nodding down to your weeping pussy. "I wanna hear it from her."

you tried to hide your face, ears flushing with embarassment. shakily, you drove your hips forward, spelling a 'P' on his washboard abs with the guidance of his hand.

"'atta girl."

"please, please abby," you begged, spelling an 'L' this time. "just please let me cum."

"keep being good and you will soon, he grunted through clenching teeth, hand moving in a blur on his cock, muscles twitching and rippling with each movement. his eyes were fixed on where your pussy met his stomach, cock twitching at the creamy sounds of your slick spreading across him as you spelled out an 'E'.

he bit his lip.

fuck.

look how your lips spread with each movement, folds opening and closing as you drew an 'A' on him, body twitching each time your clit caught on the mound of a new muscle.

you looked so desperate.

"almost there, pretty girl," he groaned, spitting on his hand, strokes resuming with a louder squelch this time. "lift your shirt for the 'S'," he commanded, chin tilting up in a nod at the hem of your shirt.

your hands held the fabric delicately as you lifted it above your tits, whining as the cold air hit your nipples. abby hissed. his fingers pushed tighter on your hip.

you looked pornographic drawing the curves of an 'S' on his muscular flesh, the embarassment dripping from your whimpers and body language only feeding his need.

"fuck it baby, just cum on my abs," he sighed, "already wrote an 'E' once already anyways."

his grip loosened on your hips, movements free to be as frantic and irrythmic as you desired.

"look so damn pretty riding me like that," he hissed, "can't even tease you properly when you look like this."

you shuddered as your clit caught on his happy trail, losing control of your movements as your limbs began to lock up, broken moan drawn out of your mouth.

"fuck, baby, fucking cum on me, ah!," he moaned, pace losing rhythm on his fat, leaky cock. you shook on him, release hitting you like a train. you clenched around nothing, throbbing hole flush against his abs. he felt every squeeze as you rode out your orgasm, the sensation enough to send him into his own, a needy groan filling your ears as you came down from your high.

hot, stick ropes of his cum shot across your ass in thick spurts. smearing the creamy substance across your skin, his head rolled to the side as exhaustion crept back into his voice.

"can't we stay in bed a little longer?"

[dakusan]

First Claim II

Vampire!Seo Changbin x Reader | neck-biting, desk-fucking, plushie-bribing menace who accidentally imprints and panics

🔞synopsis: You’re a human research intern at Luxe Health—smart, stubborn, and the daughter of one of Chan’s closest human allies. You wanted field access. Real data. Real vampires. You didn’t expect to be assigned to Seo Changbin. Cold. Ruthless. Director of Hostile Containment. And now—completely obsessed with you. One blood-slick riot drill, a desk-breaking tension spiral, and a bar incident later, you’re covered in bite marks, plushies, and an illegal contract that says you’re his. You didn’t mean to fall in love. But then again, neither did he.

💌a/n: HELLO AGAIN. IT’S ME. FIRST CLAIM II IS HERE. This is the part where I was supposed to cool down. Instead, I gave you: morning sex; blood-sharing; soft Changbin™ panic; a contract. If you’re here from Part I… congratulations. You are now fully claimed. No refunds. Am I updating the warnings? No. This bitch is lazy 🙃. p.s. Quackbin is canon. Plushie population now exceeds apartment legal limit. p.p.s. reblog for hydration, bonding rituals, and desk trauma recovery

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | oral, penetrative (wrap it up people), multiple rounds | breeding kink if you squint | blood-sharing / vampire biting (consensual) | choking (consensual) | marking / possessiveness / claiming | rough sex → soft aftercare | desk sex, couch sex, morning sex | slight somnophilia vibes (you wake him up riding) | jealousy & territorial behavior | Jeongin trauma (comedic)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Ride responsibly. Don’t sign anything without checking for plushie clauses.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Guilty — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:10 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

Your body locks up — thighs trembling, head thrown back — and you come with a breathless cry, clutching at him like you’ll fall apart without him to hold you together.

Changbin groans, low and wrecked. His hands grip your waist, grounding you as he fucks up into you, chasing that final push—

“Fuck, baby—just like that—”

You feel him tense beneath you, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. And then he’s spilling inside you with a broken moan, pulsing deep as you flutter around him, still riding the aftershocks of your own release.

Your foreheads touch. Breath mingles. Hearts racing.

Neither of you moves at first. It’s like the world stopped, quiet and golden in the haze of morning light.

Then, softly, almost shy:

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp strands from your face.

You nod, eyes still heavy-lidded. “More than okay.”

He smiles — small, crooked, and so full of love it makes your chest ache.

“I should probably let you pee,” he mutters, already reaching for your thighs to help you up.

“Probably,” you whisper. “But also… don’t move yet.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you down into his chest again. “Okay. We’ve got time.”

He stays inside you for a while. Just holding you. His thumbs trace slow circles into your hips, grounding, soothing. You’re still draped over him, chest to chest, the rise and fall of your breathing syncing back into something steady. Calm.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and sweetness. “You with me?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Might be dead though. Died a little.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and kisses your temple like it’s instinct. “Guess I’ll have to bring you back to life. Pancakes or toast?”

You laugh, breathless. “Your dick game’s ridiculous and your post-sex breakfast plan is pancakes?”

“You say that like it’s not a dream come true.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His hair’s a mess, cheeks still flushed, eyes full of stars—and he’s smiling at you like you just handed him the sun.

Changbin finally shifts carefully to pull out—so slow, so gentle. You wince, just a little, but he’s already reaching down, checking the mess between your legs with the softest fingertips. “Messy girl,” he teases, but it’s tender. He disappears for a moment and returns with a warm cloth, cleaning you up so softly, so gently, so featherlight, not rushing a single touch.

“You always take care of me,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse.

His gaze softens impossibly more. “Of course I do. You’re mine.”

You think you catch it—just for a second—the flicker of nerves behind his words. Because he means it more than you know.

“You’re mine too,” you whisper back.

And just like that, his shoulders relax. His smile breaks wide. He kisses you again—soft, slow, like a thank you in a different language.

But when he pulls back, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And his hand, still resting on your hip, twitches—like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

You tilt your head. “Binnie?”

“Mm?”

“…You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He kisses your forehead. “More than fine.”

But now you know. That slight delay before he answered. The way he’s not looking directly at you anymore.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Changbin.”

“Baby—”

“No, no, don’t baby me,” you say, sitting up slightly, ignoring the ache in your thighs. “What is it? What are you not telling me?”

His jaw tenses.

“Tell me.”

He hesitates. His fingers tighten slightly on your waist. His eyes flick to the nightstand—just for a second—but you see it. That quick dart toward the drawer he always keeps locked.

“Binnie…”

He sighs. Deeply.

Then, like it hurts, he mutters: “Don’t freak out.”

“…Why would I freak out?”

“You just might.”

“Try me.”

Another pause. You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I want you,” he says quietly. “To be my blood doll.”

Silence.

You blink. “…What?”

He finally meets your eyes. No more smirking. No more distractions. Just raw, vulnerable honesty.

“I want you to be mine. Like—really mine. Not just sex and feeding when you let me. Not just crashing at each other’s places. A bond. A contract. A vow.”

You stare at him. And he keeps going, voice low and rushed like it’s been caged for too long.

“But not like the court ones. Not with the feeding schedule bullshit or dominance clauses. I—I wrote a different one. A new one. It’s just… you and me. No control. Just commitment. Mutual. Real.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He misreads the silence. “Shit, I knew it. Too much, right? I shouldn’t have said anything, fuck, just forget—”

“I want to see it.”

He freezes.

You repeat, softer: “Show me the contract, Binnie.”

He stares at you like you just told him the sky turned violet. And then he practically trips over himself lunging for the drawer.

He pulls out the drawer like it holds the meaning of life.

Because to him, it kind of does.

The folder’s thick. Pages worn at the edges. He’s clearly read and rewritten it more times than he’ll admit.

He comes back to bed without saying anything—just sits beside you, still naked, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with something that isn’t post-sex glow anymore. It’s something closer to fear.

You gently take it from his hands.

The cover page is handwritten.

Blood Doll Contract — Special Version (not like those court bastards. mine is better.)

You snort already. “Binnie—”

“Just read,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

You flip the page.

Clause 1: Bond Acknowledgment This contract serves only to recognize the already existing bond between subject A (Seo Changbin) and subject B (you, aka the hottest human alive).

“We already belong to each other,” he mumbles beside you. “This just makes it official.”

Clause 2: Feeding Rights Subject A is allowed to feed from subject B only: With enthusiastic consent. When subject B is looking especially biteable. Or when it’s Tuesday, because Tuesday is hard. Sub-clause: Subject A promises to be very gentle unless told otherwise, and will always kiss the mark after, no exceptions.

You laugh. “Tuesdays are hard?”

He shrugs. “I’m a Tuesday vampire. Sue me.”

Clause 3: Bed Rights Subject A and B are to sleep in the same bed at least 5 nights a week. Sub-sub clause: Cuddling is non-negotiable. Feet must touch at some point during sleep. Subject A may not hog the blanket (again).

You raise a brow. “So this is revenge for last week?”

“You tried to burrito yourself,” he mutters. “I nearly froze to death.”

Clause 4: Plushie Clause Subject A may continue gifting plushies after successful missions, tantrums, or moments of extreme cuteness from subject B. Sub-clause: If subject B tries to donate or throw away said plushies, subject A reserves the right to “pout until emotionally compensated.”

You giggle so hard you nearly drop the folder. “Is that what that face was?!”

“No comment.”

Clause 5: Eternal Vow (The Real Shit) By signing, subject A and B acknowledge that this bond is not casual, or temporary, or transactional. It is a choice. Made every day. By signing, subject B agrees to let subject A love her in every language he knows—blood, body, soul, and all. And subject A promises to protect, cherish, and honor subject B for as long as the stars remember them.

You blink down at the final page. Your name is printed beside a blank line. You don’t say anything right away. Just look up at him.

He’s silent—nervous, chewing his lip like he expects you to run.

Instead, you whisper, “Do you have a pen?”

His head jerks up.

You hold the folder closer. “I want to sign.”

His eyes widen.

You gently touch the page. “Binnie. Of course I want to be yours. I already am.”

Changbin looks around for a pen, from the same drawer, and hands it to you. You take hold of it, hand moving carefully as you sign your name, right beneath his—the ink still fresh from however many nights ago he first wrote it. You even add a little heart after you write your name.

“You did not just doodle a heart on a legal vampiric contract.”

“Binnie, please, this thing mentions plushies and Tuesdays. You started unserious.”

He groans. “It’s symbolic! It’s a declaration of eternal—”

“Snuggling rights?”

He grabs a pillow and throws it at your face.

You burst out laughing, half-snarled under the cotton fluff, “Assault?! On your legal blood doll?! I will be calling the Court.”

“Go ahead. I’ll just seduce the judge.”

“You are the judge—!”

“Exactly. And I find you in contempt.”

You shriek with laughter as he tackles you back into the mattress, both of you rolling, limbs tangled, laughter punching out of your chests like you’re drunk on something stronger than wine.

Eventually you settle—limbs heavy, hearts loud.

He kisses your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then the corner of your mouth, whispering, “You really signed it.”

You nod, nuzzling into him. “I meant every word. Even the plushie clause.”

“…I knew you’d cave.”

“Cave?” You snort. “I’m riding the plushie train straight into hell. Make me a throne. Out of frogs.”

He kisses you again, full on the mouth this time, smile against your lips. “You’re insane.”

“You’re in love with me.”

“And you just signed a blood contract for me.”

“…Touche.”

You fall into each other’s warmth after that. No pressure, no fangs just yet. Just limbs and laughter and the feel of being wanted so thoroughly that even the paperwork is romantic.

Until you feel his hand drift lower.

And he hums, like he’s thinking something through.

“…You know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Now that it’s official…”

You shiver. “Yeah?”

He nips gently—not biting, just teasing. “Wouldn’t mind doing the whole claiming thing properly.”

“Like…”

He grins against your skin. “You. Me. My fangs. This mattress. No interruptions. Eternal consequences.”

You blink. Then grin.

“Well, Judge,” you whisper. “I plead so guilty.”

Suddenly, you're on your back beneath him, already pulsing. Changbin hovers over you, hips rolling against yours. His fangs are out.

But he hasn’t bitten you yet. He’s waiting. Shaking. Worshipping you with every inch of his body.

“You sure?” he rasps.

You reach up, curling your fingers around the back of his neck. “Binnie. I signed the contract. I said yes a hundred ways. Make it a thousand.”

His jaw clenches. His cock slides against your entrance—hot, heavy, deliberate.

Then—his voice, hoarse: “I love you.”

And then he pushes in. You gasp—legs wrapping tight around his waist, hands clawing down his back. He fucks you slow at first, breathless, careful, like you’re breakable.

But you’re not. Not now. Not with him.

“Binnie—faster—please—”

He obeys. Hips snapping. Sweat dripping. His name tumbling out of your mouth like a mantra.

And when he leans in—lips brushing your neck—your whole body tenses.

You want this.

“Do it,” you whisper.

“You’re sure?”

“Do it, Binnie—mark me—make me yours—”

He growls. And then he bites. You cry out, the pain white-hot and fleeting—then replaced by pleasure so sharp, so overwhelming it makes your vision blur. He drinks slow, hips grinding into you deeper, harder, more possessive with every pulse of your blood into his mouth.

He moans into your neck as he drinks, his thrusts becoming ragged, desperate. “So fucking sweet,” he groans. “So fucking mine—”

You clench around him, overstimulated, whimpering, “Binnie—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me, baby,” he pants. “Wanna feel you when I fill you—”

And fuck, you do.

You shatter around him, crying out his name as he growls and fucks you through it—his own orgasm hitting seconds later, fangs still sunk into your skin as he spills inside you, claiming you in every possible way.

You both collapse together, sweaty and ruined, his cock still inside, your blood still on his tongue.

He lifts his head, eyes wide with awe, blood on his lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

You brush his hair back, kiss him soft and open-mouthed.

“And you’re mine.”

[day-azevir]

Woag it's slab system time!!

Some basic info; we all know Etho (he/him) whose been around the longest, Logo (it/its) who joined during season 3 a bit after Etho did, and Patho (they/them) who joined during season 6 while still trapped in the jungle

People who know about the slab system: Xisuma, Bdubs, Beef, Doc, Impulse

People who have a hunch: Cub, Ren, Gem, Tango, Hypno

People who don't know: Those not listed. Etho. Patho.

Xisuma found out during a code check after Etho was retrieved from the jungle. Bdubs, Beef, and Doc all gradually figured it out over time (mostly encountering Patho), but chose not to bring it up as Etho seems to get uncomfortable about it. Impulse realized somewhere between season 3 and 4 when Etho wouldn’t remember their interactions half the time (he had been meeting with Logo). He was the first to learn about the system, but because he hadn’t known Etho that long, he wasn’t sure if it would be rude to bring it up and was under the impression that the admins already knew.

Similar to Impulse, Hypno often encounters Logo, but hasn't put everything together himself because “Humans are just so goddam weird.” He knows something’s there, just not quite what (or I should say who). Cub found Etho ‘sleepwalking’ (ie Logo taking a midnight stroll) and took it back to base, to which Logo commented on his situation with the skulk in a totally non-threatening manner before giving the front back to Etho. Etho, who had no recollection of how he got into Cubs base, was unable to give any explanation and left. Cub was not able to sleep for several nights after. Gem and Tango both met Patho when they woke up and ‘tried to escape the jungle’ and nearly ran off the server. The two ended up having to fight them for a bit, but eventually Etho started to wake up and Patho was forced to back off. Tango has been around long enough to believe that there might be a system, but doesn't want to assume. Gem took notice of the different fighting techniques between Etho and Patho, so she made a mental note to look into it later.

Etho has no idea. He usually doesn’t remember when the others front, and when he does just shrugs and brushes it off. ‘Well that was weird and out of character… Time to make tnt :)’ Genuinely oblivious. Things are very similar with Patho in that regard. They don’t front often and so things are often fuzzy and memories feel more like dreams and vice versa - they honestly still think they're in the jungle most of the time and nothing is real. Logo, on the other hand, is very aware of the others. It doesn’t talk much and is a big fan of Minding Its Own Business, but does enjoy hanging out with the voidlings.

But while 2/3 don't know about the others, they still have very fun effects on each other;

As always, open for asks about slab system!

[ari-writist]

ROMANCE WITH ZORO

[headcanon] PRE TIMESKIP

• Zoro is someone who dreams to be the greatest swordsman, we all know that. Achieving romance with zoro is unlikely given that he is focused on his goal, but if, for some unexplained reason, this guy actually managed to get in his brain that he's in love, I think this is how it would go.

• Zoro is more of an action type rather than verbal, so he would show you that he cares in action. Through body language, maybe like, standing close to you without realizing it, offering you water or food without comment, or looking away when you catch him staring.

• Even though he likes you, he might not get into a relationship with you so it'll all just be unspoken tension between you two. (I love you but I can't. Why not? Ahhh)

• He might train himself more and avoid you, because if he gives in, he's going to lose sight of his goal — he's gonna be in denial. Also, he'd be mad at you, at himself, at the world. Because you’re now a distraction—a distraction with soft eyes and a laugh that echoes in his head while he’s trying to train.

• But he'd train harder, push himself more, and sleep less, because if he can just be strong enough — maybe he won’t need to choose between you and his dream.

• He avoids you. Not in an obvious way, he'd just always be somewhere else, and if you ask him why, he’ll grunt and say, “Got stuff to do.”

• He thinks about telling you once. But whenever he opens his mouth, the words taste like betrayal so he swallows them with sake and silence.

• Eventually, he would just stay in one place once he sees your down casted face every time he goes somewhere else if you're around, but he wouldn't actively seek for you, if you did for him then this man is not going to move from his place. He would just listen to you talk, or do whatever you want to do by his side.

• He would always be looking at you. His eyes would trail on where you once were if you were to disappear and if you manage to catch his eyes he would either close them to pretend like he's taking a nap or he would look away out in the distant sea.

• But why wouldn't he let himself love you? It's because he thinks that love will weaken him. That if he lets himself fall, he’ll lose the drive to stand back up. That if he chooses you, he'd be failing Kuina, his promise, his vow.

• Also because he believes he doesn’t deserve you yet. He thinks you deserve someone who can give you a future, not a man chasing ghosts with a sword on his back.

• But zoro isn't stubborn. No, no, he's terrified. Because once he lets himself love you, it won't be halfway — it will never be — it will be everything. And you’re the only thing in this world more dangerous than Mihawk’s blade.

IM GETTING THE HANG OF THIS. Anyways, as alwaysz this one is kind of rushed, wanted to get it all out of my head first. But when I read it, I thought it was good enough so I'll just post it and possibly edit it again when I wake up when I realize that omg wrong grammar, yeah when that hits me. Anyways, hope you guys had fun reading this.

Spoiler alert, I'm actually writing a short fic about this. Idk how to write angst properly — oops? Wasn't supposed to say that.

I WAS ABOUT TO SLEEP TIGHT WHEN I FORGOT TO ADD TAGS GAH

[vulpinesaint]

the episode of doctor who where donna builds a life and family in a simulation only to be woken up from it is so fucked up and heartbreaking. and not even for the husband that she doesn't realize is real after the fact. she had Kids in there... she had children... in her mind, in the fuzzy kind of memory of all the in-betweens that the computer filled in for her, she raised those children, she saw them grow up, she helped them when they were hurt, she reassured them about monsters before bedtime... she was a parent to two kids who were real to her and she had to hold them as they blinked out of existence and then go back to her life as it was before as if nothing had changed. how do you move on from that. they never say anything about again. she was a parent... she lost those kids...

[forgivenpunishment]

Like before, the bright stark white crown of faux-Plant lines manifest across Wolfwood's brow and underneath the deep bags beneath his eyes. His eyes glaze over while talking to the Sister, and he reaches a state that is not quite within Her space, and not quite within the real world.

"Brother... you mean Vash, right?" Wolfwood chirps, perhaps over-eager. There are... technically two brothers (that he knows of) after all, and he'd prefer it to be the one with a heart. "Where? Is he okay? Is he in danger? Did he get out? Please—anything, anything you can tell me..."

He clutches his eyes shut and tries to focus on just the Sisters, just their thoughts and feelings even as his heart jackrabbits with the pulse of the crowd. Wolfwood doesn't care who sees him like this anymore—he just... needs to find Vash. Vash needs to know how he feels. Even if they never see each other again after, he needs to know—

The undertaker shoving his way through the bustling crowd while Brad was still trying to corral them out and away definitely turned some heads— and earned a few glares and hissed comments from others —but Brad just shoved them harder. He hated the stupid accusatory bullshit-vision that some of them had made up about the kid, but there wasn't much he could do about it now… and definitely not when he was barreling through them all with his big fuck-off cross—

He'd just do the best he could; Luida was right behind him, anyway, so at least one of them could be fully present for whatever was about to happen.

The singing Plant's eyes slowly opened as Wolfwood's forehead met the glass, and while her expression didn't change too much, there was what looked like an attempt at a fond smile as her mouth closed and the singing stopped, the corners twitching up ever so faintly. Good! Good, he'd heard them, that was good—

B e L 0 V e D . . . !

— and just like before, she was happy to see him. Of course she was, all of them were always, always happy to see him… but now they had a reason! And that was very exciting— that excitement and happiness had been what had prompted a song instead of that sad, pointed feeling from before that had gotten his attention, though it had come with the drawback of getting everyone else's attention, too.

No matter! They had a reason for joy, for eagerness: they'd been helpful!

B R 0 T H e r . . . ! f e L t . . . !

[backinmyphase]

You didn't like the palace of the king of curses.

It wasn't because of the big garden with flowers you have never seen before, it wasn't because of the library with books you could only have dreamed of touching when you still lived in your home village.

It wasn't even the big intimidating king who was always scowling.

"There she is again. The king's new whore."

You didn't like the palace because of the maids who were constantly gossiping.

Every morning at precisely 5 am you were woken up by the sound of your door opening and the almost extra heavy steps of one of the maids. The maid would always start cleaning loudly at that ungodly hour and leave the curtains and door open when they leave. As they clean, they would always ignore you, never acknowledging your whining and groaning.

If it was just the lost sleep you wouldn't think they had something against you. Maybe it was just common here?

Wrong. Very wrong.

It wasn't common to be watched whenever you left your 'chambers'. It wasn't common to be glared at in the hallway. It wasn't common to wake up to torn clothes in your closet. And you really hoped it wasn't common to find tiny shards in your food.

It started with just whispering about you in the first week you were here. But over the last two months you felt the growing dread, growing hate towards you.

After you wore a kimono dress more oftenly, you would find it in shreds the next morning. And every snack that was brought to you was reflecting in different colors when the sun touched them.

Last week Sukuna had ordered you to eat with him. And as you felt their piercing glares you knew they were fuming.

"How do you think he will get rid of her when he gets bored?" Giggling. And of course they didn't care anymore if you heard what they said about you. Because they knew by now you wouldn't run to Sukuna about it.

Why? You didn't know. Maybe it was your sick masochistic pride which refused to ask that man for help. You would never admit it but somewhere deep in you, you didn't want him to see you as weak. Which he probably already did, but that was off the point. You didn't want him to see you scared because of some unspoken threats.

And today would be no different. Even if you could hear them talking about how you must be crazy in bed for their king to be so patient with you. But oh, were they wrong. Truth was, you didn't share anything intimate with the king.

You were just a gift for him from your village, someone he just kept around because he could. Well, that was your theory. Nobody knew what the king was really thinking.

"Oh, he will rip her apart for sure! Or maybe just slice her in two..."

That was enough of that for the day. Like always you skipped the rest of lunch, fleeing with light and quick steps out of that unbearable room. Maybe you had a sick masochistic pride, but even that had its limits.

At times like these you went into the library. They weren't allowed in there. The books there kept you warm and safe, away from the glances and whispers. Books about the world, countries you have never heard before. How could you, if you had never had seen so many books in one place?

Back in your village you would have called all these things meaningless. What about some other place on the other side of the earth? As if it would ever be important for you. But right now? It was nice to focus on something so meaningless. Maybe it was the relaxation. Probably it was the sleep deprivation. Who could blame you for falling asleep between these books?

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

"Wake up." If you were back at your village you would have complained about this kind of waking up. But after the last two months it almost seemed gentle.

"Hmmmm?" you whined while keeping your eyes shut. You just wanted to sleep.

"I said wake up." You groaned while rubbing your eyes and slowly sitting up. Opening them to look into these red ones. Red eyes, crimson red eyes.

Annoyed, Sukuna sat down on the opposite side of the table you had layed your head on. Only now you realized how high the table was built, built specific for him to work on.

"I don't like it to be kept waiting." he leaned back in his chair. "I thought I made it clear to dine with you-"

"It's already dinner time?" you straightened your posture, your right cheek feeling hot from the laying on top of the book. Your eyes still felt heavy but you tried your hardest to keep them open.

"Was. It's already much past it in fact. I had to search for a long time to find you."

You looked outside of one of the big windows in the library, seeing the moon standing high in the nightsky. You rubbed your eyes, while a small yawn escaped. "I'm sorry, my lord, I fell asleep."

He scoffed. "I could see that. What I'm asking myself is why? Aren't you sleeping well?"

And of course you couldn't just keep your mouth shut like you had wanted. No, you scoffed too and narrowed your eyes as you thought about them. "Oh, but of course I do."

There was a tense silence after that, you didn't know what but something shifted in the atmosphere. Sukuna's eyes had suddenly something dark in them. "Elaborate."

You gaped but stayed silent. He didn't question, he demanded an explanation. But there was still your pride.

"Just neck problems, you know." you lowered your gaze onto the books you had read before falling asleep. Why the hell did you read about ants?

"Really?" his voice suddenly seemed so low. "Do you think you need a new sleeping place?"

As you looked at him, Sukuna had that strange glint in his eyes, the atmosphere more tense out of sudden.

"Oh, it's not that bad, don't worry." you muttered quietly, trying to ignore his intense stare.

"Well it's certainly not nothing if you oversleep dinner."

This wasn't going anywhere. You tried to lift your gaze just a bit, trying to see what his expression was, but you were immediately met with his red eyes making you advert your look.

The silence was awkward.

It wasn't like the king and you were constantly talking. Normally there would also be a silence in the room when you would dine. But that silence was different. Then he would be content with just your company, no fancy topics needed.

But right now he demanded an explanation. And you were to stubborn to give him it.

You looked at your book again just hoping he would drop it. Making it a battle of stubbornness, which others would laugh at, but was between the two of you more often than normal.

Hmmm...

Ants don't have ears. Instead of hearing through auditory canals, ants "hear" by feeling vibrations in the ground. Special sensors on their feet and on their knees help ants interpret signals from their surroundings. They also use their antennae and the hairs on their body to feel around while foraging for food.

Who would have known?

"Are you gonna drop the antics and just tell me what's going on?" he was annoyed and probably rightfully so, but you were too deep into it now.

"Don't know what you are talking about."

He let out a small groan and stood up. Making his way around the table to stand behind you. And for the first time since you were picked up from your village he was so close you could feel his warmth. He was leaning down behind you. His voice speaking into your right ear from behind.

"If you want to play this game then so be it. But I always find out. And if you keep sleeping so badly, well..."

You could hear his smirk. "Then I just have to make personally sure you sleep well."

With that he left. Left the room. And left you with a embarrassing warmth in your cheeks and tummy and cool ant facts.

@csolya @neuvilletteswife4ever @unaaasz

Hehe this was sitting in my drafts over six months, sryy (but I finished it on my birthday sooo)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

[kissingmilfs]

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 | 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

18+ minors please dni ✮⋆˙

✮⋆˙content warnings: somno, cnc, scissoring, pervert!sevika

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧

the sheets rustled as sevika groaned herself awake. she awoke in a cold sweat that made every piece of fabric cling on any patch of skin it could find. sevika has never awoken from such a disgustingly, filthy dream. but the longer she’s awake the further the dream slips away from her. the last affects of the sex dream remain though. her clit achingly throbs like a second heart. somehow throughout the night you had rolled into sevika’s chest and tucked your leg between hers.

sevika didn’t necessarily want to wake you for the sole purpose of getting off. but if she rolls her hips right—maybe she can get enough friction to come without rousing you. sevika’s arm secures itself tighter around your back. your breathing remains steady. sevika gradually shifts and rotates her hips until she’s positioned her pussy on the apex of your thigh.

burying her nose in the messiness of your bed hair—sevika takes a deep sniff. you smell like hers. cautiously sevika drags her hips tentatively across your thigh. she holds her breath—not knowing if you’ll wake. but you remain still. such a perfect little doll, sevika thinks. the metallic fingers of sevika’s prosthetic angles your thigh even more against her cunt. the pressure is almost enough. her hips heavily grind down again. no, that’s not it. it felt better dragging herself the length of your thigh. she opts to try that method again.

sevika’s body produces more of a sweat from her attempts to get off. it’s starting to frustrate her. but she needs you. sevika knows she cannot simply roll over and rub one out. her body craves you. sevika feels the beginning of an idea sparking. she carefully rolls you on your back, brushing some hair out of your face. her fingers pause mid stroke when you mumble. but nothing more happens.

humming to herself in contentment, sevika diligently parts your legs wider before kneeling between them. tonight is one of those nights sevika’s fucking grateful you sleep without underwear. she cannot even fathom why she argued over something as banal as this. her mouth waters at the sight of your pussy in the moonlight. blinking away the distraction, sevika wiggled her boxers off her hips. she sits down quickly to tugs them off and toss them somewhere.

sevika returns to her former position kneeled between your spread thighs. her hands soothingly run up the soft skin of your thighs. marveling at how remarkable still you are in your sleep. if sevika’s clit wasn’t so distracting the woman would take the time to get you properly ready. but she’ll have to make do.

shifting on her knees sevika widens them enough where she can easily reach her own cunt. her fingers thickly skim down her folds and she hisses at how sensitive she is. sevika isn’t thrown too off guard with the sheer amount of mess coating her fingers. she felt it when she peeled off her boxers. her fingers shine in the dim light graciously afforded by the moonlight through the sheer curtains. sevika didn’t even really need to prep you. her own wetness would be enough. but she cannot resist. sevika crotches forward. one hand, her metal one, sinks into the mattress while the other slowly drags her soaked fingers up the length of your pussy. she all but trembles with the sinful action. and the only reaction that comes from you is tiny whine. it’s not even enough to convince sevika your sleep conscious mind registered the sensation.

regardless sevika eagerly plunges her own fingers back into her overly sensitive cunt and only pumps them in briefly. she gathers, scoop one might say, a generous amount of her own slick once again. it’s far more than the first time. sevika’s fingers return to your pussy. it takes a few passes through your folds and over your hole for all of sevika’s mess to transfer. your legs only twitched once.

sevika hums her satisfaction. “you’re so perfect, baby.” she utters softly. “and i’m so sorry…but i have to. i need to.”

she positions her body opposite yours. her left leg slotted over your right. sevika’s fingers curl into the sheets as she wills her body to stop fucking trembling. sevika feels desperate. insatiable. her senses have never driven her to such extremes. never once awoken from a dream and sweating out the fever of a lost orgasm. she wishes desperately her fingers would work. but after years owning your heart, body and soul—sevika can never take herself there alone.

and it’s exactly why she’s angled her cunt parallel to yours. sevika knows within minutes of sensually grinding her pussy against yours she’ll be released from this agony. she holds back the groan of approval housed in the depths of her throat. you’re warm and still covered with sevika’s juices. and it seems her few passes made you wet on your own.

“my needy girl…” sevika whispers out as she finally begins moving her hips.

it’s not entirely the easiest orgasm. usually sevika can hold your hand or thigh for leverage. or position your legs wider or higher. but sevika can make do. especially when each brush over her swollen clit against yours sends a heated spark in sevika’s stomach. she can feel herself dripping out and making a mess of you. her hand eventually circles your thigh—bending your leg. and it works. sevika’s strength can easily hold this position. it gives her more breadth and her clit freely glides against yours.

sevika’s body builds up the familiar sensations of her orgasm. her toes curl and uncurl. the muscles in her abdomen almost hurt from coiled tension. then she hears your tiny whimpers. sevika’s ears cannot differentiate if it’s whimpers of pleasure or if you’re slowly waking.

“sev?” sevika for sure knows you’re awake. your voice is faint and whiney and she could almost miss it. sevika cannot fully see your face but she knows you’re sporting that confused pout. the one where your lips are so damn kissable and your eyebrows bunch in light whisper.

her hips don’t come to a full stop. sevika cannot bring herself to. “shh…it’s okay, baby. i’m almost done. i promise. i’m so close.”

your body barely registered sevika’s actions at first. you were waking up from a warm dream. a warm and tingly dream. your body had never felt so relaxed. you called out sevika’s name only because you hadn’t waken in her arms. it is only after sevika coos at you did the realization set in.

“mm..sev…” you whine out again. not in distress but because now you’re inappropriately horny. it is clear your body did not receive any release.

“i know, doll. i know. let me handle it, baby. i’ll make you feel good. i promise.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

STICKY, SMUG & MINE

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: aaron takes up jogging, and you take up pouting—because he leaves you… only to come back and smother you with his sweaty self, based on this request. warnings | an: suggestive-ish, fluff, established relationship, sweaty aaron is a menace, this is lowk heels of dreams long lost cousin, aaron is the best boyfriend ever, one butt grab. word count: 1.6k

✧ masterlist

There was quite literally nothing better than waking up on a lazy Sunday with no responsibilities, no emails, no deadlines—just you, your silk sheets, and the universe giving you a moment to breathe.

Well... actually, there was something better.

That something was six-foot-two, broody, and had a really great jawline. And right now?

He was missing.

More importantly, his arm was missing—the one that usually draped itself somewhere between your waist, your chest, your neck—like a very handsome human weighted blanket.

Still half-asleep, your manicured hand reached out dramatically, patting his side of the bed. "Baby," you mumbled, voice muffled under your silk sleep mask and blanket, "I'm missing an arm. It's yours. Bring it back."

You felt the bed dip slightly, then a soft press of lips to your temple.

"I didn't want to wake you," came that low, velvety voice—the voice. The one that could convince you to do just about anything... except get out of bed before 8 a.m.

You burrowed deeper into the comforter. "You did wake me. Now I have to deal with the trauma of your absence."

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made you want to melt. "I'm just heading out for a run. I'll be back before you finish your second coffee."

Something about run pinged your brain. You peeked out from beneath your sleep mask, one eye open, catching a blurry glimpse of him pulling his shirt over his head, his muscles flexing like it was some kind of sports ad made just for you and your weak morning willpower.

"Baby," you croaked, voice hoarse and soaked in sleep. "It's Sunday. God rested. Why can't you?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, already lacing up his shoes, his insistence on routine—even on weekends—making you want to roll your eyes and also…maybe kiss him a little. In the name of fitness appreciation, of course.

"I have to get my miles in,” he said, sparing you a dreamy glance.

You groaned, reaching out with all the strength you could muster from a body still in the process of waking up, giving his arm a tug. "There are plenty of ways we could hit mileage without ever leaving this bed.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead. “Glad to see that part of your brain is awake.”

“Well, that part never fully shuts off when I have a ridiculously hot boyfriend running around shirtless at ungodly hours.”

You felt his fingers gently brush your hair out of your face, warm and annoyingly considerate. "I laid out your vitamins, your favourite smoothie's in the fridge, and I rescheduled your 10 a.m. facial to next weekend so you could sleep in."

"Hmm. You're starting to sound like Bella."

"Am I?" he asked innocently. "Does your assistant also do this?"

Before you could ask what, his hands slipped beneath the duvet and grabbed a very unapologetic handful of your ass.

You gasped, swatting at his arm with absolutely no conviction. "Aaron!"

"Just trying to keep up with the standards you're used to."

You huffed, tugging the covers higher over your head. "Bella never grabs my butt before breakfast. It’s strictly a post-lunch activity.”

He chuckled as he stood. “Guess I’m just an overachiever.”

You flopped onto your back and propped yourself up on your elbows, still squinting at him through sleep-blurred eyes. “No,” you whined. “Come back. I might actually perish without attention for the next half hour.”

“You’ll be okay, honey,” he cooed, crossing the room back to your side “Barely, but you will.”

Then he leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to your lips—probably just to shut down any further theatrics before they could escape your mouth.

“Be good,” he murmured against your skin, thumb brushing your cheek. “I love you.”

You pouted up at him. “Even when I’m dramatic?”

“Especially then.”

And with that, he was gone—leaving behind the faint scent of aftershave and one very flustered girlfriend who had no chance of going back to sleep now.

Eventually, you peeled yourself out of bed and made the shortest, most emotionally burdened journey of all time to the kitchen. You grabbed your smoothie, vitamins, and your dog like a sleep-deprived scavenger before collapsing back into the safety of your duvet fortress, with the grace of a woman who had already done far too much before 9 a.m.

Aaron was not back in half an hour.

You knew this because despite your best efforts to play it cool, you were pathetically clock-watching in between your doom-scrolling.

To your great relief you finally heard the jingle of keys in the door about twenty minutes past the thirty-minute mark, not that you were counting. (You were absolutely counting.)

You tried—really tried—to stay wrapped in your blanket cocoon like the stoic, definitely-not-obsessed girlfriend you were pretending to be. But the second you heard the door open and the familiar sound of his shoes hitting the entryway floor, you were up instantly.

You rounded the corner, blanket dragging behind you, and found him in the kitchen, sweat-damp, flushed from the run, hair tousled, and drinking water straight from the bottle.

“You’re up,” he said, slightly breathless, finishing the last of the water—looking way too good for someone who’d just spent the last hour torturing himself for fun. “That’s earlier than expected. Missed me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was just making sure you didn’t die out there.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly not buying it. “So you weren’t watching the clock at all?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t come running the second you heard the door?”

“I was actually already up, thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah?” He took a step closer, setting the empty bottle down on the counter. “Up doing what, exactly?”

You held your ground, blanket still clutched around you like a shield. “Important things.”

He took another step. “Like?”

“Drinking my smoothie. Taking my vitamins. Bonding with Gus.”

He glanced past you. “Gus is asleep.”

“Because I wore him out with all the emotional support he had to provide after you abandoned me.”

He laughed, now only a few feet away, the heat from his post-run glow practically radiating off him. “You’re cute,” he murmured, reaching out to gently tug the edge of your blanket. “And completely full of it.”

“You’re dangerously close for someone who’s literally glistening,” you warned, narrowing your eyes but making absolutely no move to step away.

“Glistening?” he repeated with a laugh. “Is that your delicate way of saying I’m sweaty?”

“No, it’s my polite way. My actual way involves the words ‘damp’ and ‘unsanitary.’”

"I thought you liked it when I get a little sweaty," he argued, eyes narrowing playfully.

You couldn't help but smile, even as you maintained your moral high ground. "I like when we get sweaty together," you clarified, lifting your chin like a woman with standards. "Which, for the record, was my original offer. You're the one who chose pavement over passion."

His grin widened. "So this is still about earlier."

"This is about your choices, Aaron."

“Well, right now, I’d really like to give my very dramatic, very needy girlfriend a hug.”

You raised both hands instantly. “Uh-uh. Touch me with your sweaty self and I’m filing an emergency injunction.”

He tilted his head, still inching closer. “An injunction?”

"Immediate cease and desist,” you declared. “Violations will be met with cold stares and withheld cuddles."

"I feel like that's an empty threat."

You scoffed, backing up a step. "You are literally radiating heat. You could fog up a window just by breathing near it.”

He grinned, taking another step like a man who thought slow movements made him invisible “Alright, alright. I’ll go shower. Give the people what they want.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Good.”

He moved past you with the grace of someone who had absolutely no intention of actually behaving. “I’ll even use your fancy shampoo that costs more than my running shoes.”

“That’s the bare minimum. And don’t be stingy—two full lathers, I’ll be checking.”

You heard a smug, “Yes ma’am,” from somewhere behind you as you made your way to the living room.

Which is exactly when he lunged.

“Aaron!” you shrieked—loud enough to wake the neighbours and maybe someone three floors down.

He grabbed you from behind, arms wrapping around your middle as he lifted you clean off the floor

“Oh my God,” you yelled, kicking mid-air. “I’m filing a restraining order!”

“That’s fine,” he mumbled in your hair, already walking you toward the couch. “I’ll have it deleted from the system by Monday.”

And with zero warning, he launched you onto the sofa—your blanket sliding off in defeat, throw pillows scattering to the floor. One even hit the coffee table with a light thud, nearly knocking over your vase of tulips.

Before you could scramble upright or reassemble your dignity, he dropped down on top of you. His hands braced at either side of your head, caging you in just as he let half of his body weight rest against you, sending a dramatic laugh bubbling up from your chest.

“You’re crushing me,” you gasped, still laughing, though your arms made no real effort to push him off.

“I’m barely leaning on you,” he corrected, face inches from yours.

“You’re all sticky,” you groaned, nose scrunching—right as he decided to escalate the situation by wiping his sweaty forehead against yours like a human towel.

“Stop it!” you yelped, twisting your head away like a cat dodging bath time. “I am reporting this to HR!”

“Make sure to copy me in,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck, far too pleased with himself. “I like seeing your name in my inbox.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting.” You tried to glare at him, but it lasted all of four seconds before you were smiling again. “You’re paying me back for all of this distress. In brunch.”

He kissed you once more, and despite all your loud insistence about him being sticky and gross, you kissed him right back.

“Already made the reservation, angel.”

tags- @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

dividers by cafekitsune

[lxnarphase]

━━ ❝ GOOD MORNING, BABY !! ❞

☾₊‧⁺...ft. : g. satoru + g. suguru + n. kento + f. toji + k. choso + t. fumihiko

☾₊‧⁺...cw : somnophilia (pre-agreed on), thigh fucking, penetrative sex, pre-established relationship, dirty talk, praise and degradation, mommy kink, breeding kink, satoru and toji are just filthy, choso is so cute and needy, kento is the sweetest husband, it's just really fucking dirty im not sorry

☾₊‧⁺...synopsis : which jjk characters would fuck your thighs while you're sleeping bc they're horny but don't wanna wake you up !!

who does it to tease you ↴

✧ g. satoru ; satoru tries to wake you up, but you just don't want to. and by try, he means he blew into your ear just for you to huff and smack him away, grumbling to let you sleep or you'd bite him. ohh, you are so cute, he just really can't help himself

“look at my pretty girl, such a mess…tsk, wish she'd wake up, now i gotta fuck her soft, pretty thighs instead of that pretty lil' pussy." “aww, your pussy 's so noisy! listen t' her...she's all wet, she's cryin' f'me to fuck her, isn't she? aww, poor thing...” “ooh, are you cumming, baby? cumming in your sleep like a slutty little girl while I fuck your thighs, so precious…”

✧ g. suguru ; suguru's hands move up and down your soft curves while he grinds against your thighs, quiet, sticky noises sounding in the room. you're so adorable, he wants to shake you awake but teasing you with his thick cock nudging against your clit is so much more fun

“you’ve always been so responsive, i didn’t think my dick between your thighs would get you like this, princess.” “oh? was that my name? don’t tell me you’re having a wet dream about me. so dirty, baby, thinking of me like that while sleeping when I’m right here with you.” “don’t you wanna wake up and move my cock somewhere other than your thighs? c'mon, princess, wake up for me.”

who does it because they are desperate ↴

✧ k. choso ; not outright fucking you is painful, but he doesn’t want to wake you up. He’s so fucking hard, that dream affected him more than he thought, and before he knew it, he was fucking your thighs, not caring how loud he was being.

“baby, baby, fuck, hoohmygodd, please! need y'so bad, so fuckin' soft, so soft, fuck, could d' this to you all the time, never wanna stop, p-please, god, 'm gonna cum all over you-!” “sticky fuckin' p-pussy's beggin' me t' fuck it, b-but wanna see you look at me. c'mon, c-c'monnn, please wake up, let me stick it in, o-or 'm gonna waste it a-and cum all over your cunt.” “oh, mmh, ’m cumming, ’m cumming, baby, i-i’ll clean y' up after, g'nna fuck you again 'n' again 'n' againnn, fuck, ’m cumming-!”

✧ t. fumihiko ; poor thing, fumihiko honestly tries to deal with it by himself, trying to just jerk off in the bathroom, but it doesn't work. he knew what he needed, he needed you, needed to touch and feel you around him. with shaky hands holding your thighs, he slides his aching cock between your thighs, moaning so cutely…and when you wake up and start cooing to him, he absolutely loses himself.

“i’m-i’m gonna mess you up so bad, been wantin’ to leave you a mess for so long, so fucking long, 'm g-gonna cum all over your pretty thighs. 's okay, right? right? mmh, okay, 'm gonna do it, 'm gonna cum on 'em.” “y-yeah, yeah, fuck, your thighs are so soft, feel so good around my cock, gonna cum all over them, m-ma'am.” “'s so much cum, i can’t stop cumming, m-mommy, ’m losing my mind, love your thighs, they're so soft, s' soft, thank you, thank you, thank you-!”

who wakes you up ↴

✧ f. toji ; it’s not uncommon for toji to wake up in the middle of the night, cock hard in his sweats. can you blame the guy when he's sleeping next to the sexiest woman he's ever laid his eyes on. he thanks whatever god there is for giving him a wife like you who lets him fuck your soft thighs until you wake up up so he can stuff you full of cum instead of wasting it on your stomach.

“’s time to wake up, mama, don’ ya wan' me t' fuck your needy cunt 'stead of these pretty thighs?” “aw, y'look soooo cute and dumb right now…my pretty thing. c'mon, spread those legs for me, mama, toji's gonna take care of ya.” “did y' dream 'bout me fucking your thighs? yeah? mm, you’re takin' my cock like you wanted me t' fuck you awake…hm? you want that next time? mm, i’ll keep it in mind, baby girl, now shut up and let me fuck you dumb.”

✧ n. kento ; he usually only does this when he’s very very frustrated from working, coming home to see his pretty baby in one of his button-ups sleeping, thighs out in the open. he can’t help himself, softly calling your name as he slides his hard cock slowly in and out between your thighs, giving you soft smile when you wake up.

“sorry to wake you, darling, I know it’s late, but I need you. you just...look so beautiful, i couldn't help himself.” “you were responding so cutely in your sleep…would you rather I be inside you? ask nicely, honey, and I’ll give you what you want. you know a good husband does whatever his wife asks.” “so, so pretty like this, i could fuck you for days. should i do that, my sweet girl? mm, maybe i should take tomorrow off and keep you in bed all take, make sure that my seed takes. what do you think, sweetheart, you want me to give you a baby?”

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[moondustbaby]

can you do W for blue collar!rafe, but he’s the one that has the wet dream..??

W – Wet dreams

blue collar!Rafe x wife!Reader

✨1k celebration post✨

mdni 18+

He wakes up hard. Aching. Throbbing.

The kind of hard that hurts.

And fuck, the dream—he’s still in it. Still sweating from it. Still hearing your voice, echoing in his head all soft and whiny, begging him to go deeper.

He groans into the pillow, blinking at the early light creeping through the blinds.

You’re curled up beside him, fast asleep. Wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of thin little panties he can see through under the sheets.

He bites his lip, hips twitching. His cock is already leaking, straining against the waistband of his boxers. He knows he should just get up. Go shower. Do something respectable.

But then you shift, moaning softly in your sleep, your body naturally pressing back into his.

And he loses the fight.

“Baby,” he rasps, already pulling your hips closer, grinding slow against your ass. “You awake?”

“Mmm?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “What’re you doing?”

“Can’t help it,” he whispers, breath hot against your neck. “Had a dream. ‘Bout you. Been hard since four a.m.”

You giggle, eyes still barely open. “Yeah? You fuck me good in your dream?”

He groans. “So fuckin’ good. You were beggin’.”

You press back against him, feeling the length of him through his boxers. “Maybe you should show me.”

He doesn’t need more than that.

He slides your panties down with one hand, pushes his boxers down with the other, and not even thirty seconds later—he’s inside you, slow and deep, breathing heavy like he’s still stuck somewhere between the dream and now.

“Still feels like I’m dreamin’,” he pants, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You feel unreal, baby.”

You whimper, arching back into him as he starts to move.

“Just like in the dream,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “So fuckin’ wet. Always so good for me.”

You cum first, clenching tight around him—and he finishes seconds after, with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine.

He stays inside you. Breathing hard. Kissing your shoulder like he’s still trying to wake up.

“You were moaning in your sleep,” you whisper, smiling. “Was kinda hot.”

He laughs breathlessly. “You should’ve heard me in the dream.”

a/n: he woke up hard, moaning your name, still half-asleep and already reaching for you. thank you for the request angel 🥰 blue collar!rafe is most definitely dreaming about you, leaking for you, and fucking you before the sun’s even up

♥️ lani

nsfw a-z

[giannaln4]

Wet Dream

lando norris x fem reader

summary: Lando had a wet dream and he needs to take care of it.  (1.7k words)

warnings: mdni, + 18, smut, masturbation, fingering, unprotected sex, needy!lando

a/n: this might or might not be inspired solely by this picture. i'm not gonna lie, this is pure smut. i apologise in advance. also i'm sorry for the abrupt ending 😭 i never know how to finish these. anyway, please send some requests!

↺ back to navigation— send me a request!

The only thing that could be heard in your shared room were your moans, loud and desperate for a release. 

You were on top of Lando as he held onto your hips for dear life, his eyes closing as the overwhelming feeling of his incoming orgasm started to grow. 

“Are you close, baby?” He managed to spit out. He needed to make sure he didn’t come before you, so his thumb landed on your clit to bring you closer to the edge. Your moans were intensifying, and god, he loved the look on your face when you were about to come.

He opened his eyes and… nothing. Nothing but pure darkness. 

He looked down at his crotch, only to spot his painful cock making a tent under the blankets. His breathing was heavy, and he was sweating a lot. 

Fuck. 

He released the bedsheets he didn’t realise he was fisting and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. 

He looked next to him and spotted you there, peacefully sleeping and completely unaware of the dream he just had. 

He closed his eyes again, hoping he would be able to ignore his painful cock, but of course he couldn’t, because as soon as he closed his eyes, flashes of his wet dream and how undeniably beautiful you looked riding him came back to him. 

He took another deep breath as he opened his eyes, once again encountering the dark room. His hand was slowly sneaking down the blankets, and when he finally found his bulge, he gave it a hard squeeze for some relief. He let out an involuntary moan, not loud enough so that it would wake you up, but the room was so silent he thought it would. 

He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it in, so instead of trying to relieve himself right next to you, he knew the right thing would be to go somewhere else and not disturb your sleep. 

He got up carefully and left the bed, looking back at you, before locking himself in the bathroom. 

He sat on the closed toilet, pulling down his boxers and finally freeing his aching member. He squeezed it again, and again, and again, before he started stroking it slowly. His grip was firm, and his groans were low as he finally gave it what it so desperately needed. 

Using his spit and the pre cum leaking from his tip, his strokes got faster, and Lando rolled up his shirt and trapped it between his teeth as he looked down at his hand, his mind trying to replace it with your pretty mouth. With that image in his mind, it got harder to contain his moans. 

⋆｡° ✮ ⋆｡° ✮ 

You rolled over, expecting to find your boyfriend to cuddle, like you always did. Instead, all you found was an empty spot next to you. It was still warm, so you knew he hadn’t been gone for too long. 

You closed your eyes again, figuring he’d be back in just a moment, but you heard something that made you open them again. A loud breath that you thought could only mean something had happened. 

You got up immediately, worried as you made your way to the bathroom. But once you were close enough, it clicked. You finally understood what he was doing. 

You were about to turn around, go back to bed, and pretend like it never happened, figuring he needed some privacy to finish his business, but something between your legs was begging you to help him out and calm down whatever had gotten into him.

⋆｡° ✮ ⋆｡° ✮ 

He was being louder than he intended, but it felt so good he didn’t even realise. His shirt was still between his teeth and his eyes now squeezed shut as he tried to bring himself to a sweet release.

His mind was replaying his dream, echoes of both of your moans filling his ears and the vivid image of you on top of him, something he wished he could plaster in his eyelids, until he heard a knock on the door that made him stop what he was doing 

“You okay in there?” He heard you ask from the other side of the door. Shit. 

“Huh?” Was all he managed to say. 

“Can I come in?”

“No!” He was quick to reply, “I’ll be right out.”

He couldn’t help but be embarrassed, feeling like a teenage boy who was just caught getting off where he wasn’t supposed to. He was ready to just go back out and act like he wasn’t just jerking off to a dream he just had.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” You asked. You didn’t hear him say anything after that, and you instantly regretted interrupting him. Maybe that was something he needed to do alone. Maybe he needed a release but didn’t need… you. 

Those thoughts were interrupted when you heard shuffling inside, followed by footsteps that got louder as he got closer to the door. 

Lando opened it, his hair messy and his shirt wet from stuffing it in his mouth. “Yes, please,” he said with begging eyes. 

You crashed your lips into him, pulling him back to the bed. 

“I can’t believe you were doing that without me,” you said against his lips. 

“I didn’t wanna bother you.” He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap, hands falling on your hips as he brought you closer to him. 

You moaned when you felt his hard cock against you. “And keep this from me?” You asked as you moved your hips.

He bucked his hips involuntarily, the friction feeling delicious against your wet core. You kept moving on top of him as he discarded your sleeping garments, falling somewhere on the floor. You decided to do the same for him, getting rid of his shirt and running your hands up and down his muscles.

Neither of you could control the sounds that were falling from your lips, and yours only got louder when his right hand sneaked between your almost naked bodies to find your folds. He pushed one finger inside you, pumping vigorously.

“Mhm, already so wet for me,” he mumbled against your skin, his lips travelling down your neck.

“Couldn’t help it, it sounded like you were having fun in the bathroom,” you said, and you could feel a smirk creeping on his lips.

“Well, you drive me crazy even in my dreams.”

“Is that what happened?”

He hummed in response. “You should’ve seen how pretty you looked riding me.”

“Let’s make it come true then.” You pushed him on his back and got rid of his last piece of clothing, letting you see how needy his cock was. 

You admired him for a moment, and you could see him struggling to keep his hands to himself. When you finally decided you were ready, you started crawling to get on top of him, your hands landing on his bare chest.

“Ready?” 

“I’m always ready for you.” He replies, as sweet as ever. “Fuck, you’re so wet and beautiful,” Lando said, holding onto your hips as you began to get comfortable, both of your legs on either side of him. He gave your hips a hard squeeze as you got situated, just like in his dream.

You finally took his cock in your hand, stroking it slowly as you guided it to your dripping hole, a sigh of relief leaving your mouths when you sank down.

He groaned as his grip on your hips tightened when you lifted and sank back down onto him slowly.

“Feels good, baby?”

“So, so good.” His head fell back into the pillows when you rolled against him, and you couldn’t help but smile when he whimpered again. After a moment, he looked up at you. “Y/N?” He moaned your name, but it sounded more like a question.

You brushed a stray of his dark curls off his forehead. “Yeah?”

He let out another moan, his eyes falling to where you’re connected before meeting your eyes. “Faster, please.” And you listened, you began to ride him faster. “Just like that, baby,” Lando cried out.

You moaned as his dick spread you out. You began to bounce down faster and harder. Lando was losing his mind as he watched you move faster, your nails scratching down his torso. He was filling you so good he had you rolling your eyes to the back of your head every time his cock hit that sweet spot.

“Not gonna last long,” he warned you, his thumb finding your clit without even looking, although his eyes were on you the entire time, all of you, how your pussy looked as it swalowed his cock, how your boobs bounced with every roll of your hips, how your face contortioned in pleasure, and how your mouth fell open to let out the prettiest sounds he’s ever heard. He didn’t dare to look away; in case he was dreaming again, he didn’t wanna miss a single detail, and let’s face it, he didn’t wanna wake up this time.

“I’m close,” you breathed out, your legs burning from riding him, but you didn’t care; you only cared about how good he felt inside you.

“Cum with me, baby.” Both his hands returned to your hips, gripping them as he planted his feet on the bed to thrust up into you and help you move faster and more aggressively, trying to push you both over your edges.

Your own hand went to rub small circles where you were missing him as your other one fell on his shoulder to hold onto something, and before you knew it, you were coming around him. Your toes curled into the sheets, and your body trembled on top of his, making you fall forward and collapse across his defined chest.

"Fuck,” he whimpered when you squeezed him repeatedly. 

Lando had to do all the work himself, thrusting his hips upwards to meet yours, because your body wouldn’t and couldn’t move anymore as your orgasm racked through you. With four hard thrusts to your cunt, his load of cum shot up into your pussy and coated your slick walls.

Your bodies laid together as you both tried to catch your breath. His hand was rubbing your back, and his lips left a kiss on your temple, something he always did after you had sex.

“So, you had a sex dream?” You asked after a moment of silence. Lando chuckled at your question, kissing your shoulder softly before replying.

“And you just made it come true.”

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 05

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, kissing, making out (?), you guys are gonna hate me lolol, reader and jk are both stupid, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 8.1k

notes: i did NOT think this would take this long, i’m so sorry angels :< as always, like, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are so appreciated!!! enjoy reading <33

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⤷ chapter five — anything

i don’t wanna talk about anything / i wanna kiss, kiss you eyes again / wanna witness your eyes lookin’

You wake up to warmth.

It takes you a second to realise it’s not the kind that comes from the sun bleeding through the sheer curtains. It’s heavier than that. Warmer. It smells like the detergent he always uses, that subtle citrus blend you used to make fun of for being “too clean.” You shift slightly; not enough to stir anything, but just enough to check.

Yep. That’s his arm, still draped across your waist.

He’s curled behind you, breathing steady, chest rising and falling against your back. One of his legs has somehow found its way tangled with yours. His grip on you is loose, almost lazy, like even in sleep, he doesn't want to let go — but he would if you pulled away.

You don’t.

Your pillow is soft, but his chest was softer last night. You remember the way he just climbed into bed, half-drunk, barely conscious, and slung his arm around you. No hesitation. No asking. Just like nothing had changed.

And maybe, for a second, you’d let yourself pretend that was true.

Now, in the stillness of early morning, there’s something terrifyingly comforting about his hold. About the way your bodies fit together so seamlessly, like no time had passed at all.

And you can feel the small ache in your chest — the part of you that misses him so much you're not sure how to deal with it.

You miss the way he sleeps like he’s protecting you from something. You miss the way his warmth settles over you like a blanket. You miss... him.

Your hand twitches, like it wants to reach for his, but you don't move — you don't want to break the moment.

So you just stay still, letting yourself exist in the space between what was and what could’ve been. Letting yourself remember, even if just for a minute, what it felt like to be loved by him without question.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, eyes half-lidded and mind floating somewhere between sleep and something a little too close to dreaming.

Eventually, his breathing shifts.

Not a lot — just the kind of subtle change that lets you know he’s slipping out of sleep. His chest rises a little deeper, his fingers twitch once at your side, and you feel the slight tension in his leg where it’s tangled with yours.

You keep your eyes closed.

He doesn’t move immediately. In fact, for a second, you think maybe he’s still asleep after all. But then you feel it: the tiniest brush of his thumb against the hem of your shirt.

You hear him breathe in, a little sharper this time. Not quite a gasp, but close. The kind of inhale people take when they suddenly remember where they are, and who they’re with.

Then his voice, low and scratchy with sleep, murmurs near your ear, “Still drool in your sleep?”

You scoff, caught off guard, and shove at his arm without really meaning it.

“No,” you mutter, voice thick, “but you still snore.”

There’s a quiet laugh behind you. It's barely there, a warm exhale more than anything else, but it vibrates faintly through his chest where it rests against your back. It feels nice, but too easy. Like a bad habit.

Then, silence.

Another beat passes, and you can feel the change the moment it happens. Like something clicks back into place for him. His arm retracts slowly, the weight of it disappearing from around your waist. He shifts back a few inches — not a lot, but enough to put space where there hadn’t been any for hours.

You feel the loss immediately.

Your skin feels cooler where he was, your body suddenly too aware of the places that were warm just seconds ago. You don’t move. Don’t look at him. You just stare at the soft curve of light on the wall in front of you and pretend you don’t miss the closeness already.

“Sorry,” he says under his breath, barely audible. “Didn’t mean to... yeah.”

You nod, still facing forward. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not. Not really.

He sits up slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight as he pulls his legs over the edge of the bed. You don’t turn around, but you can hear the way he rubs at his face with his hands, the quiet sound of palms dragging over skin.

“Sun’s already up,” he says, like you hadn’t noticed.

You hum in agreement, but you don’t say anything else.

He sits there on the edge of the bed for a second, then lets out a groan. "Fuck," he mutters. "How much did I drink last night?"

You shift slightly on the mattress, just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His hair’s a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up in soft waves on the other. It makes you smile.

“Judging by the way you came in here like a tranquilised bear? Enough.”

He huffs a sound that might be a laugh, head hanging low. “Figures.”

He pushes himself up with a grunt, standing slow like the weight of being vertical is a little too much this early. There’s a faint crease across his cheek from the pillow, another on the side of his neck where the blanket must’ve bunched up under him. He scratches absently at his jaw, eyes still droopy.

You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t look at you.

He just stands there for a beat, arms loose at his sides, before murmuring, “I’m gonna go see if there’s coffee. You want anything?”

You finally roll over, propping yourself up on one elbow just in time to see him standing by the door, his hair messy and eyes avoiding yours.

You hesitate. “Coffee sounds good.”

He gives a small nod. “Okay.”

The door clicks softly behind him, and you’re alone in the room again. The only evidence he was ever there is the indent on the mattress beside you and the faint trace of citrus still lingering in the air.

You sigh, falling back against the pillow.

You hate how badly you already want him to come back.

The small Hello Kitty sticker on the side of Jungkook’s helmet is still there.

It’s barely hanging on now, faded from years of sun and road and rain, peeling slightly at the edge like it's just waiting for someone to come along and pull it off for good. But no one ever has. Not even him.

You remember the day you put it there. It was in your third year of college, and he’d just bought the bike and rolled it into the lot, grinning proudly. He was already talking about road trips; about escaping the city and taking you everywhere just because he knew how much you loved travelling. You’d pulled the sticker from your phone case and pressed it onto the side of the helmet before he could say anything.

He’d groaned. You’d grinned. He kept it.

And now, here you are — arms wrapped around him as the motorbike hums down the road toward town, your legs pressed tight against his. You ignore the overwhelming urge to press your cheek against his back and just relax against him.

The wind is warm, laced with salt. You feel it push through your clothes and tangle your hair, but most of all, you feel him — solid in front of you, body moving in sync with the turns. His shirt is damp with heat, and your fingers rest lightly against the fabric, careful not to hold too tight.

But you want to.

You feel his breath shift when the town comes into view, a small stretch of painted buildings and narrow streets nestled between the coastline and the hills. It’s beautiful — chipped and colourful, with flags strung between rooftops and open-air shops spilling out into the street.

He pulls into a spot near the edge of the square and cuts the engine. For a second, neither of you move. Your arms are still around him. Your chest is still mere centimetres away from his back. The silence settles in like heat.

When you finally slip off the bike, the world feels too bright. You run a hand through your hair, trying to tame the wind-tangled strands, and glance back just in time to see Jungkook unbuckle his helmet and set it on the seat. The sticker catches the light. So does his smile — soft, and slightly crooked as he smoothens the edges.

You take a few steps toward the square, eyes scanning the little street corners and shaded storefronts. There’s a carved wooden sign hanging from a crooked beam, and beside it, a wire rack of postcards spinning lazily in the breeze.

But no sign of Ari. Or Namjoon.

Which is funny because it was Ari who had convinced you to come down here in the first place.

You’d been perfectly content by the beach, book in hand, half-asleep in the sun, but she’d tugged you up and kept begging you to come with her until you finally gave in.

To be fair, she did have a good reason; the house was running critically low on groceries.

Somehow, she’d managed to convince Jungkook too — which honestly, you're glad about because there's nothing you hate more than third wheeling a happy couple — but no one else was swayed enough to tag along.

And now, she's the one that's late.

You shade your eyes with your hand and glance further down the street.

“They said they’d meet us here, right?” you ask, finally.

Your voice is quiet. You’re not even sure if it’s meant to break the silence or just soften it.

Jungkook lifts his phone halfway, thumb tapping the screen like it’s muscle memory. “Yeah,” he says, not looking up right away. “Ah, Namjoon just texted me there. They just got here, so they’re probably still looking for parking or something. He said they'll meet us eventually."

You nod once and step away from the curb, eyes trailing the narrow stretch of market street ahead. Sunlight glints off the tin roofs. There’s the murmur of voices, the occasional clink of glass, and the low thrum of a radio somewhere playing a song you don’t recognise but vaguely like.

Jungkook falls in beside you without a word.

A couple passes going the opposite way, their hands intertwined. You glance down at yours.

“We should probably start,” he says after a beat. “Since they’ll just meet us.”

You shrug. “You have the list, right?”

He unlocks his phone again and scrolls. “Yeah. Ari texted it to me this morning.”

��What’s on it?”

He reads as you both start walking again. “Eggs, lemons, bread. Peaches. Some kind of pasta. And then she added ‘whatever fruit looks pretty.’”

“What's that supposed to mean," you say, amusement lacing your voice.

"No idea."

You break off from the main road, following a shaded lane lined with uneven cobblestones and quieter stalls. The air’s a little cooler here, less crowded, the noise of the market fading to a background hum. You walk slowly, letting your shoulders drop, adjusting the tote bag looped over your arm as it shifts with the weight of everything you’ve already picked up.

So far: a bundle of slightly overripe peaches, a paper-wrapped loaf of bread, lemons, and some fresh mango juice.

Jungkook had gone to find water in some corner café he'd spotted, and you’d just nodded and wandered a little further on your own, not really thinking about where your feet were taking you.

Now, you’re standing in front of a narrow stall tucked between a linen vendor and a rack of second-hand books, and the table in front of you is lined with jewellery.

Nothing fancy — just a board of earrings propped on the table, arranged in uneven rows on pale linen. Some dangle, some are simple studs. Silver, gold, brushed metal, the occasional coloured stone.

You scan them slowly, half out of habit. You’ve been keeping an eye out since yesterday, hoping you might stumble across something like the ones you lost, but nothing here is quite right. Too ornate, too polished, too intentionally handmade.

Though, one pair does catch your eye: small hoops with a single pearl hanging from it. They're pretty.

You don’t pick them up.

Just stand there, letting the edge of your bag dig slightly into your shoulder, the sun hitting your arms in slow patches between the slats of the awning overhead.

The vendor is older, seated on a stool in the corner, half-hidden behind a stack of folded cloth. She doesn’t greet you. Just watches, quiet and patient, a thread of silver hair slipping from behind her ear.

You tuck your hands into your pockets, shift your weight to the other foot.

The earrings catch the light when you shift your stance — just a soft glint where the pearl curves beneath the hoop. You stare at them a second longer than you mean to, thumb brushing the strap of the tote against your hip.

“Pretty,” someone says behind you.

You blink, half-turn.

There’s a guy standing just outside the edge of the stall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

You offer a polite nod.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You just looked kind of... focused.”

You shrug. “Just browsing.”

He steps closer.

“Any good finds?”

Your hand tightens slightly around the bag handle. “I’m just looking at earrings.”

His eyes flick to the table like he hadn’t actually noticed it until now. “Right. The pearls are cute. I could see them on you.”

You don’t answer. Just shift your weight, subtly angling your body away.

He doesn’t pick up on it. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care.

“You from around here?” he asks, like he’s picking up a conversation that was never started.

You glance down the alley, scanning for a glimpse of Jungkook, but it’s still quiet — just the linen swaying in the heat, a burst of laughter carrying from somewhere across the square.

“No,” you say, clipped.

He smiles like that was the answer he wanted. “Yeah, figured. You’ve got that kind of—” he gestures vaguely. “Not-local look.”

You’re not sure what that means. You don’t ask.

“Vacation?” he tries again.

You glance back at the table, pretending to study a thin necklace you’re not really looking at. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The guy hums, still standing there.

“Boyfriend?” he asks, almost like it's a joke. Like he already knows what he thinks the answer is.

You don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

Another beat passes.

And he says, “Don’t see him.”

You square your shoulders slightly, still not facing him.

“I told you, I'm waiting for him. I don’t need company,” you say.

He lets out a little laugh. “I’m just making conversation.”

You press your lips together and turn, this time fully, eyes meeting his just long enough to say I’m done.

And still, he lingers.

But his smile falters for a brief second, almost as if he’s not used to not being smiled at. Not used to being dismissed.

“Look,” he says again, something shifting under his voice now — flatter, slightly annoyed, like he’s decided you’re being difficult for no reason.

You stay silent, eyes on the earrings, jaw tight.

For a second, you think about just walking away. Heading back through the stalls, finding a different corner to browse that doesn’t come with commentary and unwanted company. You should’ve just stayed with Jungkook. Should’ve waited by the fruit stand like you said you would instead of wandering off like this.

You shift your weight again, about to turn to walk away when you hear the easy scrape of sneakers against stone behind you.

Relief blooms in your chest as the steady weight of Jungkook's palm settles low on your back.

“Hey baby,” he says, voice smooth, a little softer than it needs to be. “Sorry, it took forever.”

You turn toward him instinctively, letting your shoulder brush his chest, relief flooding through you.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. His attention is on the guy, who’s already taking a step back.

The stranger raises an eyebrow, trying for a laugh. “Didn’t realise she was taken.”

Jungkook’s tone doesn’t change. “She is.”

You don’t pull away.

The guy looks between the two of you — sizing up, maybe, but the math’s already been done. He’s not stupid. He huffs a small breath through his nose and nods, like this was all just a misunderstanding.

“All good,” he says, and turns to walk off.

Only once he’s out of sight do you finally breathe. Jungkook’s hand stays where it is.

“Fucker,” you mutter, glancing back toward the street. “I literally fucking told him I had a boyfriend.”

Jungkook smiles — a quiet, amused curve of his mouth, like he’s holding back more than he’s saying.

“You delivered it well,” he says. “Had me convinced.”

You shoot him a look, but your irritation is already starting to melt at the sight of him.

“I should’ve thrown a lemon at him.”

“You did buy extra.”

That pulls a genuine laugh from you, and he hands you the water bottle like nothing happened at all. His fingers graze yours — not long enough to mean anything, but long enough to notice.

You take a sip.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods once, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Comes with the role, right?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Acting boyfriend of the year.”

You raise a brow, lips curving. “Please, you’re barely qualified.”

"Uhm, ouch?"

You laugh again, leaning into the teasing by gently nudging his side.

Jungkook shifts beside you, elbow lightly brushing yours as he nods toward the side of the stall. “You know what we should get?”

You glance over at him, the corners of your mouth twitching. “What?”

He tips his chin toward a tray tucked beside the earrings — a neat line of woven bracelets laid out in rows, some beaded, some braided, some with tiny charms strung through the middle like afterthoughts. “Matching couple bracelets.”

Your brow lifts. “That’s bold.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Just saying. That way, if someone else tries to come up to you again, you can just lift your wrist or something. Plus, it'll get Ari off your ass.”

You look down at the bracelets. Most of them are simple. Worn leather cords. Clay beads in dusky colours. A few pale shells strung on white string. The kind of thing you would’ve scoffed at years ago. Now… you kind of like the idea.

Still, you don’t let him off that easy.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say slowly, reaching out to nudge one with your finger. It rolls in place, beads clicking softly against the table. Then, a beat later, you glance sideways at him. “You know, if you want to match with me… you could just say that.”

He scoffs under his breath, but his mouth curves like you’ve caught him. “I literally just did.”

You smile without meaning to. “No, you disguised it as self-defense.”

He leans a little closer, voice low and casual like he’s letting you in on something. “Well, your safety is my top priority.”

“Sure,” you say, dragging out the word. “Let’s pretend that’s the reason.”

Jungkook holds up both hands like he’s innocent. “Hey, if matching bracelets keep weird guys away and makes us more convincing to everyone else, I think we’ve found the perfect investment.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand lingers over one of the pairs — two braided threads in muted navy and cream. His gaze follows yours, and you don’t miss the way his fingers brush close to yours when he reaches to pick them up.

He turns one over in his hand, quiet for a moment. “These okay?”

You meet his eyes. “Yeah. They’re nice.”

He pays for them — slipping a few folded bills to the vendor without looking at you — and you don’t stop him. You just put out your hand and let him tie it around your wrist, before doing the same for him.

You both linger for a second after the knots are tied, wrists side by side, the new bracelets snug against your skin. His fingers ghost over yours when he lets go.

“See?” he says, voice soft. “Official now.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile tugs at your lips anyway. You’re not sure if it's from the joke or the fact that he hasn’t stepped away yet.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking whatever invisible thread was hanging between you.

He pulls it out, thumb swiping across the screen. His eyes flick across the message.

“It’s Namjoon,” he says. “They’re around the corner, by that little gelato place.”

You nod, ready to follow, but before you can move, Jungkook slips his hand into yours.

The movement is so smooth, so casual, like it’s nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers lace between yours with practiced ease, like they’ve done a thousand times before — because they have.

Your breath catches for half a second, but you don’t pull away.

He starts walking, gently tugging you along behind him, navigating through the narrow alley like he knows exactly where to go. His grip is firm but easy, thumb brushing once against the back of your hand as he adjusts your pace to match his.

And fuck, how you've missed this.

By the time you, Jungkook, Ari, and Namjoon made it back from town, everyone had drifted to the beach, bottles already half empty in hand. Naturally, the four of you joined in almost immediately.

Now, the sun hangs low over the ocean, melting slow into the horizon, throwing streaks of deep orange and pale lilac across the sky. The sand beneath you is warm, still holding onto the heat of the day, and the breeze smells like burnt sugar from someone’s abandoned marshmallow.

There’s a bonfire going, and everyone’s settled in a loose sprawl around it, feet kicked up, shoes long since discarded. Blankets are half-buried in the sand, and there's a speaker somewhere playing a random song no one has bothered to skip.

Seokjin and Haeun are curled together near the fire, trading sips of something dark from a flask. Taehyung’s stretched out with his head in Yasmine’s lap, sunglasses still on, despite the sun being nearly gone. Namjoon’s half-asleep, leaning back on his elbows and arguing about constellations with Hoseok.

Jungkook sits beside you. His legs are stretched out, knees bent, one arm hooked around the neck of a bottle he hasn’t touched in a while. There’s a subtle red glow along the edge of his cheek from the firelight. He’s watching the flames, brow relaxed, and you wonder if he’s even noticed how close your knee is to his.

You’re three drinks past tipsy. Four, maybe. Whatever the number is, it stopped mattering after the second time you laughed so hard your face hurt. Your skin feels flushed, limbs loose, everything a little too loud and a little too lovely.

You’re holding a glass in your hand and when you tip it back, only a lukewarm sip greets you. You shake the glass above your mouth, trying to summon more, but you only manage a few drops.

You glance around. Taehyung is still holding a beer, someone else’s drink sits forgotten near a towel, but the vodka — the one you’d claimed earlier, the one you’ve been nursing all night — is gone. Empty. Bottle tossed sideways near Kiara’s ankle.

You frown, squinting at it like it might magically refill if you look disappointed enough.

“We’re out,” you announce.

Your voice comes out rougher than you expect. The circle barely reacts — just a few shrugs, a lazy groan from someone too comfortable to care.

You push your hands against the sand and slowly rise to your feet, not bothering to brush it off your legs. The world tips, then steadies.

“I’ll grab more,” you say, already turning toward the path that leads back up the beach, toward the house.

Jungkook shifts next to you.

His voice is calm, but something in it feels closer. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

You pause, glance over your shoulder. He’s looking at you now, legs still stretched out in front of him, hand still around the neck of the bottle — but his focus is sharp. You tilt your head, expression loose.

“What, you think I’m gonna fall into a bush?”

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “I’m saying I’ve seen you trip over air.”

You roll your eyes, already turning back toward the path. “I’ll be fine.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose — just the smallest huff of a sound — then pushes up from the sand with a groan. He dusts off the back of his jeans, tossing the bottle onto a towel.

“Wait up,” he says, catching up to you in a few easy strides. “I’ll come.”

You pause again, frowning faintly. “You don’t have to.”

“You’re drunk,” he says simply, meeting your eyes like that should be the whole argument.

It kind of is.

You shrug, not really fighting him on it. “Fine. But you’re carrying the new bottle.”

“Deal,” he says, and you’re already walking again, sand shifting under your feet as the last of the sun bleeds into the sea behind you.

The path up from the beach isn’t long, but it stretches just enough to make you feel the weight of your steps. You walk beside him in silence at first, the kind that’s filled with the hush of your own breath and the faint pop and crackle of the fire behind you.

He walks a step behind you at first, and you can feel the rhythm of his footsteps syncing to yours.

“Still think I’m gonna trip?” you mutter, not looking back.

“I’ve seen you fall off a curb while standing still,” he says, casual.

“That was one time.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sure it was.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, and his mouth pulls into that crooked grin that used to mean everything to you.

It still might.

When you reach the edge of the porch, you pause to shake the sand from your ankles. He opens the screen door with one hand, letting you step through first without a word.

The air inside the house is cooler, shadows stretching across the walls where the sun hasn’t fully let go. The hum of distant music still trails in from the beach, muffled now, wrapped in layers of wood and silence.

You kick your shoes off at the door and Jungkook follows behind you.

The kitchen light is off, but there’s enough ambient glow from the setting sun through the windows to see. You move toward the counter on autopilot, stepping over someone’s forgotten hoodie on the floor. Your body’s loose, hips swinging slightly as you walk, unbothered by how your tank top’s ridden up a little from the waistband of your shorts.

Jungkook makes a soft noise behind you, like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the sink, running the tap and filling a glass.

You find the stash of liquor tucked behind the blender. Whoever stocked the place has questionable taste — peach schnapps, a half-full bottle of cheap whiskey, something unlabelled that smells like danger. But the vodka’s there, unopened. Cold from the fridge.

You pull it out with a small victorious sound and place it on the counter with a thud. The bottle’s condensation beads against your fingers.

Jungkook sets the glass of water down beside you and leans his hip against the counter.

“Drink that first,” he says, nudging the water toward you.

You groan, but reach for it anyway, your fingers brushing against his. They linger longer than they need to. You don’t move them.

“Responsible,” you murmur, bringing the glass to your lips. “Since when are you the responsible one?”

“Since you decided to replace dinner with mango juice and vodka.”

You hum at that, taking a slow sip. The water’s ice-cold, and the chill hits your throat all the way down, sharp enough to make you blink.

He watches you swallow, jaw flexing slightly.

“You’re staring,” you say, teasing, eyes glinting under the dim light.

“You’re drunk.”

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again if you keep looking at me like that.”

You laugh, short and soft, setting the glass down a little too forcefully. Some water sloshes over the side and you don't even care.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Liar.”

You tilt your head and smile, stepping closer, into his space. Your arm brushes against his. He doesn’t step back.

He smells like sun and sea and a little like smoke, and the sharpness of the scent makes your chest tighten. You lean your hip against the counter, closer now, your shoulder touching his as you both look at the bottle between you like it’s something important.

“You look good,” you say, and your voice is low — blurry with the buzz in your blood, but not slurred. Just honest.

He glances down at you, one brow raising, like he’s surprised but not really. “You’re drunk,” he repeats, gentler this time.

You shrug. “Still true.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

Not right away.

He just stands there, eyes still on yours, like he's waiting for something — waiting for you to laugh, maybe. To wave it off. Turn away. But you don’t. You stay close. Too close. The air between you is warm and still, humming with something you don’t want to name. Not yet.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way the last of the sunset catches in his lashes, turning the brown of his eyes molten — but you swear, for a second, his gaze drops to your lips.

Your heart beats harder than it should. Like it’s thinking louder than your brain.

You shift, just slightly, your hand coming down to rest on the counter beside his. Your pinky brushes his. The silence stretches, heavy and soft, and you can feel your own pulse pressing up against your ribs like it’s trying to claw out.

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

It’s quiet — so quiet you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t already tracking everything about him. The slight shift in the set of his jaw. The way his fingers twitch once, like they want to move but don’t. He’s still watching you, still breathing like he’s trying not to let it show. But his gaze drops to your lips again and you're certain you're not imagining it this time.

“You’re drunk,” he says again, softer this time. Like he’s reminding himself.

You blink, slow and lazy, like the weight of the moment is pressing down behind your eyes. But you don’t move away. Don’t close the gap.

“Not that drunk,” you murmur, and it’s not a defense. It’s the truth, or close enough. You know how you feel. Know what you want.

Still, he hesitates.

His hand lifts like he wants to touch you — your arm, your waist, your jaw, something — but he doesn’t let it land. It just hovers there in the space between you, fingers flexing slightly. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or maybe for you to step back. Like he’s giving you one last chance not to want this.

But you don’t step back.

You hold still and let the silence stretch, taut as a wire between you.

“I don’t want you to regret anything,” he says.

You tilt your head, just a little. The corner of your mouth curls — not quite teasing, not quite sweet. “Then make sure I don't.”

That does it.

Something in him cracks. Or maybe he just exhales, finally, after holding his breath for weeks, months, too long.

He leans in.

And when he kisses you, it’s soft. So soft it makes your chest ache.

His lips brush yours like he’s scared you’ll disappear. Like he’s scared he’ll ruin it if he pushes too hard. His hand finally settles at your waist, the touch almost featherlight. You let your eyes fall shut as your fingers curl against the counter’s edge, your breath catching.

You’re not thinking clearly — not really. Your thoughts are cotton-wrapped and soft at the edges. The vodka, the heat, the way his lips feel on yours — it’s all tangled together now. You should probably be more careful with this. You should probably be thinking harder, asking him the all the questions that have been clawing at the back of your throat since the moment you two ended before letting this happen.

But you don’t want to. Not tonight.

You don’t want to pick this apart or hold it up to the light. Not when it feels like this. Not when his hands are on your waist, not when your mouth still feels like his.

Not when you’re this close to feeling whole again.

So you let it go.

Just for now.

You kiss him back slowly, deliberately, mouth parting just enough to deepen it. And when you do, he melts. A little. Just enough to let you feel the want he’s been trying not to show. The way he leans into you like he’s been waiting for this, needing this, and now that he has it, he’s terrified to let it go.

His hand at your waist grips tighter, pulling you in, and your chest brushes his. You slide one hand up to the side of his neck, your thumb brushing the curve of his throat, and he shivers under it, like the touch unravels him.

He parts your lips with his again, slower this time, and you sigh into his mouth — soft and involuntary and full of everything you haven’t said — and it pull something from him.

Jungkook's kisses turn firmer — still slow, still careful, but less afraid. Like whatever restraint he was holding onto just loosened a little.

You can feel the way his breath catches when your hand slips into his hair. The way he leans into it, barely chasing your touch. His thumb strokes slow, unconscious circles into your waist, and when your lips part again, he meets you there without hesitation.

You kiss him one more time.

Slow, like you’re trying to memorise the shape of it. Like you don’t know when you’ll let yourself have this again.

Then you pull back — not because you want to, but because if you don’t now, you might never.

It’s gentle. Barely a breath of distance. Just enough to meet his eyes, just enough to remember where you are. Your lips still tingle from the press of his, and your fingers stay curled in the fabric at his shoulder, not quite letting go yet.

His eyes flutter open, dazed and soft, and your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw before you drop your hand to your side.

Your lips hover over his, still close enough to feel the heat of him. He exhales, the sound soft and staggered.

“The others are probably waiting,” you murmur, voice low, breath a little unsteady.

His eyes open slowly, gaze heavy-lidded and warm as it settles on you. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to want this much.

“Let them wait," he mumbles.

You soft giggle leaves your lips at his words and he can't help but smile too, and it's real and a little stupid because of course he’d say that. Of course he’d look at you like that.

Your forehead presses gently to his for just a second, and he doesn’t move, but you feel his hand twitch at your waist, almost as if he’s not sure whether to pull you in again or let you go.

And god, part of you wants to stay. Wants to forget the weight of all the unanswered questions sitting heavy at the bottom of your stomach. Wants to let this keep happening. Just him and you and whatever the fuck this is.

But you don't. Instead, you lean back a little, just enough to get a proper look at him.

He looks dazed. Soft around the edges. His lips are pink, still wet from the kiss, and there’s this look on his face — like you could pull him back in with a single breath and he wouldn’t fight you on it.

Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, then back up to his eyes before taking a small step back.

Your hand fall from his shirt and you reach for the vodka bottle on the counter. It’s still slick with condensation, and your grip slips slightly before you adjust.

You turn toward the door, feet padding softly against the cool floor, unable to stop smiling.

Jungkook stays behind you for just a breath, before you hear the shuffle of his steps as he follows.

It’s only been a few minutes since you and Jungkook made it back to the fire, vodka bottle in hand and cheeks just a little too flushed.

Now, the two of you sit side by side on a shared blanket, close but not too close, feet stretched out toward the fire. And despite your best efforts, you keep catching each other’s eyes.

It’s stupid. So stupid.

But every time it happens, one of you looks away, smiling.

You’re mid-sip when someone sighs dramatically into the circle, long and loud and theatrical.

“I’m bored,” Kiara announces, collapsing backwards onto a throw pillow someone must’ve stolen from the porch chairs. One arm flops over her face; the other lifts her cup to the sky dramatically

“You’re drunk,” Jimin says, somewhere behind a stack of solo cups. His voice is lazy, amused. “That’s different.”

“Drunk and bored,” she corrects, lifting her head. “Which is objectively worse.”

Someone snorts — maybe Hoseok — and Haeun mumbles something about how this is supposed to be a chill night, how she’s too full to function. You agree — the fire’s burning low, and no one looks like they’re in a rush to do anything.

Except Taehyung, who perks up suddenly, sunglasses still on even though the sun’s been gone for hours.

“We should play something,” he says, too enthusiastic. “Old-school, like we used to. Come on.”

There’s a round of groans — some weak, some performative. A few “nooo”s and a “please don’t make me move” from Namjoon. But Taehyung doesn’t let it die.

“You know what I’m thinking,” he adds, already grinning. “Truth or drink.”

That gets a bigger reaction. Jimin laughs like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night and Kiara groans and says something you can't quite make out.

Beside you, Jungkook lets out a soft sound that might be a sigh, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You lean back on your palms and squint at the fire.

“No,” you say, not looking up. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Kiara whines, bumping your knee with hers. “It’s for old times’ sake.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung adds, already sitting up straighter, brushing sand from his thighs. “We literally used to play this every other week in college. Don’t act brand new.”

You're opening your mouth to protest and complain some more when Jungkook leans in, voice casual as he says, "I'm in."

You blink, glancing at him just quick enough to catch the faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

With a sigh, you tip the last of your drink back and swallow hard. “Fine,” you say, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. “But I’m not going first.”

Taehyung cheers. Someone claps. The bottle cap twists loose, and suddenly cups are being refilled, rules half-remembered shouted into the dark.

Everyone huddles closer together, and you put out your hands in front of you, letting the warmth of the flame dance across your skin.

Yasmine spins the bottle. It wobbles across the sand, slows, then lands pointing somewhere between Ari and Namjoon.

“Ooooh,” Taehyung says, wiggling his brows. “A couple round already?”

Ari laughs, unbothered. “Hit me.”

Yasmine leans in. “Alright. If you had to kiss someone here who isn’t Namjoon—”

Namjoon throws his hands up. “Wow. First question.”

“—who would it be?”

Ari purses her lips, glancing around the circle dramatically. “Hmm… probably Haeun.”

Haeun immediately covers her face with both hands as everyone laughs, and Seokjin wraps an arm around her, pretending to shield her from further corruption. “Yah, back off,” he says, laughing.

The bottle spins again, this time landing on Jimin.

Ari smirks. “Have you ever made out with someone here and not told the group?”

Jimin lifts his cup halfway with a sigh, freezes, then drinks anyway.

You have a feeling you know who it is, but you don't say anything as Yasmine and Jungkook immediately start yelling over each other.

“Who was it?!” Yasmine demands, eyes wide.

“Seriously, who?” Jungkook adds, pointing his cup at Jimin like he’s about to interrogate him under a spotlight.

"Not telling," Jimin replies in a sing song voice before spinning the bottle.

It slows until it lands squarely on Jungkook.

You glance at him. He doesn’t flinch.

Jimin squints at him, letting out a hum like he’s considering a deep philosophical question. “Alright. What’s your biggest regret?”

You freeze before you can stop yourself.

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the bottle. Then at Seokjin. Then, just as calmly, he picks up his cup and takes a drink.

It’s quiet for a beat. Jimin groans. “Lame.”

“Strategic,” Jungkook replies, setting his cup down again.

Without missing a beat, he reaches for the bottle and spins.

It rolls smoothly through the sand before stopping at Kiara.

“Oh god,” she mutters, already bracing herself.

Jungkook’s lips curl into a half-smile. “Weirdest place you’ve fucked.”

Kiara groans, but she’s grinning. “You guys are the worst.”

“Come on,” Yasmine says. “No way you don’t have a good one.”

She sighs, thinking. "Nowhere crazy, just in the back of his car.”

"Boringg," whines Jimin, and Hoseok just laughs as Kiara reaches for the bottle again.

It turns, slowly, then comes to a stop pointed at you.

You tense a little, just for a second. Kiara catches it — she doesn’t say anything, but her smile softens.

She tilts her head. “Would you ever take back an ex?”

You blink.

There’s a beat — just a flicker — where your brain stalls. The question lands soft, not sharp, but it still makes your pulse skip a little. You lean back on your palms and tilt your head toward the fire, letting the heat lick at your cheeks like it might hide the flush.

Then, without much thought, you answer.

“Nah,” you say, casually.

Your tone is light. You smile around the rim of your cup as you take a small sip, and raise your eyebrows at Kiara like it’s a no-brainer. Because, really, what girlfriend is going to say yes to that kind of question when her boyfriend’s sitting two feet away?

Kiara simply shrugs, like she already knew what you'd say and lean forward to spin the bottle. You don't notice who it stops at because you turning to look at Jungkook, a small smile playing on your lips.

You expect him to smile back. Or roll his eyes. Or whisper something stupid, like 'Really? Not even after you made out with him the kitchen?'.

But he doesn’t.

He’s looking at the fire.

His cup is loose in his grip, his thumb brushing over the rim once before going still. He doesn’t make a face. Doesn’t say anything. But there’s something… quiet about him now. Like he’s stepped back from the circle without actually moving.

You blink, puzzled for half a second, but someone’s already laughing at something Jimin said and Kiara’s reaching for the bottle again, so you brush it off and take another sip of your drink.

The fire pops in the background as the questions continue. Someone asks Namjoon what his favourite position is (cowgirl), how many people Haeun has slept with (three), what Yoongi's biggest fantasy it (he chooses to drink).

Eventually, someone mumbles something about calling it, and no one protests. The fire’s burned low, just embers now, and the ocean breeze has started to bite. Haeun's already dragging Seokjin to his feet, Namjoon’s helping Ari brush sand off her pants, and slowly the circle breaks apart.

You push yourself to your feet, arms wobbling a bit as you dust the sand from your shorts. It takes longer than it should. Everything takes longer than it should. You feel warm and floaty and kind of like a loose kite being dragged around by your own legs.

You’d only been asked the one question all night, but you’re pretty sure you’ve had enough to drink for ten.

Jungkook stands next to you. He doesn’t say anything, but when you wobble slightly, the back of his hand brushes yours. You grin down at your feet.

Everyone starts peeling off, drifting toward the cabins in sleepy pairs. Taehyung’s got Yasmine slung across his back like a backpack. Ari’s hanging onto Namjoon’s arm, swaying slightly. Jimin’s halfway through singing something that might be a lullaby. No one seems to care.

You and Jungkook trail behind, still barefoot, shoes forgotten somewhere near the porch.

The path back is quieter than before, but not uncomfortable. You’re humming under your breath — something soft and aimless — and you twirl the near-empty bottle in your hand like it’s a microphone.

Jungkook walks beside you, arms swinging slightly at his sides. He doesn’t say much, but he’s not far. Not ahead. Not behind. Just there. Close enough that your elbows bump once, and you giggle, not even sure why it’s funny.

The stairs creak beneath your feet as you climb up to your bedroom. He opens the door without a word, and you step past him. He follows you in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The room is dimly lit, and you don't even consider changing into more sleep appropriate clothes before crawling onto the bed.

You hear Jungkook moving around — the soft rustle of his hoodie hitting the chair, the creak of a drawer, the small thud of his water bottle landing on the nightstand beside you. It all feels distant, muffled by your buzzed brain.

You roll over dramatically just as he switches off the light. The room falls into shadows, and then the bed dips beside you as he climbs in.

You grin up at the ceiling.

“This was fun,” you say, voice low but still sing-songy.

Jungkook lets out a little sound in response.

The sheets are cool. The pillow smells like the detergent he always uses. You pull the blanket halfway over yourself and nudge your foot toward his under the covers without even thinking about it.

No words pass between you.

But it doesn’t feel weird. Just sleepy. Soft. Like the good kind of tired that settles behind your eyes after a long night.

You don’t notice how quiet Jungkook’s gone. Don’t notice that he hasn’t moved since lying down. You’re not paying attention to the way he’s staring up at the ceiling, or the way he hasn’t turned toward you at all.

You just let out a small sigh and mumble, “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, voice low and barely there, he asks, “Did you mean it?”

You’re already slipping into sleep when he says it — and maybe he’s talking about the game, or something from earlier, or maybe he’s not talking to you at all. You’re too warm, too tired to figure it out, so you just hum quietly and roll over, cheek pressed into the pillow.

He doesn’t say anything else, and the silence settles again.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the question lingers, but you don’t ask.

You’ll think about it tomorrow.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[cumironi]

PLAY HOUSE? DON’T BE JOKING : TOJI FUSHIGURO

he wasn’t going to calm down, his world fell apart in his own hands, and yet. . . he can’t do anything. he doesn’t know how to stay tender with so much blood in his hands.

warning. angst no comfort, fem! reader, breaking up, little megs, infertile reader.

the warmth of his tiny body pressed against yours was both comforting and heartbreaking. megumi clung to you, his small frame curled into your chest as if you were the only anchor keeping him safe. even in his half-asleep state, he refused to let go, his fragile grip on your shirt tightening now and then, as though the thought of losing you haunted his dreams. you held him close, your arms wrapped protectively around him, but the ache in your heart was undeniable.

you lay on his small bed, the mattress far too short for your grown frame, your legs awkwardly bent to fit. his blanket, soft but barely large enough, draped over the two of you. it was a poor attempt to shield you both from the chill in the room, but you didn’t care about your own discomfort. your focus was entirely on him—megumi fushiguro, a child who bore no resemblance to you yet had somehow burrowed his way into your heart. his fever-flushed cheeks glowed faintly in the dim light, his long, dark lashes brushing against the delicate skin as his eyes fluttered between wakefulness and sleep.

he looked so much like his father, toji—his sharp features softened only by the hints of his mother. his mother, you reminded yourself bitterly. not you. you had no claim to him, no blood tie that made him yours, yet here you were, cradling him as if he were your own. the thought tore at you, a sharp pang of longing and sadness intertwining with the love you felt for him.

a faint whimper escaped him as he shifted closer, seeking comfort in your warmth. his little hand clutched at your shirt, desperate and fragile, and your breath hitched. you wanted to be everything for him—his shelter, his solace—but no matter how much you loved him, you weren’t his mother. that truth weighed on you like a stone, each beat of your heart a cruel reminder of the line you couldn’t cross.

you brushed a hand gently through his dark, messy hair, soothing him even as your chest ached. he didn’t understand why he felt the way he did, why he clung to you with such desperation. but you understood. you were a stand-in for someone who wasn’t here, someone who should’ve been here. and as much as you cherished being his safe place, it hurt to know you’d never truly be enough.

megumi’s breathing slowed, his tiny body relaxing slightly as sleep began to claim him. yet, even in slumber, his grip on you remained firm. you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry, not to let your sadness seep into this tender moment. it wasn’t his fault. none of it was. he was just a child—one who needed love, stability, and someone to hold onto when the world felt too big and frightening.

you pressed a soft kiss to his feverish forehead, whispering words he wouldn’t hear. “i’m here, baby. i won’t leave you.” and though the promise felt hollow, you meant it with every fiber of your being. even if he wasn’t yours, you’d stay as long as he needed you.

the night stretched on, inching closer to exhaustion, yet sleep refused to claim you. the hours seemed to drag, each one heavier than the last, and the weight of your heart grew unbearable. you sat in the dimly lit room, every creak of the house and every rustle of the wind outside pulling your attention, hoping—praying—that the next sound would be him.

toji had been gone for days now, and the silence of his absence gnawed at you. you didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. was he safe? was he hurt? the questions circled endlessly in your mind, each one darker than the last, until they became an oppressive cloud you couldn’t escape. your imagination ran wild, conjuring scenarios of danger, of injuries he wouldn’t admit to, of him lying somewhere, unable to return to you, or maybe he wouldn’t, just yet..

you tried to tell yourself this was normal. toji was a man who came and went as he pleased, his life one of constant unpredictability. he rarely shared the details of where he was going or what his plans entailed. yet, no matter how often this happened, the uncertainty never got easier to bear. each absence left you restless, each unanswered question a weight that settled deep in your chest.

the clock ticked steadily in the background, its monotonous rhythm a cruel reminder of how slowly time was passing. you wrapped your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in the empty room, but it was a poor substitute for his presence. the house felt too quiet, too still, without him there to fill the void.

you glanced at the door for what felt like the hundredth time, half expecting it to swing open and reveal his familiar figure, but it remained closed. the anticipation was unbearable, every second a tug-of-war between hope and dread. you wanted to be angry, to scold him for leaving without telling you anything. yet, beneath that frustration was an ache you couldn’t ignore—a longing for him to walk through that door, safe and whole, so you could finally breathe again.

with a sigh, you leaned back, your eyes drifting to the ceiling as your thoughts spiraled further. “where are you, toji?” you whispered into the emptiness. the question lingered in the air, unanswered, as the night wore on.

he was an assassin— a fact that was never unfamiliar to you, even from the beginning. his work, his lifestyle, the danger that followed him like a shadow, none of it was a secret. but familiarity didn’t make it any easier to accept, and it certainly didn’t stop it from being the source of so many arguments between you.

you often pleaded with him to find a real job, something stable, something safe. you wanted him to have work that didn’t demand he risk his life, something that wouldn’t force him to disappear for days at a time, leaving you and megumi behind with no word, no reassurance, nothing but the empty ache of waiting. “find something better,” you’d tell him, desperation slipping into your voice. “something that doesn’t put you in danger, toji. something that doesn’t leave us alone like this.”

but those conversations always spiraled into fights. they never ended well, always exploding into shouting matches filled with anger and frustration on both sides. toji would accuse you of not understanding, and you would accuse him of not caring enough about what his absences did to you or to megumi. and then he would leave—storming out the door without another word, disappearing for days, sometimes even weeks. when he eventually returned, it was always the same. no apologies, no explanations. he would act like nothing had happened, like the wounds from the argument weren’t still raw, as if you were supposed to just move on without question. maybe you isn’t enough for him to stay’ sometimes, you think.

it was exhausting. the cycle of fights, his departures, the waiting, and the uncertainty—it all wore you down more than you ever let him see. but what hurt the most wasn’t your own pain; it was the quiet toll it took on megumi. he was so little, too young to say anything, too young to ask for what he needed. but you could see it in the way his eyes lingered on the door when toji was gone. he never asked about his father, never said anything out loud, but you knew he missed him, and wondering.

he missed him in the way he clung to you at night, seeking comfort in your embrace because his father wasn’t there to give it. he missed him in the silence, in the unspoken ache that filled the room when the two of you sat together. and it broke your heart because no matter how much love you gave him, no matter how hard you tried to make up for toji’s absence, you couldn’t fill that void. he needed his father, even if he didn’t know how to say it.

and yet, toji’s job always came first. it always pulled him away, always left you wondering if this time would be the last time he walked out the door. you hated the job, hated the danger, hated the man you saw in him when he chose it over his family. but more than anything, you hated how much you still loved him despite it all. you hated how much it hurt to see megumi wait for someone who might never truly be there for him. and still, you stayed, clinging to the hope that one day, something might change.

it’s two in the morning, and you’ve just managed to put megumi to sleep. finally, his tiny body is at rest, though his fever is still alarmingly high. you stayed by his side for hours, wiping his sweat-soaked forehead, whispering soft reassurances, and hoping that somehow, your presence alone could ease his discomfort. but through it all, he never cried, never fussed, not even a whimper.

it made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t describe. he was only two years old—too young to understand the burden of resilience, yet somehow, he carried it like someone far older. he should’ve been crying, clinging to you, seeking comfort in the way most children would. but megumi wasn’t like most children. his quiet maturity only deepened your guilt, a sharp reminder of the life he was born into—a life he didn’t deserve.

now, you sit at the small dining table under the dim, flickering light of the kitchen. a half-empty bottle of cheap alcohol rests in your hand, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as you let your thoughts spiral. the silence in the apartment is suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. you feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at you, but sleep is the last thing on your mind.

the faint click of the door jolts you from your thoughts. you sit up slightly, straining to listen as heavy, familiar footsteps make their way through the apartment. your heart tightens, and you know exactly who it is before he even steps into the kitchen.

toji.

he pauses in the doorway, his broad figure cast in shadows from the dim light. his sharp eyes sweep over you, taking in the sight of you sitting alone with a drink in your hand, your shoulders slumped with exhaustion. for a moment, neither of you speaks. the air feels heavy, the unspoken tension between you hanging thick.

his deep voice breaks the silence, low and rumbling as he asks, “why aren’t you asleep?” the question is straightforward, but there’s a softness to his tone, an edge of concern that he rarely lets show.

before you can answer, he crosses the room, his footsteps slow but deliberate. he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead—a gesture so brief yet so tender it takes you by surprise. your eyes flutter shut for a moment, a quiet sigh escaping your lips as his warmth lingers against your skin. then, just as quickly, he pulls away, making his way to the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

you watch him in silence before he disappears behind you, chest tight with a mix of emotions you can’t quite untangle. there’s relief in seeing him safe, frustration at his absence, and a lingering sadness you don’t have the strength to confront. he doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. instead, you sit there, staring at the cheap bottle in your hand, wishing the gap between you wasn’t so wide. wishing you didn’t feel so alone, even with him standing just a few feet away.

toji leaned against the counter, the cold granite biting into his skin, a sharp reminder of the divide that stretched between you. the glass of water in his hand felt heavier than it should, yet he took a slow sip, his eyes fixed on you. you sat hunched in the corner, half-shrouded in shadows, your silhouette a fragile, aching thing. even in the dim light, he could see the exhaustion etched into your every movement—the slump of your shoulders, the quiet defeat in the curve of your spine. it wasn’t just weariness; it was something deeper, something that made his chest tighten and his throat dry.

his gaze dropped briefly to the half-empty bottle in your hand, the liquid inside catching the faint light. it wasn’t the first one tonight—he could tell—and the sight of it twisted his gut with worry and something heavier, something he couldn’t name. he took another sip of his water, but it didn’t help. nothing did. the silence between you pressed in like a weight, thick and suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you could bring yourselves to say.

the soft clink of his bottle meeting the counter broke the stillness as he set it down, his movements slow, deliberate. he pushed away from the counter, his steps hesitant as he approached you, each one feeling like a gamble. you looked so small, so distant, even though you were right there. he studied your face, searching for something—anger, resentment, anything—but all he found was exhaustion. it was a quiet kind of pain, one that sat in your eyes and clung to your posture, and it left him feeling utterly helpless.

he pulled out the chair beside you, the scrape of wood against the floor loud and jarring in the stillness. he lowered himself into it, his broad frame suddenly feeling out of place, too big, too heavy in the fragile space between you. for a long moment, he simply sat there, his eyes tracing the shadows under your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the hollow sadness that seemed to hang around you like a cloud. you looked like you were carrying the weight of the world, and he hated himself for being part of what had put it there.

he wanted to reach out. god, he wanted to reach out. to close the distance, to take your hands in his and pull you into him, to hold you against his chest and remind you that you weren’t alone, that he was still here. he wanted to feel your heartbeat against his, to reassure himself that you hadn’t slipped away entirely, even if it felt like you had.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t.

he sat frozen, his fists clenched tightly in his lap, the frustration and self-loathing building inside him. he knew the cracks in your relationship were his doing—his silences, his failures, the way he never seemed to say or do the right thing. every unspoken word, every withheld apology, weighed on him like chains, and now, sitting here beside you, they felt insurmountable.

he could feel the distance between you like a chasm, vast and unbridgeable, even though you were close enough for him to hear your soft, uneven breaths. he clenched his jaw, the words he wanted to say choking him, stuck somewhere between his heart and his throat. apologies felt useless, explanations even more so. how could they compare to the pain in your eyes, the quiet devastation that he knew he’d put there?

so, he stayed silent, his presence heavy and uncertain, his gaze locked on you like a man staring at something slipping through his fingers. the ache in his chest deepened as the moments stretched on, and all he could do was sit there, knowing that even his closeness wasn’t enough to bridge the distance that had grown between you.

your reaction was hesitant, almost fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. for a long moment, you stayed still, staring down at the bottle in your hand as if it held the answers to questions you were too tired to ask. the room felt suffocating, the silence pressing in on your chest, making it harder to breathe. you didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see the worry in his eyes or the guilt etched into his features. it would only remind you of how far apart you’d drifted, how the gap between you felt insurmountable, even now.

but something in the way he sat there—so close yet so tentative—drew your gaze to his. your eyes met his green irises, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to really see him. the sharpness that once defined him was gone, replaced by a dullness that mirrored your own. he looked tired, almost as tired as you felt, and the sight made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with anger. it was sadness, heavy and unrelenting, wrapping around you like a shroud.

his hand reached out slowly, gently, as if he were afraid you might pull away. he took the bottle from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. the touch was warm, grounding, and you felt the tiniest flicker of something you thought you’d lost—a fragile, fleeting hope. he set the bottle on the table with care, the soft clink of glass breaking the oppressive quiet.

your body moved before your mind caught up, driven by an instinct you couldn’t suppress. your arms found their way around his neck, and you buried yourself in him, seeking solace in the steady, unyielding strength of his presence. your body folded into his lap, trembling as you clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that felt like it was crumbling beneath you.

you didn’t cry. the tears that should have come remained locked inside, caught somewhere deep in the hollow ache that had taken root in your chest. instead, you held him tighter, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for the warmth he offered. your head rested against his shoulder, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the strong, warm arms that wrapped around you in return.

the moment you moved into his lap, his arms went around you on instinct, pulling you tighter against him— it was as though the weight you carried began to crack and crumble, piece by piece. . the familiar feel of your body in his arms, the scent of you, somehow still so sweet and faintly floral despite the weariness that stained your skin—it hit him like a punch to the stomach. the realization of how desperately he’d missed this, how deeply he’d longed for this closeness but had done nothing to repair what had been broken, hit him like a freight train.

he held you there, one hand running slowly up and down your spine in a soothing rhythm, the other buried in your hair as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. he steady, grounding pressure of his palm gliding along your spine, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he was anchoring himself to you—it was almost too much. his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, sent a shiver through you, and you closed your eyes, trying to steady the storm that swirled inside you.

there were words he wanted to say, words that clawed at the back of his throat— “i’m sorry,” “i missed you,” “don’t leave” —but they all felt wrong, too small and insufficient. he pressed his lips to the pulse point on your neck, feeling the rapid thrum of your heart against his mouth.

you feel it— no, you missed it— the gently kiss against the hollow of your neck, soft and tentative, like he was afraid you might vanish if he held on too tight. that simple touch, so full of longing, sent a ripple through your chest, a sigh slipping from your lips before you could stop it. it wasn’t relief, not fully, but it was something close—like a door opening just wide enough to let the smallest ray of light in. your hand moved without thought, trailing down to his chest, where you could feel the strength of him beneath your palm—the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. but even now, even with all that strength, he felt fragile. weak. like a man caught in the wreckage of something he couldn’t fix.

you pulled back slowly, reluctant but needing to see him, to look into the green eyes that had once felt like home. your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. the faint stubble on his cheek prickled beneath your fingertips as you cupped his face, your thumb moving in slow, deliberate strokes over his skin. it felt rough, unkempt, like the rest of him—a man unraveling, his edges frayed and worn.

you studied him in the dim light, your gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. this close, you could see it all—the regrets he carried, the guilt that weighed him down, the cracks in the armor he tried so hard to wear. and you hated how much it mirrored your own reflection, how you could feel the pull of him drawing you in even as the words in your chest begged to push him away.

your voice came softly, trembling but resolute, breaking the silence that had stretched too far for too long. “i will leave.”

the words hung between you, sharp and heavy, slicing through the air with a finality you didn’t know you were capable of. his breath hitched against yours, his hands tightening on your waist as though he could hold you in place, as though sheer willpower could keep you tethered to him. but you didn’t say anything more, didn’t elaborate or soften the blow. instead, you let the weight of those words settle over both of you, the truth undeniable.

your mind spun with the possibilities, the what-ifs and could-bes that clawed at the edges of your resolve. what would it look like, a life without him? would you be freer, lighter, or would the absence of him feel like a gaping wound that would never fully heal? and what about megumi? the boy who had grown to look at you like a constant, like something steady and safe in a world that had taken so much from him already? how would he understand the choice you were on the brink of making?

your chest tightened with the weight of it all, the enormity of what leaving meant. but the thought of staying, of continuing this cycle of hurt and silence, felt just as unbearable. so you stayed like that, forehead pressed to his, your fingers trembling as they traced the curve of his jaw, memorizing every detail of him as if this moment might be your last.

“you’re a mess,” you whispered finally, your voice breaking on the words. there was no malice in them, only a deep, aching sadness. “we both are.”

he didn’t respond, couldn’t seem to find the words, but his eyes—those tired, dulled green eyes—bore into yours with a desperation that threatened to undo you entirely. you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm, a frantic rhythm that echoed the chaos in your own chest. it was as if he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words, begging you to stay, to give him one more chance, even as he seemed to know that the cracks between you might already be too wide to bridge.

for a moment, you considered it—letting yourself fall into him, letting his arms hold you together even as you both came undone. but the pain of the past lingered too close, a reminder of all the times you’d tried and failed, of the nights spent wondering if love was supposed to hurt this much.

so instead, you stayed silent, too, letting the closeness of him fill the void between you for just a little while longer, knowing it might be the last time.

toji’s body was tensed beneath you, his chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath he took. he didn’t say a word, didn’t move, but he was a coiled wire, taut and ready to snap at any moment. the air between you felt charged, thick with the weight of words unspoken, of questions asked yet left unanswered, of apologies and pleas that remained stuck in both of your throats.

the silence felt suffocating, a crushing weight that pressed in on your lungs, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. but still, neither of you spoke. his silence felt deafening, a stark contrast to the maelstrom of his thoughts. he wanted to reach out, to pull you to him, to fix whatever was broken between you. but he was frozen.

he couldn’t tell you what stopped him, the memories of past arguments, the fear of causing more hurt, the knowledge that words alone couldn’t stitch together the torn edges of what was left of your relationship. the only thing he could do was sit there, his body taut against you, his heart hammering in his chest.

his eyes were fixed on your face, studying every feature, as if he was trying to memorize them. he could see the way your brow was furrowed, the way your lips were pressed together, the way your fingers continued to trace over his skin. and he wondered if you could feel the way his pulse was racing, the way his heart was lurching in his chest.

“please,” he finally managed, his voice raspy and unsteady, almost like a man drowning. the words hung in the air, pleading yet resigned, a last-ditch effort to keep you from slipping though his fingers.

he reached up, his fingers trailing along your collarbone, the touch so light it was almost reverent. his eyes flickered over your face, tracing the lines he’d come to know so well, the curves and planes of you as familiar as his own reflection. “don’t leave. not yet.”

not yet.

your breath hitched at his words, the rawness in his voice cutting through the walls you’d built around yourself. please. it was a small word, but the weight of it was staggering, heavy with a kind of desperation that made your chest ache. his fingers brushed against your collarbone, featherlight, almost trembling, as though he was afraid that even the slightest pressure might shatter what was left between you. his gaze burned into yours, searching, pleading, memorizing every inch of you as if he was afraid you’d vanish before his eyes, just like his late wife.

your lips curved into a smile, soft and bittersweet, a fragile thing that seemed to carry the weight of your exhaustion. it wasn’t happiness—not even close. it was the kind of smile you wore when you knew something was over, when the pain was too deep to cry anymore. your hands lifted to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over the roughness of his stubble, the sharp angles of his jaw. his skin felt warm beneath your touch, grounding, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself forget the inevitability of it all.

“yeah,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “i will.” the words felt like a betrayal even as they left your lips. you saw the way they landed, how they rippled through him like a physical blow, and you hated yourself for it. but this was the truth, the only truth you could offer, and you hoped that somehow, deep down, he understood.

you leaned in slowly, your movements deliberate, as if you were giving him time to pull away—but he didn’t. he stayed rooted in place, his breath shallow and uneven as you closed the distance between you. your lips brushed against the scar on his mouth, a touch so soft it felt like it might break you both. you lingered there, your breath mingling with his, the intimacy of it so fragile, so fleeting.

when you finally pulled back, your eyes fluttered open to meet his, and you saw the pain there, raw and unguarded. it mirrored your own.

he didn’t pull away. instead, his hands moved to your waist, gripping you with a desperation that made it hard to breathe, like he was trying to etch the feel of you into his memory. his grip on you tightened, desperate, trembling with the need to hold on, to keep you there just a moment longer. his fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, clutching at you as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

then, without giving yourself time to second-guess, you kissed him fully. your lips pressed to his in a way that was soft but resolute, like a thread unraveling one final time. it wasn’t passionate or hurried; it wasn’t a plea to stay or to change. it was gentle, quiet, and achingly painful—a goodbye masquerading as a kiss.

his breath came in shallow, broken gasps, his chest heaving as he fought to find words. but they eluded him, caught in the raw agony swelling in his throat. every thought, every feeling, twisted into a silent scream he couldn’t release. his lips found yours— kissing you back. and he kissed you with everything he had left—despair, love, a futile plea that tasted of salt and sorrow. it was a kiss laced with the echoes of goodbye, with all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say. but there was a hesitance to it, a kind of fear that came from knowing this wasn’t the beginning of something—it was the end.

when you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the stillness of the room. your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though you were trying to hold onto him for just a moment longer. but even as you stayed close, you could feel the distance growing, the inevitability of your choice settling in like a storm on the horizon.

your voice broke as you whispered, “i’ll always love you, toji.”

for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. your words, soft yet heavy with finality, lingered in the air like the toll of a mournful bell, resonating deep within him. your hands clung to his shirt, your foreheads pressed together still, as if you could will time to stop, as if your closeness could delay the inevitable.

the ache in your voice cut deep, sharper than the words themselves. it was the resignation, the quiet certainty that this was the end—the end he had always feared but never prepared for—that shattered him. it was not just the loss but the cruel, unyielding finality of it that left him hollow.

“please,” he whispered, his voice breaking, barely more than a breath. a single word, fragile and aching, hung in the space between you, a final plea to stop the inevitable. but even as it passed his lips, he knew it was hopeless. your decision had been made, and your resolve, as much as it pained you, would not falter.

he opened his eyes, searching yours with a desperation that burned. and there you were, looking back at him with a strength that seemed unbearable, a strength that masked your own heartache. he saw the exhaustion in your features, the brittleness in your stance, like glass held together by sheer will. yet your gaze was unwavering, unyielding. you were a mountain, immovable in your choice, and he was the storm, battering against you in futility.

his chest tightened as a wave of helplessness surged over him, dragging him under. he wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, to rage against the cruel twist of fate that had brought him here, to demand that you stay. but the fight within him ebbed, replaced by a hollow acceptance that settled like ash in his soul. anger would change nothing; it could not rewrite the truth.

he took a trembling breath, his heart a cacophony of pain, and looked at you like a drowning man gazes at the surface—longing, desperate, and full of grief. the threads that had bound you together unraveled with every second, slipping from his grasp like water, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. and in that moment, he understood that love was not always enough to keep someone by your side. sometimes, love meant letting go, even when it broke you beyond repair.

your forehead rested against the side of his head, your hand cradling the back of his neck with a tenderness that felt cruel in its finality. his hair, dark and slightly unruly, brushed against your fingertips, and for a moment, you let yourself stay there, suspended in a fleeting fragment of closeness. your breath hitched, your lips slightly parted, and the tremble in your chest betrayed the storm inside you.

your voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. fragile. raw. “you know i can’t stay. it’s unfair to me.”

the words quivered in the air between you, heavy and sharp like broken glass, and you felt him tense beneath your touch. his breathing faltered, the steady rhythm you once found solace in now uneven, jagged. your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall, even as your chest heaved with the weight of it all. you’ve cried enough, you told yourself, but your body betrayed you, trembling as you inhaled a shuddering breath.

“toji, baby,” you murmured, his name breaking on your lips like a prayer turned curse. “i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep waiting… hoping… starving for something you never give. god, i was starving,” your voice cracked, the pain pouring out despite your efforts to keep it contained. “you come and go like the tide, leaving me behind to wither while you do whatever you want. you disappear for days, weeks… and i sit here, waiting, aching, drowning in this emptiness you leave behind. it’s killing me.”

the confession spilled from you, unfiltered and raw, as if the dam you’d so carefully built had finally shattered. the words tumbled out, each one slicing through the air, heavy with the pain you’d carried in silence for far too long.

you closed your eyes, pressing your forehead more firmly against his temple, as though the proximity could ease the ache. it couldn’t. nothing could. your hand tightened against the back of his neck, your fingers digging into his skin, desperate to hold onto something tangible even as everything else unraveled.

“i love you,” you admitted, your voice barely audible now, a quiet confession meant only for the space between you. “i love you so much it hurts. but i can’t keep sacrificing pieces of myself for a love that leaves me empty. i deserve more than this, toji. more than the crumbs you give me when you decide to come back.”

your tears, unbidden and unwanted, finally escaped, trailing hot and fast down your cheeks. you tilted your head, pulling back just enough to look at him, your gaze meeting his. the pain in his eyes mirrored your own, but you couldn’t let it sway you. you couldn’t let his sorrow chain you to a love that had become your prison.

“i can’t keep breaking myself apart to keep us whole,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the finality of your words settled over both of you. “i need to let go… before there’s nothing left of me.” your words were a dagger, each one finding its mark with painful precision. the air felt thick, heavy with the weight of all that was left unsaid, all that he knew you had been holding inside all this time.

he didn’t say anything at first, his mind reeling, trying to process the torrent of everything. his eyes never left yours, taking in every flicker of emotion that played across your face. the tears, the pain, the acceptance, all of it hit him like a gut punch. he reached up, his hand closing over yours on the back of his neck. his grip was firm, holding your wrist with a quiet strength, preventing you from pulling away just yet. he needed to look at you, to hold onto this moment, even as it burned through his heart.

“i…” he began, but the words got stuck in his throat, lodged there like a lump he couldn’t swallow around. he tried again, his voice hoarse and shaky.

“i’m sorry,” he finally managed, his eyes not leaving yours. and he meant it. he was sorry, sorry for everything. sorry for the pain he’d caused you, sorry that he was too broken to be who you needed he closed his eyes, his fingers tightening around your wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your skin. each beat felt like a countdown, a reminder that you were leaving, that this was the end.

your gaze softened, though the ache in your chest only deepened as you watched the cracks in him grow wider, his remorse spilling out like water from a shattered vessel. his fingers, firm yet trembling around your wrist, felt heavier than they should, like they were tethering you to a moment you could no longer stay in.

“i’m sorry i couldn’t give you what you need,” he continued, opening his eyes to look at you again. “i’m sorry i’m such a colossal screw-up.” each word felt like a confession, an admittance of failing you, of failing both of you. it was a hard truth, one he’d avoided for too long. a soft hum escaped you, unsteady and fragile, like the faintest echo of comfort in the middle of a storm. it was a sound that carried all the weight of your sorrow, an acknowledgment of his pain even as your own threatened to drown you.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, though your voice was brittle and uneven, the words trembling as they fell from your lips. but they weren’t okay, not really—not for either of you. and yet, you said them anyway, because what else was there to say?

“it’s not okay,” he shot back, the words a harsh whisper. his eyes searched yours, desperate for some flicker of understanding, some hint that you weren’t just going through the motions of saying goodbye.

“it’s not okay ‘cause you’re leaving,” he added, his voice cracking. “i… i don’t want you to leave.” his grip on your wrist tightened, the tremors running through his muscles mirroring the tremors in his voice. he swallowed, his throat feeling too tight for words, but he pushed through, needing to get it all out while he still could.

“i know i’m a mess, okay?” he rasped out, his eyes fixed on yours. “i know i’m not husband or boyfriend of the year material. i know i’m not the kinda guy you take home to meet your parents or anything. i know all of that.” he paused, his breath coming in unsteady gasps, like he was fighting for control, for one last moment of vulnerability before the walls slammed back up again.

“but i love you,” he said, the words so quiet they almost got lost in the air between you. “i love you so goddamn much. that’s gotta count for something, right?”

you shifted slightly in his lap, creating just enough space to tilt your head back and meet his gaze. his words hung between you like fragile glass, their weight pressing down on your chest, threatening to shatter the last remnants of resolve you clung to. your hands found their way to his cheeks once more, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a moment that felt far too fleeting.

your hum was soft, barely audible, a sound that trembled with hesitation and sorrow. “maybe,” you whispered, your voice as delicate as a thread unraveling in the quiet air. the word carried the faintest flicker of possibility, though even you knew it wasn’t real. it was a fleeting comfort, an acknowledgment of his love that couldn’t undo the damage done.

your thumb traced the sharp angles of his face, the faint stubble that tickled your fingertips, as though memorizing the contours of him for the last time. “but,” you added, your voice breaking slightly, “the count wasn’t enough.”

his hands, suddenly desperate, shot up to cover yours, trapping them against his cheeks as if he could keep you there indefinitely if he just held on tight enough. “not enough,” he echoed, his voice a strangled whisper. “it’s not enough…”

his eyes searched yours, searching for something, anything. a hint that he could change your mind, a promise that this wasn’t really it. his fingers curled around yours, pressing your palms against his skin like he was trying to tattoo the feel of your touch into his flesh. “then what is enough?” he asked, the words a broken plea. “what do you need from me?”

he leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against yours for once more, the proximity forcing your breaths to mingle. his body trembled, the tremors running through him like an earthquake. “i’ll give it to you,” he promised. “whatever it is. just tell me what you need.”

your fingers slipped into the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, idly curling and uncurling them as if the motion could steady the tremor in your chest. his desperation weighed on you, heavier than his arms around your waist or the intensity of his gaze, pinning you in place. you looked at him for a moment, long and silent, as though memorizing every detail—the lines etched by pain and time, the shadows in his eyes that never seemed to leave, the scar that tugged at his lip even as it trembled.

you didn’t speak right away, the quiet stretching between you like a string pulled taut, ready to snap. your hand drifted upward, brushing the edge of his jaw, then falling away again as though even that small contact might tether you too tightly to him. when you finally whispered, it was soft and breathless, like the words hurt to say, but you needed to let them out before they suffocated you.

“marry me.”

the air seemed to leave the room, sucked into a silence that felt deafening. his eyes widened, and for a moment, his breath hitched. you felt the tremor in his body still as though the words had struck him frozen, their weight sinking in too deep to ignore.

you didn’t elaborate. you didn’t plead or justify or explain. because you knew.

you knew what you were asking wasn’t fair, that it was a wound you shouldn’t press on, a ghost you shouldn’t summon. you knew the memories of his wife still haunted the spaces between you, that her absence shaped him more than her presence ever had. and you knew, deep down, that no matter how much he loved you, he didn’t have the courage to give you what you needed.

but still, you had to ask. because if this was the end, you needed to hear the answer you already knew, needed him to face the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say out loud.

his mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came out. his grip on your hands faltered, loosening just enough for you to pull away, though you didn’t. his forehead pressed against yours again, his eyes shutting tight as though he could will the moment away, as though he could keep your words from echoing in his head.

you waited, your heart pounding in your chest, even though you already knew the answer. his silence was louder than anything he could have said, a confirmation of the doubts you’d been holding all this time. he was silent, his mind reeling. he’d been ready to promise anything, to say he’d change, to do better, to be better, but this... this he wasn’t prepared for.

he’d buried the possibility of a future together under the wreckage of his past, and here you were, exhuming it, offering it to him like a fragile thing. he swallowed, his throat bobbing with the effort, but words still didn’t come. he was lost in the storm of his thoughts, his heart and mind at war.

marriage, with all its complexities and risks, was a chasm he’d avoided for years. it was an admission of permanence, the final nail in the coffin of his lost love. and yet, hearing the word from your lips, the weight of it hung in the air, undeniable. he loved you, god, he did. but the thought of being married again, standing at the altar and promising forever, felt like staring down the barrel of a gun.

“i...” he started, his voice catching in his throat. “i can’t....” he couldn’t finish, the words refusing to form. he could see the hurt flicker across your face, the disappointment in your eyes. he hated it, hated disappointing you, but he couldn’t give you what you wanted. he could give you anything else, everything else, but that one thing, that one thing he couldn’t stomach.

he drew in a shuddering breath, his hands grasping yours more tightly, as though begging you to understand. “please,” he whispered, the word a ragged plea. “please, don’t ask me for that.” your smile was small, fragile, like glass held together by trembling hands, threatening to shatter at any moment. the corners of your lips wavered as you let out a shaky hum, the sound catching in your throat. you nodded, slowly, over and over, as though convincing yourself more than him.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of the lie. “it’s okay.”

the words came again, softer, more broken, tumbling out like a mantra you needed to believe. “it’s okay, it’s okay…”

but it wasn’t okay. not really.

your hands slipped out of his grasp, his warmth lingering on your skin even as you pulled away. you felt the tears brimming, threatening to spill, but you held them back with sheer willpower, your chest heaving with the effort. you couldn’t cry—not now, not in front of him.

you glanced at him, your gaze meeting his for a fleeting second, and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. he was desperate, broken, his pain as raw as your own. you knew he wasn’t choosing this to hurt you. he just… couldn’t.

he watched as you pulled away, the loss of your touch feeling like a wound in his chest. he wanted to reach out, to pull you back, to hold you tight against him and never let go. but he couldn’t. it felt like there was an invisible wall between them, one he didn’t know how to scale. the silence that settled felt heavy, filled with all the things they weren’t saying.

he watched as you kept nodding, your words a soft, hollow reassurance. he hated it, hated the resignation in your voice, the acceptance that he couldn’t seem to offer. his eyes never left yours, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every tremble of your lips. he saw the struggle, the fight within you, and it tore at his heart. his fingers flexed at his side, as if they ached to reach out for you.

he wanted to be what you needed. he tried hard, he did. but he’d built his life around what he couldn’t do, not what he could. marriage, that sacred promise of forever, was not something he was capable of giving. it had been stolen along with his wife.

your movements were slow, deliberate, as though the weight of your decision had settled into your very bones. you pushed yourself off his lap, your hands lingering for a second longer than they should have, your touch burning into his skin as you stood before him. “i’m going to pack my things,” you said quietly, the words steady but hollow, as though you had rehearsed them in your mind countless times. your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unable to meet his. if you looked at him now—at the way his hands were clenching into fists, the way his lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line—you knew you wouldn’t be able to follow through.

the bedroom was cloaked in a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional, uneven breath that escaped from your lips. the air was heavy, dense with the weight of unspoken words and lingering regrets.

toji sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. his hands dangled uselessly between his legs, fingers twitching every so often like they wanted to reach for something—for you—but didn’t know how. his gaze was fixed on the floor, on a stray thread of the rug, as if it could provide him the answers he didn’t have.

you sat on the floor in front of the wardrobe, knees bent and body folded in on itself, your fingers trembling as they carefully, methodically folded your clothes. each piece felt like a small goodbye, a memory slipping through your hands as you placed it into the open suitcase. the suitcase itself looked like a wound, wide open and gaping, the contents spilling out like the remnants of a life shared and now divided.

the tears had long since dried on your cheeks, leaving behind a raw, burning ache. your eyes stung from crying, your head throbbed from the hours of grief. but nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest, the way your heart seemed to squeeze with every breath you took. you moved slowly, painfully, each motion deliberate as though the act of packing was draining the last bits of strength you had. a sweater slipped from your grasp and landed limply on the floor. you stared at it for a moment, your fingers frozen mid-air, before picking it up again and folding it with trembling hands.

toji’s head tilted slightly, his dark eyes flickering to you, but he said nothing. he didn’t know what to say. the sight of you on the floor, hunched and fragile, sent a sharp pain through his chest. he wanted to call out to you, to tell you to stop, to tell you to stay. but his throat felt tight, his voice trapped beneath the weight of his guilt.

the night stretched on, cold and endless. the walls seemed to close in, the room once filled with warmth now unbearably hollow. the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale shadows across the floor. the glow touched your hair, your face, and he thought you looked like something fleeting, like something he’d already lost.

“you don’t have to do this,” he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, the words rough and uneven, as if dragged from the depths of his chest. your hands stilled, gripping a shirt tightly, but you didn’t turn to face him. instead, you closed your eyes, took a shaky breath, and let the silence answer for you.

he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration, his jaw clenching so hard it ached. “please,” he tried again, his voice cracking, “just… just stay. we can figure this out.” his words hung in the air, fragile and desperate, but you didn’t move. instead, you placed the shirt in the suitcase, smoothing it down as though you hadn’t heard him.

toji felt the weight of his failures pressing down on him, suffocating him. his hands clenched into fists as he looked at you, his chest burning with the helplessness of it all. he wanted to get on his knees, to beg you not to go. but he knew—he’d always known—that this moment was inevitable.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, the words so soft they almost didn’t reach you. but they did, and you paused again, your hands trembling as you gripped the edge of the suitcase. you didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, but your voice, quiet and tired, finally broke the silence. “sorry doesn’t change anything, baby.”

his chest tightened with every word you spoke, each one cutting through him like a blade. they mirrored the ache already festering in his soul, a deep, unrelenting hurt he could no longer ignore. he knew you were right—sorry was just a word, a feeble attempt to patch the gaping wound he had inflicted.

he wanted to fight it, to protest, to swear on everything he had that he’d do better, that he’d fix what was broken. but the promises felt hollow, brittle things that couldn’t bear the weight of the pain between you. his guilt loomed over him like a thundercloud, heavy and oppressive, choking the words in his throat before they could form.

he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat almost unbearable. the silence that followed your words was suffocating, pressing in on him from all sides, stealing the air from his lungs. it was the kind of silence that left no room for hope—just a void where something beautiful used to be.

“where will you go?” he rasped at last, his voice barely above a whisper, rough and frayed from holding back the storm inside him. the question lingered in the air, fragile and trembling, like a ghost of all the things he wished he could say. he knew you had thought this through, planned every step with a careful precision that broke his heart all over again. but he wasn’t ready to hear it, to have the finality of it spoken aloud.

his gaze never left you, drinking in every detail like it was the last time he’d see you. the way your shoulders sagged under the weight of it all, the faint tremor in your hands as you folded your clothes with a quiet, mechanical detachment—it was unbearable. each movement of yours felt like another step away, another piece of you slipping from his grasp.

he ached to reach for you, to close the distance and feel your warmth beneath his fingertips, to remind himself that you were still here. but he couldn’t. the chasm between you was too wide, carved out by every mistake he’d made, every unspoken word, every moment of silence when you needed him most.

he sat there, paralyzed, watching as you drifted further away, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stop you from leaving. he couldn’t undo what had been done, couldn’t bridge the unrelenting void between your hearts. and it shattered him.

the weight of his question hung in the air, suffocating and unanswered. you didn’t look at him, couldn’t. your hands moved on autopilot, folding clothes and tucking them away into the suitcase, but your mind was far from the task. his voice had cracked when he asked, and the sound of it had carved another wound into your chest.

you didn’t respond. not because you hadn’t thought about where you’d go—god knows you had. you’d spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking of everything and nothing all at once. but now, with his question hanging in the stillness, the answer felt like a tether, something that might pull him toward you when you couldn’t afford to let him get close.

maybe it was because you didn’t trust yourself. if he showed up, if he found you, you weren’t sure you’d have the strength to stay away. you didn’t think you could withstand the gravity of him, the pull of his broken promises and desperate pleas. you weren’t sure you could stop yourself from falling into his arms all over again.

so instead, you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, “one day... one day, i’ll take megumi with me.” the words felt like a fragile thread, unraveling between the two of you. they weren’t meant to hurt him, but you knew they would. and they did.

toji flinched like you’d struck him, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs. his head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, wide with something between shock and desperation. “you’d take him?” he asked, his voice barely audible, trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.

you hummed softly, the sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the heavy silence in the room. it wasn’t meant to be cruel, but the truth of it hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. your hands stilled for a moment, clutching a folded shirt before you placed it carefully into the suitcase, as if the act could ground you.

“megumi deserves a better life,” you murmured, your voice steady but hollow, like the words were coming from somewhere deep, unreachable. you kept your gaze on the suitcase, unwilling to meet his eyes and see the anguish you knew would be there. “better everything… better than this.”

the last word caught in your throat, but you pushed forward, the weight of what you had to say pressing down on you. “better dad.”

the words left your lips like a whisper, soft and deliberate, but they landed with the force of a sledgehammer. you didn’t mean it to be an attack, but you couldn’t hold back the truth any longer. it wasn’t just about you—it was about megumi, about the kind of man and father he needed.

his heart fractured under the weight of your words, splintering into countless shards that cut him from the inside out. his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came, only the quiet gasp of a man brought to his knees by the truth. his eyes stayed fixed on yours, pain swirling in their depths like a storm he couldn’t escape.

your words stung, sharp and unyielding, wounding his pride and stripping bare the fragile veneer of his ego. but beneath the sting, he couldn’t deny the truth they carried. he had failed—not just as a father, but as someone you could rely on. he had failed both of you.

his jaw tightened, muscles clenching until his teeth ached, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “how dare you,” he muttered, his voice rough, scraping against the silence. anger ignited in his chest, quick and consuming, burning like dry kindling caught in a blaze. It was easier to give in to that anger, to use it as a shield, than to confront the overwhelming weight of his guilt. He wanted to refute you, to insist he was trying, that he cared more than you could understand. But the words tangled in his throat, heavy and useless, strangled by his own inadequacy.

with a sharp motion, he stood, the scrape of the chair loud against the floor. his movements were stiff, his body rigid as though holding himself together by sheer will alone. he stepped closer to you, his presence a forceful weight, his dark eyes clouded with emotions too raw to name—hurt, regret, defiance.

“you don’t get to decide what’s best for him,” he growled, his voice low and unsteady, the edges frayed by a desperation he couldn’t hide. the words came out rough, jagged, as if they were torn from him against his will, the only defense he could muster against the truth you’d laid bare. and yet, even as he spoke, the hollowness in his chest deepened, a chasm opening wide as he realized how little power he had left to keep either of you close.

you paused, your hands stilling over the suitcase as his words cut through the air, sharp and heated. slowly, you turned to face him, your gaze calm but piercing, steady even as the storm of his anger loomed over you.

toji stood before you, his tall, imposing frame trembling with tension, fists clenched at his sides. his eyes, dark and wild, bore into yours, but you didn’t flinch. instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him like he was a puzzle you’d long since solved.

“do you even know,” you began, your voice quiet, controlled, “that megumi is sick right now?”

the question hit him like a punch to the gut. his brows furrowed, and for a moment, he looked genuinely lost. “what are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice still rough, but the fire in it flickered, uncertainty creeping in. you let out a soft, humorless laugh, the sound filled with exhaustion rather than mirth. “exactly,” you whispered, the weight of your words pressing down like a heavy stone.

you pushed yourself up from the floor, standing to meet him eye to eye, though his towering figure still loomed over you. “he’s had a fever for two days,” you continued, your voice steady but edged with pain. “he’s been coughing, barely eating, and clinging to me because he doesn’t know where his father is.”

his anger deflated in an instant, replaced by a cold realization that hit him like a freight train. the color drained from his face, eyes widening in a mix of shock and disbelief.

he’d been so wrapped up in his own guilt, his own shortcomings, that he hadn’t even noticed his own son was sick. the reality of it felt like a dagger to the heart. he took a step back, away from you, as if to distance himself from the truth. “i... i didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession.

you let out a bitter laugh, sharp and cutting, the sound bouncing off the walls like a cruel echo. it wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the air with more force than any shout could. shaking your head, you turned back to the suitcase, resuming your task with trembling hands. “you never know, toji,” you said, your voice low but trembling with restrained anger. “never there.”

for what felt like the hundredth time that night, his heart sank, heavy and aching, beneath the weight of your words. they struck with a bluntness that left no room for denial, carving through him with their unrelenting truth. the sting of them burned, sharp and unforgiving, and he felt the urge to fight back, to argue, to plead his case. he wanted to shout that he was trying, that he cared, that he’d been there in the ways he could. but the excuses lodged in his throat, crumbling to ash before they could take shape.

his eyes flickered to your hands, trembling as they folded the fabric in front of you with methodical precision. every movement betrayed the pain you held back, the frustration, the hurt that lingered unspoken. your voice, though steady, carried the weight of all the words you hadn’t said, words that would have gutted him even more.

he stepped back, the distance between you widening with every moment, and raked a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over in jagged waves. “i’m... i’m trying, goddamnit,” he choked out, his voice raw and unsteady, like a desperate man grasping at straws. but even as the words left his lips, they felt hollow, a frail echo of the truth he wished he could give you.

you didn’t look up, didn’t pause, didn’t waver. your hands moved steadily, folding each piece of clothing with a care that belied the storm brewing in your chest. his words—i’m trying—hung in the air, but they felt hollow, an echo of promises that had long since lost their meaning. “let’s not lie to ourselves, toji,” you said quietly, your voice devoid of the anger it held moments before. now it was just tired, resigned, as if you’d given up on expecting more from him. “we both know it’s not true.”

the weight of your words settled in the room like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. you didn’t bother to glance at him, your focus entirely on the task at hand. the suitcase was nearly full now, the sight of it both a relief and a heartache.

“i hope,” you began, your voice soft but firm, “you can keep megumi safe. just for a year or two. take care of him while i’m gone.” you paused, fingers smoothing out a small wrinkle in one of megumi’s shirts. “then i’ll come back for him.” the words cut deeper than anything else you’d said. they weren’t laced with anger or bitterness. they were just the truth, laid bare, unflinching and cold.

toji felt like the air had been knocked out of him. his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he watched you. gone. you were going to leave, to walk away from him, from this. the thought of it was unbearable, but the way you spoke of megumi—calm, certain, like you’d already planned your exit—shattered something inside him, and it anger him.

in your heart, you knew how furious toji was, even if he didn’t show it the way he usually did—with raised voices or slammed doors. this was a quiet, simmering anger, the kind that vibrated in the air between you, heavy and tense. and you understood why. you knew it wasn’t just your words that had stung—it was the truth behind them. megumi was his son, his flesh and blood, his responsibility. not yours. he had every right to be angry, to feel the weight of your accusation. but that didn’t make it any less true.

toji was mad, indeed. you could feel it in the way he stood rigidly by the bed, his broad frame tense, his fists clenched as if trying to physically hold himself together. but you also knew he wasn’t just mad at you.

he was mad at himself.

he was mad because deep down, he knew you were right. he was a deadbeat dad, and it wasn’t something he could argue against, no matter how much he wanted to. the reality of it stung worse than anything you could have said. but maybe that wasn’t the only reason for his anger. maybe it was because megumi was the last thing he had left of her—his late wife, the woman he’d loved so fiercely and lost so tragically. every time he looked at his son, he saw her in the curve of his smile, in the brightness of his eyes.

or maybe it wasn’t even that. maybe it was because, somewhere along the way, he’d started to see megumi in the moments you shared with him—the way you hugged him, laughed with him, cared for him in a way that toji couldn’t.

megumi was a reminder. a painful one. of everything toji had lost, everything he could never get back, and everything he didn’t deserve. and now, here you were, talking about taking him away.

it was too much.

toji’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling with the effort to keep himself from exploding. he turned his face away from you, his dark eyes shadowed with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

his voice broke through the heavy silence, sharp and trembling with anger, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. “how dare you,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous, yet tinged with something deeper—pain, fear, desperation. “how dare you say something like that. take my kid? my kid that isn’t even yours?”

you stopped folding mid-motion, your hands frozen over the fabric as his words hung in the air. they hit you like a slap, stinging and raw, but you didn’t let it show. you stayed still for a moment, your shoulders stiff, before slowly placing the shirt into the suitcase.

your chest burned, your throat tight as you swallowed the lump threatening to rise. you didn’t look at him as you spoke, your voice eerily calm, soft but firm, the way you might talk to someone teetering on the edge of reason.

“yes, he’s your kid,” you said, still focused on the task at hand. “but tell me, toji, where were you when he needed his father? when he was sick and crying for someone to hold him, where were you?”

you finally looked up at him then, your eyes meeting his with a steady, unwavering gaze. the words that followed weren’t meant to be cruel, but they came out with an edge nonetheless. “being a father isn’t just about blood. it’s about showing up. and you? you haven’t been there.”

toji’s anger flickered in his eyes, a sharp contrast to your steady calm. your words hit a nerve he didn’t know he had, but you pushed on, your voice cool and measured, even as your heart ached at the truth behind it. “yeah, i wasn’t there,” he snarled, his voice hoarse with anger and something that almost felt like shame. “i wasn’t there. so what? that doesn’t give you the right to just take him away. you think you can just come in and take him from me?” he finally spat, his voice louder now, rising with the heat of his emotions. “what gives you the right?”

your lips pressed into a thin line, the fire in his voice igniting something deep inside you. you stood, the weight of his accusations forcing you to meet him on equal ground. “i don’t want to take him from you,” you said, your voice rising now, matching his intensity. “but someone has to make sure he’s okay! someone has to love him, to care for him, to actually be there for him. if you can’t do that, then yes, toji, i’ll take him. because he deserves better than this!”

the room seemed to vibrate with the force of your words, the air between you crackling with tension. toji’s chest rose and fell as he stared at you, his dark eyes flickering with a mix of anger, guilt, and something softer—something vulnerable that he tried desperately to hide. toji’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles almost white. your words hit him like a punch, but they also struck a chord deep within him, one he wasn’t willing to admit.

“you think i don’t know that?” he growled, his voice hoarse, a slight waver in it betraying the anger that rolled off him like a wave. “you think i don’t know he deserves better? i’m his father.” he took a step forward, closing the gap between you. he loomed over you, trying to use his size to intimidate you, but you stood your ground, refusing to be cowed. you lifted your chin, your eyes meeting his straight on, refusing to back down.

“then act like it,” you snapped, your voice still steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “don’t just stand there making excuses. do something, toji. be a father.” there was a pause, a moment of silence between you. toji’s jaw clenching, his eyes glittering with a mixture of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place.

when he spoke again, his voice had softened, his words tinged with a hint of defeat. “it’s not that simple.”

you held his gaze, studying him, trying to see past the defensiveness to the heart of him. “then make it simple,” you said, your tone firm yet gentle. “find a way.” toji visibly hesitated, the fight slowly seeping out of him. he looked away, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. the silence stretched between you, filled with the weight of his uncertainty.

toji’s jaw clenched as he stared at you, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping his anger in check. the way you said it, like it was so simple—as if he could just wave a hand and fix everything—it grated against every raw nerve he had left. he scoffed, a bitter sound that held no humor, his dark eyes narrowing on you. “you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he spat, his voice low and sharp, dripping with frustration.

“you don’t know anything about being a parent,” he spat, his eyes dark and accusing. “you can’t even have a child.” the moment the words left his mouth, the air in the room changed. it was as if time itself froze, the weight of his statement hanging heavy in the silence. his voice had been sharp, cutting, but it wasn’t just anger that colored his tone—it was desperation, shame, and the bitter need to lash out, to deflect his own failings onto you.

you stared at him, your hands falling still, the fabric slipping through your fingers as if the weight of his words had drained all strength from you. your breath hitched, your chest tightening painfully as his accusation sunk in. he regretted them. but it was too late. they hung in the air between you like a knife, sharp and unforgiving, and toji could see the way they sliced through you. the way your hands stilled, the way your breath caught, your lips parting in a silent gasp.

he hated himself in that moment. hated the way he’d let his anger and pride control him, the way he’d reached for the lowest blow just to protect himself from the shame, the guilt of knowing you were right.

but he couldn’t take it back. and maybe, deep down, some part of him didn’t want to. some bitter, broken part of him had wanted to lash out, to make you feel even a fraction of the pain he carried every day. and now he watched as his words hit you, as they crushed you, and it felt like he’d just taken a knife to his own chest. your face didn’t crumble, didn’t break like he thought it would. no, you just stared at him, your eyes wide and glassy, like you were holding back the tidal wave of emotions threatening to drown you.

toji couldn’t move. couldn’t speak. his fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might wake him up from this nightmare he’d created. he wanted to take it back, to say anything else, to tell you he didn’t mean it.

you couldn’t believe it, couldn’t wrap your mind around the cruelty of his words as they echoed in the silence between you. your hands froze mid-motion, the fabric slipping from your grasp like it had lost all meaning. it felt like the air had been sucked from the room, leaving you gasping, suffocating on the weight of his accusation.

you looked at him, disbelief painted across your face, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision. he knew. he knew. your legs felt weak as you slowly pushed yourself to your feet, every motion deliberate, like moving through water. your hand trembled as it found his cheek—not in anger, not in violence, but in an aching, desperate need to ground yourself in the reality of what he had just said.

“how dare you,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the strain of holding yourself together. your chest heaved as you struggled to breathe, as though the pain of his words had physically struck you.

your fist found his shoulder—not with force, but with the raw weight of your anguish, the emotion pouring out of you in waves. tears spilled freely down your cheeks now, hot and relentless, carving paths down your skin like they were trying to etch the pain into your very being.

“how dare you,” you repeated, your voice cracking, the words barely above a whisper but heavy, so heavy. the phrase tumbled from your lips over and over again, each time weaker, more broken, as though the weight of it was too much for you to carry.

you gasped, your breath hitching as your body trembled under the strain of your emotions. you hit him again, and again, tears spilling down your cheeks as you repeated the words like a broken mantra. “how dare you,” you choked, the phrase splintering in your throat as your fist faltered, falling uselessly against him. “how dare you...”

he was there. he knew. he’d been there the day your world collapsed, the day the doctor delivered the words that turned your dreams to ash. he was the one who held you as you screamed into his chest, the one who stroked your hair when you cried yourself to sleep night after night. to hear him—to hear the man who had once wiped your tears, who had once told you it didn’t matter, that you were enough—use it against you... it felt like a blade, twisting slowly, cruelly.

toji stayed still as you hit him, his body taut as a bowstring, the blow of your accusation and your raw, desperate words striking deeper than any blow you could have given him physically. his eyes, dark and hard, watched you, a maelstrom of emotions raging in their depths. he let you hit him, his face stoic, his body unmoving. he wanted to reach out, to pull you into his arms and hold you tight. but the words he had spoken hung in the air between you like a barrier he couldn't breach.

but as you repeated the words like a litany of pain, something in toji broke— each one spilling from your lips like a prayer for mercy, toji’s insides twisted painfully. it was like you had taken the sharpest blade and twisted it into his chest, the weight of your anguish crushing every ounce of him. he had been the cause of it all, the one who had driven you to this raw, desperate place, and in that realization, something inside him fractured. he couldn’t bear to see you like this, to hear the anguish in your voice, and know that he was the cause. with a sharp intake of breath, he reached for you, his hands closing around your wrists, stopping you from continuing your onslaught.

he couldn’t look at you any longer. he couldn’t stand the hurt in your eyes, the way you were so vulnerable, so broken before him. it wasn’t just the sting of your words that cut deep, it was the way you had so carefully peeled back his walls, exposing everything he had buried. the thought of losing his son, of you taking megumi away, it was like a sickening twist in his gut. and the thought of you leaving him—abandoning him—wrecked something far more delicate inside him. megumi, his reminder of everything that could be lost, hung heavily in his chest, a cruel echo that threatened to drown him.

and yet, even though the pain inside him was unbearable, there was something else—a defense mechanism. a cold, jagged shield that he pulled over himself as he stared at you, his green irises darkening to almost black. the words formed in his throat like acid, burning and bitter, but they didn’t stop. he couldn’t stop them. he clenched his teeth to stave off the flood of guilt threatening to rise within him.

you stood before him, a shattered shell of the person he once knew, and still, all he could think of was the hurt, the betrayal that was eating him alive. so, he said it. his grip tightened on your wrists, his fingers digging into your skin as though that could somehow stop the torrent of pain he was drowning in.

“marry you?” he spat, his voice rough with venom, with the desperation to push you away. “play house and family with you? you’re not even good enough to be a wife. what? a mother? don’t be joking.”

there was no other way to hurt you more. he knew it, and he said it anyway, as though those words could silence the storm raging inside him. they were meant to cut, to break you as much as you had broken him. he saw the way your face fell, the tremble in your hands, the way your breath caught painfully in your throat, and a twisted satisfaction curled in his chest. it was poison—poison that tasted worse with every passing second, but he didn’t stop. he couldn’t stop.

he released your wrists abruptly, as though you had burned him. the sound of his breath came harsh and shallow, his heart pounding like a drumbeat in his ears. without looking back, he turned and stormed out of the bedroom, the door slamming behind him with a force that shook the house to its foundation. the noise echoed down the empty hallways like a warning bell, and toji couldn’t help but feel the weight of it, the finality in the sound.

he didn’t dare turn around. not now. not after what he had said. the shame was too thick, the guilt too suffocating. toji fushiguro had been a coward. he had said the most terrible things to you, knowing how they would land, knowing how they would shatter you. but in the moment, his pride, his fear, his own suffocating pain had all been louder than the love he had for you. and he couldn’t take it back. no, he wouldn’t.

he walked down the hallway, each step heavier than the last, until he reached megumi’s room. the door was slightly ajar, and for a fleeting moment, toji paused, his heart lurching at the thought of his son—his son, who still believed in him, who still loved him despite everything. he could almost feel the weight of the boy’s presence, the innocence of his sleep, and it brought a rush of guilt over him.

he pushed the door open slowly, silently, and found megumi sleeping soundly in his bed, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest a stark contrast to the chaos that churned in toji’s soul. the boy’s small, serene face was untouched by the darkness that had plagued his father for so long. and for a moment, just a fleeting moment, toji thought of how easy it could be to be like him—untouched, unburdened, innocent.

but that thought was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. he was a failure—a coward—a man too broken to protect the things he loved.

without a sound, he sat down on the edge of the bed, watching his son sleep. the room was quiet, but the silence between him and everything that was wrong with his life felt suffocating. toji ran a hand through his hair, rubbing his temples as though trying to erase the weight of the words he had spoken, trying to push them out of his mind. but it was no use. they would stay with him, hanging in the air like smoke, suffocating him from the inside out.

he thought of you. he thought of how he had hurt you, how he had used your deepest wound against you, and how he couldn’t take it back. and he hated himself for it. he hated himself more than he had ever hated anyone or anything before. but that self-loathing was buried beneath a thick layer of pride, of fear, of pain. and so, he sat there, next to his son, hoping for something—anything—that would make it all right again. but there was nothing. there was only silence.

and as the hours passed, toji found that the longer he sat there, the more the guilt became unbearable. but he couldn’t move. he couldn’t leave. he was stuck in the very prison he had built for himself, trapped by his own weakness, and no matter how hard he tried to escape, he could not.

it was winter, and the snow fell gently, dusting the world outside with its soft, white touch. the coldness pressed against the window of the car, the small flakes drifting down like feathers in the quiet of the evening. inside, however, there was warmth—warmth that had little to do with the heater and everything to do with the presence beside you. your eyes wandered out the window, catching the view of an alley you knew too well, a path you had walked through countless times in your life. the alley, though ordinary to most, was a place of memories for you. its cracked pavement, the dim light from the streetlamps that had once seemed so far away—it had seen the darkest parts of your life and now, somehow, it felt different. it was like the alley had softened, just like you had.

despite the cold of the world outside, you felt a strange warmth curling within you, wrapping you in comfort. there was a fullness to your heart now, an unspoken happiness that you had longed for. hunger, both physical and emotional, had faded into something distant, as if the universe itself had conspired to fill the spaces you once thought empty. and as you sat there, in the car, with the soft snowfall outside and the quiet hum of the engine, you realized that you were no longer alone. not in the way you once were. there was someone beside you now, someone whose presence filled every corner of your soul.

a hand, strong yet gentle, brushed against yours, the touch warm against the cold air. the sensation made your chest tighten, but in the best way, like the world had finally decided to be kind to you. his thumb rubbed softly against your skin, an action so tender it almost made you forget to breathe. you flickered your eyes, caught in the unexpected warmth, and then turned to your left. your heart skipped a beat when your gaze met his. there, right beside you, were eyes the color of the sky on the brightest of days, a blue so deep it felt like you were gazing into the soul of the world itself.

his hair, almost as white as the snow outside, framed his face like an ethereal halo. the sight of him made everything around you seem to fade away—time, space, even the cold. his smile, warm and effortless, was a mix of boyish charm and cheeky confidence, like he had always known how to make you smile without even trying. it was a smile that spoke of history, of shared moments, of promises kept and futures built. it was the smile that had saved you countless times, the one that always made you feel like no matter what happened, everything would be alright.

he leaned closer, and the familiar warmth of his presence surrounded you. his hand, large and strong, slid to your hair, brushing it away from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that belied his usual confidence. his touch was gentle, deliberate, as though he was savoring the moment just as much as you were. his eyes never left yours, the sincerity in his gaze a quiet promise, an unspoken truth.

“are you ready?” his voice was soft, but there was something in it, something deeper, like he was asking more than just whether you were ready to step out of the car.

you hum softly, a smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze. there’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes the whole world seem right. you nod, the smile growing a little wider, more genuine. “yeah,” you whisper, almost to yourself. “i’m ready.”

with a slight shift, you feel the warmth of his hand on your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in his presence. his touch is familiar, comforting, like a steady anchor in a world that once felt so uncertain. and as his fingers press gently against your side, you know that this is where you’re meant to be. not just here, but with him—his warmth, his strength, his confidence. it’s all-consuming, filling the emptiness that once clung to your heart. with gojo satoru, you feel full. loved. whole. in a way that toji never could offer you, no matter how many times you tried.

you step out of the car, your shoes crunching softly against the snow as you move beside him. every step feels like a promise, and the weight of it doesn’t scare you—not when he’s right there, guiding you forward, keeping you steady. you don't have to look back. you don’t have to think about toji or the past. because with gojo, there’s only the present. there’s only now, and in that moment, now feels perfect.

when you finally stop in front of the house, the sight of it hits you like a punch to the gut. it’s just as it was before, dull, gray, like a shadow of the life you once had here. the memories, so vivid, crash into you—laughs shared, tears spilled, promises made, and then broken. your hands tighten into fists at your sides, and for a moment, you’re unsure if it’s the cold or something else that makes your chest tighten. you wonder if this place still holds the ghosts of your past, the ones that haunt every corner, every crack in the walls.

you glance up at the house, trying to picture it differently. trying to picture it as the home it was meant to be. but instead, your mind wanders to megumi. how tall is he now? you wonder. has he changed? the little things that once made him him—have they stayed the same? and then, your thoughts shift, dark and unspoken. you wonder if toji has been kind to him. you wonder if he’s been taking good care of his son.

the doubts swirl in your mind, almost suffocating, and for a second, you feel the weight of everything—past mistakes, lost time, the fear of what might have been. but then gojo’s presence pulls you back, steadying you. his hand still rests on your waist, a silent reminder that, no matter what happens, you’re not alone.

with a deep breath, you push the thoughts aside, focusing on the present, on the here and now. it’s time to pick up megumi.

beneath the ancient tree, buried in the soft silence of snow, he watches you. unseen, as he has been for years, he stands in the shadows, a ghost of what he once was, bound by the chains of his own mistakes.

you are radiant, bathed in winter’s light, your laughter spilling into the air like a song he can no longer hear. you’re playing family, your hands cradling a boy he knows is his but feels like yours. your son, your life. the man beside you, your husband, is everything he was too broken to be. he knows this, and still, it cuts deeper than the cold that seeps into his skin.

the snow around you glitters with a brightness that feels cruel. he almost imagines the soft hum of Christmas carols spilling from your home, the jingle of bells echoing faintly in his mind. he can see megumi, eyes wide with wonder, rushing toward the tree, his tiny hands tearing into brightly wrapped presents. toji knows he hasn’t given him even one in years.

and then, for the first time, he notices something unfamiliar, something almost foreign—those faint, delicate wrinkles around megumi’s eyes when he smiles, a smile so pure, so whole, it steals the breath from his chest. he watches as his son gazes up at you, small fingers wrapped tightly around yours, his little eyes filled with love so boundless it feels like a knife twisting in his gut.

he almost doesn’t recognize that smile, and it hits him like a tidal wave—he’s forgotten what it looks like. after you left, there was no more laughter, no light. his home became a hollow shell, filled with nothing but heavy silences and echoes of what could have been. none of the smiles reached their eyes—megumi’s or his.

he swallows hard, but the lump in his throat only grows heavier, bitter like the regret he’s carried for years. the weight of it presses down on him now, unbearable, inescapable. it’s not your fault, nor your husband’s, not even megumi’s. the blame lies squarely with him—his reckless hands, his selfish choices. he ruined it all, crushed his life beneath his own fists like a man desperate to destroy what he didn’t believe he deserved.

and as he stands there, watching you, his son, your family—his family—he feels the ache of it all, sharp and unrelenting. the life he lost unfolds before him like a distant dream, close enough to see but too far to touch. the snow falls heavier now, wrapping the world in white, but no amount of winter’s beauty can hide the hollowness in his chest.

he watches, and he wonders, if somewhere deep in his son’s smile, there is a piece of him left—or if it’s all gone, just like you. and if there is none, he understands.

he sold megumi, after all.

[sheeezu]

Shifting proof, you're not wasting your time.

"My beloved, the distances between us have been erased, I am here, I am here."

(If anyone is able to guess which song lyric I translated here I will love you for all my existence)

If you're doubting shifting, then read this:

Let's dive into your mind. Most importantly, into your dreams.

Have you ever realised why you dream? Dreams are just for your subconscious mind to reherse your current reality, in practice all its doing is to ensure you don't fall out of your reality.

No matter how insane of a dream you're having, it has some resemblance with the life you are currently leading. Have you ever tried to figure out just how weird the whole concept of dreams are? For example, it's common knowledge to everyone, even antishifters, that lucid dreams are a thing. Meaning you can literally play around in your mind. When you sleep, do you realise the passage of time? Sometimes your sleep stretches on for long and you don't realise you've slept that much, sometimes, dream cover a lot within a short cycle of sleep. So what proof of time could you possibly present to yourself during your hours of slumbers, where is this clock that's supposed to dictate your life?

Sometimes you don't even dream, although unconscious processes are going on in your human brain, but where are you? In the void, you're floating around somewhere in the void, without any care of your reality for once, this is called your common consciousness, or just the void state.

Whenever you wake up from a deep sleep, you feel disoriented and confused, you hear conversations and imagine things which didn't happen, there is no literal proof that these happenings are just caused by general grogginess. This confusion is your consciousness readjusting to the reality you're in.

Let's discuss what all of this science and physics is. It's essentially just a method your consciousness put up in order for you to not fall out of reality, and to not have to face thanos out of nowhere, therefore logic exists.

We are from our roots just souls floating around in nothingness, we're souls capable of creation of anything by thoughts, will, and energy. We need a medium for suitable existence, for all of the people existing alongside us, what we have in common is that our consciousness has chose a similar mode of existence for us, which is by living as human beings on this livable spherical ball, where we accept the principles of luck.

Why does a system of being ridiculed by your environment and people around you and the formation of unwanted doubts exist whenever you claim something "impossible" by human terms, for example, if you assumed and started claiming the sun rising from the opposite direction as the truth, that's going to become your base since you are creating reality, therefore you will break reality and to prevent it you yourself once put these limitations, just like how you script your DRs.

But once you realise the fact that all along this organised way of existence was put up by you in order to excite your consciousness by going through these experiences, you'll realise shifting realities, manifesting, or just going back to floating as a soul in the void is a known principle for you and easy, and you don't have to struggle to gain it, you've been doing it all your existence, then you'll shift on command.

Reality is just like a dough, which you have been molding and adjusting it accordingly.

Shape that dough into your DR

It's you. It's always been you, you've been the main provider and controller, you've just temporarily gone to existing in the form of a human vessel, breaking free is nothing difficult.

Anyways, belief in this is all you need to shift, it's freaking easy even if it's just you going to your DR to get railed. "But doubts-!!" Shush. If doubts are able to stop a process for you, you could also utilise them in a way which benefit you, from this moment do a complete uno reverse card on your doubts, you used to doubts your manifestations, go ahead and start doubting your existence being anything but perfect.

"I don't think I can be a common human being weeping over mere earthly problems, all ill ever be is a master manifestor who could do whatever I want."

...

I finished this draft at 5:55.

Now that I think about it shifting using doubts could be pretty neat, but I still have another 2 methods bending from the poll, so that's on my pending list I guess.

This entire post was a rant from my side so if there is anything confusing or out of place, just ask. Ask away until your little heart is satisfied and then go shift because what are you doing here when you could just go study at hogwarts where the stairs try to put you in your grave.

...

[murdrdocs]

female masturbation; voyeurism; monsterfucking; some weird cheating stuff idk no major spoilers for nosferatu (2024) MDNI 18+ w/ NOSFERATU/COUNT ORLOK

it's silent, as it should be at this time of night.

not a single candle is lit, not a single foot falls onto the hardwood floors around your home. there is no chatter slipping through your open window. no owls hoot, no cicadas sing. it is completely silent, except for the sounds that slip from you without intention.

the sound made from the friction of your fingers slipping into your enlarged entrance, arousal coating both digits and creating an audible shlick! with each and every movement. the sound of your breaths and moans, as light and airy as the gentle breeze that blows your curtains away from the windowsill and in towards the rest of your bedroom.

for a moment in the beginning, you thought you should be quiet. you worried about being found like this, turned on your side with your nightgown bunched around your hips, your hand between your parted legs, your eyes blankly staring at the wall across from you as you pleasured yourself. but the only person who could find you at this hour would be your husband, who you know to be sound asleep down the hall, his boisterous snores drowning out any other sound that could be made.

should a shadow intrude upon your home tonight, your husband would not wake to rescue you.

but if it is him, you do not wish to be rescued.

you think of his lordship now as you search deeper within you, trying to force your fingers as deep as they could go. your wrist prevents complete freedom, you cannot get as deep as you wish with your own fingers.

you know he would be able to.

the shadow that lays his body atop of yours in your sleep. the face that lingers in your dreams, never completely visible yet you can feel the fear that the visage invokes as he slips his fingers down your body, sharp claws feeling almost dainty as the lightest touch trails down your pure skin.

you wish you were dreaming now, dead to the living world and only alive in a realm where he can visit you as he pleases. then, you would part your legs as you have them now and give yourself to him as you have done many times before.

but alas, sleep eludes you tonight, leaving you here—forced to search for satisfaction on your own.

with a frustrated grunt, you push your fingers deeper into you and you graze a spot that makes you keel.

your toes point and your legs fall open as you writhe onto your back. finally, you're getting somewhere.

you screw your eyes shut with concentration. the heel of your hand clumsily knocks into your clit with every determined drive of your fingers, and satisfaction trickles throughout your entire body.

you try to imagine him doing this, but it's not right. you fingers are too short compared to his. there is too much life in your digits, your nails are too neatly trimmed. you are not him and you need him.

your eyes open as tears burn behind them, and it is then that you see it.

a shadow pressed against your wall. long fingers that you know so intimately reaching out, as if reaching for you.

there is no physical form to accompany the shadow, but you still know.

"my lord," you whisper, newfound vigor added to the movements of your fingers. "my lord you came." you sound girlishly excited as a relieved grin spreads across your face.

of course he came, he has always made his devotion to you known, even since you swore yourself to him. you are his, and he will always come to you, especially when you are like this.

his shadow creeps closer, looming across the hardwood floors and nearing your bed.

your eyes fall shut peacefully this time as you await his voice.

it comes in a harsh whisper that cuts through the air. bare yourself to me.

you use your other hand to pull the skirt of your gown completely of of your legs, pulling your thighs apart as far as they would go. a wave of cold air hits you. it startles you, a shaky moan ripping right from your diaphragm.

you speed up even more if possible. the sound is resounding at this point, it is unmistakable what is happening in these four walls.

knowing that he's watching you provides you with more comfort than you've ever known. feeling his eyes on you, even if you cannot see them, shrouds you in a warm embrace, even if his skeletal body has not produced true warmth in more years than your feeble mind can comprehend.

you're getting close. your toes curl and you grasp your breast in your free hand.

you cannot stop chanting his name as you pull yourself closer and closer.

release. allow me to see. allow me to watch.

it's easy for you to let go after that. you soak the bed as you do, essence squirting from between your thighs and wetting your hand, legs, and nightgown.

you can sense his pleasure as well as you can sense his presence. both coax you off into a slumber that befalls onto you in that very position, legs parted, comforter kicked off of the bed, hand loosely lingering over your womanhood. in your dreams, he finds you as you are.

he moves your hand away from what he owns, and takes from you until the sun rises.