#.............DID I EVER MENTION I WANT HER TO KISS ME. I WANT HER TO KISS ME💖💟🌹❣👭⚘💐💙💘💟❣💌💝🌷💋🌹🌼💜💛💜❣💐💙💜⚘🌼💛👭⚘💜💐💙💚❣💚

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSINTANT!READER 10

Y/N my shayla :(

cw: implied female reader, she/her used, cursing, injuries and describing them in detail, I don’t know shit about taking care of deep cuts so tell me if I wrote bullshit or blame google for misleading me, some genuinely creepy shit, unfairness, men masturbating, mentions of: murder, boners, jerking off, stealing underwear, boys kissing, sex, group sex

The boys are gone, the tiger’s sleeping in some sun patch on the floor, and you’ve just finished pulling a tray of cupcakes from the oven. Jinu did a good job getting what you wrote down for him.

You set the tray down on the counter, admiring the rise on each one. You’re reaching for the cooling rack when—

Poof.

“Hey, Baby.” you say flatly.

“Hm.”

You turn your head just enough to see him in the living room, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room. He does this sometimes, teleports back home to you when he gets tired of the boys. The others would do this too, but Baby’s the only one who genuinely does not give a fuck about Jinu scolding him.

“Ever think of using a door like a normal person?”

“No.”

Figures.

You look him over. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” he says, hopping up onto the counter opposite you. “Everyone else is out.”

“Obviously.”

“About to fight. I bailed.”

You glance up. “With who?”

“Huntrix. Obviously.”

Your hands still over the cupcakes. “…What?”

“They’re in the middle of something. Whole vibe’s tense. Could blow up.”

They never tell you when they’ve been near your girls. Never. Because they know—know—you’ll get mad. And now Baby’s here, just… casually mentioning it. You set the cupcakes down slowly. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “Seemed relevant. They’re arguing. Yelling. Abby’s doing that chest-puff thing he does. Jinu’s playing diplomat, but it’s not really working. Romance is… I dunno, making it worse on purpose. Mystery… I don’t care.”

You glare.

Baby doesn’t blink. “Wanna hear something worse?”

“No.”

He leans back on his hands. “They lie to you.”

Your jaw tightens. “No kidding.”

“No, like… lie a lot. About where they go. Who they fight. Who they don’t fight. About what the girls are doing.”

“I already figured that out.”

“Oh, and they’ve been in your room. More than once.”

You want to throw something at him. Instead, you turn back to your cupcakes, needing something to do. You grab the piping bag you’d already filled earlier, start swirling frosting. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him reach forward, hand hovering over the nearest cupcake.

“Hot.” you say without looking up. “Wait a little.”

He freezes. Pulls his hand back. Nods once. Doesn’t argue. Then, as you’re mid-frost, he keeps going: “They also talk about you when you’re not around. Not in a mean way—usually. But they make decisions about you. All the time. Jinu’s an ass.”

You swirl the last cupcake, lips pressed together so hard your jaw aches.

“Romance steals your underwear.” he says, deadpan. “Keeps them in his room. Don’t know if he sniffs them or just likes the idea, but they’re there. Told Mystery. Mystery told me. And now you know.”

You blink. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one sniffing them.” he says, reaching toward the cupcakes.

“Still hot.”

He draws his hand back, no argument, and keeps going. “Abby killed a detective who was on the street just talking about you. Sweet guy, middle-aged. Had a family. They didn’t even let you know someone was looking.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“Mystery’s worse.”

You slam the piping bag down. “Stop.”

“He likes to watch you sleep.”

You look so cute like this, looking at him, speechless. God, he wants to kiss you. But more than that, he wants to ruin the others’ reputations. That’s what he’s here for. To push the others under the bus. Instead he glances at the cupcakes again. “Done yet?”

You sigh. “Couple more minutes.”

“They tell each other everything about you. Little stuff. Big stuff.”

You stare. “You’re—”

“—Dead serious.” He cuts you off, leaning back again. “You know Mystery threw Abby into the wall last week? Full shoulder-check. All because Abby ate something. Better one, Romance pushed Mystery down the stairs once. Whole flight. Just because Mystery wouldn’t tell him what you were wearing that day.”

“…What else?”

“They all sat in the living room one night going through your old social media. Pictures, posts, tagged shit. Even old exes. Abby found your prom photos.”

You feel your stomach twist. “They’re insane.”

He shifts his weight, tilting his head. “You know Abby and Jinu almost kissed once?”

You blink. “What?”

“Accident.” Baby says, smirking now. “Or at least, that’s what Jinu called it. Abby was pinning him down, they both leaned in for some reason, and Romance yelled ‘gay’ so loud Mystery got scared. Oh, and Abby’s the one who broke your hairbrush.”

“My what?”

“Yeah.” Baby says. “It wasn’t Mystery, like Romance told you. Abby snapped it trying to brush his own hair. Then threw it away and said ‘she won’t notice.’”

Your blood pressure spikes. “That bastard—”

“He also stole panties.”

“What?!”

Baby smiles. Now, he smiles. “The white lace ones. I watched him take them out of the laundry. Didn’t even hesitate. Slipped ‘em in his pocket.”

You grip the edge of the counter. “And you just… let him?”

“Why would I stop him?”

You glare at him. “If you’re trying to make me hate all of you, it’s working.”

“Romance tells us everything you say to him.”

You squint. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

“But—“

“Mystery’s been in your room more times than you’ve been in the kitchen.”

“That’s—”

“Abby said he wanted to bend you over the kitchen counter. Romance offered to film it.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck.”

“Mm-hm.” He sits back, smug.

There’s a pause now. The cupcakes are cooling. The air smells like sugar. And you’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to let him see the way your mind is spinning with all this new intel.

You look him over. “You’re stirring shit.”

“Mhm. You know Abby jerks off in the shower after play fighting?”

You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “All sweaty, all hyped up, testosterone pumping, straight to the bathroom. You can hear it if you walk by. Sometimes sings, too.”

You stare at him. “…Why are you telling me this?”

He grins, that whatever mask cracking just enough to show the brat underneath. “Why not?”

“What else?”

Baby looks bored out of his fucking mind, but he do enjoys this. “Mystery has a thing about blood.”

“…In what way.”

“In all the ways.” His tone is flat. “He’s into it. Cuts, scratches, seeing it on himself, on someone else… licking it.” Baby shrugs. “Once he split his lip in a fight and made Romance kiss him just to taste it.”

You blink slowly. “…That’s sick.”

“That’s Mystery. Romance didn’t even hesitate, by the way. He just went for it. Tongue and everything. The tiger was watching.”

“Jesus.”

“Abby sleeps naked. Sometimes. Once Mystery watched him.”

You choke on a laugh. “Why?”

“Fuck knows. He used to fight in illegal pit matches.”

You raise your brows. “Like… bare-knuckle fights?”

“No.” Baby shrugs. “Like to the death.”

You stare at him.

“Sometimes not against humans.”

“…Oh.”

“He didn’t even get paid most of the time. Just liked it.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “…That explains a lot.”

“Mm.”

“More.”

He licks his teeth, obeying. “Romance eavesdrops. Constantly.”

Baby’s clearly enjoying himself. You realize quickly, he’s not telling you because you need to know. He’s telling you because it’s fun for him to pull their reputations apart while they’re not here to defend themselves.

“You know Mystery jerks off with your hair ties, right?”

“…What now?”

He shrugs again. That same flat tone, that same expression. “Yeah. Keeps one in his pocket. Uses it to have on his wrist when he’s—” he makes a vague jerking gesture “—you know. Guess he likes the smell. Wouldn’t put it past him to put it on his dick.”

You stare at him.

“Abby caught him once. Didn’t even stop, just made eye contact.”

You’re genuinely speechless. This is too much.

“Romance,” he says, pointing at the counter like he’s lining up accusations in order. “Licked one of your coffee mugs. All over the rim and the inside.”

Your stomach turns. “…When was this?”

“Last week. You were asleep. Left it in the sink, he fished it out, gave it a nice long tongue swipe. Then made himself tea in it. You drank from it the next day.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm.”

Your mouth is agape. He thinks about putting his fingers in there, maybe something bigger and better looking(in his humble opinion) but this is more fun now.

“You know that grey blanket you keep in your room? Abby used it.”

You freeze. “…Used it how?”

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh—and Jinu.” He finally moves, walking over to snag a cupcake from the tray, ignoring your earlier warning. He bites into it, talks around the mouthful. “You ever notice how sometimes you smell that mint aftershave in your room? He goes in there when you’re sleeping. Stands there. Watches. Don’t even touch you, just… stands. Breathing. Real quiet.”

You feel your skin prickle.

Baby licks frosting off his thumb. It’s ridiculously hot, you can admit that.

“Mystery once cut his own tongue and let it drip on your pillow. Romance kept the tissue you used when you had that nosebleed, I found it in his bed. Abby stole your chapstick. Used it in front of the mirror. Smiled the whole time. Jinu picked up your shirt after you left it on the bathroom floor. Folded it real careful. Pressed it to his face before putting it away.”

You stare at him in open disgust. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you? What’s your disgusting habit?”

He shrugs. “I’m perfect.”

You snort. “Bullshit.”

“Okay, fine.” he says, unbothered. “Sometimes I open your door a crack just to see what you’re doing. Not in a pervy way.”

You give him a flat look. You want to throw the frosting bag at him.

“You’re welcome.” he says finally.

“For what?”

“For telling you the truth.” And then, he pushes off the counter, grabs another cupcake, and walks out. Doesn’t even look back. “Bye.”

Poof.

Gone again.

…What the fuck.

It’s actually ridiculously funny that shit like this happens to you. I mean, the torture and the whole hostage situation is not funny, I mean that it happens to YOU. It’s always you in the middle of all bullshit, all because of HUNTR/X needed a sweetheart assistant.

After a few hours, they’re back. You’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked up under you, blanket draped over your lap. You hear them before you see them. Shoes on hardwood. Voices overlapping. Abby’s laugh, loud and cocky. Mystery’s low hum to some bullshit Abby just said. Jinu’s instructions, so mean actually. Such an asshole. Romance is laughing at whatever stupid idea Abby just spat out. They’re boys. They bring noise. (AN: guys when we first see the boys in their human forms in the movie—y’know when the girls think there are fans coming—the boys have a conversation what is actually just them saying something like “totally, nice” in such a boyish tone. No idea what I wanted with this, I just wanted to point it out bc I love it sm)

Normally, you’d look up. Not to greet them, just to see what state they were in, whether they’d come back bloody, whether anyone was limping, whether the tiger was with them when not with you. But today is one of the days you don’t do that.

Baby’s little truth dump is still sitting in your head. Mystery and the hair tie. Romance and the coffee mug. Abby and your blanket. Jinu in your room at night. You don’t even know if it’s all true. But it feels true. Too specific. Too ugly to be a lie. And yet, you’re not shocked. You should be, maybe. But they’re not human. They never pretended to be.

It’s their nature.

They take. They hunger. They fixate. They do things that make no sense to you because they aren’t built like you.

Romance sniffing your underwear? Disgusting, yes. But you know who you’re living with. Not like you can do anything about it. What if it’s loneliness? What if it’s not about the underwear but about you, about having something of you when they can’t touch you? What if Abby’s… thing with the blanket isn’t just gross, but some fucked up form of comfort? You remember the look on his face sometimes when he’s laughing, like he’s performing for everyone else, like no one’s actually with him. What if Jinu standing in your room is less predator, more… guardian? Watching because it’s the only way he can make sure you’re safe, even if it’s fucked and creepy beyond normal boundaries. What if Mystery’s hair tie thing isn’t just some depraved fetish, but a special thing for him? Proof you’re real, that you’re here, when the world they walk through is made of horrible, horrible things.

You’re horribly empathetic.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jinu says, coming into view and petting Derpy.

You nod. Nothing more.

Abby walks in, brushing past him, tossing his shirt onto the couch arm. “Hey, sunshine.”

You don’t answer. Just adjust your blanket.

Romance is next, flipping his hair out of his face. “No welcome home kiss? Tragic.”

Mystery comes in, silent, takes a look at you to confirm everything’s okay.

Baby doesn’t let them see that something happened between you two. He planted the seed in your head, it’s going to grow. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, nothing suspicious. He’s surprisingly smart.

They don’t push. You’ve been cold before. It’s not new. Sometimes you freeze them out for hours, days, when you’re angry. They’ve learned to let it pass. What they don’t know is that tonight is different. That tonight, you know a lot more than last night.

Romance leans over the back of the couch at one point, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne, and your brain flashes with the image of him licking the inside of your mug. You keep your face still. Abby brushes past you to grab the remote from the coffee table, and all you can think about is that blanket in your room. Jinu pauses behind you to ask if you’ve eaten. You nod, keeping your eyes forward, thinking about him in the dark, silent in your doorway. Mystery sits on the floor, idly running his thumb over something small in his palm. Not a hair tie, but from now on you’ll pay attention to that.

And the thing is… you believe Baby. Because you’ve felt this from them before. The way they look at you. The way they circle you without touching. The way they obey the rules but bend them in ways that keep you around.

It’s disturbing.

And it’s real.

It’s. their. nature.

They’re demons. They live off want and hunger and possession. They stalk and take and keep. Why would you be surprised? But knowing it—really knowing it—puts a weight in your chest. You can’t unsee it. Can’t unknow it.

And you hate that a small part of you, the part that’s gone soft, keeps whispering: What if they’re just lost?

You push it down.

They’re evil. So evil. And you’re not letting yourself forget that.

Abby’s sprawled on the couch, one foot on the table, lazily scrolling his phone. Romance is perched half on the arm of the couch, flipping through a glossy magazine he’s not actually reading, his foot touching you(lmfao). Mystery’s sitting cross-legged on the floor near the tiger, head slightly bowed, hand on fur. Baby’s leaned against the kitchen counter in the background, chewing gum, pretending to be uninterested while his eyes flick toward you every few seconds, he’s waiting for the consequences of whatever he started earlier.

You stand, pulling the blanket tighter around you as you head for the hallway.

“Going to bed?” Jinu’s voice follows you.

You pause, turn slightly, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah.” Then, with casualness: “Actually… can you bring me some stuff tomorrow?”

He straightens slightly, attention immediately locked in on you. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Chocolate. A lot of it. Milk and dark. The expensive kind, not the corner store stuff. Toothpaste—minty, not that gross gel kind. New socks. Shampoo. A hair mask. That cinnamon tea I liked—”

He’s already nodding, filing it all away.

“—and maybe a candle? Like, a vanilla one. Oh, and fresh fruit. Mangoes if they’re ripe, cherries if they’re not overpriced, and don’t you dare get underripe bananas again. I’ll know.”

Romance has lowered his magazine completely, grinning. Abby’s smiling, looking at you, head tipped back. Even Mystery’s head has turned slightly toward you, though his hair still hides most of his face. Baby doesn’t look at you, but does he ever look at anyone? But he knows what you’re doing.

They spoil you. Always. It’s not even a question anymore, if you ask, you get. Like that time you complained once, once, about the kitchen not having your favorite brand of peanut butter, and three hours later Abby came back with an entire crate of the stuff. Or when you idly mentioned missing that silk pillowcase you had at home, and there was one folded neatly on your bed the next morning. You wish you knew who was that. Or when Romance brought back the stupidly expensive perfume you were washing off your body when you first met him(in the shower, remember?) he’d gone out of his way just to find the exact bottle.

They didn’t even expect thank-yous. That was the weirdest part. You’ve wondered if it’s guilt, some fucked up attempt to balance out the torture, the captivity, the constant presence in your space. A demon’s version of making it up to you. Or maybe it’s not guilt at all. Maybe they just want to see what you’ll ask for next.

Jinu’s still waiting, patient as ever, a faint smile on his lips. “That all?”

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks toward the others for half a second, like he’s aware of their attention but choosing not to care. “Alright. I’ll get it.”

Jinu is different. Always has been. Actually, he’s not. Not really. He’s just better at holding onto the scraps of whatever he used to be before he turned demon. The others, they’re further gone. Hungrier. More obvious in their want.

“What did you guys do today?”

He thinks for a second. “Rehearsal, mostly.”

The others start giggling. You have a slight suspicion that they’ve been fucking with him the whole time. Jinu sends a done look towards them, but then his eyes are immediately back on you.

The corner of your mouth quirks, but you don’t laugh.

It’s easy to talk to Jinu. Too easy. But the question in your head is ugly: How much of that is real? How much of what he tells you is truth, and how much is performance, just another mask over the same nature Baby told you about? Because Jinu’s a manipulative asshole and you know that way too good.

The conversation drifts to little things, a book you’ve been reading, a broken mug in the kitchen. It’s nice. Normal.

Your hand brushes his as you walk past him, slow and casual. A little touch. On purpose.

“Thanks.” you murmur, letting your eyes catch his for a moment.

The room stays quiet as you leave. You can feel the others’ eyes on you, but you don’t look back.

Not so cute time skip to the next morning. They’re gone.

You stand in the middle of the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of your hoodie, staring at the row of closed doors. You have one job today. The things Baby said are daring you to confirm them. And you… you do want to confirm them. Not because you want to be right, but because there’s something almost unbearable about not knowing. About living next to a locked door that might be empty or might be holding your name carved into the walls.

You’re going to look.

Carefully.

Not a single thing out of place, not a sheet folded differently, not a sock moved an inch.

First, you open Mystery’s room, slow, slow, slow, letting the latch slide silently. It smells like him, you think Jinu makes him wear this perfume. It’s also messy, not filthy, but it’s cluttered in a way that tells you he does not give a single shit about “aesthetic.” Piles of clothes. One of those sleeveless shirts he wears hanging halfway off the back of a chair. A low table littered with different things, a chipped mug, a lighter.

The bed’s not made. Sheets tangled, pillow kicked halfway onto the floor. You catch yourself imagining him sleeping like that, restless, limbs flung out, hair in his face.

You shake it off. You’re here for a reason.

You start with the obvious, the desk shoved against the wall. There’s no laptop, no electronics except a single lamp with a bulb that flickers when you touch it. A small tin with matches. Some papers. You open a drawer. You pay attention to it, so you notice the hair ties. Not all of them are yours, but some are. You can tell. Some still with a hair or two stuck in the elastic. Others stretched out, twisted, worn down.

You close that drawer very, very slowly.

The closet is not organized by clothing type. It’s organized by meaning. One side is those sleeveless sweater shirt things Jinu puts on him. The other is other things. Scarves. Scarves that aren’t his. A necklace you recognize because you lost it months ago. A folded hoodie that’s definitely yours, tucked between two black t-shirts.

You reach out and touch the fabric, then pull back fast, heart in your throat. You can smell your own detergent still faintly clinging to it.

The bed is your last stop.

You hesitate. Still, you check the space under it. No shoeboxes. Just a duffel bag, half-zipped. Inside a knife, two spare shirts, that’s about it.

You step back, scanning the room once more to make sure it looks exactly as it did when you entered. Messy, yes, but it’s his mess. And now you’ve walked through it, touched it, felt it.

Mystery’s collecting you in pieces. Quietly. Always.

You close the door without a sound.

Next, Romance’s. You put your hand on the knob. Breathe. Turn.

Damn, there’s an atmosphere in here, heat and… and fucking great mood lighting that gets you a little jealous tbh. Not the leather-and-chains sex dungeon you’d expect from someone with his stage persona, though you do clock a couple of suspicious hooks in the wall.

The bed has a canopy frame. There’s a mirror bolted to the ceiling above the bed. Lots of mirrors around the room in general. And soft fabric everywhere, throws, rugs, pillows.

You don’t even let yourself look too long at the nightstands, because from the glint of metal and the shapes of things, you know you don’t want to catalogue them in detail. You spot the bottle of lube sitting on it though. Next to it, a half-empty glass of red wine, lipstick print on the rim that definitely isn’t yours.

Or is it?

The walls are lined with shelves, but instead of books there are… objects. Glass bottles. Candles. Coils of rope in different colors. A pair of handcuffs, gold. A leather crop leaning casually against the corner like it was just used. Some things you don’t even have a name for, hanging neatly on hooks. One of the ropes has a small knot tied into it, and you recognize the thread, it’s from the cardigan you wore once before it disappeared into the laundry.

You keep moving, slow, scanning for anything else, careful not to touch what you can’t put back exactly the same. There’s a vanity against one wall, the surface crowded with cologne bottles, rings, and a dish with a handful of… random things. Trinkets. There are makeup palettes, brushes, highlighters, bottles. He’s got more lip products than you, and some of them are shades you’ve worn. Literally worn. You spot a coffee mug. The mug. The one you’ve been missing for weeks, the one Baby swore Romance licked the inside of after you drank from it.

You move carefully, eyes scanning for anything useful. But Romance’s organization system is pure chaos. Every drawer is a gamble. One has condoms. Different colors, textures, still in boxes. Another is full of silk scarves, all smelling faintly of his cologne.

At the foot of the bed, there’s a trunk. Polished wood, brass clasps. You crouch, open it just a crack, and shut it again.

No.

What you did see in that half-second was enough, a blur of lace, a flash of satin, something unmistakably shaped like a whip.

There’s a magazine on the floor by the nightstand. You pick it up, half-expecting porn, and… yeah. Porn. Pages curled from use. They still make these?? Omfg.

You carefully put it back. Then kneel down, careful not to touch the piles of god-knows-what scattered across his floor, and hook your fingers into the edge of the mattress.

Fabric.

A lot of fabric.

The first thing your brain registers is color, pale, pastel, lace. Then you realize what you’re actually looking at.

Your underwear.

You freeze, eyes scanning the little pile like maybe they’ll disappear if you stare hard enough.

No. Still there.

A pair you haven’t seen in weeks, the soft blue lace you liked. The black silk with the tiny bow. And oh, another one.

Fucking amazing. Great.

You don’t need to see more. You back away toward the door, pulse steady but stomach tight.

Baby was right about him, too. You’re starting to wonder if he undersold it.

The door clicks shut behind you. Two rooms down. Abby’s is next. His door is cracked open just enough to make you suspicious. You push it open slowly.

This room is messy. This is just… mess. Clothes everywhere. Some clean, most not. Sneakers kicked into corners. The faint scent of aftershave. It’s also bigger than you thought, Abby’s the kind of guy who probably claimed the largest bedroom without asking. The bed is wide enough for three people, sheets wrinkled, and clearly never washed unless someone else forces him to.

You step inside.

Clothes everywhere, clean, dirty, impossible to tell which is which. The bed is a heap of pillows, blankets, and at least two duvets because apparently Abby sleeps like a king.

The desk in the corner is your first stop. Loose change, and a cracked pair of sunglasses, an empty beer can. You dig through the drawer, condoms. So many condoms. Different brands, like he’s been testing them. Some opened but unused. He also has a stash of old-school porn magazines, some folded open to pages so worn they’re almost soft.

The nightstand has a lamp, a handful of crumpled receipts. There’s also another porn magazine spread halfway open, glossy pages sticking slightly from—yeah, you’re not touching that.

You move to the closet next. It’s full of clothes that aren’t his size. Does Jinu make him wear these? Otherwise it’s chaos. And in the back, a pair of high heels. Not yours. Too big. But the straps are worn down like they’ve been handled a lot.

You crouch to check the floor of the closet. There’s a gym bag. You unzip it, there are resistance bands, a jump rope, and another porn mag shoved between a towel and a spare pair of socks. And your phone.

Wait, your phone?

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not just cracked. It’s obliterated. Screen shattered into glittering pieces, battery pried out. It looks like someone snapped it in their hands.

You pick it up carefully, a shard of glass catching the light. You turn it over in your hands, thumb brushing the case you used every day, and your stomach twists.

He made sure you’d never use it again.

You put it back exactly where you found it.

You take one last sweep of the room before slipping out and leaving the door just like you found it.

Jinu’s door is next.

It smells… neutral. Not scented like Romance’s incense, not pungent like Abby’s cologne-and-sweat cocktail. Just… clean air, maybe faintly soapy. It’s not pristine—Jinu’s not that type—but it’s lived in. Bed’s unmade, but only because someone actually slept in it. A sweater tossed over the chair.

You start moving through it carefully. No condoms. No lube. No hair tie collections. No underwear trophies. At first glance, this is the cleanest of all their rooms, maybe even boring. On the desk, a closed laptop which you don’t even try, you know he’ll notice, a stack of pens, and—most interesting—a black notebook.

You pick it up, flip it open.

…you don’t understand the language. You flip a few more pages, trying to find a clue, but it’s all the same, symbols and words you can’t solve.

The rest of the room is not shocking. The closet is… surprisingly normal. Clothes, neatly hung. Coats, jackets, shirts, belts that you’re lucky he didn’t whoop your ass with back when you weren’t this free and kept acting up. A small safe tucked in the corner—yeah, you’re not getting into that without tools.

You leave the room exactly as you found it, the neatness making it easy to retrace your steps without leaving a trace.

You move on. Then stand there, hand hovering over Baby’s door, and for once you don’t know if you should. Did he expect you to look into his room? Anyway, this is your one shot to find out.

The air inside is heavier than you expect, warm, faintly sweet with whatever cologne he’s wearing lately, layered over smoke. Cigarettes. The curtains are half-drawn, filtering the daylight into stripes across the bed. It’s… not a disaster. Not tidy, but not apocalyptic. A few empty bottles roll lazily when you shut the door, glass knocking against wood. Cheap. Expensive. He clearly doesn’t discriminate.

You crouch and peek under the bed, more bottles, half-crushed cigarette packs, and a hoodie that looks like it hasn’t been washed in months.

On his desk, there’s a scattering of coins, a lighter, and yep, a switchblade.

You look at the bed. Nothing interesting.

And then, when you straighten and glance at the pillow, something catches your eye.

White.

Fabric.

You lift the pillow.

They’re panties.

Your panties.

Who else’s would they be? These guys don’t bring girls home. They have you. And you can only try not to imagine Jinu wearing a thong.

You just stare at them for a moment.

There’s a small, dark, awful part of you that likes it. The wrongness wraps around you in a way that feels… close. Intimate. It’s disturbing and validating all at once, this is proof he thinks about you even when you’re not there. Proof you’ve left a mark on him, even if it’s the kind you’d rather not.

Your hand almost twitches to take them back. But you don’t. You put the pillow back exactly where it was, like you were never there.

Baby’s told you about Romance and Abby having your stuff. He enjoyed ratting them out. But he never mentioned himself. Bitch.

You stand there a moment longer than you should.

They’re creepy. You should feel disgusted, furious, grossed out.

You do.

But…

It also does something else. Something you’re not going to put into words. Something you don’t want to even admit to yourself.

You straighten, dust your hands off like nothing happened, and step away from the bed.

One last sweep of the room. Nothing too wild. Baby’s not hiding a sex dungeon or a ritual site, he’s just in his own world.

You leave the room, shutting the door with the same quiet care you’ve given all of them. You’ve seen everything you came to see. And maybe… more than you wanted. Maybe you wanted to find these. Not just because it’s evidence, not because it’s leverage. But because it’s proof of something that no one else can see but you.

Proof that they’ve crossed a line.

Proof that they’ve thought about you, held you in ways you never gave permission for.

And somewhere in the fucked-upness(is that a real word) of this situation… that feels nice. It’s sick. You know it’s sick. You know you’re not supposed to like it when someone steals from you, touches what’s yours, twists it into something dirty. You’re not supposed to enjoy the thought that Baby kept something so intimate, slept with it under his pillow.

But the longer you stay in their world, the harder it gets to separate “supposed to” from what actually happens.

They’re violent, lustful, chaotic, feral. They kill, they lie, they manipulate. Some of them have a taste for things that would make your stomach twist if you let it. And yet… You can’t look away. There’s a quiet, strange admiration that’s already begun to take root. Underneath all the filth, the mess, the brutality… there’s something incredibly, disturbingly beautiful about them. They’re so handsome that you find yourself obsessing over them sometimes when you’re alone, replaying the way Mystery’s hair falls in his face, the shape of Abby’s jawline, the impossible smoothness of Romance’s skin, Jinu’s expressions. Even Baby’s shit posture has its own pull. And it’s worse when they’re in demon form. You’re supposed to find that terrifying, the marks across their skin, the glow in their eyes, the shapes of their mouths. But they’re still beautiful like that. Otherworldly. Some part of you wants to trace those marks with your fingertips, see if they’re raised or smooth, if they burn to the touch or shiver under it.

It’s pathetic.

There’s a connection now. One you didn’t ask for, but it’s here. It’s not normal. It’s not safe. It’s sick. It’s intimate.

And you do feel bad for them sometimes. You see them fight, see the flash of their real faces, see how quickly they burn through everything they touch.

They’re demons, yes, but you’ve seen them come home messed up and laughing, or messed up and not laughing, and it twists something in you. On those nights, you want to give them big hugs. Wrap your arms around them and say I get it. I know it’s not easy. You want to curl them into your arms and make everything okay, even though you know it can’t be. Even though they’d probably snap at you for trying.

You feel drawn in, like gravity. Like you’ve lost control, even though you’re still technically free. You notice it creeping in. You find yourself waiting for them to come home, listening for the sound of their footsteps in the hallway, even when you’ve sworn you’re too angry or annoyed to care. You replay small interactions in your head, analyzing every tone, every inflection, every glance. Did they smile because they like you? Did they growl because they’re frustrated with themselves? Did they do that thing with their eyes because… because you don’t even know? You forgive things faster than you should. The mess, the smells, the filth, the borderline criminal behavior, they’re all… endurable. Somehow. You also start to mimic their habits a little.

And yet, at the same time, you feel little bursts of rage at them. You feel fear. You feel arousal. You feel empathy. You feel frustration. You want them gone. You want them close. You feel trapped by them. You feel drawn in voluntarily.

Fear. Adoration. Rage. Lust. Confusion. Empathy. It’s all there. Layered, overlapping. You’re angry at them for kidnapping you, for torturing you, for exposing you to a life you never asked for. And yet… when they’re out of sight, you can’t help but miss them. You think about how they look when they’re not performing for the human world, how dangerous, how elegant, how hot they are. Even the scars, the marks, the demon traits… somehow, they’re beautiful to you.

You think of the panties under Baby’s pillow again, and your chest tightens. You feel a little guilty for that flutter of heat, for the weird, perverse, thrilling tug in your stomach. But… not like you can do anything about it.

You sit down on the couch, a pillow tucked beside you, and just breathe.

It’s disturbing. It’s intimate. It’s your new reality.

You don’t know how you’ll deal with it when they return. You don’t know how you’ll resist them, how you’ll keep control. Because despite yourself, you feel a small, guilty pull toward them all. A longing to hold them. A longing to forgive them. A longing to… stay.

Please accept my genuinely ass time skip to hours later, like late night. Derpy’s massive head is resting in your lap, his tiger breath warm against your thighs as you absentmindedly scratch under his chin. His tail thumps lazily against the couch every so often.

The door swings open, them arriving back from… whatever the hell they were doing. You never know. Sometimes you don’t want to know.

“Hi, Y/N.” That’s Jinu first, hands are full of bags.

“Hey, love.” Romance chimes in right after. Now there’s no smirk, no lazy up-and-down like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Just… a smile. It’s disarming enough that you blink, your fingers pausing on Derpy’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes next, but he’s not really speaking to you, he’s mid-sentence with Mystery, his arm casually slung over Mystery’s shoulders. You catch pieces of it, something about a fight, something about “should’ve seen his face.” Mystery grunts in reply, which is Mystery-speak for I’m listening but don’t expect a monologue.

Baby’s the last through the door. When his eyes lock on you, something flickers there. It’s quick, too quick for the others to catch, but you see it. You’re supposed to, because you two have a secret together.

“Hi.” You say it back now.

Jinu crosses the living room, drops bags in front of you. “For you.”

“Thanks.” you say, and he just nods before disappearing down the hall.

Romance follows Abby and Mystery’s conversation, still talking about something ridiculous, his voice rising and falling. Abby throws his head back laughing at whatever joke just landed, and Mystery’s lips twitch into a smile.

Baby lingers for half a second. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just… looks. That I-know-you-know glint in his eyes. It’s ridiculous, but your pulse ticks up a notch. There’s something about being the keeper of a secret that feels hot.

He’s the one to break eye contact first, heading for his own room without a word.

When the door to the last bedroom shuts, you exhale slowly. Derpy shifts, sensing your movement as you stand and scoop up the bags. Some are lighter, some heavy enough to clink when you set them on the kitchen counter. You like this part. Unpacking groceries. Putting things in their place. The boys know you like doing it, too. That’s why they always leave the kitchen things for you. It’s sweet from them, actually.

You put everything in the fridge and cupboards without hesitation, knowing exactly where everything goes. You can almost pretend this is your kitchen, that you live here by choice. The sound of your own movements is soothing, the crinkle of bags, the soft thud of bottles being set in place, the faint hum of the refrigerator when you open it. The boys aren’t hovering. No one’s breathing down your neck. You can almost… breathe.

You’re sliding a carton of juice into the fridge—

“Boo.”

You yelp—loud, embarrassingly loud—and spin around so fast your hair whips your face.

Abby’s grinning. Of course he is. Ridiculously tall, stupidly broad, annoyingly gorgeous… and yet somehow, somehow, good at sneaking up on you like a damn ghost.

“Jesus fu—” You stop yourself halfway through cursing, mostly because your brain is catching up to the other detail. He’s not just close. He’s pressed against you. Not brushing, not hovering, pressed. You can feel the heat of his chest, and that casual lean of his body into yours like he’s claiming the air you breathe.

You exhale hard and shrug him off, turning away from him. “Get off.”

He doesn’t move right away, but he does ease his weight back after a second. “That’s not nice.”

“Don’t care.” you mutter, turning back to the counter.

“Oh?” His tone shifts, still playful. “You know what else isn’t nice?”

You glance over your shoulder, already suspicious. “What.”

“Looking through other people’s rooms.”

The carton in your hand suddenly feels about fifty pounds heavier. Your grip tightens just enough to make the cardboard creak.

Fuck.

Your pulse skips. For half a second you freeze, eyes flicking up to his. You force yourself to turn back to the fridge, shoving the carton inside like nothing’s wrong. “Okay. You know. And? No big deal.” You don’t look at him. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But your brain is suddenly very aware of every step you took that morning, every door you opened, every drawer you peeked into. The broken pieces of your phone in his closet. The fact that he’s not guessing. He knows.

Everything’s fine. He knows you went through his room. Then what? That doesn’t automatically mean he knows you checked the others. Still… your body betrays you. Your pulse kicks up. Your breath comes a fraction faster. And you hate that you know he can smell it and feel it. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t call you out for being rattled. But his eyes are heavy on you, tracing the way your shoulders have stiffened, the way your weight shifts in place.

“Relax.” he says finally. “I’m not mad.”

“I am.” That’s Baby’s voice though.

You and Abby both turn, and there’s Baby leaning on the wall. One hip cocked, cigarette unlit between his fingers, eyes cool and flat in that I’m-bored-but-you’re-screwed way only he can pull off.

For a moment, the kitchen goes silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. Then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, Abby’s gaze swings back to you. “Ohhh… so it wasn’t just my room you snooped in, huh?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You want to play it cool, shrug, roll your eyes. You do shrug, but it feels stiffer than it should, your shoulders jerking just a little too sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Abby chuckles low in his chest. Baby just watches you. The cigarette spins lazily between his fingers.

“Y/N.” Romance’s voice from behind you. You didn’t hear him come in, didn’t hear anything. He says your name like it’s a sigh, like you’ve disappointed him on some deep, emotional level, except you know it’s fake.

You turn your head to look at him. He’s not mad. If anything, he looks impressed. Flattered, even.

“Going through my room?” Romance tuts, walking forward. “Tsk, tsk. And here I thought you were shy.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts in smoothly.

“You did.” He’s close now, circling to lean a hip against the counter opposite you. “Tell me… what did you think? Did you like what you saw?”

“Jeez.” you mutter, pressing your lips together and grabbing another bag from the counter just to have something to do.

Abby still to your right, Baby in the doorway behind him, Romance now blocking the space directly in front of you. It’s not aggressive exactly, but it’s a cage all the same.

Your brain’s scrambling for something clever, but it’s just not working. You’re genuinely stressed.

“Cat got your tongue?” Romance tilts his head, watching you too closely.

You want to say something—anything—but your throat feels dry, words catching. You end up just standing there, holding a box of cereal like it’s a shield.

Abby raises his brows. “Look at her. Speechless.”

Baby finally moves, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re sloppy.”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“You missed things.”

You hate how that makes your stomach drop again. Because now you’re wondering, what did you miss? What else is hidden in their rooms that you didn’t see?

Romance chuckles softly, leaning forward on his elbows. “See, Baby’s right. If you’re going to snoop, you’ve gotta be thorough. Careful. I mean…” He smirks, eyes dragging over your face. “If you’d asked, I would’ve just shown you.”

“Shut up.” you snap, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it.

You don’t give them more. You slide the cereal onto the shelf, grab the next item from the bag. They can talk themselves in circles for all you care.

Except you do care. Your chest is tight, your skin buzzing with that uncomfortable awareness that they’re peeling you open without even raising their voices. And beneath the irritation, there’s something hotter, sharper, that you refuse to look at too closely.

Romance sees it. Of course he does. He leans in slightly. “Nervous?”

Abby leans in, still crowding your right side, his shadow stretching across the counter. He makes that exaggerated “ow” face, then hisses softly. “Naughty.”

Romance, is shaking his head slowly, almost mournfully. “I’m just… disappointed.” His tone is mock-serious. “I expected better from you.” Then he looks over his shoulder. “Hey, boy.”

Mystery is in the doorway, Romance noticed him sooner than you did.

Romance nods at him. “She been in your room too?”

Mystery nods once. It’s so simple, so plain, and yet it feels like the floor drops an inch beneath your feet.

Abby lets out a low whistle, and then he reaches over and gives your shoulder a firm shake. Not playful, not gentle, not exactly cruel, but too much. Enough to jolt your balance a little. Enough to send your pulse skittering. “Look at you.” he says. “Little sneak.”

Romance hisses, dragging the sound out, making it annoying.

And yeah, maybe it is a joke to them, but their kind of “joking” always comes with edges. They’re not gentle. They’re never gentle.

Suddenly, you remember the torture. The way their hands didn’t just hold, they restrained. The way they stood too close, making escape not even an option worth thinking about. The way their voices could switch from sweet to sharp in a single breath.

You told yourself you’d adapted, that you knew the difference between when they were playing and when they were hurting. But right now, with Abby’s grip a little too tight and Romance’s smirk a little too fixed, those lines blur again.

Your stomach’s sinking. There’s a strange hollowness there, a dropping sensation that makes it hard to breathe evenly. Your chest is tight, that particular tightness that’s a split-second away from tears, but you’re not crying. You’re not even blinking faster. You’re just there.

Then, footsteps again. Jinu steps into view, sees the way everyone’s positioned, sees you. He knows too. That’s why he came.

They all know.

They’re not just looking at you, they’re sensing you. They can feel it, the way your pulse is too quick, the way your breath is shallower, the way you’re holding your shoulders like they’re trying to fold inward.

You’re panicking. Not in a loud, flailing way. In that quiet, locked-up way where your body is screaming move, but your feet aren’t listening. Fight or flight, but you’re stuck in the third option—freeze.

It’s not the same as the day they first dragged you here, or the nights they decided you needed to be “taught a lesson.” But it’s close enough. Close enough that your skin prickles with memory, that your thoughts are looping too fast to grab hold of one.

It’s so stupid, you knew getting caught was a possibility. You knew they’d find out eventually. But you didn’t think it would be like this.

Romance finally breaks the silence with a soft, “What’s the matter?” His tone is honeyed, but there’s an undertone there, a quiet acknowledgment that he knows exactly what’s the matter.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t look so scared.” Abby says, smiling like it’s all harmless fun. But his size, his proximity, the weight of him, none of it is harmless.

You can’t even look at Jinu, because you know if you do, you’ll see that same quiet, knowing stare he had when he caught you in smaller lies before.

Romance’s gaze drops briefly to your hands, then back up. “You didn’t touch anything in mine, did you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound that comes out is thinner than you meant. “I didn’t break anything.”

Romance smiles faintly at that. “Not what I asked.”

Your throat feels tight, like it’s going to pinch your words before they make it out. But you manage to spit them out anyway. “What… what did I do wrong?”

It’s an honest question, shaky in its delivery because you genuinely don’t know which way this is going to swing.

Romance blinks once. Abby actually tilts his head like you’ve just asked him to solve a math problem. Mystery’s expression doesn’t change, but you can tell he’s turning it over in his head. Baby leans against the counter like this is mildly interesting background entertainment. Jinu… is just looking at you.

They glance at each other, silent, but definitely communicating.

Abby shrugs. “Mm. Nothing.”

Romance nods. “Yeah, no. You didn’t mess up.”

Mystery gives the smallest half-shrug, which in Mystery-speak is agreement.

Jinu clicks his tongue once, almost thoughtful. “You were actually good at it.”

Baby, deadpan: “Could barely tell.”

Abby gestures lazily toward you. “We could smell it though.”

“Yeah,” Jinu adds. “could tell right away.”

Oh, so that’s how they figured it out.

Romance even chuckles. “We weren’t mad, sweetheart. Just… y’know. Curious.”

Jinu tilts his head slightly, lets his mouth pull into that faint, disappointed downturn that somehow feels worse than yelling. “Still, you went behind our backs.”

Romance catches on immediately, mirroring Jinu’s tone. “Mmh. And after everything we do for you…”

Abby leans in again, two hands on his chest, his voice dropping into mock-betrayal. “Hurts my feelings, doll.”

Mystery actually shakes his head. It’s so cute seeing him actually do things with the others.

Even Baby, without moving from his post, lets out a quiet, disapproving “Tch.”

It’s so obviously an act, an exquisite manipulation, that it almost makes you laugh. Almost. Because they’re good at this. Too good. They’re pressing down just enough to make your chest tighten again.

This turns them on.

They like you a lot. Too much. On a pathetic, feral level. And the fact that you just gave them a brand-new game, one where you’re clever enough to almost fool them but not quite, is thrilling to them. It’s the hunt. It’s the power shift. It’s knowing you broke a rule, knowing you’re capable of being bad, and knowing they caught you. You cornered. You caught. You flushed and fidgeting and trying to figure out whether you’re actually in trouble.

“But,” Jinu adds. “you could’ve just asked. We’d have shown you anything you wanted to see.”

“Well,” you start. “I suppose you’ve gone through my stuff too. Multiple times.”

Jinu’s brows lift the tiniest bit. Romance’s smile doesn’t falter, but it changes, turns sly, like he’s been waiting for you to say something like this. Abby tilts his head like he’s assessing how much trouble you’re trying to start. Mystery just blinks at you. Baby’s mouth twitches, not quite into a smirk, but close enough that you catch it.

“Don’t lie.” you say, firm this time. “This builds on trust.”

You watch the words settle over them, see the way Jinu’s jaw ticks slightly before he smooths it over. Romance gives a single, quiet laugh, like oh, you’re learning to play. Abby’s face says I’m not even mad, I’m impressed.

They don’t outright deny it. They’re not stupid.

You don’t mention Baby on purpose. You don’t tell them that if it weren’t for him opening that bored little mouth and spilling the filthiest truths about them over cooling cupcakes, you wouldn’t have been creeping through their rooms.

You keep it tucked away. Your secret. His secret.

He knows you’re not going to sell him out. And god, does he respect it. The five of them can be greedy, possessive monsters, but this? This is something only you and he know. A little slice of something between you that none of the others get to touch. And the fact that it’s about them—their dirtiest habits, their most pathetic secrets—makes it so much better. It’s hot to him. Unbelievably hot. The idea of having a secret together in this pressure? It’s like you’ve just tied a little invisible string between the two of you, one that tugs every time you make eye contact.

Having a secret together is unbelievably hot.

Romance opens his mouth, probably to say something charming, but you cut him off with a simple, “Save it.”

You feel the weight of Baby’s stare even as Abby keeps looking at you, even as Romance gives a small, disappointed “tsk” for show, even as Jinu sighs like he’s processing how best to handle this misbehavior.

You manage to swallow down the tight, dry feeling in your throat long enough to get words out. “Alright.” you say. “I’ll leave your stuff alone… if you leave mine.”

For one, tiny second, there’s quiet.

Abby doesn’t even change his face. “No.”

Romance almost laughs, almost, but what comes out is more like a hum. “Cute.” he says, tilting his head. “But no.”

Jinu doesn’t even pause before he’s shaking his head. “That’s not how this works.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but the faint shape his mouth picks up is a silent agreement.

You blink once, slowly, because the refusal is so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that it’s actually unbelievable. “So… you’re telling me, you can snoop in my stuff—touch it, take it, break it—but I can’t—”

“Correct.” Romance cuts in, leaning slightly against the counter now, folding his arms.

They’re not even pretending to be fair. Not even pretending to negotiate. They don’t care that it’s your stuff. They don’t care about rules unless they’re the ones writing them.

“That’s—” You almost choke on it, but you push through. “That’s bullshit.”

Romance gives you this faux-sympathetic smile, like he’s sorry you feel that way, except he’s not sorry at all. “Maybe. But it’s still the way it is.”

Jinu sighs. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Not unless,” Abby says. “you want us to do worse to yours.”

Your jaw tightens. “You already do.”

Jinu shifts his weight. “We could do more.”

And that’s when it really sinks in, they’re genuinely trying to get you to agree to a one-way deal. They honestly think you’ll just accept that they can pry into every corner of your life but you can’t touch theirs. The sheer arrogance of it makes your skin buzz.

“No.” you say finally.

Romance blinks, just once. “No?”

“No.” you repeat, sharper this time.

Abby smiles. “Then you’ll deal with the consequences.”

“Bring them.” you snap, and the words leave your mouth before you can think them through.

There’s a tiny pause after that.

Baby finally speaks, but even that’s a: “Careful.”

It’s not a threat. Not quite. But it’s not not one, either.

You can feel your pulse in your throat again, even though you’re still standing your ground. Because deep down, you know they like this. They like the push and pull, the challenge.

But you’ve never been angrier. Not with them. Not with this whole, suffocating power dynamic. Though you don’t know what you expected. They’re demons. Unfair. Evil. It’s in their nature to tilt the scales so the weight always lands on you. You could scream yourself raw about fairness, justice, privacy, it would slide right off them. You could pull the scar card, too. Remind them how they tortured once, twice, over and over. But what would that do? Nothing will work. And you know that.

“Leave me alone.” you say quietly, stepping past, trying to make the whole thing over before it spirals into something you’ll regret.

Abby’s hand clamps around your arm before you even register the motion. His palm is huge, hot. It burns. Not physically, but in that wrong way, that reminder that they can take your space, your breath, your movement whenever they want.

You immediately scratch him with your nails, digging hard enough across his wrist that the skin gives.

He jerks back with a hiss. A real one through his teeth, more irritation than pain, but still, it landed. He lets you go. Drops your arm with a little flick, like fine.

It’s been a while since you hurt one of them. At least tried to. The last time you had that much bite in you was back when they were still trying to pry secrets out of you. You’d clawed, snapped, bit down on Abby’s shoulder so hard he bled. You remember the taste of iron, the way Romance had howled with laughter while Jinu peeled you off him.

You leave. You know they’re watching you, Abby still nursing the sting of your nails, Romance biting back a laugh because he thinks everything you do is either hilarious or adorable, Jinu torn between disapproval and worry, Baby with his narrowed eyes calculating what to do with this new piece of data. Mystery… dude I always want to say so much about him but what is there to say? He doesn’t give us anything to work with, he’s just quiet and pretty.

You feel satisfaction. Still, it’s complicated, isn’t it? Because the guilt does creep in too. Watching you walk away, they probably feel both. Bad—because there’s a tiny part of them that wants to keep you safe, happy, whole. Good—because the sting of your defiance feeds the sick hunger in them that craves fight as much as it craves surrender.

They’re fucked up.

And maybe you’re fucked up too, because there’s a piece of you—tiny, secret, shameful—that relishes this too. Relishes that they’ll be thinking about you all night now. That every time Abby flexes his hand he’ll remember the scratch marks you left. That Romance will tease him endlessly for “letting the little human get teeth in.” That Jinu will probably check on you later, never giving up. That Baby will keep the secret. That Mystery… fuck, man. I’m trying I swear.

This push and pull, these tiny wars, this blend of tenderness and cruelty, it’s the only intimacy they know. The only intimacy they offer. And you’re starting to get used to it. That’s a horrible thing, but there’s no point in denying it, babe.

You slam your door shut harder than you mean to. It rattles in the frame and you freeze for a second, waiting, half-afraid they’ll scold you again for it like when they used to when you were still questioned.

You breathe. In. Out. Again. Again. Chest heaving like you’ve just run a sprint when all you did was scratch Abby and walk away.

What is this feeling?

This… push and pull inside you. Your logic is loud. It tells you this is wrong. Everything about this. The unfairness, the manipulation, the way they pin you into corners with their hands and their words, the way they deny you the simplest freedoms and then act like they’re doing you favors when they toss crumbs of choice your way. They’re demons. They’re cruel. They’ll never play fair.

And you are angry about that. Anger makes sense.

But your heart? Your heart is not angry. Not capable of it, apparently.

Like, you remember Abby, huge and jacked and cocky Abby, sitting at the edge of your bed that one night when he came to apologize. The best he could. Clumsy, not even close to enough for what they did, but still. Words you never thought you’d hear from his mouth. And you’d sat there with him, knees almost touching, while he opened up just a little.

You’d felt something then. Something that should never have been allowed to bloom in you. Because all it took was that, a half-assed apology, a demon’s weak attempt at vulnerability, and suddenly you wanted to forgive him. To let it go. To erase the torture, the bruises, the ropes, the endless nights of being cornered, questioned, pressed too far. One conversation and you wanted to wipe the slate clean.

And that’s what drives you crazy. Not them. Not even their cruelty. But you. How quickly you fold at the barest flicker of softness from them.

You curl onto your bed now, knees tucked up, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t tell you what this sickness is, this crawling, gnawing thing in your chest. It doesn’t explain why their attention—so wrong, so terrifying—sometimes feels like true love.

You know what this is.

But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It’s like there are two versions of you living in your body. One logical, furious. She remembers every hit, every scar, every time they reminded you that you’re not free. And then the other—the softer, pathetic one—she clings to the scraps. She keeps rerunning Abby’s apology in her head. She wonders if Romance flirts because he’s lonely. If Mystery’s silence is just his way of trying not to hurt you. If Jinu’s kindness is real, or if he’s simply better at faking. She wonders if Baby’s bratty cruelty is just a mask over something fragile underneath.

You press the heel of your hand to your forehead until it hurts, until the pressure makes spots dance in your vision. You wish you could squash that softer version of yourself. Kill her. But she keeps breathing. Keeps whispering. Keeps aching for them.

But they’re art. You catch yourself staring sometimes at Abby’s shoulders when he stretches, at the curve of Romance’s pretty mouth, at the way Mystery’s hair falls into his eyes, at Jinu’s throat when he swallows, at Baby’s sharp jawline when he’s lighting a cigarette.

You obsess, even when you hate yourself for it.

And maybe that’s why it feels good when you lash out at them—scratch, bite, snap—because for once, it’s you holding something that can hurt, even if only for a second.

They’ve ruined you.

And you hate it.

And you crave it.

What would Mira say if she saw you like this? She was always the first to notice when you weren’t okay, always the first to squeeze your hand under the table. She’d probably glare at you until you cracked, until you spilled the whole rotten story, then she’d tell you you were insane if you thought she’d ever let this slide. She’d fight for you. Rumi would wrap her arms around you, tell you how unfair all of this is, how you don’t deserve it. You can practically hear her voice shaking as she tells you to stop trying to understand them, stop letting them crawl into your veins. Zoey would understand you better than any of them. She wouldn’t look at you with pity. She wouldn’t cry. She’d listen. She’d nod. She’d get it. And maybe she’d say the words you’re too afraid to: you don’t just want freedom, you want them too.

God, you miss them. Miss them so much it makes your chest ache just thinking about it.

You tell yourself you can’t let this happen to you. Not all the way. Not yet. Maybe it’s already happening, maybe it’s too late, but you can’t just roll over and let it. You have to at least try to prove to yourself that there’s still a part of you that wants out. So the next morning, you didn’t come out until they left. And when they were gone, you approached the door. You used your maximum brain capacity, every ounce of patience, to just… look. To trace your eyes along the frame, the hinges, the screws. To test with the gentlest touch, the faintest wiggle, what might give way if you tried.

You loosened just a couple things.

And when you heard the elevator later, heard them coming home, you didn’t panic. You went to the sauna. Sat there until your skin felt like it was on fire, until your head was light and your lungs weak. Sat there long enough to cook the adrenaline out of your pores, to make sure they’d smell nothing but steam and heat if they tested the air around you.

You nearly died in there. But you came out looking flushed and lazy, and that was all that mattered.

Now it’s night.

You think they’re asleep. All of them. Probably sprawled in their messy beds. So you got dressed, and your feet are bare, and you’re moving slow. In the kitchen, quietly, you’re looking for a knife. Something precise, something that can fit into a screw head and twist. A replacement for the tools they took from you after the last time you tried.

You’re careful. You’re slow. You pick up one, test the tip with your finger, set it down. Another, too thick, won’t fit. Another, serrated, useless. Your breath is controlled too. You’re getting good at this. And finally, you find it. Not perfect, but workable.

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re doing fine.

You kneel at the door. You’ve got the knife clenched in your hand, your wrist steady, your breath controlled. You’ve mapped this out, you’ve thought this through. You’ve been careful, quiet, patient. If anyone’s going to outsmart demons, it’s going to be you.

The first screw gives a little under your twisting. Just a faint shift. Enough to make your heart leap, enough to remind you that yes, you can do this.

You grin, or maybe it’s a grimace. Your lips twitch either way. “You’re a fucking god.” you whisper to yourself, so soft it’s just breath.

And then, the knife slips.

It’s fast, it’s stupid. You press too hard, angle too wrong, and the thin blade skates right off the head of the screw and into your arm.

Your forearm gets the hit.

“—fuck!” you hiss, jerking back.

At first, you think it’s just a scratch. Just a little sting, nothing to panic over. But then it wells up. A fat bead of blood slides down your skin, then another, then another, and suddenly it’s not a bead, it’s a stream.

It’s deep.

You drop the knife without meaning to. It clatters against the floor, too loud, way too loud, and you freeze. The sound bounces down the hall, echoes in your chest.

But worse than the sound is the sight, your blood, red, dripping onto the floorboards in lazy drops.

They’ll smell it. They’ll know.

You slap your hand over it, squeezing, trying to stop the flow, but it’s slick and hot and it hurts, god it hurts. Your chest tightens, your breath breaks into ragged little gulps. The calm, slow rhythm you trained yourself for shatters in an instant.

“Shit, shit, shit—”

You scramble, scooping the knife up, wiping the blood on your shirt, pressing your hand harder against your arm. It’s too much, too fast. Already your palm is soaked, your fingers sticky. Already the metallic tang is in the air.

They’ll smell it. They will.

You stumble back from the door, staring at the mess. Drops dotting the floor, a smear on the wood where you grabbed at yourself too late. No time to clean it properly, no way to make it invisible.

Your vision tunnels. The edges of the room go dark. Your whole body feels like it’s pulsing in time with the wound, every heartbeat forcing more out of you.

You try to breathe slow again, but your lungs are stuttering. The tight feeling is back, the one that means you’re about to cry, except now it’s worse, now it’s laced with raw animal fear. You have to sit down. You should move, but all you can do is sink into the floor, back against the wall.

You are prey.

You are bleeding prey in a house full of predators.

They’re already angry at you. God, they’re so angry at you.

Your mind races in jagged flashes. Do you run to the bathroom, rinse it, hide it? Too loud. Too risky. Do you crawl back to bed, pretend it never happened? You’d stain the sheets. They’d see. Do you—what, what, what?

Your hand trembles against your arm. Your legs feel too weak to stand.

They’re going to know.

The floor creaks.

Not yours.

Not your movement.

Your stomach drops so hard you almost throw up.

They’re awake.

Or at least, one of them is.

Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure it’ll give you away before anything else.

Its Jinu. Messy hair, shirt half-rumpled from bed, he was clearly asleep just minutes ago.

Your mouth opens before your brain can stop it. “Jinu.”

It isn’t just his name. Not the flat way you sometimes say it, not the annoyed version, not even the curious one. It’s need. Pure and stupid and childlike. Like when a little kid falls and they keep crying for their parent without thinking, because they want their parent from instinct. And to be honest, you meant it. You want Jinu. Right now, with your arm torn open and your pulse rattling in your ears, you want him.

His eyes snap to you, and the first thing you see is confusion. His gaze flicks to the knife, to the screws, to the blood dripping steady between your fingers. And then, fear.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent, gentle. You’ve heard him cold. You’ve heard him calculated. You’ve heard him frustrated. You’ve heard him manipulative. But this, this is a voice that actually sounds like it cares.

You feel the adrenaline hit you all at once. Your chest seizes, your throat closes, your breathing turns jerky, shallow. You can’t seem to get enough air. You press your hand harder against your arm, as if pressure will solve everything.

“I—” Your voice cracks, small and shaky. “It—it slipped—”

He’s already crouching down, already reaching. Not rough, not demanding, just… present. His hands hover before touching you, like he’s making sure you’ll let him. “Let me see.”

You shake your head, instinctive. “No—”

“Yes.” He doesn’t snap it. Doesn’t bark. Just says it firm enough that you hear the wall of no-argument behind it. He takes the knife from you gently, prying your fingers loose one by one. He tosses it down the hall, far away. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I swear. Let me see.”

Your hand loosens, almost against your will. You feel the tacky drag of blood as he gently pries your fingers away. And then you see the wound. Deep, red. You want to throw up.

He inhales sharply. You think it’s disgust for half a second, until you see his wide eyes. “Oh… fuck. Okay. Okay.”

You’re shaking now, because the adrenaline’s peaked and you’re crashing hard. Your body can’t decide if it wants to fight, cry, or collapse.

He notices. Of course he does. He always notices.

“Breathe.” His voice is steady, low. “Look at me. Just me.”

And you do. You don’t know why, but you do. His face is tired, his jaw is tense, but his eyes are locked on yours.

You inhale ragged, try to steady it. He mirrors the rhythm, slower, exaggerating it, like he’s lending you his breath to copy.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

It works. Not perfectly, you’re still trembling, your throat still feels tight, but it works enough that you’re not drowning.

“Good.” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

He pulls the hem of his shirt up and presses the fabric against your arm. The warmth of him seeps through immediately. He’s gentle, gentler than you thought he could be. Almost clumsy.

“Hold this here.” he says, guiding your hand to press the makeshift bandage. His fingers brush yours and you cling to the contact more than the cloth.

Your voice comes out small. “Am I—” You swallow. “Am I in trouble?”

It’s pathetic. You hate yourself for asking. But you ask anyway.

His eyes flick up to yours, startled for half a second. Then they soften. “No.”

You nod, a weak little movement, but your chest loosens a fraction.

He adjusts his crouch, shifting closer. His knee brushes your leg. “You scared yourself.” he says quietly. “That’s all this is. An accident.”

An accident.

You look down, ashamed. Blood seeps through the shirt against your arm, hot and sticky. You press harder.

He exhales, long and slow. “Y/N. Look at me again.”

You do. You can’t not.

“I don’t care about the door.” he says. “Or the knife. Or—” He stops himself, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Or what you were trying to do. I care about this.” He nods toward your arm. “You. Hurt.”

The words knock the air out of you.

You blink fast, throat stinging. Tears threaten, uninvited. You bite the inside of your cheek hard, but it doesn’t stop the wet blur gathering at the edges of your vision.

You want to argue. You want to tell him he’s lying, that he should care about the door, that they will care about the escape attempt. But the way he says it, the way he looks at you, short-circuits your brain.

You believe him. For now.

Your body leans toward him, just slightly, without permission. The urge is sudden and stupid, to bury your face in his chest, to let him hold you, to feel small and safe and protected.

You don’t. You can’t. But god, you want to.

And he knows. Somehow he knows, because his posture shifts, subtle, like he’s bracing for you to collapse against him. Like he’s already decided he’d catch you if you did.

Your voice is shaky, quiet. “Jinu… don’t—don’t tell the others.”

That earns you a pause. His brows pull together, the faintest crease between them. He doesn’t answer right away.

You hold your breath, waiting, begging silently.

Finally, he nods. Small. Reluctant. But a nod.

“Okay.” he says. “Not tonight.”

Not tonight.

Which isn’t never, but it’s enough for now.

He knows you’re terrified. He can smell it, taste it, practically feel it radiating off your skin. So he doesn’t rush you. “If you don’t want them to smell it, you’ll have to get up though.”

Right. Of course. Demons. Every drop of blood you’re leaking right now might as well be a dinner bell.

You look at the floor, then the door, then anywhere except at him, because panic is surging again and you don’t have the breath to say so.

But he says it calmer, softer, guiding: “Y/N, come on. Up. You’ll be worse if we wait.”

And you do. You let him help you stand, his hand firm at your elbow, his body close enough that if you stumbled, he’d catch you before you hit the ground. The walk down the hall feels endless, every sound loud suddenly, your footsteps dragging, your breath unsteady, the faint wet drip of blood against the wood. You pray the others don’t stir, don’t come out, don’t see.

When be opens his door, he says “Bathroom.” and leads you in there. From a drawer he pulls out a first-aid kit so pristine it looks unused. “Didn’t think I’d ever actually open this thing.” he admits.

The line is nothing, but it works. It distracts you for a heartbeat.

“Sit.” he says, pointing to the thick edge of the tub. You do.

Your arm feels like fire now that you’ve stopped moving. You watch him uncap a bottle of antiseptic, pour it onto gauze. He’s surprisingly good at this. The sharp smell of alcohol stings your nose.

“This will burn.” he says. Calm. Informative. Not sugarcoating. “You’ll hate me for the next thirty seconds.”

He isn’t lying.

The second he presses it to your arm, you jolt back, hiss through your teeth, a strangled sound tearing out of you.

“Fuck—stop, stop—” You try to pull away. Your shoulder slams into the tile wall.

Jinu’s hand is already there, catching your wrist, holding steady. Not tight, not brutal, but firm. “Y/N. I know. I know it hurts. It has to.”

Your chest heaves. Tears prick your eyes. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice sharpens just enough to cut through. “Stay with me.”

Another swipe of the gauze and you almost bite your tongue bloody to stop the scream clawing its way out.

“I hate you.” you gasp, breathless.

He huffs the barest laugh, humorless but gentle. “I know.”

The worst passes. The sting fades from unbearable to manageable, and your muscles sag, trembling from the effort of staying still. He swaps to saline next, flushing the wound with a careful pour. Clear liquid runs pink down your arm.

“You did good.” he says quietly. “Better than I expected.”

You want to snap at him, tell him you’re not a dog he gets to praise, but the words die in your throat. The tone is too soft. Too genuine.

He sets the saline down, digs in the kit again. When you see the sutures packet, your stomach flips.

“No.” Your voice is thin. “No stitches. No.”

His eyes flick up, steady. “It’s deep, Y/N. It won’t close without them.”

You shake your head, panic clawing up your throat. “No. Please. No.”

His jaw tics. For a second, he looks like he might argue. But instead he sighs, long and controlled, and nods. “Fine. But,” he adds, pulling out butterfly closures instead. “we’ll approximate it with these. They won’t hold as well. You’ll scar.”

You nod quickly, anything to avoid the needle.

And when the first butterfly strip pulls your skin together, the sharp tug of flesh against flesh makes you cry out. You try to twist away. Instinct. Survival. Pain. But Jinu doesn’t let you. In one swift motion, he steps in close, his arm sliding around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back. He holds you, keeping you pinned gently against him. His breath brushes the side of your face.

“Stay. Please.” The word please sounds addictive.

Every part of you screams at the closeness, his chest against your back, his breath near your temple, the unyielding strength in his arms. It’s too much. Too intimate. But also… grounding. Solid. Like if you thrashed, he’d hold, but not hurt. Like restraint without cruelty.

You shove your face into his neck, tears smearing hot across his skin. A strangled, childish sound tears out of you, half-cry, half-whine. The pain sears sharp under every pull, and you can’t bite it back anymore. You cry into him. You whine into his skin, small, desperate noises muffled against him as he does that whatever the fuck, you don’t dare look.

Jinu wasn’t ready for this, for you to do this. But he doesn’t show it. His chin lowers, almost instinctive, brushing the crown of your head. His arm around you tightens, careful not to crush, but enough to tell you he’s here. That you’re not slipping away.

God, he likes it.

He likes that you called his name like that. He likes that you came willingly into his arms, even if it was pain that pushed you there. He likes the warmth of your breath against his skin, the tiny, raw sounds you make only for him.

Buried under that dark, selfish pull is something else, something he barely lets himself feel, worry. Genuine, bone-deep worry. The kind that makes his stomach twist, that whispers: What if the cut had been worse? What if I hadn’t heard you? What if you bled out on that floor before I woke up?

He can’t stand that thought.

So he holds you tighter. His cheek brushes your hair. “I know, I know.” he whispers into the air between you, words meant more for himself than you. “Almost done. Just a little more.”

You sob again, pressing harder into his neck, like you’re trying to crawl inside him to escape the pain. He feels it all, the wetness of your tears, the tremble of your body, the way your good hand grips his bicep, which you don’t even seem to notice, because your sobs vibrate against him, raw and unguarded, and it fucks him up in a way he didn’t expect. You’re not just scared. You’re hurting. And you chose him to see it. Something in him likes it, your weakness pressed so close, your trust laid bare.

And when the last closure sticks, when the wound is finally held together, he doesn’t let you go right away. His hands stay firm on your waist, his neck damp with your tears.

“It’s done.” he says finally, loosening his hold but not moving away just yet.

You don’t answer. You just sit there, chest heaving, cheek nearly brushing his shoulder, the ache in your arm dulled under the bandages.

For one insane second, you don’t want him to let go.

Jinu doesn’t move. His arms stay wound around you even after the wound is closed, even after your sobs start to stutter into weaker hiccups against his neck. But eventually, slowly, he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Okay.” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Okay.”

He leans back, peeling himself away carefully. His hands skim your shoulders as if to keep you upright without caging you anymore.

He crouches down onto the cold tile, knees bending until he’s more in level with you.

Your face is blotchy, puffed from crying, lashes clumped wet. Strands of hair cling to your damp cheeks and temples. Your nose is red. Your lips tremble. Your arm twitches faintly at the fingers, a painful, involuntary spasm. You clutch your other hand into your shirt. You’re breathing too fast. Still in shock. You’re pale under the bathroom light, your eyes glassy and unfocused, your mouth open like you can’t quite catch enough air.

“I wasn’t—” You stop, then continue. “I wasn’t trying to stab myself, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shake, shoulders heaving with each little sob. Your lips part like you’re trying to say something, but only wet sounds come out.

Jinu stares at you, chest aching. How is he supposed to deal with this? He’s good at silence, good at watching, good at pulling strings from shadows. But this? You, torn open in front of him, trusting him to hold the pieces…

It terrifies him.

“…Are you angry?” you murmur.

He blinks, startled. “What?”

“Are you mad at me?” The words fall out unfiltered, raw honesty spilling faster than you can contain it. “For—fuck—for being stupid, for—” You break on a hiccuping sob, “—for everything? For making a mess? For… making you deal with me?”

He shakes his head instantly. “No.”

“You should be—God, Jinu, you should be. I messed up, I—I keep—” You gasp for breath. “—keep breaking things, keep snooping, keep being mean to you, keep—” You almost choke on the last word. “—failing. I don’t know why you even—”

“Y/N.”

You look at him, trembling.

His eyes soften. “I’m not angry.”

You sniff. “…Why?”

He stares at you a beat too long. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t have the words. Not for this. So instead he exhales slowly and stands. His knees pop from crouching too long. He brushes his palms against his thighs.

“Bed.” he says, voice firm. A command, but softened.

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, but the word sticks. You don’t have the strength to fight him. So you nod faintly.

He steps closer, offering a hand, and when you hesitate, he just places it against your back, guiding you up gently.

For once, he doesn’t have the luxury of thinking like a demon. There’s no instinct for this in his bloodline, no reflex for comfort or caretaking. There’s only him, and the terrible uncertainty of it all.

On the hall, Jinu matches your pace, every step measured, his hand never leaving yours.

But Abby’s leaning against the doorframe of his room, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are narrowed, irritated. His gaze goes from you—tear-stained, leaning into Jinu—to your bandaged arm, and his jaw tightens.

Beside him, Mystery stands silently. His posture is the usual, leaning into the side a little, but his lips are left open a little.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just lifts his hands slowly, palms up, in a gesture that could mean a hundred things—what happened? where are you taking her? what the fuck did you do?

Jinu’s eyes flicker to him once. Just once. And then he looks forward again, walking away with you. No explanations. No excuses. No room for anyone else in this moment. He’s all about you.

Abby’s nostrils flare, a muscle ticking in his jaw. You can feel the weight of his stare burning into your back as you walk with Jinu, but Jinu doesn’t so much as glance again. It’s infuriating to Abby. He wants to argue, wants to demand answers, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Mystery tilts his head, curious, but says nothing either. Just watches.

In your room, you’re sitting at the edge of your bed, still trembling slightly from everything, when Jinu crouches in front of you again, like he can’t trust leaving you upright until you’re settled.

You sniff hard, trying to claw back some dignity. “I need to wash my teeth. Before bed.”

Jinu tilts his head. “No. You don’t. You need sleep. Nothing else.” His voice is gentle but immovable. “Trust me, you don’t.”

There’s something strangely comforting in how absolute he sounds. No room for you to wrestle, no options that make you think more. Just a single direction, bed.

He pulls the sheets up around you with the sort of tenderness that feels alien on him, even clumsy. Like he’s never tucked anyone in before, but his hands figure it out anyway.

“I’ll let you rest.” he says, voice quiet. He hesitates by the side of your bed, his fingers flexing once at his thigh, as though debating whether to reach out and smooth the hair from your face. He doesn’t. But his eyes linger on you like the touch is there all the same.

“One last thing.” he adds, softer now. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

You want to believe him. You nod, your throat too tight to answer.

And with that, he slips from your room.

Meanwhile, Romance and Baby are standing over the knife.

The smell of blood had woken them all. At first, it had stirred something feral, nostrils flaring, hunger, the old itch for violence and heat. But now, staring at the actual mess by the front door, the knife lying abandoned, the streak of red against the frame, the faint handprint on the wall, that hunger has been replaced with something much… dreadful, if that’s the right word.

Romance’s expression is… sassy. There’s no better word for it. He even makes a little tsk under his breath, shaking his head slowly. “Somebody’s been busy.”

Baby snorts, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed. “Busy being an idiot.” he mutters. His eyes stay locked on the blood smeared near the door, jaw clenching tight.

They both know there’s no prying you from Jinu’s hands tonight. You’d called his name. You’d gone with him. You’d stayed in his room. The realization doesn’t make them jealous, not exactly. It makes them restless. Because if you’re bleeding, and you’re hurt, and you’re not with them, then where does that leave them?

Jinu closes your door softly behind him. Abby’s already there, broad body taking up a lot of the hallway. His arms are folded, his face obviously angry, the irritation from earlier still on him.

“What happened?”

Jinu shakes his head before the second word has even left Abby’s mouth. Quick. Decisive. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t explain, doesn’t even glance up. Just brushes past the bigger boy like he doesn’t exist, not even caring that half of his shirt is still covered in your blood.

Abby’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex like he wants to grab Jinu, drag the truth out of him. But he doesn’t.

Jinu disappears down the hall, the door to his room shutting behind him with a quiet click.

Silence.

Abby exhales through his nose, a frustrated sound. He rakes a hand over his hair. He hates being kept out, hates being shoved to the sidelines when it comes to you. He doesn’t even know what’s happening to you.

Fine.

Mystery walks up beside him. His hand rests casually against the front of his pants, fingers hooked in his waistband, thumb dragging slow. Y’know that hot posture he has in the movie too.

Together, they walk to the front door.

Romance and Baby are still there, standing over the scene. The knife glints dully under the hallway light. The smear on the frame has already begun to dry, dark and tacky. The scent is all around them, stubborn, refusing to fade. The four of them stand in silence, forming a loose circle around the blood. It’s actually kind of hilarious when you see it from the outside.

Romance lets out a little huff of breath, almost a laugh. “You boys smell that?” he says lightly. “How clumsy.”

Baby shifts his weight. “It’s not funny.”

Romance hums, tilting his head, but doesn’t argue.

Abby crouches, lowering his big frame to get a closer look. His nostrils flare as he inhales, face grim. His hands hover just above the bloodstain like he wants to touch it, but he doesn’t.

Baby, on the other hand, crosses his arms, leans his weight into one hip, and lets his mouth curve into something uglier. His eyes flick from the knife to the droplets that trail toward Jinu’s room, and then back again. He clicks his tongue and glances away, irritation prickling.

Mystery’s trying to map how it could’ve happened, but he knows he won’t fully know the truth until you or Jinu tell him. He leaves it to be, watching the others now.

All of them woke up the same way, pulled from sleep by the metallic tang of blood. It hit them like a drug, sent a shiver down their spines, even got them a little hard. It’s instinct. But then their minds caught up. Then they realized. It was your blood.

And they don’t know what the fuck happened.

They hate that. They hate not knowing. And they hate that Jinu does. They hate standing there like idiots while Jinu holds all the cards. While you’re behind your closed door, tucked into bed, and they’re out here with nothing but the scraps.

This isn’t the first time you’ve tried something desperate, let’s be fucking fr. You’ve been clever enough to make it entertaining, bold enough to make it infuriating. But none of those left the hallway painted with your blood. None of those had Jinu shutting them out like a slammed door.

It’s not just the failed attempt. It’s the evidence. The proof that you got hurt enough that even their sharpened senses spike with unease.

The smell itself is maddening. It should thrill them. And it does, in the rawest, ugliest way, your blood is uniquely yours, sweeter than anything they’ve tasted before. Just one inhalation is enough to thrum through their veins, a burn in the pit of their stomachs. Romance even chuckles under his breath at how easily aroused he is by it, leaning a little closer as though he’s flirting with the stain itself.

But it’s not right. Because you’re hurt. And the fact that the thing twisting them up inside is both lust and worry makes them feel filthy.

It would be easier if they could just be violent. Rip the truth from Jinu’s hands, force him to cough up what happened, throw him against a wall until he broke. That’s their way. Their instinct. But they’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t work with Jinu. None of them want to risk turning tonight into that. Not with you involved.

So they’re left with the one thing they despise, waiting.

“So…” Abby murmurs. “Who’s cleaning it up?”

The question hangs for less than a second. Then Romance vanishes, teleporting so fast the air snaps behind him. Baby’s gone the very next heartbeat, leaving the faintest echo of a scoff behind him.

Mystery hasn’t moved, his hand resting at his waistband.

Abby watches him for a moment, then steps closer, his heavy palm landing against Mystery’s back. A rough pat.

“You’ve got it.” Abby mutters.

And then he’s gone too, his steps echoing back down the hall, fading into his room.

Which leaves Mystery.

He pushes off the wall finally, exhaling through his nose. His gaze drops to the blood again, to the knife lying abandoned on the floor. He crouches slowly, stretching out his long legs, his hand lazily picking up the blade. He twirls it once in his fingers, studying the smear of red against the steel.

“Messy girl.” he murmurs under his breath.

He sets the knife aside carefully and actually starts cleaning it up. Respect tbh.

That night, when finally all five of them went to bed, Gwi-ma whispered to them. Need her. Break her. Devour her. She’s yours. You’re hers. She’s hurt. You’re hurt. Don’t let him have her. Don’t let her go. Over and over.

They hate him for it, but he’s not exactly wrong. His words feed the beast in them, the one they keep on chains only for your sake. That chain feels thinner every night.

Meanwhile, you… you actually slept. Derpy padded into your bed somewhere in the night, curling up against your side. Even Sussie was around. You slept good. Too good. You didn’t hear them moving, didn’t sense their unrest.

But they were awake.

They’re predators. That’s the simple truth of it. Predators dressed in human skin. They always know where you are. Even if you tried to hide, they could close their eyes and point to you with animal accuracy. Your heartbeat is always in their ears, your scent mapping the apartment for them without fail. When you’re gone too long, their shoulders tense. When you step into the kitchen, they know before you open the fridge. They don’t need to look to track you, they’re wired for it.

They don’t lose prey.

And you are, to them, prey.

But not just prey. Something else. Something caught in the impossible space between prey and mate, between object of hunger and object of worship. That’s why it’s unbearable, the mix of it. The push-pull. The fact that every day with you is a tightrope walk over their own instincts.

Mystery feels it when you walk past his door, the scrape of your bare feet like thunder in his chest. Abby feels it when you roll your shoulders in the kitchen, the crack of bone and tendon calling to him like music. Romance feels it when your shampoo lingers in the air, when your hair brushes your cheek, so small and subtle that it drives him insane. Baby feels it when you laugh at something, or when you don’t laugh at all, when he can hear that sound way too food. Jinu feels it most of all when you breathe near him.

They are animals, and animals don’t ignore scent, sound, blood. You can’t turn that off. You can’t change their wiring. They always know where you are. Always. Even if you slipped out the front door, even if you outran them, even if you cut the world between you with oceans and walls, they would find you.

And yet here you are, asleep in bed with Derpy and Sussie, oblivious to the feelings outside your door. Oblivious to the five sets of eyes burning in the dark.

And the smell lingers. The blood is gone from the floor, wiped clean by Mystery’s hands(and maybe a finger he licked clean), but the air still holds the ghost of it. They breathe it in even as they try not to, even as they roll onto their backs, onto their stomachs, digging claws into sheets, biting down on their tongues.

They should be there with you. They should have been the ones to carry you. To press your wound. To hear your sobs. To feel your face pressed into their necks.

Instead, Jinu took it.

The next morning the sun is warm on your cheek, warm against the side of your body where Derpy has wedged himself, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Your breath is slow, soft. You don’t notice that the tiger’s thick paw is stretched protectively across your hip, claws sheathed, fur tickling your shirt. You don’t notice that your arm—the injured one—is propped carefully atop a pillow.

Jinu did that.

He’s sitting on the edge of your bed, chin in hand, eyes locked on you. It’s not often he lets himself just… look. He’s always glancing, checking, skimming, but not like this. His gaze traces your features. Puffy eyes, lashes clumped from dried tears, the little twitch of your lip when you exhale. Fragile. So fragile.

Should he wake you?

He doesn’t want to. God, he doesn’t want to. He wants to let you stay like this forever, wants to guard you from the world until your cut is healed, until the fear is drained from your body, until you can breathe without that little hitch of pain.

Reality is ugly, and Gwi-Ma’s leash is tight. If they’re late, if they dare skip anything about the plan again, there will be hell to pay. Last time they stayed behind for you, when you had a cold, the old fucker ripped them apart in their minds. Mystery paced so long that Romance had to tie him to the radiator.

They can’t risk that again.

And yet, Jinu looks at you, curled into Derpy, your breath fogging the tiger’s fur, and the thought of shaking you awake feels like cruelty. Will you fall back asleep? What if you don’t? What if the moment he leaves, you get scared? What if he breaks this rare peace by nudging your shoulder, by calling your name?

Still. He has to.

He sighs, the sound soft, pained. His fingers hover above your shoulder before they finally land, gentle as moth wings. “Y/N.” he says, low, careful, as though he’s not waking you but inviting you back.

You stir. Not violently—thank god—but with a slow twitch of your lips, a blink of lashes, a groggy roll of your head toward him. Your voice is rasped from sleep when you whisper, “…Jinu?”

Something about hearing his name from your lips like that, sleepy, trusting, lodges in his chest. He swallows, masking it. “Morning. We’re heading out soon.”

You rub your eyes with your good hand, sluggish, clumsy, and look at him properly. For a heartbeat, he sees the childlike version of you, soft and unguarded. It’s disarming. Beautiful.

“Your arm—you’ll need to keep it clean. Just leave it. Don’t move it too much. If the bandage loosens, replace it with the kit I left in your drawer. And…” His gaze flickers to your lips, then away. “Watch out for yourself, alright?”

Your throat tightens at the way he says it. Like he’s begging.

“Y/N.” a voice coos.

You both turn.

Romance is leaning on your doorway.

“Oh, love.” he croons, sweeping in with the grace of a man who’s been planning this entrance. “Look at you, all tucked in with your knight.”

Before Jinu can react, Romance is on his knees at your bedside, pushing at Jinu’s legs. “Scoot, lover boy. You had your shift.”

But Romance doesn’t look at Jinu again. Not once. His whole focus is on you.

“God, you’re a vision.” he says. His hand flutters to his chest as though your puffy-eyed, bedheaded self is enough to knock the wind out of him. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

You freeze, caught between irritation and embarrassment. Your hair is a mess. Your bandage feels clumsy and ugly. Your face is swollen from crying. What the fuck is wrong with him?

But he’s so earnest about it, like he actually means it. Like the sight of you this fucked up is still art to him.

You open your mouth, but Romance is faster. He leans forward on his knees, both hands gripping the edge of your blanket, eyes wide, syrupy. “You scared us last night, you know that? Nearly stopped my heart, sweetheart. What would we do without you? What would I do?”

His voice cracks on purpose. A dramatization, sure, but also just enough truth underneath to make it sting.

You glance at Jinu for help, but Jinu is pinching his nose bridge, eyes closed.

Romance’s hand dares to brush the blanket near your injured arm, not touching skin, but close enough that Jinu shifts.

“Shhh, baby.” Romance coos, fingers ghosting along the blanket like he’s petting feathers. “Close your eyes again. Don’t let us keep you.” His voice dips into a whisper so syrupy it should rot teeth. “Rest. You deserve it.”

Your lashes flutter, torn between suspicion and the exhaustion still pulling you down. But his tone is lulling, strangely gentle. He brushes a lock of hair from your forehead, sighs and them he leans over kisses your forehead a little.

Jinu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His jaw ticks once, then stills.

Romance straightens with a satisfied little hum, as though tucking you back into a dream. “That’s it.” he whispers. “Dream sweet.”

And before you can fully process what just happened, he’s rising gracefully to his feet, snagging Jinu by the sleeve, dragging him out the door.

The second the latch clicks shut behind them, Jinu rips his arm free. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what, tiger cub? Don’t tuck her in? Don’t let her rest?” Romance, the minute you can’t see it, is back to being a selfish asshole. “You looked like you needed the break.”

Jinu exhales hard through his nose. He wants to argue, but the truth is written in the ache of his shoulders, in the exhaustion gnawing at the corners of his eyes. He did need the break. He just hates that Romance knows it.

Romance claps a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. She’s sleeping. No one’s stealing her from you in five minutes.”

And then, right on cue, Abby rounds the corner first, hair messy, still shirtless, irritated. He’s already scowling when his eyes dart to your door. “What’s up?”

Baby and Mystery are also there.

All three of them want in.

Romance spreads his arms, smile wide, cocky. “Gentlemen. Don’t bother. Sleeping beauty needs her rest.”

Abby growls. “Move.”

“No.” Jinu’s voice is flat, solid, immovable. He doesn’t raise it, he doesn’t need to.

Abby’s chest rises, falls. Mystery’s eyes narrow, shifting between the two blockers. Baby crosses his arms, silent but seething, the weight of his glare like a blade pressed to skin.

“Step aside.” Abby repeats, voice lower, more dangerous.

Romance chuckles like this is a game, like he’s delighted by the confrontation. “And what? Let you stomp in there, wake her up, scare the poor thing half to death with your scowl? Not a chance, big guy. She’s sleeping.“

Abby steps forward, looming. His size eclipses Romance, makes Jinu look smaller by comparison. But Jinu doesn’t flinch. He shifts slightly, blocking the door more deliberately, a wall of quiet defiance.

“You’re wasting time.” Baby murmurs.

Romance hums, almost singsong. “We’ve got all the time in the world, baby boy.”

Abby snarls under his breath, storming off down the hall, frustration radiating off him. Baby follows slower, stiff. Mystery lingers a moment longer, eyes slitting at Jinu, at Romance, at the door, hungry, calculating, before he finally walks away, silent.

The hall quiets again, leaving only Romance and Jinu.

Romance stretches his arms overhead, sighing theatrically. “Well. That was fun.”

Jinu doesn’t respond. He leans against the wall beside your door, rubbing his face, bone-deep tired.

Romance watches him. “You’re welcome, by the way. If it were just you, they’d have ripped that door off its hinges. But me? I’m charming.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Normally, this would devolve into snarling, maybe even a fist through the wall, or Abby pinning Mystery against a wall until Baby calmly pulls them apart. Because the truth is, none of them mind throwing punches at each other if it means getting what they want.

But that was a lot of blood you left there. They don’t want to scare you now.

Eventually, they leave. It takes longer than it should, longer than any of them would admit out loud. Petty. Angry. Crazy, really. But for them, that’s normal. They’ve all been through worse than this. Traumas that make this kind of behavior—snapping, snarling, throwing elbows—almost look healthy. If they were human, you’d call them dysfunctional. As demons? It’s almost… expected.

You wake around midday. Your arm is the first thing you notice, a throb so deep it feels like your entire body’s pulsing with it.

You roll onto your back and lift it to look.

Jinu was surprisingly good at what he did. The bandage is already blotched with spots of red, dark and dried at the edges, fresher closer to the center. The pain is fucking with your nerves every time you so much as flex your fingers. And god, the memory of last night…

The knife slipping. The slice. The blood.

Your stomach flips just thinking about it.

Realistically? You know it’s not something you can shrug off. It’s deep. Not enough to kill you—not unless you somehow ignored it for days—but deep enough that if Jinu hadn’t stopped the bleeding, you could’ve done real damage. Arteries are the fear, right? You don’t think you hit one, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now, but veins bleed plenty. And cuts like that take forever to heal. They throb, they pull open with the wrong movement, they scar ugly if you don’t take care of them. Butterfly closures will keep it together, but they’re fragile. One wrong move, one wrong bend of your wrist or forearm, and it could rip again. You know Jinu told you not to stress it, but… yeah. You’ll have to be careful. Maybe for weeks.

You lower your arm back down onto the blanket, sucking in a breath through your teeth.

Replaying last night feels like it was a dream to be honest. The adrenaline. The panic. The shame. That animal urge to run, to claw your way out, only for it to end with you bleeding all over the damn floor. And then Jinu. The way his name fell out of your mouth. The way his arms felt around you, pinning you against him. The way you cried into his neck, of all things.

You’re not sure what’s worse, the memory of the pain or the memory of your vulnerability. Because it wasn’t just physical pain, was it? It was all of it, the tension from Abby grabbing you, the teasing, the suffocation of all of them cornering you with their jokes, the flashbacks of torture you’d endured before. That stomach-tightening dread of being powerless. And then the knife. Blood.

You rub your free hand down your face, muffling a groan. Because last night cracked something in you. Shoved open a door you’ve been trying to keep locked. A door that says maybe you want them near, maybe you want them close, even though your head knows better. Even though logic screams at you that they’re demons, unfair, evil.

But your heart… oh, your heart. Your heart remembers Jinu’s hands, careful on your skin. His voice. Romance kneeling by your bed, kissing your forehead. Even Abby’s stupid big hand letting go when you clawed at him, like he remembered you were human and breakable.

All of it swirls together until you’re left with this, this ache, not just in your arm but in your chest. This push and pull that drives you mad.

What the hell are you doing here, Y/N?

You don’t do much through the day—can’t do much, really—but you always like having the place for yourself during the day.

You test your hand, flexing your fingers. They twitch fine, a little stiff, a little shaky, but they work. That’s good. You angle your wrist and forearm, checking how much movement makes the cut scream. You find out quick. Okay. Don’t do that. You cradle it after. The bandage is already bothering you, itching and tight. But you know better than to mess with it too soon. Jinu would kill you if you did.

You drink water. You eat something small, careful with your left hand clumsily fumbling at utensils. (AN: If you’re left handed then ignore this) You wander from your bed to the couch, then to the kitchen, then back again, like pacing but slower, weaker.

You rinse the dishes from last night, your challenge being that you have to do it with one arm, also wiping the counters until they shine. The rhythm of cleaning soothes you, it always does. You like when the kitchen looks nice, organized. Doing it with one hand only was fun, actually.

You linger there longer than you should, fingers tapping against the edge of the sink, staring at the cupboards. Thinking. Thinking about your boys. You hate yourself a little for calling them that in your head, but the word fits.

Abby… huge and ridiculous, sneaking up behind you. You can still feel the weight of his hand on your arm, the sharp flare of panic when you scratched him. The memory makes you shudder, but also… not entirely with fear. He’s scary, yes. He’s hot, too. Stupidly so. The way he could snap you in half but sometimes chooses not to. You hate how much that thrills you. You remember how he fed you with Romance when you were cuffed to the fucking fridge. Then, it was unbearably annoying. Now, it’s almost fun to think back to it.

Now that we mentioned Romance, you actually liked the way he dropped to his knees by your bed, cooing you back to sleep, forehead kiss and all. He’s infuriating, fake in a way, and yet you can’t get rid of that fun he brings with himself.

Mystery. God, Mystery. He didn’t say much last night, does he ever, but he was there and that’s what matters. Or just the smell of your blood drew him out, anyways, he was there. But sometimes he’s also at the foot of your bed, sleeping with you. You don’t think he does that for your blood, nuh-uh.

Baby. The panties under his pillow flash in your memory and you want to laugh, except you don’t. It’s creepy. It’s so creepy. But something about the audacity of it, telling on the others but being just as bad as them is somehow thrilling to you. And fuck, you can’t deny it anymore, it’s so hot that he’s such an asshole!!

And Jinu. Oh, Jinu. Manipulative, selfish fucker, but you’ve curled into his tiger when he wakes you, you whisper his name when you’re bleeding, you sob into his neck when you’re in too much pain. Why did you want him then? Were you just in need of someone? Doesn’t matter what’s the truth, you still wanted him and can’t change that. Do you want to change that?

You think and think until the thoughts twist into knots in your stomach. Because it’s wrong, isn’t it? All of it. This fuckass connection you have with them. They still scare you. They push you around, play with you. You’re angry, you’re terrified, you know it’s unfair. Logically, you should want nothing but escape.

And yet.

And yet your heart doesn’t feel the same as your head.

You want to hate them cleanly, but you can’t. They’re too present, too beautiful, too much a part of your world now. Even their demon marks, the terrifying flashes of their real forms, they’re still pretty. Too pretty.

How crazy are you, Y/N?

At one point, you sink onto the couch with Derpy, scratching behind his ears until he flops into your lap, purring like he doesn’t care that you almost bled out on the floor last night. Sussie is just watching you, but that means a lot more than someone would think. You stay there, half-dozing, half-thinking, tracing the edge of your bandage with your fingers, feeling the pull and throb of it. Every twitch reminds you how close last night came to something worse.

Let’s talk about this, Gwi-Ma waits. He watches. He knows exactly when to come for someone. He waits until you’re crawling through your own failures and grief. That’s when he strikes. That’s how he got them. Romance. Abby. Baby. Mystery. Jinu. Each of them caught at the worst moments of their lives, each promised something they were desperate enough to believe in. Power. Protection. Meaning. Love.

So why not you? Why doesn’t Gwi-Ma come to you when you’re vulnerable, when your eyes sting with tears, when your arm throbs with pain and you feel small and human and weak?

Because he doesn’t need to.

Because your fragility gives him far more leverage than breaking you ever could.

You are not his target, you are his weapon.

He doesn’t have to whisper in your ear, doesn’t have to drag you down into his pit, because the boys are already tethered to him. You’re their attachment, their distraction, their girl. He doesn’t need to taint you directly, he only has to dangle your life above their heads like bait, and suddenly he owns them twice over.

The girls mentioned his name to you in passing, maybe even warned you. But your mind never clicked it together. Your brain refused to stitch that name to the five demons who you live with now. You’re too busy surviving them to connect the dots about who holds their leash. So you go on thinking your prison ends at these four walls. You don’t realize it’s bigger, deeper. That somewhere beyond your sight there’s a pretty fire(love the colors alright?) smirking every time you fold against one of the boys’ chests instead of running from them. That Gwi-Ma isn’t just letting this happen, he’s counting on it.

He’s patient.

You fell asleep eventually. The cut on your arm pulled with every shift of your body, every little movement, but you were learning to live with it the same way you’d learned to live with everything else here. You curled up on your side, pulled the blanket over yourself, and let your eyelids drag shut.

Just a nap.

Derpy padded into your room somewhere in the middle of it. He always knew when to leave you alone, and when to tuck himself against you. His fur brushed your legs as he climbed up onto the bed, careful—like, genuinely careful—not to jostle your arm. Animals know. His wide eyes blinked up at you, bright and clueless, but he knew something was up. Sussie curled into your neck while you slepy. Properly slept. Not twitching half-awake in paranoia, not listening for footsteps.

When you woke up again, hours had slipped by. You’d read a little, distracted yourself, touching Derpy’s fur, organizing a drawer, scrolling your mind through memories of Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You told yourself you could handle this.

But now you’re half-asleep again in your bed, post-nap grogginess, when your door slams open without warning.

You jolt upright, heartbeat spiking, and Abby walks in.

You didn’t even hear them come home.

“What’s up, babe? Didn’t even say hi.” he says, voice is too loud for your pretty room.

Before you can answer, he’s dropping his heavy frame right onto the edge of your bed. The mattress dips under his weight, tilting you a little toward him. He’s close. He’s always close.

“C’mon, lemme see.”

You hesitate, sitting there with the blanket clutched at your side, lips pressed tight. You’re barely aware of what’s happening, that’s how tired you are. But Abby doesn’t look away. He’s waiting.

So slowly, stiffly, you pull your arm free and unwrap the half-ass bandaging you’d re-done.

It’s ugly. It hurts like hell.

Abby whistles. “Damn.” he mutters, leaning in closer, elbows on his knees as he inspects it. “Looking good, babe.”

You blink at him. You probably have a lazy eye right now.

“Bet it stung like a bitch.” He shifts, one hand lifting as if he’s tempted to touch, then thinking better of it. “What happened anyway? Hm?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, sleepy. “Knife slipped. Wasn’t on purpose.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You keep your words short because if you don’t, you’ll spill. Because deep down, the cut isn’t “just it.” It’s not a funny accident you can brush off with a shrug. It was panic and desperation and adrenaline burning through your veins, and for one wild second, you really thought you might have nicked something bad enough to bleed out right there.

Abby doesn’t need to know that. He studies you for a long moment. His hand lifts again, hovering near your arm, then pulls back.

“…Hurts, yeah?” he asks finally.

You nod once. That’s all you give him before you start carefully wrapping it back. It’s not that good. You’ll ask one of them later to do it for you, until that this is fine, loose but fine.

For a second, he looks like he might say something real. Something heavy. But then he shakes it off, forcing the grin back onto his face, leaning closer until his broad shoulder nearly brushes yours. “Tough girl.”

You could’ve died last night. And it scares him more than he’ll ever say out loud. So, to deal with that horrible feeling, he climbs fully onto your bed. One knee first, then the other, his large frame easing back until he’s sitting next to you against the headboard. The wood creaks under the combined weight, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re huge.” you mutter, side-eyeing him.

Abby grins, smug, flexing his chest. “Damn right I am.” He settles in, his thigh warm and heavy where it presses into yours.

The two of you sit in the quiet of your room, leaning against the headboard. It’s strange, half tense, half comforting. He just breathes beside you, every so often he glances at your arm, then back to your face, then away again like he’s checking you’re still breathing.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks eventually, quieter than before.

“…Yeah.”

Before you can figure out if you should say something else, there’s a knock. It’s almost polite—gentler than Abby’s entrance, at least—but before you can answer, the door creaks open. Mystery leans halfway in.

He just lifts a hand and gives you a wave.

You wave back, small, awkward.

Abby raises his arm and waves too. A lazy, one-handed lift, like he couldn’t care less but still did it anyway. It’s actually such a sweet picture if you think about it.

Mystery steps inside, closing the door behind him. He just stands there, eyes shifting between the two of you(though you can’t see that), waiting.

Finally, you clear your throat. “Do you… want to sit?”

Without a word, Mystery crosses the room. He slides onto the bed on your other side.

Abby smirks at the situation immediately, leaning closer with a grin. “Well, look at that. You’re popular today.”

Mystery doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. His silence says plenty, he wants to be here.

Abby, of course, breaks the quiet again. “Gonna need a bigger mattress, babe.”

You shoot him a look, but it doesn’t faze him. Nothing does.

Between them, you feel impossibly small. Not just physically—though that’s true enough, squeezed between Abby’s bulk and Mystery’s height—but in the sheer gravity they bring. Demons on either side, crowding your space. But you don’t tell either of them to leave.

“I cut myself last night.” you turn to Mystery. “Accidentally. That’s what happened.”

Abby looks at you without moving his head, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a look at Mystery. He’s watching you. “With the… with the knife. At the door. It was bad. I thought it was just a scratch but, it wasn’t.”

Mystery tilts his head, his gaze lowering briefly to your arm, then back up. “Nice.”

Your smile a little. “Thanks.”

On your right, Abby snorts. He turns his head, pulling at something, and with exaggerated annoyance, he spits a strand of hair from his mouth. “Christ. Your hair’s everywhere.” He picks at another strand stuck to his lip and holds it up between his fingers like evidence.

You blink. “…Sorry?”

He shrugs, smiling. “I don’t mind. Kind of like it. Means you’re around.” He flicks the strand away, then adds, “Baby complains all the time, though. Says he finds it in the sink, on the couch, even on his clothes.”

That makes you pause. Baby? Complaining? You’ve never heard it.

Abby must see the confusion on your face because the handsome smile turns into a smirk, rolling his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, you didn’t know, huh? That’s ‘cause he doesn’t say it where you can hear. Acts tough, but he’s careful not to dump shit like that on you. Not like me.” He leans in closer. “I’ll tell you everything. Always.”

You shift, unsure whether to roll your eyes or thank him. It’s hard to tell when Abby’s being honest or when he’s just posturing for your attention. Probably both.

But outside your room, just beyond the wood of your door, Baby stands. Eavesdropping. He isn’t pressing his ear to the door like in movies, he doesn’t have to. His senses are sharp enough that every word spoken inside comes through clearly. His posture is ass like usual, clearly paying attention with his ears, but his eyes turn yellow for a second when he sees someone coming.

Jinu.

Their eyes lock.

Baby doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. His eyes narrow, the message is clear in every line of his body: If you breathe a word about me standing here, I’ll kill you.

Jinu freezes, blinking once. His gaze flicks away, like he never saw Baby at all. He walks to your door, and pushes it open.

You glance up immediately. Abby leans back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint irritation, while Mystery doesn’t move at all, only watching.

Jinu steps inside, his gaze going straight to you, scanning quickly over your puffy face, the tired slump of your shoulders, the careful position of your bandaged arm. He looks relieved that you’re still upright, still breathing, but his eyes flick once toward the other two boys, wary, then back to you. “How are you feeling?”

You swallow. It’s a simple question, you open your mouth to answer, but Abby speaks first.

“She’s fine. Told me all about last night. We’re bonding.”

Jinu’s brow furrows, his lips pressing tight, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he looks back at you, softer, waiting for your answer.

“I’m… tired. Still hurts.” You glance down at your arm. “But better.”

Jinu exhales slowly, relief flickering over his face. He nods, stepping closer, but Abby stretches his leg out, blocking the path to your side of the bed with an infuriating smirk.

Jinu pauses. He’s gonna bash this motherfucker’s head.

Mystery tilts his head, watching the silent tug-of-war play out, then flicks his gaze toward you again.

Abby puts his arm around your shoulders, heavy and warm and big, pinning you comfortably against him. The way he leans into you makes your shoulder ache a little under the weight, but you don’t shrug him off. Not yet. Your energy is too low, and maybe—if you’re honest—you don’t want to. Not right now.

Jinu notices, though. He notices everything. His eyes narrow slightly at Abby’s grip, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he sits carefully in front of you on the bed, not caring about Abby’s leg, moving slowly like he’s approaching a wild animal. He doesn’t reach for you right away, his gaze drops to your arm, where the layers of gauze are already showing faint spots of red where blood seeped through.

“Can I?” he asks softly, and when you nod, he leans in. His hands are steady as he begins to peel the edge of the bandage back, revealing the wound beneath.

You wince immediately. The air feels bad against the cut, and you instinctively curl a little into Abby’s side, who gives a low, amused chuckle.

“Scared of your own arm?” Abby teases, his thumb brushing idly over your shoulder.

You don’t answer. You’re too busy staring at the angry, raw gash Jinu just uncovered.

It’s bad.

Last night, you didn’t have the clarity to really look. Everything blurred together between adrenaline, panic, and Jinu’s careful, hushed reassurances. But now, the cut looks deeper than you remember. The edges are swollen, the skin around them irritated and flushed. Dried blood crusts along your forearm, staining the skin a mottled brown-red. The wound itself has stopped actively bleeding, thank god, but the gauze shows it still oozes faintly. Not a nick. Not a scratch. A deep, serious slice that probably needed stitches but you were so against it Jinu didn’t have the heart to force it on you.

Jinu inhales slowly through his nose, his lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s holding.” he says, mostly to himself. “But it’s deep. I should’ve… I should’ve stitched it.”

Your stomach lurches at the word, and Jinu glances up immediately, catching your expression. His voice softens. “It’s okay. The closures are keeping it together for now. We’ll just need to clean it again, replace the bandages. Keep pressure on it.”

Abby leans in to see it. Mystery, who’s been unnervingly quiet this whole time, leans in a little too, taking a look at whatever’s going on with your arm.

You glance between the two of them—Abby grinning, Mystery steady—and you feel a sudden, sharp disconnect. Why aren’t they bothered? Why aren’t they even a little horrified?

Where your stomach churns at the sight of your own skin split open, where your chest feels tight at the thought of blood leaking from you, they’re… relaxed. Comfortable. Like this is nothing.

“Doesn’t freak you out?” you ask quietly, surprising yourself with the words.

Abby just snorts. “What, a little blood? Nah. Seen worse. Way worse.”

Mystery gives a single nod, his eyes flicking back to your face. “Much worse.”

You stare at them, unsettled. They say it so casually. Worse. How much worse could there possibly be? You don’t want to know, you decide. You don’t even want to imagine.

Jinu clears his throat softly, pulling your focus back to him. He stands up, leaves you to Abby and Mystery while he looks into the drawer he mentioned he left the things for you in. He finds it, and comes back to you on the bed. His hands are gentle as he starts winding fresh gauze around your arm, careful not to tug too tightly. “Ignore them.” he says quietly, almost in a whisper meant just for you. “You’re hurt. That’s what matters.”

But Abby just leans in closer, smiling. “She’s fine, Loverboy. Aren’t you, Y/N?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy looking at the fresh white layers wrapping your arm, at the way Jinu’s fingers move with a precision that makes your chest ache.

Fine. The word feels too small. Too empty.

“Don’t let it close dirty.” Mystery murmurs.

“Yeah, thanks, doc.” Abby mutters, rolling his eyes.

Still, the casualness of both their tones makes you want to scream. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say This is my arm, my blood, my pain. Don’t just smile at it.

But the words die in your throat. You’re too tired. Too raw.

Jinu finishes tying off the fresh bandage and sits back, exhaling softly. He studies your face for a long moment.

Meanwhile, Abby’s still relaxed at your side, his arm heavy and warm around you, like none of this is life or death. Like it’s just another night. Mystery sits on your other side, quiet as a shadow, his dark gaze not visible but steady on you.

And you… you sit between them, staring at your wrapped arm.

What have they seen, that this doesn’t even register?

Meanwhile somewhere down the hall, Romance is in his own room, probably doing whatever it is he does best in that ridiculous sex dungeon of his. He knows where the others are, knows they’ve all piled into your room. He misses you, sure. He always does. He’d kill for your company right now. But he’s not worried. He trusts—strange as that is—that you’ll be fine. You’re always fine. And that, when it’s his turn, you’ll be waiting.

Baby hasn’t moved from his post outside your door. He’s leaning on the frame, half-crouched to keep his balance, ear tilted so close to the wood he might as well melt into it. Every shift of your bed, every murmur of your voice, every chuckle from Abby, he hears it. And he hates it. He doesn’t even realize how deep his claws have sunk into the frame of your door until the wood creaks beneath him.

Mystery clears his throat softly. “What did you do today?”

You freeze. It’s so simple a question, so normal, so human, but coming from him it feels like an earthquake. That’s… progress. Actual, real progress. He asked on his own, not repeating something one of the others would’ve wanted to know, not poked out of him by necessity. He asked. You feel a strange warmth in your chest, pride you won’t admit out loud. If you did, he’d probably clam up, crawl right back into that wordless shell. So you don’t. You just nod slowly.

“Not much.” you say, your voice getting back to normal now. “Woke up late. Spent most of the day in bed, I guess. Didn’t really… do anything.” From the corner of your vision, you notice Jinu’s long fingers buried in his tiger’s fur. You keep talking, if only to fill the silence Mystery leaves hanging. “I thought about going out to lay in the sun. Didn’t, though. Just… laid around. Tried to read a little. Not my best day.”

Abby snorts beside you, still half draped around your shoulders. “Sounds like a rest day, babe. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

You shoot him a glance, and he flashes you a lazy grin like yeah, I’m listening too, don’t look so surprised.

“Good.” Mystery says finally.

Jinu looks up at you then, Derpy’s head still resting against his thigh. His eyes soften a little, as though even he knows this is something rare, something worth noticing. Mystery never asks. And yet here he is. Almost like when he tried for the very first time, except now nobody told him to try. He tried on his own.

You look back to Mystery. “So… what about you?”

His brows lift slightly, but you can’t see that. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’d you do today?”

There’s a pause, as if he doesn’t know how to answer. His eyes dart briefly to Jinu, then back to you. Finally, he says flatly: “Same as always.”

“Which is?”

Another pause. Then, with no change in tone: “Work.”

Abby barks a laugh beside you, shaking the bed with his broad shoulders. “Work. That’s one way to put it.”

Mystery’s expression doesn’t shift, not like you’d see much of it, but his silence says he doesn’t intend to elaborate.

You sigh, leaning your head back. “Well. That’s better than nothing, I guess.”

Abby squeezes your shoulder, his voice teasing. “Don’t expect a novel outta him, honey. You get one word, that’s a whole damn miracle.”

But you don’t mind. You don’t need a novel. You got something today. A question. And that’s enough. So you clear your throat, and quietly ask, “Um… would it be okay if I went back to sleep now? Just… me. I mean—without you guys here?”

It hangs in the air for a second too long. Your cheeks heat with the shame of it, because you know how fragile it sounds, how close to begging. Not “get out” with teeth and claws, not even “leave me alone.” Just a shy, quiet request for space. But they get it. Because all three of them are moving at once.

“Right, yeah, babe, sleep’s important.” Abby says quickly, his hand sliding off your shoulder in a rushed, almost clumsy motion. He gets to his feet with that big, lumbering grace that still makes your bed creak when he moves.

“Rest.” Mystery says bluntly, already pushing up from the mattress.

Derpy is brushing against Jinu’s leg as he stands. Then he says, “Good night, Y/N.”

And suddenly, they’re all trying to talk at once, Abby telling you to dream something good, Jinu reminding you not to touch the bandages for now, Mystery muttering something that could be either “sleep well” or “don’t die.” It’s a jumble, their voices overlapping, all of it washing over you. Then, all three finish the moment the same way. “Good night.” Then, they leave.

You lie back down slowly, exhaling. Derpy crawls back into your side. You stare at him. He stares back, his big eyes unblinking, and for a moment the two of you just… look at each other. You just reach out to scratch under his chin, and he leans into your touch with a happy little noise.

Outside your room, the door shuts behind the three boys, and almost immediately their gazes snap to the side, three pairs of eyes locking on the figure leaning lazily against the wall across from your room. Baby. He’s slouched, arms crossed, chin dipped low, eyes narrowed into slits. There’s no mistaking the tension in the air, he’s been standing there the whole time, listening, watching.

Abby shifts first, his massive frame blocking half the hallway light, his jaw tight. Mystery doesn’t move, but his stare sharpens. Jinu’s expression flickers once, irritation, then dismissal, as if he already knows this is about to be pointless.

The three of them stand together. Baby spits the words at them: “The fuck you lookin’ at?” It’s not even a real question. It’s a statement. A warning. An insult.

Abby’s lip curls like he’s about to say something—something nasty, something that’ll only escalate it—but then he shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and walks off down the hall.

Jinu’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t give Baby the satisfaction of a word, just turns his back, walking after Abby.

Mystery lingers last, looking at Baby, long enough to make the hallway feel suffocating. Then he claps a hand once against Baby’s shoulder. not friendly, not gentle, but not quite hostile either. A wordless I see you. I don’t care. And then he walks past him.

Baby stands there, jaw tight. His hand twitches like he wants to punch a hole in the wall, or rip the door off your room, or both. But he doesn’t.

They’re done. All of them, so, so done with each other. The fighting, the glaring, the constant one-upmanship. They’ve lived through hell itself, clawed their way out of nightmares most people couldn’t survive and now have to play boyband and deal with annoying fans, and yet somehow, it’s you, your fragile presence, your blood on the floor, that’s truly fucking them up. But they know you’ll be fine. You always are. Somehow, against odds, against logic, against every danger they’ve put you in or you’ve wandered into, you bounce back. Fragile, yes. Breakable, yes. But fine. And with that knowledge lodged safely in their skulls, the worry begins to dull. In its place comes something else.

The scent of your blood.

It’s been hanging in the apartment since last night, sweet, tangled with the thrum of your adrenaline, the crash of your panic. They tried to push it aside while it was still fresh, while Jinu was patching you up, while your sobs echoed in the walls. But now? Now that the bandages hold, now that you’re sleeping steady in your room with the animals curled at your side and keeping you safe…

Now they let themselves feel it.

Romance is sits in his chair before his wide mirror, tilted just enough to catch the curve of his face, the fall of his hair. He runs his tongue across his teeth, slow, remembering how your voice trembled last night, how clear he could hear it even though he wasn’t the one with you. His hand drifts lazily, knuckles brushing the swell in his pants, teasing the tension. He hums, low in his throat, eyes on his own mouth in the glass. The blood clings to memory, rich, warm, unbearably yours. His hips roll, subtle, and he pictures you standing at the doorframe, doe-eyed, watching. He takes himself out of his boxers and picks up a pace. He coos at himself like he coos at you.

Abby takes it differently. He storms into his room, shuts the door too hard, it slams, then he makes a face, hoping it didn’t scare you. He stands in front of his mirror, shirtless, muscles flexed under the soft lamplight. His reflection stares back, massive, broad, dominant. He squeezes his own bicep, hard, veins raised against skin, and imagines how tiny your hand would look wrapped around it instead.

“Fuck.” he mutters, low, guttural. His other hand is already inside his sweats, pumping slow, then faster, his jaw clenched. The thought of you—shaky, pale, scared—makes his chest thrum with pride. His girl. His fragile girl. He grits his teeth, lets out a grunt, flexing harder in the glass as if it’s you whispering that he’s strong, invincible, everything. His strokes match the rhythm of that fantasy.

Mystery’s already half-sprawled across his mattress, one arm slung over his head, his shirt pushed up to his ribs. His breath comes heavier when he lets himself replay the sound of your sobbing, your voice catching, the subtle whine muffled into Jinu’s neck he could hear way too clear. He doesn’t need the mirror, doesn’t need anything. Just the replay in his skull is enough. His hand slides down on himself smooth and slow, like it always does. He doesn’t rush. He always does because he got used to it, but not now. Now our boy savors. His fingers curl around himself like claws into prey. Every shiver of memory pleases him already, your face tilted, your throat tight, your tears streaking. His hips twitch upward, needy, as if searching for the warmth of you instead of his palm.

Jinu’s guilt doesn’t stop him. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, and his stomach flips with something tangled, protective, horrified, aroused. His hand drags down into his lap before he even registers the motion. The band of his sweats pulls low as he strokes himself, movements unsteady, almost ashamed. He remembers the way your body folded into his when the pain spiked, the way your face pressed into his neck, breath hot, wet with tears. He remembers wanting to stay like that, to hold you tighter, to never let go. He groans into his shoulder, muffling it, but doesn’t stop.

And Baby. He sprawls out in his chair, legs wide, one arm hanging loose at his side while the other works him over. His teeth bare, breath hitching. He doesn’t try to disguise the sounds that rip from his throat, half-growl, half-moan. He’s been on edge since the hallway, since catching your scent, intoxicating, since picturing you bleeding, trembling, helpless. That’s what does it for him, the helplessness. The thought of you too weak to pull away. Too dazed to fight back. His hips buck upward, rough, chasing it. His mind flashes to you whispering his name instead of Jinu’s. His grip tightens.

Five demons, five rooms. Each in their own head, each lost in their own fantasy. The scent of your blood fuels all of them, saturates the air until it’s indistinguishable from the throb of lust itself. They hate each other. They want to tear each other apart. But in these moments, they’re the same. Animals. Predators. Obsessed with the same fragile, breakable thing curled up in bed down the hall.

You.

There’s no use denying it. Not for them, not anymore. When it comes to you, there’s something beyond reason, beyond what any of them could fight. It’s not romance in the way you understand it, not even lust in the way humans hold it. Their biology is tuned like a violin string, stretched taut around you. Every time you bleed, cry, laugh, sweat—anything, really—it vibrates inside them, makes the string hum in their bones. It isn’t fair. It isn’t avoidable. It’s instinct.

And last night, that string nearly snapped.

They all need you. They all ache for you. And no matter how much they hate each other—loathe, even—your scent keeps them circling the same center. Their senses are wired around you. Not around any human. Just you. Every shift in your breathing at night, they notice. Every change in your body’s heat, they taste it in the air. The beat of your heart, they can feel it in their own ribcages if they’re close enough. You bleed, and their entire biology riots. It drives them mad with hunger and lust and that deep, snarling mine.

Romance is still in his chair, knees spread. His strokes are lazy now, slowing down, teasing himself. He keeps imagining your face tilted in confusion when he kissed your forehead this morning. He bites his lip, watching his own reflection’s mouth, imagining it’s you looking at him.

Romance’s body reads every micro-expression of yours. The tiniest tremor in your lip sets his blood rushing. The salt of your tears is like wine to him, but like y’know, a really good one. When you cry, his heart rate spikes, his hormones dump into his system, telling him: closer, closer, closer.

Even now, remembering your crying noises from last night, his cock twitches in his hand, and he moans sweetly at himself like he’s talking to you. He’s not just jerking off. He’s worshipping the idea of you.

Abby’s panting in front of the mirror, sweat slick on his shoulders, chest heaving. His cock pulses hard in his hand, grip fierce enough to bruise if it were anyone else’s body. He’s not quiet about it, grunts, curses, low growls rumbling.

His blood floods with testosterone when he’s near you, a constant fight-or-fuck reflex buzzing in his muscles. His body doesn’t know how to process fragile, so it interprets it as protect, cage, dominate. Every time you step closer, his adrenaline spikes. Every time you step away, he wants to chase.

He imagines it now, you curled up in bed, small against the massive shape of him. His bicep flexes, his hand working faster. The fantasy always ends the same, you looking at him like he’s a god, whispering that you need him. That you want him. His body thrums, veins bulging, his orgasm tearing through him.

Mystery’s quieter, but not calmer. His hips roll slow into his fist, breath hissing sharp between his teeth. His eyes are closed, but it doesn’t matter, he can smell you. Your sweat, your blood. It lives in the back of his nose, burns down his throat. He jerks faster, then slower, edging himself.

Mystery’s biology is the most predatory of all five. His sense of smell isn’t just heightened, it’s engineered to track you. He could pick your blood out of a sea of bodies, your heartbeat in a stadium. His cock stiffens at the scent alone, body translating it as: prey close, prey trembling, prey mine. He imagines pinning you down, the sharp thud of your pulse against his palm. His orgasm builds with that thought alone, the wet slick sound of his strokes filling his otherwise silent room. He doesn’t fight it. He lets himself drown in the biology.

Jinu hasn’t moved much. Still sitting on the edge of his bed, hands trembling, eyes locked on his own hands. His strokes are uneven, half-hearted. He whimpers quietly into his shoulder, body jerking.

His biology is a little more complex, he’s tied to your vulnerability. When you’re weak, when you lean on him, when you whisper his name, his brain floods with oxytocin, dopamine, things meant to bond. He doesn’t just want you, his body believes he belongs to you. And worse, it believes you belong to him.

When you cried into his neck, his cock throbbed even though he hated himself for it. Even now, remembering your tears soaking his shirt, his strokes quicken until he spills with a low, broken groan, shame and need tangled into one.

Baby’s chair creaks under him, his pace violent, unrelenting. He doesn’t care about quiet. Doesn’t care about anyone hearing him. His hips buck into his fist, sweat dripping down his temple, intense. For Baby, your biology works like gasoline on fire. Every stumble of yours, every crack in your voice, every fresh bandage, it spikes his dopamine like a hit of a drug. You’re the weakness he can exploit, and that makes him harder than anything else in the world.

He groans openly, head thrown back, hand pumping rough, imagining you whimpering his name instead of anyone else’s. The orgasm tears through him, and he rolls his eyes, half-pleasure and half annoyance at the world itself, riding it out with a shudder that rattles the chair beneath him.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to. They know. Every one of them can sense what the others are doing, smell it, feel it in the air. Your body is their trigger. Your biology completes theirs.

Now, afterglow. Let’s go over each of them again. Grrr I love doing this.

Romance’s mirror is streaked with fingerprints where his hand slid against it during the worst of it. He slouches back in his chair, cock softening against his stomach, his thighs sticky, staring at himself in the mirror, cum dripping from his hand down his wrist. He doesn’t move to wipe it. Doesn’t even care that his shirt is stained. He just gazes at his reflection, soft mouth open, flushed cheeks, eyes heavy-lidded, and pretends it’s you staring back at him. But he doesn’t stop thinking about you. He can’t. What if he kissed you for real? Not on the forehead, not playful. What if he pinned you back against your sheets and took your bottom lip between his teeth? What if he got to see your eyes flutter shut at his touch, hear your breath catch for him alone?

There’s the fantasy of you leaning over to fix the collar of his shirt, close enough that he can taste your breath. You letting him brush your hair, his fingers catching at the strands. You on his lap, knees straddling him, whispering you don’t want anyone else. And then you crying, whispering please don’t leave. You clutching his arm in fear when the others scare you. You asleep, mouth soft, trusting him with the most fragile thing you have.

He groans quietly, cock twitching again, the fantasies too sweet, too many.

Abby’s still in front of the mirror, chest heaving, cum streaked across his abs, then he sprawls on his bed like a dead man, sheets a ruin under him, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. He flexes his arm again, bicep twitching, and again, thinks about how small your hand would look wrapped around it. Then he thinks about that same hand clawing down his back. Then he thinks about your voice, not quiet, not shy, loud. Screaming his name, begging.

Abby’s head is a flood of scenarios. He doesn’t even try to narrow them down. He wants them all. You straddling his waist, his hands crushing your hips, your voice weak from screaming his name. You trying to push him away, but your tiny palms are nothing against his chest, and he laughs while pinning you down. You holding onto his shoulders while he fucks into you against the wall. You in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, handing him a mug of coffee while he palms your ass. You whispering “harder.” You whispering “softer.” You whispering “Abby.”

And louder, he wants you loud. He wants to hear it echo off the walls. He wants the others, hell, the whole building, to know whose name you scream. He wants to ruin your voice with it.

He jerks his hips into his hand again even though he’s still dripping from the first time. He groans in frustration, pressing the heel of his palm against himself like he could shove the thoughts away. Doesn’t work. Never does.

Mystery’s slower to recover, body still slow, cock sensitive in his sticky hand. He imagines your scent stronger. Not just blood, skin. Warmth. Sweat. He imagines pressing his face into your throat and staying there until you shove him away. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d shiver but let him. Maybe you’d tilt your head and expose more. The idea makes him shudder, thighs tightening.

In his fantasies, it’s not just you with him, it’s you caught by him. You walking down the hall, thinking you’re alone, when he pins you against the wall. You cooking something in the kitchen when he slides up behind you, hand clamping your mouth shut. You asleep in your bed, not even stirring when his fingers trail under your blanket. Mystery loves the chase, so every fantasy ends with you trembling, with him catching you, with your body thrumming under his hands. He can feel his cock twitch back to hardness as he thinks about you crying against his palm, your breath wet against his skin, and him whispering shhh, it’s just me.

He breathes out hard, shuddering, rolling his hips up into his sticky hand again. He doesn’t even care that he already came. His body doesn’t stop wanting. Not with you. Never with you.

Jinu’s curled on his side, knees tucked, back pressed to the wall. Cum sticky across his thighs, shirt damp with sweat, breath still shaky. His sheets are wet, his hands still shaking from the orgasm, but the memories won’t leave him alone. You crying into his neck. You whispering his name. You depending on him like he was the only one who mattered. He knows it was awful, knows you were in pain, but his body won’t let go of the memory. He remembers your face, puffy with crying, whispering if he’s angry. He remembers you burying your face in his neck, how he got goosebumps. And his cock stirs again, half-hard, traitorous.

Then another thought slides in, you crying harder, begging him not to leave you. You clinging to him after a nightmare. You choosing him over the others, whispering you only feel safe with him.

And each fantasy ties another knot in his gut, makes him hate himself more, but his cock is hardening anyway, his fist clenching around it, pumping with a desperate rhythm.

Baby’s the least apologetic. He sprawls in his chair, still half-hard, his hand sticky. The mess is everywhere, streaked across his stomach, dripping down his thigh. He laughs once, low and bitter, at himself. At all of them. At you. At his fantasies with you pressed against the wall, glaring at him, but still trembling. You cursing his name while he makes you moan anyway. You trying to run and him catching you in two steps, dragging you back by the wrist. You pressed into the mattress, gasping against the sheets while he pulls your hair. You trying to crawl away, but he grabs your ankle and yanks you back. You glaring at him, spitting fire, and him fucking you harder until you’re shaking.

He pumps his cock rougher, chasing another orgasm even though he’s overstimulated, biting back a growl as his cum spills down his hand again.

Pathetic. They all know it. Hundreds of years old, predators, killers, demons, and they’re sitting in their own filth, lovesick. And yet the fantasies keep breeding. One becomes ten, ten becomes a hundred. Each louder, each needier. They won’t tell each other. They don’t have to. The scent in the air will betray them all when they cross paths in the hall, knowing that the thing in their mind was you. It’s always you. They don’t talk about it out loud. They couldn’t. It would rip the whole fragile balance of their home to pieces. But in their heads, all five of them think it. The idea of sharing you.

Romance. For him, it’s beauty. Two, maybe three of them at once, hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, you caught in the center of it like the star you are. He imagines you glowing from it, touched by so much affection that your skin would shine. He can see it so clearly, you on his lap, lips parted in a kiss, while Jinu kneels behind you, whispering sweet nothings into your neck. Or maybe Abby holding your legs apart while Romance strokes your hair, telling you how lovely you look. Even Baby, snarling in the corner, could be part of it if it meant you’d finally let go enough to take them all. You deserve to be adored by all of them, he thinks. You deserve to be worshipped. And if that means sharing you, then he’d do it gladly.

He closes his eyes, rubbing himself back to hardness, sighing at the thought of your voice split into five different names, your body never without a touch. He sees you in the middle of the bed, curled between him and Jinu. Romance stroking your hair, whispering how beautiful you are, while Jinu kisses your wrist, the edge of your bandage, telling you you’re safe. Romance loves that one, the idea of double worship. Two sets of lips, two voices crooning at you. You sighing, overwhelmed, because you’re too small for both their arms around you, but you let it happen anyway.

Then, you and Mystery. Mystery behind you, one hand wrapped over your mouth, his sharp teeth grazing your neck. Romance in front of you, kissing your tears away, whispering “just look at me, baby, just me.” The cruelty and the comfort together, it makes Romance leak against his palm again, shame burning hot under his skin.

Him holding your hand while Abby spreads your thighs, Baby laughing in your ear while Mystery holds you down so Jinu can eat you out and they can watch. All of them inside you, in different ways, voices clashing, and you smiling. Loving it. Crying, but with joy. With surrender.

You on your back, hair fanned out across his sheets. He’s kissing your lips, soft and tender, while Jinu’s mouth moves down your stomach, trailing reverent kisses that turn to eating you out like a man starved. He imagines you turning your face, gasping, caught between them.

Sometimes, he imagines being cruel with it. Holding your chin, making you look at him while Baby ruins you from behind. You’d be flushed, fucked out between them, and he’d coo encouragements while Baby grits his teeth, using you raw.

Other nights, his mind sees Baby at your chest, mouthing at your tits like the greedy bastard he is, while Romance keeps your lips occupied, swallowing every whimper. He doesn’t even hate Baby in this one, he wants him there, wants you drowning in too much sensation, wants your little body torn between them. He even lets the thought go to Abby holding your wrists down while he and Baby ruin you.

Abby’s fantasies of sharing are loud. Messy. He doesn’t care who’s there, as long as you’re loud enough. He imagines you riding his cock while Mystery fucks into your ass from behind, your voice so ruined that you can’t decide who to scream for. He imagines Baby holding your wrists while Abby pounds into you, and Baby taunts him the whole time, tells him he’s too slow, that you need it harder.

He imagines Romance kissing your tears away while Abby fucks you into the mattress. Every version of the fantasy has you screaming, hoarse, raw, ruined, and every version has Abby snarling with pride because he did that to you. Even if another’s hands are on your skin, even if another’s mouth is on your throat, he’ll still know it’s his cock that makes you scream like that.

Abby jerks himself hard at the thought, cursing under his breath, chasing another orgasm. The jealousy burns, yeah, but it’s a good burn. It means you’d need all of them to handle what only one of them could never give. Like the image of you on his lap, bouncing, your voice breaking. But not just you and him, you reaching over to touch Baby too, stroking him while Abby fucks you. Abby loves that one, because it’s competition. Even in his fantasies, he wants to prove he can make you scream louder, make you cum harder.

He imagines you in a tangle with Mystery. Mystery holding your wrists above your head, Abby spreading your thighs wide. Mystery makes you beg, but Abby makes you yell. The thought alone makes Abby grunt into his palm, muscles straining, the sound of your voice echoing in his head.

And then a softer one, you in bed between him and Romance, the two of them holding you, stroking you, kissing your shoulders. Abby telling you you’re his girl, while Romance hums sweet nothings into your ear. The two of them not fighting for once but giving you everything you want. That fantasy makes Abby’s chest ache, makes his cock twitch harder than the violent ones.

Abby doesn’t care if it’s pathetic. He just wants to hear you. With any of them. With all of them. With your legs wrapped around his shoulders, his mouth buried between your legs, loud and greedy. But then he can’t stop imagining another mouth, right beside his. Mystery, maybe. Or Baby. Tongues colliding, sharing your taste, fighting for it. He pictures you moaning, confused, overstimulated, torn between pushing them away or dragging them closer. And him, oh, god, him, drunk on the thought of not being the only one to do this to you. Like the fantasy where your hands are on his chest, tiny against his bulk, trying to shove him back. Not because you don’t like it, god no, it’s just too much. But Romance is behind you, whispering in your ear, holding your wrists, feeding your denial into something else. Abby loves that. Loves thinking of you with more hands than you know how to fight off. He wants to hear the noise of it. He wants the floor shaking, the bed breaking, the walls echoing with more than one voice. He wants to make you so overwhelmed you don’t even know whose hand is whose anymore.

Sometimes, he pictures Mystery pinning your wrists down while Abby fucks into you hard, deep, merciless. He imagines you crying out Mystery’s name while Abby laughs, jealous but drunk on the sound.

He imagines Mystery in your mouth, your lips stretched around him while Abby fucks into you from behind. He can hear both your noises at once, your muffled whimpers around Mystery, your choked moans every time Abby pushes deeper, and Mystery whining. Or sometimes it’s Mystery holding your thighs apart, keeping you wide open while Abby fucks you.

Sometimes it’s Jinu stroking your hair while Abby ruins you from underneath, whispering soft lies like “it’s okay, he’s just helping you.”

Sometimes, it’s Baby. Two of them fighting over you, literally, even while you’re crying under them. He imagines Baby spitting curses in his ear, Abby snarling back, both of them pulling at you like wolves with a kill. It makes him harder than he’d like to admit. He imagines you screaming into the mattress, and Baby goading him on: “Harder, man. She can take it.” He imagines you bouncing on his cock, voice breaking with each slam of your hips down, and Baby behind you, mouth on your tits, groaning while he squeezes handfuls of your ass. Two of them using you at once, your voice screaming, loud enough to echo, loud enough to make the walls shake.

You gagging on Romance’s cock while Abby pounds into you from behind, your throat bulging, your eyes tearing. He jerks himself harder at the thought, imagining your strangled noises, your nails digging into the carpet. He doesn’t even need the mirror this time. He just leans back, strokes himself fast and rough, picturing you screaming his name while three other voices drown you out. Pathetic, yeah. But it feels too good.

Mystery imagines you caught between them, no escape. You pinned down, one wrist in Baby’s hand, one wrist in Abby’s, legs forced apart by Jinu’s strength while Romance strokes your hair and tells you it’s okay. And Mystery, always the shadow, is the one thrusting into you. The fantasy isn’t kind. It’s overwhelming. Too many hands, too many mouths, too many cocks pressing against you at once. You begging them to slow down. You crying out in pleasure. And he loves it. He loves the idea of you never knowing who’s touching you at any given second, your body trembling under the weight of all of them.

He groans, low in his throat, grinding his palm against his cock even though it aches. He doesn’t care. The idea of sharing you makes him wild. He loves the idea of trapping you with more than one of them. He imagines pinning you to the wall while Jinu kneels between your thighs, his mouth on you, his hands steadying your shaking hips. Mystery would cover your eyes, tell you not to peek, make you guess who’s touching you where. The thought of your confusion, your whines, your writhing, it makes him pant, hips jerking into his fist again.

Then the imagine of Abby kneeling at your feet, spreading your legs apart with those big hands, licking into you while Mystery keeps your wrists pinned. Your hips buck up, but there’s no escape. Abby groans into you, and Mystery watches every twitch of your body, his cock aching. Sometimes Baby barges into the fantasy too. Baby kneels at your head, cock pressed to your lips, forcing them open while Mystery holds your jaw steady.

Or your legs on either side of Mystery’s head, your thighs trembling. Abby’s laugh nearby, wet sounds filling the air. Two mouths on you. He doesn’t care whose tongue brushes his if it means drowning in your taste.

Or the thought of you riding him, slow, tight, unbearable, while Jinu kneels behind you, kissing the back of your neck, whispering words Mystery can’t quite catch. Your head thrown back, his hands gripping your hips, but Jinu’s hands covering yours, guiding you. He imagines your voice cracking. Imagines you losing yourself so much that you forget who’s inside you.

He imagines holding you down while two of them use you, your wrists locked in his grip, your body trembling as you try to take all of it. He’s not even the one inside you in these fantasies, sometimes he just likes to watch. To keep you pinned while Abby thrusts into you and Baby shoves his mouth over your tits, sloppy and greedy. Other times, he’s behind you, one hand knotted in your hair while Romance fucks your mouth, and Jinu whispers soothing things just out of reach. He imagines you begging, voice cracking, “It’s too much, please, I can’t—” and Mystery only smirks, tightening his grip, because of course you can. Of course they’ll make sure you do. He lets himself imagine you enjoying it, spreading your legs wider for them, crying out for more, looking right at him and moaning Mystery, don’t stop.

Then one where it’s you and Baby, both of you crying, Baby from laughter and you from the sting of it, and Mystery keeping you both in line with his hands, rough and punishing. The chaos, the wildness of it, the way you wouldn’t know whether to scream or laugh, he loves it. That fantasy makes him clench his teeth, cum dripping down his wrist, chest heaving with shame.

Jinu likes the thought of sharing because it means you wouldn’t be afraid. You’d know you’re surrounded, but not trapped, safe, even, because all of them would be there. He imagines you crying his name while Abby fucks you rough. You sobbing while Mystery holds you still. You clinging to Romance while Baby makes you choke on his fingers. And Jinu there, always there, whispering that it’s okay, that they’ll take care of you. He hates how much he wants it. How much he wants you broken open enough that you’d finally trust them all at once.

He sees you on his lap, clutching his shirt, crying, but not alone. Romance behind you, kissing your neck, whispering pretty words while Jinu steadies you, strokes your thighs, tells you it’s okay. He imagines the two of them together, overwhelming you with too much gentleness.

He also imagines Abby. Abby rough, pushing you down, but Jinu there to catch you, to tell you to breathe. The idea of you caught between their two extremes makes him go crazy. He imagines Abby holding you steady, forcing you to take Jinu’s cock while you’re already falling apart from Abby’s. He imagines the noises you’d make, muffled into Abby’s chest.

All of them sharing you, but you choosing him. Even while Abby makes you scream, even while Baby laughs in your ear, even while Mystery bites your shoulder, your eyes would only ever look for Jinu. Your hand would always reach for his. That one destroys him. Makes him spill across his stomach again. Pathetic.

He imagines you curled against him in bed, safe, while the others take turns with you. You holding his hand, clutching, while Mystery’s mouth is between your legs and Romance is kissing your throat. Jinu doesn’t even have to move, he just stays there, letting you cling to him, whispering that it’s okay, that you’re okay. He holds your face steady and kisses you deep. At the same time, Abby kneels between your legs, holding you open wide, making you scream. Baby’s fingers are on your throat, controlling every gasp, while Mystery presses down into your stomach, kissing bruises into your skin.

Sometimes he imagines more. Imagines you tired, half-asleep against his chest while Baby keeps fucking into you, unwilling to stop. The others watching, waiting for their turns, all of them keeping you from rest. Jinu’s torn in those visions, part of him furious, part of him thrilled at the thought of you trusting him enough to fall asleep even then.

He imagines you sprawled out on his bed, Baby sucking at your tits while Abby pushes into you, your eyes watery, your hands trembling as you cling to Jinu’s shirt. He’s there, right by your side, whispering reassurances while the others tear you apart.

Sometimes, he imagines you crying into his neck, begging him to slow them, while his cock throbs at the thought of holding you still for them. His stomach knots at it. Other times, he imagines himself sharing you more tenderly, you in his lap, his cock buried deep inside, while Romance kisses you sloppy and desperate, and Mystery strokes circles into your thigh to soothe you through the stretch. You whimper into Jinu’s throat, and he’s half-crazy from the idea of keeping you there, safe and ruined all at once.

Baby imagines pushing you to your knees in front of him while Abby holds your hair back. He imagines Romance kissing you while Baby fucks you, the softness of one feeding the roughness of the other. He imagines Jinu whispering pretty words while Baby snarls the opposite into your ear. He loves the idea of you being confused. Whose cock do you clench around hardest? Whose voice do you whine for? Which one of them breaks you first?

In his fantasies, you cry harder with every touch, every kiss, every thrust, because you can’t take it all. And Baby grins at the thought, because no matter how many of them touch you, you’ll still glare at him the most. Still hate him the most. And that means you’ll never forget him. There’s the picture of you crying under him while Abby holds your wrists down, both of them fucking you in turns. Baby loves the idea of using you as a prize between them, of making you earn your way free, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Or you in his lap, back to his chest, while Abby forces your legs wider. You crying against Baby’s neck, nails digging into his skin, while he smirks at Abby like yeah, look at her now. Sometimes after a position change, he and Abby would high-five over your back, fucking you from both ends until you scream. He imagines other scenarios, like you screaming on Abby’s cock while he sucks at your breasts, biting and groaning, your nipples swollen from his mouth. He loves the thought of you writhing between them, cock in your pussy, cock in your throat, his tongue on your chest.

Or you and Mystery, one of them in your mouth while the other does you from behind. Baby imagines the tears in your eyes, the spit dripping down your chin, your broken moans. He loves it.

But then he imagines you between him and Romance, the two of them feeding you kisses, stroking your hair, treating you like you’re delicate. Baby hates himself for wanting it, but he wants it anyway. He wants to know what it feels like, to have you smile at him like that. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning, still sticky.

But the one that makes him moan, the one that makes him buck into his own fist, is you on your knees with all five of them around you. Tears streaming down your face, spit and cum dripping down your chin, your voice hoarse from begging. And Baby laughs in the fantasy, leaning down to tell you how good you look. Or you’re not kneeling, but it’s still them surrounding you, Jinu holding your hands, Mystery keeping your thighs open, Abby pounding into you while Romance fucks your mouth. Baby just moves from one tit to the other, sucking until your chest is red and wet, until you’re clawing at his hair and begging him to stop.

He imagines you tied down, squirming, glaring, that glare he loves so much, the one that makes him want to both kiss you and rip you apart. But then he imagines the others with you too, and his stomach twists because the anger isn’t at the thought, it’s at how much it turns him on. Like forcing your head into Romance’s lap, keeping you there until you sob, and Romance pretending to scold him even as he pets your hair.

Other times, he imagines softer, you lying on your back, his head on your chest, mouth busy while Jinu eases into you gently. His cock jerks at the idea of your hand tangled in his hair, holding him there like you need him as much as he needs you.

They’re all pathetic, but they don’t care. Not tonight. More than three hundred years of cruelty, of hunger, of waiting, and the only peace they ever get is in the fantasies of you. So they let themselves have it. They let themselves imagine sharing you, touching you, drowning in you. They let themselves fall deeper into the mess, into the heat, into the shame. With fantasy after fantasy, sometimes it’s two of them in one. Sometimes three. Sometimes all five, crowding you, overwhelming you, drowning you in every possible sensation. Two mouths between your thighs. Someone at your chest. Someone in your ear. Hands everywhere. Teeth. Tongues.

For demons like them, relief is rare. They’re lucky to have this now.

God, the situations you get in. You’d think being the girls’ assistant would mean running after them and giving them what they call for. You didn’t sign up for this much blood. You didn’t sign up for a kitchen knife jammed into your arm, Jinu’s bathroom stocked like a back-alley clinic, or five demons pacing outside your room. It’s hilarious, in the most are you kidding me kind of way. This is the very top of the list of the things that have happened to you. The smell of your blood filling the entire apartment. Jinu playing nurse while you sobbed into his neck. The others circling, snapping at each other in the hall, barely restraining themselves from tearing each other apart just to see you. You passing out with Derpy curled against you, while on the other side of the wall five demons were each jerking themselves raw to the thought of sharing you. You don’t know that last part, of course. But if you did, you’d probably add it to the growing list of hilariously fucked-up things I’ve dealt with this year.

You’re a human. A fragile human. One who, by all rights, should have been eaten alive in the first week of this gig. Yet somehow, you’re still here. Still alive. And every day, the situations get worse. The knife accident was proof. A simple mistake, maybe an accident, maybe your desperate attempt to run, maybe both, turned into a night of blood, whispered reassurances, and enough sexual frustration from the others to burn the building down.

Who else but you could end up here? God, the situations you get in. And yet… you wouldn’t trade it. Not really. Even if they do creepy things, like steal from you. Even if it started off with torture in all the ways. Even if you can’t look at a bathtub with cold water in it. Even, even, even…

Even though a lot of things happened to you here, you don’t want to go right now.

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[pinksplace]

hiiiii!!! i love love LOVE ur work :)) i just had a thought about clark and i haven’t seen anyone touch on this, but i just know clark would be with a plus sized queen. like he has such a pure and beautiful view of humans that he wouldn’t have the same beauty standards and prejudices as most people!! AND with his strength, your weight is literally nothing. he wouldn’t be afraid to manhandle you or pick you up like the thought would not even cross his mind to think differently!! idk i just don’t see that much representation in fics for different body types and i feel like he is the PERFECT character to play with this idea :))

I SEE THE VISION

you’re so right and I’m sorry this took FOREVER I went on vacation and had an almost something with one of the guys which ended up being a nothing burger but I’m bouncing back and returning 59 my sweet Clark who would never hurt me (it was just bad timing but alas)

Aphrodite

Alternatively: Clark Kent and his plus-size!gf

Word count: Drabble 1-1.5k

Warnings: smut there’s smut in here, reader is insecure about her body (so real girl), Clark is horny, mentions m! recieving

MDNI 18+

fem!reader (y/n not used)

Clark Kent only has a few purely selfish desires.

Hot chocolate, breakfast for dinner, and you.

You underneath him, whining against his mouth and dragging your nails down his back.

You on your side, back arching into his chest and your leg thrown over his hip.

You with your thighs open, his head between them. Vulnerable, gorgeous, completely his.

He craves you the way he craves sugar, the way his soul craves the sun.

He’s hopelessly in love with you, seeking you out at every turn, hoping you’re behind every door he opens. He can hear your heartbeat, feel your adrenaline under his fingers when he touches you. You have it just as bad.

He’d never been this crazed before either, clever so consumed by complete and utter want, especially not while things were still this new.

Sure, I’d taken him almost two months to work up the courage to ask you out, another week before you realized he was serious and said yes.

Now, two months later, every time things get heavy, when touches feel like they could lead to just a little more, you look at him, pretty eyes all hooded and dark and ask in the sweetest voice he’s ever heard-

“Can I suck you off?” Eye lashes batting, hands already at his belt buckle before Clark can even think about protesting. Then, as if his self control ever stood a chance, you whimpered “Please?” As if the idea of not having him in your mouth physically pains you.

Everytime. Afterward, when you’ve all but sucked the life out of him, you shut down his efforts to take care of you with a shy shake of your head and whisper that he doesn’t need to worry about you.

What you don’t seem to understand is that he wants too.

Clark would never mind waiting, not if it’s what you want, he’d wait a year, or ten, if it meant you were comfortable. He’s just dying to get his hands on you, or better yet, in you.

He was determined that you wouldn’t get away with it tonight, Clark wasn’t sure if his guilty conscience could handle another life changing blowjob without the pleasure of reciprocating.

If that didn’t work then he was going to track down whatever shitty boyfriend had made you believe that your pleasure was inconsequential.

Clark was testing the limits of his patience, and doing his absolute best respect yours. But, he really wanted to have his girl on his lap, and you weren’t making easy.

It had taken all night to get you next to him on the couch, the distance shrinking every-time one of you got up, or shifted positions, until you were finally tucked into his side.

Then you looked up at him, curled under his arm, soft hands curled around his middle, and he just couldn’t help himself. He had to kiss you.

So he did, thumb and index finger pinching your chin and pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet, innocent kiss. It was meant to just be that, a small token of his affection, a brief connection.

Then you kissed back, pressing up into him, a hand splaying out on his chest as you used him for leverage. Clark could help himself, doubling his efforts. His tongue swiping at your bottom lip, hands roaming to your back.

Clark could have stayed like that forever, kissing you, memorizing the inside of your mouth, but if he’s being honest, he’s so uncomfortable. You’re both at an awkward angle. His body curving to meet yours as the kiss intensifies, his back bending to kiss you deeper while you crane your next to meet him.

He’d lay you out of the couch normally, but this was your apartment, your sweet little loveseat was a touch too small for him. His legs hanging over the edge from the knee down.

So his hands traveled to yours hips, and as gently as he could muster, they tried to guide you- or more accurately pull.

Your reaction is instant, pulling away with a frown and worried eyes. “Everything okay?” You ask, lips kiss bitten and tantalizing.

“Yeah I just thought you might be more comfortable on my lap.” He answered, earnest, genuine, and honestly a little too excited.

Clark would be lying if he said he hadn’t had visions of you on top of him, riding him for all he’s worth, his hands on your thick thighs. He could cream his pants right now just thinking of the way you would bounce.

“Oh.” You pause for a minute, uncertain. “Are you sure?” You ask, pulling your hand off of Clark’s chest. You pull your legs underneath your body, moving so you’re kneeling next to him. It’s like he can watch you recoil in on yourself, shoulders tight and legs rigid.

Clark sits up straighter, his hands still not moving from your hips.

“Am I sure I want my girl on my lap? Yeah, I am.” He says, smile crooked and eyes glittering. Dimples on full, knee-weakening display.

You nod, and then you move. One leg gingerly lifting and landing on the other side. Before Clark can even appreciate what’s happening, you’re kissing him. He can feel a difference now though, like you’re distracted. You have one hand on his chest, right over his heart, and your other on his neck.

It’s almost enough for Clark to forget about the fact that you’re actually touching him less now, your legs holding all of your weight, keeping you hovering over him, your chest subsequently inches away too. Clark can only handle it for so long, after all he really hates to stop kissing you.

Clark summons the strength to pull away, “Sweetheart sit.” He says, his hands traveling down until they land on the tops of your shaking thighs, hands splaying out where your they meet your hips. He wants to touch you everywhere all at once, give every inch of your body the love and attention it deserves, that it’s crying out to him for.

You look at Clark, as if he’s asked something completely ludicrous of you, like his request is beyond the realm of possibility.

“Clark, I’ll crush you.” You tell him, pulling back even further.

He can’t help it, he laughs. Out-loud. In your face.

You knew. He’d stopped hiding his red boots in the closet almost a month ago.

You’d also sat on his lap plenty of times. Hadn’t you?

Then Clark watches your face crumble.

You hadn’t.

Suddenly it all made sense.

Clark Kent has built a life making himself smaller.

He’s mastered of the art of shrinking in on himself, curling his shoulders so he takes up the least room possible. Shallow breathes so his chest doesn’t rise too high, a constant ache at the back of neck from forcing himself to slouch.

Then the glasses come off, and as if a switch is flipped, he fills out.

It’s obvious to him now, that you’ve never had the same luxury. Or at least you’ve never been comfortable enough to feel like you do. You stay shrunken, hyper aware of every move you make, every inch of space you take up. It’s a constant, ever preset thought in your mind. Always in the background, like static.

Obvious in the way you curled in on yourself when you shared a booth at a restaurant. How you flinched when his hands tried to rest on your stomach.

In that moment Clark’s decision was made for him.

In one swift moment his hands slid to the backs of your thighs, just under the curve of your ass. Then he stood, taking you with him.

Your reaction is instantaneous, a high pitched shriek and your arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“Clark!” You squeal, your legs wiggling, doing their best to get out of his grip. “Put me down! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” You insist.

Clark actively ignores you, instead opting to adjust his grip. It brings you impossibly closer and the motion has you wrapping your legs around his waist. Clark could moan with satisfaction, but this isn’t about him.

He waits until you stop trying to escape, then he asks, “Do I look like I’m struggling Babe?” Just like before his voice is earnest, genuine, and definitely too excited.

“No.” You whimper. He’s not even breaking a sweat.

“This why you haven’t let me touch you?” He asks, he’s not trying to embarrass you, but you hide your head in his neck anyway, legs squeezing his waist even tighter as you nod.

Clark sighs, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “Did you forget your boyfriend was Superman?” Another nod. “Baby I was made for this.” He says, freehand squeezing your the soft flesh of your thigh.

“I’m sorry, I should have just told you, it’s just. You’re you and I’m so-“ you try to explain, pulling back and finally making eye contact.

Clark cuts you off with a less-than-gentle kiss. He knew where that sentence was going and he didn’t care for it one bit.

You stay like that for a while, exchanging deep kisses while Clark holds you in the middle of the room, never faltering.

Refusing to be ignored, his cock twitches, reminding him of his original plan.

“My Aphrodite.” He whispers against your lips. “Gonna let me love you now?” He asks.

You bring a hand up from his neck and tangle it in his curls. “Please Clark.” You breathe.

Clark kisses you again, taking three long strides until he has you pinned between his chest and the wall, and as he rucks it up around your hips, he makes a note to thank you later for wearing a skirt.

You pull back, brows furrowed. “Bed?” You ask, voice higher than Clark thinks he’s ever heard it.

Clark shakes his head, “Later.” He assures you with another kiss. “But first, I want you in my arms.” He explains, another kiss, this time just over your pulse point. “That’s okay?”

You would nod, but the way Clark pushes your panties to the side, and meets you with another fiery kiss makes it clear he wasn’t really asking.

Clark was going to make sure you spent the rest of the night being adored, making up for all of the time he missed. After all he finally had his girl in his arms, no way he was putting her down so soon.

Hello!!! This was such a sweet request and I’m sorry again for going alittle off book, everytime I tried it just kept going in this direction! I love this concept and this man so much I hope you enjoy!

Love you say it back!

Masterlist

[gummygrayson]

nsfw alphabet with dick!

⫶ mdni, fem reader!, pussyeating, slight mention of anal fucking, rimming..lmk if i missed anything!

a- aftercare

absolutely. there’s not a single chance he would even so much as think about skipping out. even if he was extremely tired you’re his top priority. once you’re clean , heavily hydrated (he’s like a helicopter mom) and comfy in bed then he’ll worry about himself.

“here, i got some tea for you to drink sweetheart.”

b- body part

his face. he’s not weird about it in any way but he definitely knows how attractive he is. plus (before you two became serious of course) he was no stranger to using those looks to get his way. okay maybe he still does that—but now it’s usually to get you things.

for you i think he’s an ass man. yeah, i said it. dick grayson is such an ass man. doesn’t matter the shape or size, ass is ass and he’s all for it. has a knack for grabbing, rubbing and on specific occasions biting your ass just because he can. enjoys the gasps and soft reprimands you send his way when he smacks it while you’re simply existing. murmuring a cheap apology but that satisfied grin says it all.

c- cum

inside inside inside. grayson is a breeder mkay? he loves cumming in you. that closeness, the almost primitive nature of staining you with his seed from the inside is mind numbing. if by some chance he can’t cum in you then he’s definitely cumming on you. painting your swollen folds white or your thighs. second best thing.

his cum is definitely thick and he usually cums a lot the first time so don’t expect a lot more if you have any more rounds. for sure has a salty taste but the healthy type.

d- dirty secret

voyeurism. you’re absolutely breathtaking and the idea of watching you while you make yourself feel good is just too good. he’s definitely the type to bring it up casually and one hundred percent honest. he just wants to watch you play with your cunt, wants to see how you get yourself off when he can’t.

٠࣪⭑ gummybonus

“this okay.?” you’re unsure from your spot on his king sized mattress. legs spread and your fingers hovering over your panties with slight hesitation. sure, you were no stranger to masturbation but it wasn’t the same with him watching.

dick nods, leaning forward a bit in the chair he situated at the edge of the bed “yeah baby. s’good.” his voice is raspy, words murmured. he’s got one big hand on his crotch, pawing gently at his groin. his muscles are taut with the effort its taking him to sit still and not pounce because god did he wanna watch first.

“what do i do for you?” you breathe, gently brushing your delicate fingers over the damp cotton.

the man smiles a toothy grin that doesnt relay just how messed up he already feels and he hasn’t laid a single hand on you yet.

“touch her for me baby, nice and slow.”

e- experience

definitely has a good amount of experience—he is the richard grayson so it makes sense. but i don’t think he’s got a whole ton of knowledge outside of simple thinks so leaning into more kinkier aspects is always something he could be down to try.

f- favorite position

if it wasn’t obvious before i think doggystyle is his favorite. he’s the ass man so fucking you in a position he can see your ass jiggling each time he ruts into you is absolutely perfect. also the way your back arches and you mewl like a little cat is the hottest thing ever. he’ll tug your hair something too, making you look at him while he’s deep in your cunt. asking you how you feel and when you choke up he’ll land a warm palm against the roundness of your cheeks. grinning when you cry out (he’ll kiss it better later).

୨୧ gummybonus mention

69-ing.! it wasn’t a frequent occurrence but sometimes when you both are making out—wanting more but feeling too lazy you’ll find yourself in the position. your weepy cunt hovering his mouth, big hands spreading you open so he could watch while he ate you out. low hums against your clit every so often while you suck him off.

g- goofy?

dick isn’t giggly during sex but i think he could crack a few jokes. normally terrible ones that dont land and make you snort despite the fact he’s three inches deep in your pussy. on a few rare occasions though he could definitely be serious, brows furrowed in concentration while he focuses solely on you and your pleasure.

h- hair

perfectly maintained and short. dark and definitely has a slight bit of curl when it’s longer. he likes the feeling of being maintained although sometimes if he’s too busy then he’ll let it grow out a bit but nothing crazy.

for you he doesn’t care but i do think he’d like it a bit shorter (only because his nose is ticklish and he embarrassingly sneezed once when he was eating your cunt) but if you do grow it out then it wouldn’t alter much. he’d still eat your pussy without a thought.

i- intimacy

he’s so in love with you. intimacy comes naturally to him. hands all over you, kissing your neck while you babble on his lap about something you enjoy. sex even if it wasn’t on the softest side sometimes you could feel how gentle he was with you. a soft skim of his fingers against your jaw while you’re absolutely fucked out, sobbing and drooling like a broken faucet. the softness in his gaze when he’d take you missionary.

dick grayson is an intimate man and nothing could change that.

j- jack off

he definitely does but not too frequently? like—he has a gorgeous girlfriend so it’s rare he finds the need to rub one out solo. but if by chance he’s away from you and horny he has no issue taking care of himself. probably would watch a little home film the two of you made, spilling into his hand with a heavy moan.

though ! if he’s really really pent up he’ll pull out the big guns (one of his best pillows), rutting his cock between the folded cushiony item. he’s loud and a tad whiny, broad shoulders shaking as he holds himself back from cumming too fast.

k- kink

breeding first and foremost and i’ll stand by that. basically the same thing that was stated in c. watching your pussy ooze with him is the sexiest thing in the whole world.

now this next thing is a wildcard but hear me out. pegging :0. he had physically recoiled the first time you ever brought it up. you wanted to do what to him? so you waited, using a moment when he was so drunk on your pussy he nodded and agreed.

“s—stop teasing and get it over with.” dick huffs quietly. his chest is heaving, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. he felt exposed—he was exposed. muscular legs spread open for you, his cock aching and neglected on his tummy. ass slick from the lube you used to prep him and a deep hue on his face.

“just wanted to make sure you’re stretched good.” you snort, shifting closer. the pink cock from your strap on brushing against his puckered hole and sending tingles up his spine.

“ready?” you murmur, gripping the base and lightly easing it in without going in fully. watching how greedily he sucked the silicone in.

“mhm.” the acrobat bites back a pathetic whimper when do begin to push in, plush lips splitting into a silent ‘o’ once you bottom out. he’s so full, cock leaking beads of precum against his tensed abdomen and twitching.

“move..please.” dick murmurs finally against your shoulder once he’s semi gathered himself “please baby..”

he didn’t think he’d like it as much as he did and he certainly keeps it between just you two but if you bat your lashes enough on a good day he’d be down for it again maybe.

l- location

his place. it’s got the most surface for him to fuck you in compared to your little apartment plus the extra privacy from being so high up in the building. if you’re lucky though he might fuck you in the batcave (rarely though since you narrowly missed being caught by alfred).

m- motivation

a stressful day or night of patrolling. also just literally you. little t-shirt on and a pair of shorts? he’s bending you over the couch in a flash. yoga in the living room of his apartment? you’re being tossed up and over his shoulder before you can react. he’s just a simple man truly and you get him going.

n-no’s

knifeplay or anything that could really hurt you. he just couldn’t even fathom doing that.

o- oral

yes. doesn’t matter how far you two could possibly get into sex he’s at least got to taste you. loves eating you out in almost innocent settings. when you’re lounging on the couch reading he’d cozy up into the space between your parted legs. kissing your thighs first before making his way to your heat over your clothes. nosing and kissing just to tease before looking at you through his lashes ‘can i take these off?’.

definitely not the type to turn down having your mouth on him. loves a nice sloppy blowjob. slobber and cum bubbling around his cock as you choke and swallow him down. enjoys watch you take pleasure in sucking him too—eyes shut as you bob your head and paw at his balls.

𝜗𝜚 bonus mention: letting you rim him :0 . just gotta ask nicely.

p- pace

depends on the situation. if it’s a serious moment he’s going to absolutely take his time. picking you apart slowly, touching you with a tenderness and feeling you melt into his hold. if it’s more rushed or you’re both so high strung it’s messy. he’s grabbing handfuls of your tits, rutting into you like he’s lost his fucking mind.

q- quickie

if need be he can work with it (will complain about how you’re starving him of the best part) but he prefers not to.

r- risk

cumming in you is already the biggest risk he takes so he’s open minded to a lot. you want him to fuck you in front of the open window of his apartment? he’s down no questions asked.

s-stamina

excellent stamina—he’s a fucking vigilante for gods sake. could fuck you for hours if you absolutely let him.

t-toy

not opposed to it. might tease you and ask if you think his cock is inadequate but if it’s something you really want to try he’ll be down. won’t admit it but he likes when you use them on him. pressing that little vibrator you had against his cock while you stroke him.

u-unfair

big tease so he definitely drags it out sometimes. purposely edging you until you’re all teary eyed and begging so sweetly.

v- volume

loud as fuck. dick grayson can quite literally not stay silent. whether he’s groaning in your ear or murmuring praises sex is definitely not quiet with him. and dont get me started on the dramatic noises of pleasure he makes when eating you out.

w- wild card

videotaping you. its his own personal porn, something he can use to get off too when you’re not near him. he can listen to every word and wet sound. watch how your cunt stretches around him and replay it until he’s cumming hard.

x- x-ray

definitely cut, 6 1/2 inches but he’s a grower tbh. a good curve and a few veins running up the sides. well balanced in the girth department as well with a pair of nicely sized balls that hang a bit low and heavy.

y- yearning

yearning is so his forte. needs you every second of every day and isn’t ashamed.

z- zzz

aftercare for you both and then he’s out. collapsing onto the bed the second you two stumble from the steamy bathroom. half the time he’s already out before you can even get him to lay in his designated spot so—good luck with that.

౨ৎ wrote this twice and had half my progress deleted both times lol. laughin but it aint funny. (almost gave up tbh)

comments not required but definitely appreciated <3

[elisabethwritestoo]

Our girl

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x fem!reader

Summary: what happened after the confrontation that changed their whole worlds?

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: pregnancy stuff, birth, one teeny tiny mention of smut, but nothing too explicit.

Author’s note: okay, for the ones who asked, here it is; part 2 to Two lines, one truth, read that one here <3 Divider by @cursed-carmine. please send me some requests!!

The days after the confrontation were different.

Not easier—not yet—but different.

Because you weren’t carrying the weight alone anymore.

Rhett knew. And when Rhett knew something, he showed up.

He started small. Handing you his jacket when you so much as shivered. Bringing you take-out from your favorite diner on the nights you were too exhausted to cook. Texting you things like Did you eat? And Don’t forget water, baby. And when you groaned about morning sickness, he rubbed your back, ran out for your favorite candies, and sat with you on the bathroom floor until you felt steady again.

“Reckon I’ve never seen anyone throw up that pretty,” he teased one morning, crouched behind you, one warm hand holding your hair back.

You smacked his arm weakly, but laugh that followed was real.

And the way his eyes softened at the sound… well, that was real too.

Telling family, though—that was the big one.

You thought Rhett would drag his boots about it, maybe scowl his way through. But when you sat beside him on the Abbott porch, wringing your hands, he just laced his fingers through yours and said, “We’ll do it together.”

His mom cried. Hugged you so tight you thought your ribs might crack. Royal Abbott grumbled something about “damn fool choices” but you caught the way he lingered at the doorway afterward, watching Rhett place a careful hand on your stomach, his jaw unclenching little by little.

Your family… well, they had questions. But Rhett showed up there, too. Sat across from your father, spine straight, voice steady. “I love her,” he’d said simply. “And I’ll take care of her and this baby. Always.”

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t polished. But it was Rhett. And that was enough.

The baby shower came in spring, when the hills were green and the sky bluer than a robin’s egg. Your girlfriends decorated the barn with fairy lights and wildflowers, strings of tiny clothes pinned up like decorations.

You walked in with Rhett’s hand at the small of your back, your belly just rounding enough that it showed beneath the soft green summer dress he insisted you wear because, “You look like a dream in that, pretty girl.”

Everyone wanted to fuss over you, pat your belly, ask names. You blushed, overwhelmed, but Rhett stayed close—always within reach. He fetched you a chair before you thought to ask. He carried every single gift to the nursery, refusing to let you lift so much as a finger.

At one point, someone teased him about how protective he was, and Rhett just shrugged, arm slung over your shoulder.

“She’s carryin’ my whole world in there,” he said, plain as day. “What else am I supposed to do?”

You melted. Right there in front of everybody.

Later that night, after the barn was quiet again and the stars hung heavy above, Rhett pulled you close in your bedroom. He kissed you slow, sweet at first, then deeper, hotter, until your knees went weak. His calloused hands traced the curve of your hips, your growing belly.

“You’re glowin’,” he murmured against your lips.

You huffed a laugh, “I’m sweaty, tired and my feet are sore.”

“Glowing,” he insisted, kissing down your jaw, to your neck. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

When he finally lowered you onto the bed, his touches were reverent but hungry, like he couldn’t decide between worshipping you and devouring you. And when he moved inside you, forehead pressed against yours, you swore you’d never felt so loved.

After, tangled together in the sheets, his hand spread wide over your stomach, he whispered, “Can’t wait to meet ‘em. But for now…” He kissed your temple, lazy and warm. “…I’m just gonna keep lovin’ their mama.”

And you knew then—whatever storms came, you and Rhett were already home.

Your pregnancy wasn’t all glowing cheeks and sweet cravings.

It was swollen ankles, sore backs, nights where you couldn’t find a position to sleep in if your life depended on it. but through it all, Rhett was there.

Every. Single. Step.

If you so much as winced when you bent down, he was at your side, taking whatever you were reaching for. He built a rocking chair for the nursery by hand, sanding it smooth for hours so it wouldn’t catch on your clothes. He started reading baby books at night, brow furrowed, lips mouthing the words like he was studying for the hardest test of his life.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, you’d catch him staring at your belly like it was something holy. He’d rest his hand there, whisper things he thought you couldn’t hear. Hey, little one. It’s your daddy. We’re waitin’ on you, but don’t rush too hard. Mama needs her sleep, and I need a few more days to get your crib straight.

Those nights, you’d fall asleep with tears in your eyes and his arms around you, your entire world held close.

It happened fast. Too fast.

One moment you were cursing Braxton Hicks, the next you were doubled over in the kitchen, a wet splash between your legs, Rhett’s coffee spilling all over the counter because he dropped the mug when you gasped his name.

He was a whirlwind—gentle, but frantic—bundling you into the truck, muttering reassurances he probably didn’t even realize he was saying. “You’re okay, pretty girl. I got you. Breathe. Just breathe for me.”

At the hospital, hours stretched into something timeless. You clutched Rhett’s hand, nails digging deep, and he never once let go. Sweat dripped down his temples, not from exertion, but from sheer, helpless empathy.

When you thought you couldn’t push anymore, when the world blurred at the edges, his voice pulled you back.

“You’re stronger than any damn bull rider I’ve ever seen. You hear me? You can do this. You are doin’ this. I’m right here.”

And then—crying.

The loudest, sweetest cry you’d ever heard.

Rhett’s breath hitched. His lips brushed your forehead, his voice breaking as he whispered, “That’s our baby, darlin’. That’s ours.”

The first night was chaos. The baby cried, you cried, Rhett looked one second away from crying. But somehow, in between diaper changes and whispered lullabies, there were moments of pure, unshakable peace.

You woke once to find Rhett sitting in the rocker, shirtless, Cece resting on his chest. He was humming low, rough and uneven, but steady enough to soothe. His big hand covered her entire back, and his eyes—though bleary—shone like he was watching the sunrise.

“She’s so damn small,” he whispered when he noticed you awake. “So damn perfect.”

Your lips curved in the faintest smile as you shifted against the pillows. “She really is, is she.”

Rhett’s mouth twitched into the softest smirk. “Our girl.”

And when he carried her over, careful as if she were spun glass, and placed her in your arms. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, his voice breaking with something deeper, rawer than you’d ever heard when he murmured, “Thank you, pretty girl. For her. For us. For makin’ me the luckiest man alive.”

That was Rhett through and through.

Rugged and ice cold on the outside, but soft as sunrise for the people he loved. And now, for the two of you—the little family you’d built—he was all in.

Forever.

[greenandsorrow]

Sunflower, in a field of roses.

CHAPTER 7: First Time

Cho Hyun-ju x fem!reader

🌻 Masterpost & Summary: click here

!!! strangers to friends to lovers, sexual themes, pre-op!Hyunju, gender dysphoria, age gap mentioned, fluff, wholesomeness, SMUT WITH LOTS OF EMOTION, switch dynamics, w|w, slow burn boiled over successfully (but I'm not done yet), domesticity, mostly Hyunju's POV

#they were roommates

I ascended to a higher plane while writing thisssss. Yes, it's the official smut-chap, plot developments can wait a chapter 🩷

(The new semester is coming to beat my ass, so any tips/donations are deeply appreciated! You can basically contribute to me getting new sneakers & stationery ✨♡)

You're on your bed. Still bathed in morning light.

While you did manage to find a decent cot for her, she always somehow ends up next to you, tangled in blankets, pillows, plushies, and you.

Your hand is currently on Hyun-ju's inner thigh, and Hyun-ju's fingers are moving lazily between your legs, both of you breathing in quiet gasps, not rushing. Just feeling.

Then you shift.

Sit up.

Crawl over.

And Hyun-ju looks up at you like she's witnessing a miracle.

"Come here" you whisper.

Hyun-ju hesitates, but only for a second.

She lets you tug her forward, until she's between your thighs. Until she's half-sitting in your lap, straddling you, skin against skin.

Her erection is out, resting against the heat of your cunt, wet soaking into her shaft. Your shorts pushed to the side.

You stare at each other.

Breathing each other in.

"You're shaking" you say softly.

"I've never done this" Hyun-ju admits. "Like this. Where it doesn't feel like I have to pretend I'm someone else."

You cup her face gently.

"You don't have to be anyone but you."

When her lips make contact with yours, it's not tentative. Not a test anymore.

A real, full, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue slow, warm and wet.

You make a soft sound, like a whimper into Hyun-ju's mouth, and that's what undoes her.

She groans softly into the kiss, hips grinding forward without meaning to –and her girlcock slides through the slick of your pussy, thick and flushed and perfectly nestled.

You both gasp.

Your hands fly to Hyun-ju's waist. You hold her there, not push her away. If anything, you pull her closer.

"Oh my god" you breathe, head tilted back. "You feel—fuck—perfect."

Hyun-ju chokes on a moan.

"You're so wet" she whispers, giving you a disbelieving and shy smile that almost brings tears to your eyes. "It's all over me."

"I know" you say, voice wrecked. "Thanks to you, in case that didn't come through."

That's when Hyun-ju presses her forehead to yours.

"I want to fuck you so bad."

"Then do it."

"Not yet" Hyun-ju whispers. "I want to feel this first. Just this. Cherish it."

And so, you stay like that –grinding, breathing, moaning into each other's mouths– girlcock sliding through cunt, not in, not yet, but so close. So wet.

Every stroke sticky, slick, deliciously slow.

It's an emotional wreckage.

It's too much.

It's not enough.

Hyun-ju thinks she might cry.

Because for the first time ever, her cock isn't a secret. Isn't a source of shame.

It's wanted. It brings pleasure both to her and to this breathtaking young woman who somehow has become Hyun-ju's first and last thought every day and night.

And you?

You. Are. Glowing.

Panting.

Whimpering every time Hyun-ju presses a little harder.

"I'm gonna come just from this" you gasp, red in the face. "You haven't even put it in and I'm—fuck—"

"Don't stop" Hyun-ju begs. "Please don't stop holding me."

You both start shaking.

You come first, just from the grinding as you successfully predicted, crying a little, and Hyun-ju holds you like you're made of stars. You're clutching her, thighs trembling, hips working harder now, sloppy and needy.

Every drag sends a pulse up Hyun-ju's spine, but she doesn't chase her own orgasm yet.

It's transcendent. The way she holds you like you might break. The way she watches you unravel. She feels needed, and for a second, nothing else matters.

You're crying out –loud, raw, beautiful. Your whole body seizing, nails digging into her back.

"Oh my god, Hyun—fuck—"

Something she's never allowed herself to use before, because that part of her was always a warzone. And now she's used it. On someone soft, wet, loving. Someone who wants her, not as a compromise, not with pity –but with craving.

Messy. Gorgeous. Tender. Devastating.

But then the stillness comes. The heavy breathing slows.

Your head drops to her shoulder. Your skin sticks where it touches.

She's still throbbing, heavy, slippery with your arousal. And that's when the thought creeps in.

"You just fucked a woman. With your dick. Just like a man would."

"Is this dysphoria? Or jealousy? Do I want a pussy like hers?"

And the answer might be… yes. Or no. Or sometimes. Or she doesn't even know.

What matters is...

This moment wasn't clean. But it was honest. And she's not pushing you away.

Hyun-ju doesn't come. Not until you collapse forward against her chest, limp and panting.

"You didn't finish" you whisper into her collarbone, half-lost in afterglow.

"It's okay" Hyun-ju murmurs. But she's flushed everywhere, and twitching, tip leaking against your sensitive folds.

"You want to?"

Hyun-ju nods.

Wordless. Shaking.

So you reach between your bodies, hand wrapping around the base –slow, sure, sweet.

You pump carefully, using your own slick from earlier, and Hyun-ju chokes on a sob.

"Don't look at it" she whispers.

"I'm not" you reply. "I'm looking at you."

And that's it.

She comes, quietly.

In her lap. On your thighs.

Jerking in your hand, twitching helplessly. It's not dirty. It's not shameful.

It's pure release.

You sit there in the mess for a while. Foreheads touching. Breathing.

You then stumble to the bathroom together.

You help her undress again, this time no jokes. No staring.

Just tenderness.

Hyun-ju stands under the warm water, right behind you, arms wrapped around your bare torso.

"I love this" you say as water starts falling down your body, dripping from your lashes and your nose. "I love you like this."

Hyun-ju doesn't say it back. But she leans into you more.

Later, drying off, brushing out her wet hair, she looks at herself in the mirror.

Her chest isn't flat like it once was. Her girlcock is soft again. And she liked it when you called it that. Her eyes are glassy.

And she thinks...

"I loved that. But does that make me less real? Less Her?"

"Or did I love it because she made me feel real anyway?"

Maybe she doesn't want a pussy after all. Maybe she still does.

Maybe just the idea of being as easily readable as you is the thing she craves. To never have to explain herself again.

It's not always about hating her what she has. It's about the disconnect. The fact that hers always feels like a negotiation.

But what she does know, with brutal clarity?

She still wants to have sex with you.

When your legs spread open and you came with a sob, flushed and natural and uncomplicated, that hurt in a way Hyun-ju couldn't say out loud.

She doesn't necessarily want that exact anatomy word to word, but she wouldn't refuse to be known the said anatomy makes one be known as.

"I want softness that doesn't need an asterisk."

"I want to bleed and ache and swell the way she does and never have to explain it."

"I want to be the kind of woman she is. And I want her to still want me, if I'm not."

It's not dysphoria like a blade. It's dysphoria like a bruise that never quite fades.

She made you come –with her cock. And that's where it gets complicated.

"I didn't fuck her like a man. But I pleased her like one, right? And what does that mean? Who does that make me?"

She didn't want to dominate.

She didn't want to claim.

Or maybe she did, but she can't admit it to herself yet.

She just wanted to be wanted, and make you feel good. That was the truth of it.

But afterward, in the silence of the moonless night, the thought comes anyway...

"Was I just a body with a dick?"

"Would she have moaned like that if I'd been inside her?"

"Do I still count as a woman when I make another girl come like that?"

And then there's you, who giggle when you see a butterfly. Who smell like vanilla gloss. Who bite your bottom lip when you're thinking, and never look away when Hyun-ju's shirt rides up.

You, who know nothing about dysphoria and everything about softness.

You know Hyun-ju is gentle.

That she laughs too quietly.

That her voice drops when she's nervous.

That her chest is her secret pride and her arms are cut from a past life in uniform.

And you know that when you came, shaking in her arms, it felt like the safest place in the world.

So maybe later, when you go fetch a glass of water from the kitchen, Hyun-ju sits up as well, eyes on one of your posters on the wall.

"I thought you were sleeping, unnie."

"Do you think I'm still a woman?"

Your brow furrows.

"Of course I do. Why?"

"Because I touched you like—like a man would. Because I made you come with my—my dick."

Your answer is slow. Honest.

"You didn't fuck me like a man, believe me. You held me like I was sacred and you looked at me like I looked at you. And your pretty, glistening sword, milady?"

You smile.

"It wasn't the point. You were."

Intimacy is cracked open.

Shame is still nipping at the edges.

But this is what makes it real. Not just lust. Not just softness. Not just adrenaline.

It's facing discomfort as one, and staying anyway.

The apartment smells like coffee and fabric softener. Not in a fancy way, just cheap instant grounds and the scent of your laundry soap clinging to every blanket in the place.

The kettle starts screaming and Hyun-ju jumps like it's a gunshot.

"Shit" she hisses, fumbling it off the burner. She's in your most oversized shirt, looking soft and unguarded.

You pad into the kitchen, half-asleep, socks mismatched, hair an absolute disaster. You just stand in the doorway watching her struggle with mugs until it hits you funny and you start laughing.

"You look like someone's housewife."

Her ears go pink instantly.

She shoves a mug toward you with a look that's equal parts warning and bashful.

"And you look like you rolled out of a laundry basket."

You take the mug, grinning into the steam. "Perfect. We match."

Later, she's brushing her teeth in your bathroom. You stand on your tip toes and pick up the towel-damp strands of her hair, trying to braid them.

Your fingers aren't exactly skilled, and halfway through you realise you have toothpaste foam flicked at your arm, but when your eyes catch in the mirror, you both break down laughing so hard she nearly spits all over the sink.

Little routines start sneaking in.

She folds your laundry, humming under her breath. Some girl group song you can't name, low and soft.

You throw your lip glosses at her, demanding she tries them all. She makes a face about how sticky they feel, but a couple days later you catch her reapplying the berry one when she thinks you're not looking.

The two of you stand in a grocery aisle arguing over soda brands for ten minutes, arms hooked together like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And at night, she doesn't even pretend to bother with the cot anymore. She just slides into bed next to you without asking, and your stuffed animals end up crushed between two bodies that can't seem to stop leaning closer.

You wake up most mornings with her leg tangled over yours, her hair in your mouth, her breath warm on your neck.

And you never complain, just grin.

One evening you dump a mess of nail polish bottles all over the floor. Bright colors, all ridiculously cheap.

Hyun-ju gives you the flattest look imaginable but she still sits cross-legged across from you.

You paint her nails pink, cheerful, and out of the lines.

"Gorgeous" you announce when you finished.

She makes a face.

"I am—used to be a soldier... Now you're... Turning me into a Barbie."

But she doesn't pull her hand away.

She holds her fingers up to the light like they are something delicate, then blows on them carefully.

You don't say "girlfriend".

She doesn't say "love".

But Hyun-ju keeps the chipped pink polish on all week.

And one night, when you call her "my pretty girl" without thinking, her whole face goes still.

Like she is trying not to cry.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate you 🩷🌻

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[ninetailedruby]

Heyy, so have headcanon on the Thunderbolts saying ‘I love you’ for the first time

So sorry for the lack of posts lately you guys writers block is kicking my ass right now.

Warnings: Mention of death for Yelena’s part, all fluff.

Yelena

It happened after a mission went awry and you got hurt pretty badly. She was distracted and didn't hear the gun fire and without thinking you shoved her out of the way and took a bullet meant for her. The last thing you remember is searing pain in your ribs and the feeling of Yelena's hands clutching your side desperately trying to keep pressure on the wound. You have a vague memory of her voice calling to you, begging you to stay with her because she refuses to lose someone else she loves.

Next thing you know you're in a hospital bed with monitors beeping in the background. When your eyes flutter open you see her tear stained face watching you like you were going to vanish into thin air. Your hands find her face and wipe away a few tears and she crashes into you, forehead pressed against your own. She wants to scold you for being reckless but right now all she can think about is how happy she is that you're okay.

"I love you, so don't ever scare me like that again."

Bob

It was after you got home from a particularly long mission and found him sat on the couch, his nose in a book. His face lights up when he sees you, you’d been gone for an entire week this time and to say he felt your absence would be an understatement. He had been thinking about saying those three words for weeks now but hadn't found the right time, he wanted it to be perfect. Now is as good a time as any right?

You bury your face in his chest and take a deep breath when you feel his arms wrap around you, he smells like home. You missed this, you missed him. You stay wrapped in each others arms for a long while before you pull away. You reach a hand up to hold his cheek and pull him in for a chaste kiss. Right as he's about to say it you beat him to it, he laughs and leans forward to place a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Ava

It was on one of her bad days where her whole body hurt and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed be wrapped up in your arms. She really overdid it today during training and now her limbs feel like they're somehow both numb and on fire. So when she gets to your room and finds you not there she's more than a little disappointed but makes her way to her room in hopes that you're there instead.

When she opened her door and found you sat against her headboard, already waiting, her heart melted. As you pat the spot in front of you she crawls onto the bed and makes herself comfortable between your legs, humming happily when your hands find her back and start rubbing the sore muscles. Her head tips back to kiss your jaw.

"You know I love you, right?"

Bucky

It happened after you all got back to the Watchtower from your latest assignment, defeated and tired, and found Valentina fuming about your lack of success and demanding to know what happened. It was your fault really, you made a bad call and thankfully nobody got seriously hurt but your prime suspect got away. Before you can say anything though Bucky speaks up and takes the fall for it, telling Val that it was his decision.

You wait for him in the kitchen and start making dinner for the two of you, feeling bad that he took the blame for something that was your fault. After nearly an hour you hear his familiar footsteps as he comes to stand behind you, his arms wrapping loosely around your waist as he watches you chop some vegetables. You enjoy the peacefulness of the moment for as long as you can but you can't help it, you have to know why he did it.

"Why'd you let her yell at you for something I did, Buck?"

"You make sacrifices for the people you love."

John

It took him rather long time to actually say it. He prefers to show his love with actions rather than words which is why his form of "I love you" is usually him making you dinner, doing the dishes after you cook or offering to help when it's your turn to do the chores. You don't seem to mind, you know what he's trying to say with his actions and for that he's grateful.

When you come home and find him cooking dinner in just his "Kiss the Cook" apron and a pair of sweatpants you can't help but laugh, you got it for him as a gag gift and never thought he'd actually wear it but he does every time he makes you dinner. Your lips find his exposed shoulder and plant a few kisses, kissing a line across his back until you reach the other side. You say your next words casually as you pull away, wanting to go get cleaned up before eating.

"Love you."

"Love you too."

[bunbangtan]

Hold me like a Knife (KNJ) - Oneshot

・❥・⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀They were supposed to stay away from each other—for the sake of their image, for the sake of everyone else. But resisting has only left them torn in half. In one night, he puts everything on the line, raw, desperate, consuming need crumbles him into a breaking point and, perhaps, a new beginning.

pairing: idol!namjoon x idol!reader

genre: situationship-to-lovers, angst, A LOT of YEARNING, slow-burn, smut, RM POV.

: ̗̀➛ warnings: explicit consensual sex, graphic oral sex (F + M receiving), face ridding implied, overstimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, fingering, slight breath control (light choking), unprotected sex (Wrap it up kids), mentions of creampie, praise kink, worship kink if you squint, possessive behavior, size kink (of sorts), deep penetration, leg on shoulder position, wet/messy sex, begging, post-orgasm sensitivity, soft dom!namjoon, desperation and emotional vulnerability during sex, aggressive kissing, emphasis in yearning : ̗̀➛ wc⠀5.3k (I'm sorry) : ̗̀➛ Author's note: so this is my first published smut, ever, in my life, so please give me some feedback if you have any! English is not my first language so please let me know if anything needs correction. I am NOTHING if I'm not a yearning queen, so, yeah, I'm holding your hand as you read this. Enjoy!

Check my masterlist.

“What I had left here, I just held it tight So someone with your eyes Might come in time to hold me like water Or Christ, hold me like a knife” -Who we are, by Hozier.

It was always like that when it came to her.

He knew it was dangerous. It was too much and too little, and it would hurt—God, he knew it would tear him apart—but still, there was no other option but to let her chew his heart out.

Since the day he laid eyes on her… like a moth to a flame.

Something changed within his brain chemistry that night.

She walked into the awards afterparty as if she owned the place—and, partially, she did. Her group, SUNNYZ, had debuted a year ago, and they were still sweeping awards left and right; every new drop was met with a roar of popularity the likes of which he hadn’t seen in all his years of experience. They were unmatched, and it was well deserved.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t checked out their work carefully, from dance practices to the long list of producers, mixers, and composers. Her name popped up everywhere—there wasn’t a part of their production untouched by her.

She was every agency’s dream: a decent rapper, a good dancer, an excellent singer, a brilliant songwriter, astonishingly beautiful, and with the kind of character that had granted her the position of leader in a way that felt natural. She balanced the world on her shoulders and made it look weightless. He saw something in her.

He saw himself.

The other three girls in SUNNYZ strolled in, laughing, bouncing with childlike excitement as they greeted their friends and fellow artists. But she carried a different energy—dominant, enticing, as if saying “yes, we are all that.” Her eyes cut through the crowd, her smile could melt the ice sculptures. She was the person to see and to be seen with—and she knew it.

They surrounded her like flies: photographers, interviewers, social media managers, other artists. Everyone wanted a piece, and she had plenty to give. He remembered that feeling—being on top of the world, living your dream with ruthless confidence.

His legs were moving before he could stop them. It felt like a transgression to approach another idol like that—worse still, a female idol and a hoobae. His PR lessons and experience told him better. But he just had to see it for himself.

And it was worth every second.

The crowd opened up around him, parting like the Red Sea, surprised glances following every step he took toward her. It was a sight to see, for sure.

Namjoon—or RM, as the world knew him—the leader of the biggest K-pop sensation worldwide, making his way toward Y/N, the leader of the hottest newcomers in K-pop history. Photographers could cream their pants just thinking about it. They had been dying to capture interactions between the two groups, manipulating rumors and spreading lies for a year now. This was what they had been waiting for.

In a normal scenario, he would never give them that satisfaction. But it was her, so the scenario wasn’t normal in the slightest.

Her eyes gleamed the moment she saw him, and something inside him came alive. Her knowing smile reminded him of a cat watching a squirming rat under its paw—something beautifully cruel that whispered, “I knew you’d come to me.”

-Hello, Y/N. -Thankfully, his voice didn’t betray him. He prayed his posture didn’t look as tense as it felt. -Congratulations on the awards and the performance tonight. You guys did a great job.

The world became a blur once she targeted him with her smile, but her voice was still quiet, private, almost like a cheeky secret meant only for him.

-Thank you so much, Sunbaenim, you’ve just made the night all the more special. -She gave him a polite bow, and he almost tripped in his rush to mimic it.

And just like that, he knew he was at her mercy.

Have you ever met someone who truly lives in the moment? Someone whose aura is so present that it pulls you in? She had that magnetism. She made eye contact as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. She carried the conversation wherever she wanted it to go, always with the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. Her witty comebacks had him by the throat for hours. He could never guess what she would say next, and it left him eager for it—hungry, even.

The next thing he knew, Seokjin and Jimin were rescuing him from a couch in one of the far corners, hurrying him to wrap up the conversation and reminding him of the flight they had to catch first thing in the morning. She apologized for monopolizing their leader, teased them about doing their skincare once they got home, and wished them a safe flight. Then she stood, thanked him for the conversation, and walked away—leaving him with dazed eyes, watching her swaying hips carry her out of his reach.

Once they were in the van, a heavy, uncomfortable silence sat in their laps. The members eyed each other uneasily, unsure of who should speak first.

-So... Hyung met one of the girls from SUNNYZ... -Jungkook took the lead with his gentle nature, trying his best to mask his anxiety with curiosity. -Was she nice?

It felt wrong to hear her referred to as “one of.” She was one of nothing. She was… everything. But how could he even point that out so blatantly?

-I’m sorry, guys, I forgot where I was for a moment. -He found it hard to make eye contact. Usually, he was on the other end of this, so it felt wrong—like a parent caught by their child doing something they weren’t supposed to.

-Yeah, we could tell, -mumbled Hoseok from the back, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Taehyung and Jimin whispered jokes and slapped each other beside him, their faces contorting with silent laughter.

-Just... it’s good that you had some fun, -Said Yoongi, looking at nothing in particular. -At least it looked like you were having fun.

-Yeah, she’s... she’s interesting.

-Just interesting, huh? -said Taehyung, unable to contain his comment. He laughed harder, Jimin shoving him and telling him to shut up.

-Seriously? -said Seokjin, shooting them a stern look from the front row. When he turned to Namjoon, though, his tone softened. -It’s okay, really, it’s not the end of the world. Just... you know the kind of headache that comes from these things.

-I know, Hyung.

But all the warnings in the world couldn’t stop him. He would’ve made the same mistakes, taken the same steps, even if he’d been given the chance to turn back time.

The month that followed was chaotic, of course. Edits of the two of them were everywhere—ships, hate comments, speculation—all born from a single conversation that had stretched too long to be considered innocent.

He knew how quickly these things spread, and the way he kept asking around, obsessing over trying to get her contact, felt like pouring gasoline on a wildfire. But what was he supposed to do?

She was the single most interesting person he had ever met in this industry. He would have given an arm and a leg just to stay in her orbit a little longer.

Then, one random Thursday, while he was getting his makeup done for a variety show, his phone lit up with an unknown number.

“So, you never got to finish that story about your first dance practice together.”

They talked as if they had known each other for years—or perhaps in another life. No topic was too trivial, no silence awkward, no self-doubt lingering between them.

Texts turned into late-night calls, which turned into passing glances at venues, hurried conversations backstage, private meetups at his studio, and eventually full-on secret dates.

He had never pictured himself dating another celebrity; all his previous lovers had been out of the public eye. But for months, he could have sworn he saw red strings binding the two of them together.

The first time he touched her, it felt right. Not just good—right. As if nothing else ever could be right again. When she lay on his chest, naked, sweaty, messy, he felt like he’d come home after a long tour.

They had eight months of pure bliss—followed by a lifetime of heartache he wasn’t prepared for.

He wanted to be with her. Not like this—not hurried, secretive, messy. Properly. He wanted to hold her hand, stand proudly at her side, show the world the unstoppable force they could be together. He was so proud of her.

So many nights they’d spent dreaming about what it would be like to be something real. He was beginning to believe those dreams shouldn’t stay as dreams.

Bringing it up to her was his first of many mistakes.

He watched her eyes fill with terror, her head shaking before he even finished.

-Joon... no. No, we can’t. What are you talking about?

The indignation in her voice cut clean through him, like he was insane for even suggesting.

How could she not want this? Could she not see how painful it was to be a secret? Was she embarrassed by him? Was he the only one in love? The inadequacy ate away at his soul.

-No, Joon, I’m sorry, we can’t. I can’t... -She sat up in bed, scrambling to collect her clothes from the floor. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Minutes ago everything had been perfect—she had been lying in his bed, beautiful, relaxed, happy.

And now she was running away, the way a wild animal runs from the idea of captivity.

So he pulled back. He promised himself he would never bring it up again. Because any amount of her was better than none. All he had to do was control his heart, not want more than he deserved. He told himself he could endure it—that the secret was enough, that hiding was okay, that saying goodbye to his dreams of normalcy was acceptable.

Nobody lied to him like he lied to himself. But it became unbearable.

She had a flirtatious personality, a charming way. Yes, it hurt to see it directed elsewhere. But what gutted him was the way she shrugged every time she was asked about BTS, about Namjoon, about the rumors surrounding them.

“We’re just friends,” she’d say.

And he would rather be dead than just a friend.

It all came tumbling down. The delicate restraint he had practiced, the thin balance of their dynamic being almost something, the lies he told himself drowned them in hour-long discussions and fights that would leave him feeling like a trainwreck.

Months of this, months on this tug-of-war, 1 step forward and 3 steps back, this rollercoaster that would take him higher than he had ever imagined and lower than he had ever been. Months of covering eyebags, swallowing back tears when he had other obligations, months of lying to his bandmates, saying everything was fine, months of telling the world he was just “tired”, he faked his smile so often now he had forgotten how to smile genuinely.

And she wasn’t unfazed. At times, he felt she was better at hiding, but you can’t fake a sparkle in your eyes; she had lost hers too.

It drained them for all their worth. They were trying to stick together at all costs, covering deep cuts with band-aids, living off crumbles of each other, neither fully satisfied, both too hungry to let go.

It had to stop. He had to do end it or it would end him.

Breaking up with her—if he even could call it a breakup, since they were never officially together—was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Walking away from the person he most wanted in the entire world ripped his soul in half; it felt so sick and twisted he had to cancel plans for an entire month due to the random anxiety attacks that would overcome him at random moments of the day.

He blocked her on everything; otherwise, he’d fall right back into her arms. He forced distance when he wanted nothing more than proximity; he spent nights cursing his stubborn heart for longing for comfort from the one who hurt him.

That was not right; she didn’t hurt him; they hurt each other.

-

Four months went by. He learned to take deep breaths. He learned not to tear up at the mention of her name. He figured out how to think about her without it ripping his heart out.

For the first time, he was starting to believe there could be a life without her—just like there had been a life before her.

But then the scandal broke: her face stamped in every news magazine, every sasaeng profile, all over social media. “In recently leaked video, leader of SUNNYZ, Y/N, appears to be drunk during a discussion with her manager.”

He tried to avoid it, but he couldn’t avoid the other members talking about it. Finally, he gave in and watched.

She was crying, clearly slurring her words, using strong language to insist she was not ready for another comeback as the manager pressed her. The angle of the video was terrible, as if filmed from a phone peeking out of someone’s pocket. He couldn’t stop the wave of rage that washed over him as he watched, because he knew—he knew—it probably came from someone she trusted, someone she saw as a friend. She was too smart to be vulnerable like that in front of strangers.

All of this exposure, for a little bit of cash.

He was reminded of one of their many late-night conversations.

“You don’t understand, Joon. These people… they would eat me alive if they had the chance. Yes, they love me today, but tomorrow they might hate me with the same passion.”

He used to resent her in those moments. Who did she think she was to tell him that? He’d been in the industry since 2013. He was no newbie. She had no right to lecture him about a game he’d been playing—and dominating—for years.

But seeing the comments, he understood what she meant. She hadn’t meant it as a celebrity. She meant it as a woman.

All this time, he had acted like they were playing on even ground—but they weren’t. Deep down, he knew the world would never have been that cruel, that quick, had it been a male idol. Suddenly, he realized how much people prayed for her downfall—and how aware of it she had always been.

He spent all day wondering if he should message her, apologize, comfort her. He wondered if he owed her that, if she would have done the same for him, or if he should just let the wound heal.

But when he got home and his doorman warned him that a “friend” had gone up to his apartment, his heart dropped to his toes. He was not prepared to see her again.

He paced the hallway, stared at his door, swore under his breath, feeling like the world would stop turning the moment he turned the knob.

Finally, he punched in the code and walked into his lit living room, his eyes finding hers immediately.

She sat curled up on his couch, knees tucked to her chest, an oversized hoodie partially hiding her tear-stained face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes puffy and red, her lips raw from nervous biting. It took everything in him not to run to her, not to pull her into his lap and hide her from the world with his arms.

-I’m sorry. -She breathed it out, her voice so heavy, so choked with feelings she could barely speak. -I’m sorry, Joon, I— I didn’t know where else to go.

Then he noticed the half-empty bottle on the coffee table, the smell of cigarettes on her clothes, the haze in her eyes.

-Y/N... -He took a step closer, closing the door behind him. -I— I was wondering if I should contact you again... wondering if I even had the right to.

She kept rubbing her eyes, trying to stop the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. She stood, still avoiding his gaze.

-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I know you needed space, I get why you broke it off, I get it. I get that I’m no good for you, and it’s really selfish of me to invade your space like this, I just— -She sobbed, her voice wobbling, running through every emotion at once. -This is too much, Joon. It’s so hard. I didn’t know it would be this hard.

He broke.

Before he knew it, her head was against his chest, his chin resting on her hair, his arms wrapped around her. Her hands tugged at the back of his shirt. Their racing hearts fell into sync like they had every night before. His whisper felt foreign in his own ears.

-My sweet girl, I know. I know, baby, it’s okay. -His fingers threaded through her hair, massaging the back of her head in the same motion he once used to put her to sleep. -I got you now.

She gripped him harder, shaking uncontrollably.

It took twenty minutes for her to calm down. When she finally did, she sat on the couch again, putting as much distance between them as possible, sipping water. She’d apologized a million times. He busied himself with ordering dinner, afraid that if he said anything, she’d spiral back into tears.

-I was so stupid, -she said at last, shaking her head, staring at her feet. -Joon, I know I was wrong in the way I handled things. I know you deserved so much more than I could give you, but... do you see what I meant now? -The eye contact was earth-shattering; his whole body tingled. -I know you must hate me now. I know you must think I deserved this. But do you at least see this is what I was trying to spare you from? The backlash?

He had so much to say he didn’t even know where to start. Emotions bubbled up so fast he thought he might explode.

-Y/N, how could you— -His eyes were wild, his hands opening and closing as if grasping for words. -I’ve spent the last year trying not to love you, and I failed. How could you think that I hate you?

Her lower lip trembled. He sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes—God, her eyes—were going to undo him completely.

-I don’t hate you, okay? -His tone softened, but his words stayed firm. He held her gaze. -I always understood your concern, Y/N. I knew you were scared of the backlash. I just never understood why you thought you’d face it alone—like I wouldn’t be there to support you.

-I know you’d be there, I know... but you’d be throwing your career away, Joon!

-And I would have done it! -His voice cracked like thunder, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was shaking. -I would have done it, I would have thrown it all away—for you, for us—because I thought it was worth it! You were all I ever wanted, and if that was the price, I would have paid it!

She was hyperventilating, a storm raging between them.

-But that’s the issue, Joon! That’s exactly the problem! There’s this power imbalance that allows you to pay that price when I can’t! -Her eyes were wide, pleading, frustration rising in her voice. -You’ve got it all! Every award, every opportunity, you’ve been everywhere. You’re established. If your career ended tomorrow, the next four generations of your family would still be okay. But what do I have?

She stood, running her hands through her hair. The words tumbled out in a rush, but he could tell she’d thought about this a thousand times. He could see the overworked gears of her mind turning.

-If we went public, I would lose everything—money, fame, reputation. People would say I only succeeded because of you. They’d terminate my contract. They’d blame me for your downfall. They’d treat me like the new Yoko Ono. And the girls... my God, the girls. I could never do that to them! -She covered her mouth, her eyes darting as if she could already see it playing out. -Hana trained for eight years before she debuted. Aiko left her whole life behind to live in Korea. How could I steal that from them?

He stood too, rage burning in his chest. Because he knew she was right. He knew it was too much to give up. He saw firsthand how unfair it was. And yet he couldn’t accept it. Because what was the alternative? To deny the only love they’d ever known? To pretend their souls weren’t bound together?

He wished the world would be kinder to her—to them. But he knew the only way out was through.

-Why are you so set on living for everybody else, Y/N? Can’t you consider that there might be another way? That we could work together to ease the idea in with the audience, get them acclimated to it—that not everything has to crash and burn? -He takes a brave step closer. She doesn’t move forward, but she doesn’t retreat either. -Yes, some people might hate you. Some people might hate me. If that’s in their nature, so be it. But there are millions who want to see you happy. Millions who would understand that you make me happy—and I make you happy.

Something softens in her eyes, something that almost looks like hope.

-I tried to have half of you. I tried to stay away. But I can’t do it, Y/N. I need you—I need you like I need water, like I need air. I am willing to fight the world to have you, but I cannot fight you anymore. -Another step. His heart pounds so hard it echoes in his ears. -Please… please let me in. I can��t take this any longer.

A second passes. Then another. The clock ticks in the distance, and the silence bleeds him dry.

Then she crosses the distance between them, and he’s set on fire the moment their lips connect. Her hands are everywhere, his hair, his face, his neck, his hands hold onto her as if she could slip away through the cracks of his fingers, her legs hook around his waist, he blindly finds a wall to press her against. The kiss is rough, desperate, edged with so much need it almost hurts

He kisses her like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her lips, holding her as if that alone could heal the emptiness of not having her. Even when they run out of breath, they can’t stand to be apart for more than a heartbeat. A leg presses between her thighs, and the moan that slips from her lips makes him feel alive again. He drinks it in like a parched man, her nails sinking into his shoulders.

Her hoodie falls to the ground in one messy motion. His palms slide beneath her tank top, splaying across her back, her ribs, her breasts.

-Joon—the couch, -she pleads, breathless. He obeys as though it’s gospel.

He lays her down gently, but his lips follow in hunger. Kneeling in front of her, he kisses every inch of newly revealed skin as he pulls her pants down her thighs. She says something he can’t quite catch as he sinks lower, tugging the black lace aside, every barrier shredding his patience.

His lips find her folds, and he groans at the taste of her, shoulders relaxing, eyes shutting. He devours her like a starving man, kissing her most sensitive spot until every sinful moan rips through him. The friction makes her roll her eyes back, her thighs trembling. He grips them harder, hooking his arms beneath to lock her against his mouth, feasting on what he’s craved for months.

“Namjoon!” The way his name spills from her lips is addictive. He focuses on her clit, sucking with just enough pressure to make her twitch under his hold. One hand slides up to press against her lower stomach while the other brings two fingers to her mouth.

She understands immediately. Shamelessly, she curls up to take them in, sucking until his knuckles brush her lips. She holds his gaze as if to say “this is a taste of what comes next.” The thought alone makes him twitch in his pants.

Once her mouth has coated them, he slides his fingers into her, curling them at the tip just the way she loves. A long, low moan escapes her as he glances up, desperate to engrave the sight into memory forever—her sprawled across his couch, one hand around his wrist, the other tangled in her own hair, eyes shut, brows furrowed, mouth slack in pleasure. For a moment he wonders how he ever had the courage to walk away from this. Had he been mad?

He builds a rhythm, fingers pumping as his lips work her clit, until she’s seeing stars. She grips his hair, desperate, and that’s all the cue he needs, voice thick with lust as he guides her through it.

-That’s it, baby. Relax for me.

And she does—pulsing around his fingers, thighs trembling as he holds them open, forcing her to let him watch her come undone.

-Look at you, -he breathes, awestruck. -You’re the most beautiful thing in the world.

She tries to fix her hair, smiling through her panting. He gives in to impulse and kisses her, just to show her how incredible she tastes on his tongue.

The strain in his jeans is unbearable, pressing into him painfully. She notices, sitting up immediately, still dizzy from the high but eager to return the favor.

As soon as he rises and she slips her fingers under his belt, he scoops her up against his hip with practiced ease. She giggles as he carries her to the bedroom, kissing her temple. If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up.

He shrugs off his jacket. She kneels on the bed, kissing his neck as she tugs his shirt over his head. Her hands trace his torso, fingers hooking into his waistband. He exhales sharply when she undoes his belt. As he pushes off his pants, she whispers in his ear, tightening something deep in his chest.

-I missed you so much, Joon. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. -She kisses him again and again, her palm finding the bulge in his boxers. He sucks in a breath. -I need you so bad.

She kisses down his jaw, his neck, his chest. His stomach tightens as she pulls his boxers down and, without warning, swirls her tongue over the tip of his cock—slow, warm, devastating. Instinctively, his fingers thread through her hair, gripping firmly at the back of her head as she takes him deeper.

Now he’s seeing stars. It takes everything not to lose it immediately. Her lips wrap tight around him, her tongue tracing patterns—wet, messy, perfect in the way she knows drives him insane. The sound of her gagging, his ragged moans, fill the room. She wraps one hand around his base and arches her ass high on the bed, offering herself shamelessly. He can’t resist, leaning forward to grip the flesh so hard it makes her jump. The vibrations of her muffled gasp send shivers tearing through him.

-Fuck yes, just like that, baby. Look at what you do to me.

He watches in mesmerized awe as she leans back, a string of saliva still connecting them. Her hand tightens around him, stroking up and down. Those fucked-out eyes and swollen lips drag him closer to the edge, but he can’t give in yet. Not before he fucks her brains out.

His hand wraps around her throat—firm, not cruel—enough to earn a startled grin. She clasps both hands around his wrist. With a tug, he pulls her up only to push her back down. She lands in the middle of the bed, and he’s on her in seconds, grabbing behind her knees to drag her to the edge.

-I need to be inside you. Right now. -His voice is a demand, and she agrees without hesitation, hips lifting to meet him. He guides the tip to her entrance. They both hold their breath as he sinks in, inch by torturous inch, until he’s buried inside her—sweat slicked, trembling, completely connected. He moans against her ear as she clings to his shoulders.

-Fuck… you were made for me.

Her answer is wordless at first, tears springing to her eyes with the stretch.

-Say it, -He growls. -I want to hear you.

-I was made for you! -She gasps, voice breaking, squirming beneath him to urge his hips into motion. He catches on instantly, their rhythm locking together like puzzle pieces clicking into place. The pleasure is so consuming that their foreheads press together, mouths open, sharing moans and breath.

He could never get enough of this. Of her. Of them.

His thrusts turn rougher, deeper. Her legs lock around him. Skin slaps against skin, the obscene soundtrack he craves. He grips her ass, hauling her tighter as he drives into her, heavy body pressing her down until she’s lightheaded.

-Fuck, I’m all yours, Joon. I belong to you! -she cries—his sweet girl, his cock-drunk girl.

-Yeah, you are. This pussy was made for me. -His hand circles her throat again, thumb pressing lightly as her brows knit in that desperate, vulnerable expression that shreds his chest. -I wish you could see yourself. You’re so beautiful.

-Just like that—I’m close! -She warns, one hand slipping between them. He almost loses it when she rubs her clit, tightening hard around him like a vine. His thrusts falter, erratic, while he struggles to keep his eyes on hers.

Her moans climb higher, his grip on her throat tightens until her cheeks flush and her vision blurs. The knot inside her snaps. She cums hard, clenching around him, body convulsing as white heat floods her veins. She shakes violently, trembling beneath him.

He releases her throat, steadying her hips as she rides out the orgasm. He slows his pace, savoring the way she pulses and trembles around him. But she’s relentless, milking him until he’s dangerously close.

Her legs attempt to close, but he catches her calves and lifts them over his shoulders. Caging her beneath him, he folds her into a stretch that lets him slam deeper than ever. She gasps, eyes rolling back.

-I’m going to cum, -he groans against her ear. Her face tells him she’s overstimulated, but her voice is broken, begging.

-Yes! Yes, Joon, please—cum inside me. I want to feel you.

One hand digs into her shoulder, the other braced against the mattress as he pounds into her with final, brutal thrusts.

-I love you, Joon—I love you! -She cries, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard. That’s what does it. He unravels, spilling hot inside her, groaning her name into her skin.

It takes a long, shaking moment for him to steady enough to roll to the side. He gathers her against his chest, kissing the top of her head over and over as if to prove to himself she’s real, that nothing could take her away again.

-I love you too, Y/N, -He whispers once her breathing softens, heavy with exhaustion. -You know I mean it, right? We’ll work things out. Just trust me—

-I know. -Her hand cups his face, thumb brushing his lower lip. He kisses it without thought. -I mean it too, Joon. I can face anything, as long as I’m with you.

The breath he didn’t know he was holding was finally released. For the first time, he relaxes fully, relief washing through every nerve on his body. For once, he doesn’t hold onto her like a knife; for the first time, she is his. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Check my masterlist.

[sluttysnowangel666]

His Second Child - cregan stark x reader

part 2 to His Second Wife

summary: after returning to Winterfell and restoring the balance of your marriage, cregan finds himself once again haunted by a familiar threat of the past.

cw: pregnant reader, childbirth, mentions of throwing up, blood and graphic descriptions, drinking, angst, crash out cregan, good ending

sorry for that long break yall… if it makes you feel any better this story isn’t over yet 😏

To say your pregnancy had not been kind to you would be an understatement.

Cregan could testify that first hand. He’d seen the way it’d drained you, debilitated you, sickened you; and for that he knew he was to blame.

It was another day. Another day of vomiting and that awful pain in your chest.

You cried, kneeling down on the floor, clutching your chest with your right hand. But, Cregan was there. Night and day, he was by your side. Abiding to your every request before you barely even had the chance to ask it.

“It hurts,” you groaned. “Gods, it hurts so bad.”

“I’m here. I promise I’m here.” Cregan assured you, rubbing your back and holding your stomach so the weight didn’t make you collapse to the floor. “Do you-“

“No, I don’t want milk of the poppy!” You yelled, knowing he would offer it again to ease your pain. You couldn’t bear to take anymore. It felt like you were starting to sleep your life away, and it did little to numb the pain anyway.

You gripped his arm, unintentionally scratching and clawing for relief, but he never once complained about the marks you left. He’d throw himself into a fire if it eased your pain.

“You’re so close, my love. Just a little longer.” Cregan reassured you.

You were hopeful Cregan was right in that. The maester had told you just a few more days and your babe would be here; and thank the gods for that. It had been the most grueling nine months of your life. If anything, you were overdue. The maester had told you nearly a moon ago ‘Just a few more days.’

“Let me help you up.” Cregan says. You place a free hand on the table, knocking over its contents in an attempt to pull yourself up. “Stop it. I’ve got you.”

You concede, letting him carry you onto the bed.

“I’m sorry.” You breathed out, relaxing a bit once you were on the soft mattress.

“Sorry for what?” He asks, naively. It was no secret to anyone in Winterfell the pregnancy had made you short tempered, and poor, poor Cregan faced the dragon’s wrath more than any other maester or maid.

But, your sweet husband was indifferent to your antics. He was an entirely different man from the one you originally married. The wolf who was once stoic and callous to your feelings, now matched your love with a ferocity ten times that of your fire breathing dragon.

And while most people in Winterfell thought your behavior was cross, it was nothing compared to your dragon.

Silverwing, who had been feeling every pain and emotion you were, was ready to wreak havoc on the castle. The dragon keepers who had accompanied you back to Winterfell to help care for her were barely able to maintain her attitude of late.

“I’m just sorry I’ve been so irritable lately.”

“Don’t apologize, my princess.” He says, crawling into the bed beside you. He sweetly kisses your shoulder, softly rubbing circles on your belly.

“Do you wish it to be a boy or a girl?” You ask, tracing your fingers over his.

“I don’t care. As long as you’re both healthy.” He says, still kissing your shoulder.

You hum in response.

“Are you okay?” Cregan asks.

“I’m just scared.”

“Me too.”

You look over at him. His eyes are tired, much like yours. “Have I ever told you how much I love you, Lord Stark?”

“Once or twice.” He teases. You smack his arm. “Do you feel better?”

“For now.”

Your relief had been short-lived, and the maester had once again been incorrect.

In the past nine months you’d been pregnant, you had gotten a combined total of maybe four hours of sleep. You stirred and awoke constantly, lying there with your eyes open for hours. Halfway through your pregnancy, Cregan had a scheduled time that the maester brought you tea to help you sleep.

But, instead this time of you waking up naturally, Cregan stirred you awake.

You opened your eyes slowly, your blood immediately coursing with rage.

Silverwing growled outside in the distance.

“Cregan Stark,” You said, staring at the ceiling. “Why am I awake right now?”

“You need to get up.” He said, lighting the hearth. His voice was low, calm, but you noticed the slightest tremble in his voice, and underneath that exterior he was losing it.

“Why?”

Cregan pulled the covers off you, and the sight below was not pleasant.

The bed was soaked, to say the least; a mix of fluid and blood staining your sheets.

“Oh, no.”

Cregan scoops you up effortlessly, carrying you down the silent halls to the birthing chambers.

“You’re awake this whole pregnancy, and yet the moment the time comes you’re sleeping like a rock.” He says, his pace quickening.

“I still wish you hadn’t woke me.” You grumble.

You reach the door, but he hesitates. You look up at him.

“Cregan?”

“I… I can’t go in there.” His exterior folds. You knew it. You knew the significance, knew what it meant to him, knew the loss he was remembering.

“No, please, I can’t do this alone. You have to.” You beg. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and you sense the panic returning to him he had felt once before.

“Cregan, look at me.” You tilt his face so he’s looking down at yours. “I need you.”

He nods

and steps into the room.

You thought the pregnancy was bad, but you were severely mistaken.

The labor was agonizing. It felt as if you were being cut open from the inside out. Your screams echoed with Silverwing’s roars. No one in Winterfell slept for the days you were in labor.

Cregan was with you, holding you how the midwives guided him.

“I’ll get snow.” He says, standing.

“No, stay!” You cried out. He paused, turning and looking at the blood stained sheets. That was all it took; he passed out on the spot. A man who had slain animals and traitors, unconscious on the ground at the sight of his wife’s blood.

“My Lord!” The maester cried out, immediately turning his attention away from you and unto Cregan.

“Seven hells!” You cried out in pain and anger, slamming your hands on the bed. The maester had to enlist eight women to drag Cregan out of the room to rest, since any man besides the two were not allowed in the birthing chambers.

Cregan awoke not long after, slightly disoriented but okay nevertheless. He immediately rushed to the birthing chambers, only stopping when he ran into Sara.

“No, Cregan, you should really wait out here.” She warns. “I don’t think you can handle it.

“For Gods sake, Sara, she sounds like she’s dying in there!” Cregan yells, feeling as though he’s losing control of the situation around him.

“She’ll be fine. The maester and midwives are with her.” He scoffs, waving her away, turning and resting his head on his forearm against the wall.

Your screams echo in his head, bouncing back and forth like a marble. He falls to his knees, sobbing, knowing he can’t do anything. Just like he couldn’t the first time.

“Please,” He cries. “please don’t take her too.”

A string of curse words leave his lips, as his sadness goes to anger, and back to sadness when he hears your cries for him.

“Cregan!”

He stands, turning and pushing past his sister back into the birthing chambers.

Cregan’s eyes lock onto yours. Your forehead is sweaty, your face pale and flushed, and your breathing is rapid. Too rapid.

He sits behind you, holding you up against his chest. “I’m here, my princess. I told you, I’m always here.”

His words comfort you, but they do nothing for himself as he silently cries into your hair.

After four more agonizing hours, you finally succeed.

“I see the head! Just a few more pushes, princess.” The midwife tells you.

“You’re so close.” Cregan whispers. “You’re almost there.”

Your nails dig into his arms so hard they bleed.

“I’m with you,” He says. You sob. “You’re so strong.”

Push.

“It’s just me and you.”

Push.

“I love you so dearly.”

And then, white.

Your eyes are blinded, your ears ring, and the pressure is finally, finally gone.

“You did it, princess!” Sara’s voice is muffled.

The room is fuzzy as you try to scan your surroundings when your vision recovers.

“Cregan?” You mumble out. Your eyes focus just enough to make him out, cradling your babe in his arms.

“A girl.” Cregan laughs, incredulously. He looks at you. “You did so well, my love.”

“Hm.” You laugh a little. He kneels beside the bed.

“Do you want to…” His voice trails off. “Princess?”

Your eyes are glazed over, staring past him. The rising and falling of your chest slows.

“Gods, no.” He panics. “No, no, no.”

He hands the babe to Sara and turns just as your eyes drift shut, lifting you into his chest. His left hand grips your cheeks, patting you in the face a few times to try to gauge a reaction. But, your body is dead weight, arms falling limp at your sides.

“Stop, no, no.” He cries. “Don’t leave me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t leave me, please.”

“I can’t lose you.”

He presses his lips to yours, kissing you in hopes it will keep you here.

“My lord, step aside and let the maester help her.” A midwife warns him.

Cregan sets you down, watching in fear as the maester and midwives do compressions on your chest.

He gags, stepping out of the room. The sight is unbearable to witness, and it’s as though Cregan feels a thousand emotions in that one moment.

He’s angry at you for leaving him, angry at the Gods for taking you, angry at himself for getting you pregnant in the first place. There was no reason for him to, he already had an heir. Now, his actions would lead you to be the greatest loss of his life.

Cregan walks outside, the blistering cold hitting him in the face. Your dragon roars at him, ready to take his life for taking yours, he assumes. But, he pushes forward to the Weirwood tree.

He falls to his knees the second he reaches it, praying out loud in tears for the Gods to undo this mess he created. His hands grip the snow to anchor him, as he gasps for air in the bitter cold. He felt stuck, like if he got up then it was all real and not some terrible nightmare. He refused to move for hours, his fingers nearly getting frostbite from the snow.

Cregan looks up at the crying Weirwood, anger flushing through him again. He stands, drawing his Valyrian steel sword Ice and swinging it at the tree, over and over as the bark drops to the snow in pieces.

“Cregan!” Sara cries out. “Your sword!”

He drops it to the ground, the steel unfazed to Cregan’s wrath.

“Why are you here?” He asks, his voice low and warning.

“She’s gonna be fine-“

“You don’t bloody well know that!” He yells.

“I do.” She assures softly, “The maester said she’ll be out for a few days but she’ll recover.”

Cregan says nothing, turning on his heels to return inside, leaving his sword on the ground.

“Cregan!” Sara yells after him again. She grabs his sword, dragging its weight on the ground as she struggles to keep up with his pace.

“Seven hells, this is heavy.” She groans.

She follows Cregan into the dining hall, where he sits and commands a servant to bring him ale.

“Cregan.” Sara sighs, dropping his sword and panting. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” He says, not even bothering to pour the ale into the cup, just drinking it straight from the flagon.

“No, Cregan, no. Listen to me, brother.” She says, walking to him and kneeling in front of him, placing her hands on his knees. “You cannot fall apart right now.”

He ignores her, shaking his head as he drinks. “Go away.”

Sara cries out, frustrated. “You are such a fool!”

“Just fuck off, Sara!” He yells. She snatches the flagon, throwing it against the wall as she storms out.

“Bring me another.” Cregan commands the servant.

He drinks again, and again, and again, and again.

“Get up.”

Cregan groans at the kick someone just landed to his rib cage. His head is spinning, and his furs are cold and wet against his body from the snow that had melted beneath him.

He rolls from his stomach to his back, and the world spins around him as if he’s falling over and over again.

“Where am I?” Cregan groans out.

“You fucking fool. Get up now.” The voice is coming back to him, but he’s still too drunk to put a face to it. He keeps his eyes shut tight, knowing he’d be blinded by the snow the second he opened them.

Another kick to his rib cage.

“Do that again and I will take your head.” Cregan spits.

“You’ll do no such thing, Stark.”

Jacaerys.

“Is that my brother in law?” Cregan asks, finally opening and eyes and squinting at you’re brunette brother.

“Aye.” Jace affirms. “So, you need to get up right now and come back with me to Winterfell.”

“We’re not in Winterfell?” Cregan wipes the sleep from his eyes, anchoring his hands and knees on the ground to push himself up.

“I swear, Lord Stark, sometimes it seems as though you are asking for my mother to kill you before she even kills the Hightowers.”

“Let her.” Cregan lays back down, “Tell her I’ll be waiting right here.”

“No need.” Jacaerys says. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Ready when you are.” Cregan’s arms lay flat by his sides, awaiting death, but Jacaerys is having none of it. Jace grabs Cregan by the collar, ripping him to his feet.

Cregan stumbles into him but eventually stands, pushing Jacaerys off him.

“I’m not going back there.”

“My sister is recovering in your home and you’re refusing to return? Have you gone mad?” Jacaerys asks.

Cregan stops, “She’s alive?”

“You think I’d be here if she wasn’t? Wasting time trying to get you back there?”

“But, I saw her die.”

“And she did,” Jace says, “until the maester brought her back.”

Cregan recalls his conversation with Sara, but he thought she’d been lying in an attempt to calm him.

“By the old Gods…” Cregan mumbles to himself, pressing his palm to his forehead. He’d been reckless, too reckless.

“Your daughter, my niece, sits unnamed and awaiting your return. Not to mention the anger my sister will have when she finds out her child has been with a wet nurse, but you were no where to be found to deny that from happening. Were you, Stark?” Jacaerys lectures Cregan.

Cregan doesn’t respond, instead turning and eyeing his surroundings. “Is this Mole’s Town?”

“It is.” Jacaerys says. “And should my poor sister ever find out you’ve been with some common street whore-“

“I’d never.” Cregan interrupts.

“Really? Not even if you thought she was dead?”

“Never.”

Jace says nothing, simply watching Cregan’s features to reveal any sign of a lie, yet there is none.

They rode back in silence to Winterfell, giving Cregan plenty of time to be alone in his head with his thoughts and guilt. Jacaerys was livid to be on horseback, having left his dragon at Winterfell in hopes being on the ground would give him a better advantage at finding Cregan. But, Cregan was indifferent to his brother in law’s anger.

All he could think was that he saw you die, saw the life drain from your eyes… and he could not live with himself anymore for knowing he’d been the reason. You, who had become an even greater love to him than his first wife. Now, he just wishes he hadn’t acted so rashly.

“Had she woken?” Cregan finally asks.

“She’s in and out of sleep. The maester has given her lots of milk of the poppy.”

“How long have I been gone?” Cregan asks, truthfully not knowing how long ago he had started drinking. The horse ride to Mole’s Town was a blur, as well as the nights he’d spent drinking alone at an inn.

“Four days, including the day and a half trip.” Jacaerys gives him an unfriendly look.

“And, your mother?” Cregan asks, afraid to face Rhaenyra’s wrath while his head is still cloudy with ale.

“Will be here shortly.” Jace smirks at Cregan, “I’m excited, really. It will be my first time seeing a man get eaten by a dragon. A Stark, nonetheless.”

Cregan sighs again, knowing he deserved whatever torturous punishment your mother had in mind; whether that meant her fire breathing dragon or her Valyrian Steel itself.

The two men arrived to Winterfell a day or so later, with Cregan immediately rushing to get himself cleaned up. Despite the day and a half horse ride from Mole’s Town he had still not yet recovered from his hangover.

He sat in the tub, a wash cloth covering his eyes. The water was such a nice warm reprieve, loosening his muscles that had become stiff and sore from the cold.

The door opened, and assuming it was a servant he said, “Leave me be.”

It was silent for a moment.

“We can’t keep meeting like this, my lord husband.”

Cregan sat up, pulling the cloth from his eyes. He couldn’t believe it.

There you were.

You were okay; radiant and glowing like dragon fire in his eyes, but to others your ailment was clear.

He stood, wrapping his waist with the towel and stepping out to greet you.

You smiled, hiding the ache it took to even do that, as he wrapped his arms around you. He nestled his head in your neck, rubbing his hands up and down your back as if he needed to make sure you were real.

“By the old gods…” He cried into you.

“I’m okay.” You whispered, hoping to assure him. “I’m okay, my love.”

“I thought you left me.”

“I’d never.”

“Thank you.” He whispers, not to you… but to the Gods for keeping you here.

He hugs you for so long, refusing to let go. If he did, he feared you’d slip away.

“Cregan,” You hum, “where have you been?”

He pulls away to look at you, “How’d you know I’ve been gone?”

“Believe it or not, you still reek of wine and ale. It smells rather cheap, actually.” You say, eyes steady on his. He sighs in defeat.

“Mole’s Town-“ You cut him off, grabbing him by his hair. Cregan winces, falling to his knees like a scared dog.

“What?! How dare you!” You cry out.

“My wife, let me-“ You tug on his hair harder. “Gods, I’m so in love with you right right now.”

“Be quiet. Why in the seven hells were you in Mole’s Town?”

“I was drinking, nothing more. I swear it.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I thought I lost you. I just wanted… I just- I couldn’t live in a world where I killed both of you.”

You say nothing, knowing what he was referring to. You knew the guilt he felt losing Aly, but you had no idea of the guilt he felt thinking he lost you.

“Where’s our child?”

He hesitates, and you pull his hair again. “Cregan Stark!”

“With a wet nurse.” He winces, afraid you might strike him for that one.

“Oh, seven fucking…” You trail off, leaving the room in search of your daughter. Cregan follows, still holding only a towel at his waist.

You storm in the babe’s room, eyes scanning until they landed on the nurse holding your babe.

“We fed her bottles only, princess!” She says, standing to immediately defend herself.

You relax a bit, but you’re still panting with adrenaline.

“Will you sit down, please? You’ve been on your feet a while.” Cregan asks, pushing you into a chair. “Let her take the babe.”

The nurse hands you your daughter, who’s still sleeping softly despite your yelling.

“Shall I, um… bring you clothes, my lord?” The wet nurse asks, needing a reason to excuse herself.

“Please.” He says, sitting next to you as she exits. Your anger that once flourished had now disappeared entirely.

“She looks just like you.” Cregan says, watching you watch your babe.

“Yes,” You hum, touching her curly brown hair. “except the Stark genes are strong.”

“What shall we call her?” He asks. “Something Targaryen?”

“No… She’s a Stark.” You say, “I like Lyanna.”

Cregan kisses your temple, “I still can’t believe you’re here. I feel as though I’m dreaming.”

“If this is a dream, then I never want to wake up.”

“Say hi. Wave hi to father.” You say, making Lyanna wave with her fat little hand.

Cregan smiles from the court yard, waving back at you both.

“Say hi to sissy.” He tells Rickon.

“Hi, sissy.” Rickon says, waving. You make Lya wave again.

“Come in.” You mouth quietly to Cregan, who works on training with Rickon.

“What for?” He mouths back, playing dumb. You roll your eyes, still smiling at him though, and he winks.

He still knew how to make your heart skip a beat.

“Your father is annoying.” You tell Lya, who says nothing in response, only teething on her wooden toy.

Cregan walks up the steps to you, holding Rickon’s hand.

“We’ve just agreed that you’re annoying.” You tease.

“Funny. I heard nothing from this little one.” Cregan says, kissing Lyanna’s head. She reaches out for him.

“Oh, did you say something, my princess?” He teases back. You roll your eyes, handing Lya to her father.

“Only four moons old and you’re the fattest little babe I’ve met.” He says, tickling Lya’s stomach.

“That’s not nice.” Rickon pouts.

“Right as ever, my summer love.” You tell him, picking him up with a strain. Cregan rests his hand on your back.

“I’m fine.” You assure him. “Let’s go rest, hm?”

You go to you and Cregan’s shared chambers, both of you lying down and resting with the children in your bed.

Cregan tells Rickon and Lya a story, gently putting them to sleep. Your eyes start to drift closed soon too, until he wakes you.

“That was supposed to be for them to sleep.” He teases.

“Apologies,” You say, stretching. “You’re a good story teller.”

He stares at you, longingly like a puppy, yet you can’t quite read what he’s feeling. “What?”

“I just love you.” He says. “I love you so much it hurts my heart.”

“I love you, too.” You smile. “You know…”

“What?”

“Can you believe we’ve only been together twice?”

“No.” He says, shaking his head. “It’s been more than that.”

“No, it hasn’t.” You say. “I used to keep track of how many times I’d been in your room. I lost count after a while, but of all the times I’ve been in here we’ve only done it twice.”

He sits there, thinking.

“The consummation.” You remind him. “Then… well, you know.”

“I can never tell you enough how sorry I am for that.” He says again. It was probably only the thousandth time you heard it.

You pause, “Why don’t you show me?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“Show me how sorry you are.”

“You don’t want that, my princess.” He says, “I’ll have you begging for mercy.”

“You threaten me with a good time.” You tempt.

He bites his gloved fist, an attempt to restrain himself.

“Will you accompany me to my council chambers, princess?”

[lolxdswag123]

Personal Heater

Leo Valdez x Reader

Author's note: this is farrrrrrr from my best work, but I wrote it a long time ago and I'm trying to clear out my drafts so I hope u enjoy :)

Summary: Leo Valdez is your best friend. Not anything more, not anything less. You know he has nobody to spend the holidays with, so you invite him to come stay with your family. Both of you are unsure what this means for the future of your relationship.

I walked quickly down the street, but carefully enough to make sure that I wouldn’t slip. I was at home for winter break, and it was freezing. I had just run to the store to get some last-minute groceries for my mom, since she was cooking dinner tonight for my family.

My mom always liked to have a nice dinner with everybody around the holidays, but this time she’s putting in extra effort because I invited my best friend to join us. Leo left camp and was taking a train from New York to my home town to meet my family for the first time. I had told my mother that he had a rough home-life— if you can even call it that— when he was growing up, so she wanted to make sure everything was extra special tonight.

Leo had been in my life for a few years now, and I’d spoken about him to my family countless times. We’d slowly gotten closer over time, and my mother was thrilled when I mentioned the possibility of him visiting for the holidays.

I clutched the grocery bag to my chest, carefully stepping over patches of ice on the sidewalk. I could see my breath in front of my face, although most of my face was completely numb already. I checked my watch, seeing that it was only 2 o’clock. Leo’s train wouldn’t arrive until 4, and then it was just a short walk to pick him up from the train station. Even in the ten degree weather, I felt a warmth in my chest just thinking about his arrival.

After I made it home, I kicked off my boots and immediately headed to the kitchen to set down the grocery bag, greeting my mother. She nodded to me, thanking me but then immediately shooed me off so I wouldn’t get in her way.

I headed upstairs to change into nicer clothes and put on some makeup. I checked my watch every five minutes, anxiously awaiting the time that I would have to leave to pick up my best friend from the train station.

As soon as I sat down to relax for a moment, I heard the doorbell ring.

“Get the door, it’s your grandparents!” My mom called out from the kitchen.

I hurried down the stairs, not wanting to keep them waiting. I opened the door, smiling brightly and greeting them. They entered my house, setting down bags of gifts and giving me big hugs.

I lead them to the living room, now having the job of entertaining since my mother was still working in the kitchen.

After they got settled, I checked my watch again. 3:15. Only thirty minutes and I’d be leaving to pick up Leo. I smiled at the thought.

“So,” my grandfather grumbles, “I hear your boyfriend is joining us this year.”

I blush, “he’s not my boyfriend, but yes, Leo is joining us this year.”

My grandmother tilts her head, furrowing her eyebrows, “Oh, but I thought he was your boyfriend. You sure talk about him like he is.”

I shook my head, now slightly uncomfortable. I really hoped that they wouldn’t say anything like that around him. Leo and I truly were just friends, but we had a lot of almost moments— like we almost kissed— we almost had a conversation about what we were, but it got interrupted— enough almost moments that I wondered if we would ever almost be together. I wanted to. I knew I did. I’d never brought anyone to meet my family. But I wasn’t sure how he felt, and I definitely didn’t want Leo to feel uncomfortable if my grandparents brought it up. He would already be nervous enough meeting everyone for the first time.

The door bell rang again, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s your aunt!” My mom called, meaning I needed to get the door again.

I stood, heading back to the door to greet my aunt, uncle, and two cousins. I brought them to the livingroom, and they handed me a bag of gifts as well.

“We brought one for Leo, too.” My aunt said, which made me smile. They were going to love him. I checked my watch again, it was almost time to leave.

My uncle sat down in front of the fireplace, working to get a fire started.

“Is the heat on?” He asked, looking up at me. I shrugged, calling out to my mom, “is the heat on?”

“Yes!” She said, sounding annoyed. “Isn’t it time for you to go get Leo?”

I confirmed, excusing myself and went back to my room to dress for the weather. I put on my heaviest coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves, and I knew I’d still be freezing.

I left my house, shivering as I trekked down the street to the train station. It was only a few blocks, but this weather made it feel like five miles.

By the time I got there, I entered the train station to see that the train had just arrived. People filtered out, and I scanned the crowd looking for my best friend.

I heard, “Mi vida!” to my side and I spun around, instantly smiling and giving him the biggest hug. He was warm. Of course he was, but he felt even warmer with this weather. He also had the faintest smell of camp fire. It was a comfort that I’d grown to adore over the years.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” I said into his shoulder.

“Me too,” he pulled away, holding my shoulders and grinning, “I am so relieved to be away from camp. Nobody there knows how to have fun for the holidays.” He rambled, “I told Clarisse she reminds me of the grinch, and I swear she wanted to chase me the whole way to the train station.”

I laughed, shaking my head at him.

“And I’m happy to see you too, of course, mi vida,” he said, looking me up and down flirtatiously. He liked to flirt.

I smiled, pushing his arm lightly, “We’d better get back. My mom is going to freak if nobody helps her set the table.”

The walk back felt shorter than the walk there. I was shivering the whole time, but Leo kept an arm around me, which helped a lot. He only had a backpack with him, so not a lot to carry. He was only supposed to be there for the night, then he’d be returning to camp tomorrow afternoon.

“This is it,” I said, as we walked up the walkway to my front door.

He stopped walking, and I turned back around to see him straightening his shirt, and running a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, looking at the house, then back at me, and said, “Do you think they’ll like me?”

I took a step closer to him, reaching out a hand to rest on his arm. “They’re going to love you.” I said.

He nodded, taking another deep breath before we entered my house.

“We’re back!” I called out, taking Leo’s coat and backpack and placing them on the stairs for later.

“About time, come help set the table!” My mom called from the kitchen, and I hear the sound of silverware clinking together.

“Told ya,” I said, looking up at Leo. He straightened his shirt again when we walked into the kitchen.

“Mom,” I said, “this is Leo.”

She turned from where she was stirring a pot on the stove, “Ah! Leo!” She smiled brightly, bringing him in for a hug, “it’s so great to finally meet you, we’re so happy to have you here.”

He smiled, accepting the hug, “Great to meet you too, Ms. l/n.”

I smiled, he obviously practiced his manners.My mom looked at me— not so discreetly— nodding with approval. I smiled, turning to grab the placemats and silverware.

“Want to help?” I asked Leo, who seemed like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

“Of course,” he said, immediately grabbing a stack of plates and following me into the dining room.

We set the table quickly, and just as he finished laying out the plates I walked over to him, sensing his discomfort.

I took his hands in mine, catching his eyes and said, “You okay?”

He nodded, smiling, but I could see a flicker of sadness behind his eyes. “This is great,” he said.

I frowned, reaching out a hand to brush a curl out of his face, “Thinking about your mom?” I asked, being able to read him like a book.

He looked down, as if embarrassed that that’s what he was thinking about, but nodded.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry, Leo.”

Truthfully, I knew that deep down this would bother him to an extent. He hadn’t had a real family holiday since his mom passed when he was little. I had just hoped that this would help to close that wound, even slightly, showing him that he does have family that cares about him. Or maybe almost has family. I blushed at the thought, shaking my head.

He cracked a grin, but I could still see the sadness in his eyes. “Ready to show me off to the rest of your family, mi vida?”

I smiled, nodding, and took his hand, leading him to the family room. My uncle was still on the floor— clearly struggling to get the fire started— and the rest of my family was sitting around, discussing politics— of course. Seriously though, why does that have to be brought up at every family gathering?

I cleared my throat, happily interrupting them and squeezed Leo’s hand. “Everyone, this is Leo, Leo, this is my family.” I announced.

The adults immediately stood, giving him hugs and welcoming him. He seemed to brighten up, making small talk with all of them and getting to know every body. My younger cousins sat there, playing on their iPads.

Everyone sat back down, and my grandfather invited Leo to sit next to him. They seemed to hit it off, which made me extremely happy.

After a little bit more small talk, the youngest of my cousins looked up from her iPad, looking between Leo and I. She pointed at him, then pointed back at me.

She spoke up, still pointing at me, “Is he your boyfriend?” She asked, innocently.

I smiled, but I felt heat rush to my face as I looked at Leo awkwardly. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed by the question at all.

“No,” I replied, “just a friend.”

I met Leo’s eyes again, this time he looked at me confused, but shook it off and went back into conversation with my grandfather.

“Dinner’s ready!” My mom called, and I heard bowls being set on the table in the dining room.

My family slowly stood, leaving the room to head to the dining room.

My uncle spoke up, still sitting on the floor, “I couldn’t get the fire started,” he got to his feet, “guess I’ll have to keep trying after dinner.”

I glanced at Leo, unsure how comfortable he felt around my family.

“I’ll try.” He said, taking my uncle’s place on the ground, and messing around with a few things.

My uncle looked at me with a raised eyebrow, “he’s good at these things,” I shrugged.

Within seconds, a fire was burning in the fire place. Leo stood up, grinning and giving me a thumbs up, before taking my hand and walking toward the dining room. My uncle stood there, jaw dropped for a moment before following us as well.

We gathered around the table, saying grace before the meal began.

“So Leo…” my grandfather said, coughing before continuing, “Your father is… what’s his name…” he thought for a moment, before saying, “Hephaestus, right?”

Leo nodded, looking pleasantly surprised. “Yes, sir.”

My grandfather nodded, grumbling something about, “much better than my daughter’s choice…”

My mother scolded him, “Dad!”

My mother had told her parents and my aunt and uncle about my father’s true identity after she had gotten pregnant. They’d even met my father a few times, which is more than I’d ever seen him. They still weren’t sure how to feel about the whole Greek god thing, but they seemed to understand better than most mortals did.

“Now, Leo,” my grandmother chimed in, “does your father get along with y/n’s father?” She asked, dabbing her napkin on her face.

I felt Leo’s hand on my knee under the table before he spoke, “Yes ma’am, Hephaestus and Apollo get along well.”

“Well that’s good…” my grandmother nodded, winking at me. I rolled my eyes, but smiled at their approval.

Leo squeezed my knee, giving me a side smile before turning back to his meal.

After dinner, we all gathered back in the living room. Leo respectfully asked my mother if he could help clean up, to which she accepted.

My younger cousins took it upon themselves to pass out presents to everyone. It wasn’t yet Christmas, but my family had a tradition of opening one gift early every year.

Leo and my mother exited the kitchen, chatting quietly, a smile on both of their faces. My heart warmed, and I patted the seat next to me for him to take. My little cousin handed him his gift, and his face lit up.

We all went around opening gifts. When it got around to me, I opened my gift, and it was a mistletoe decoration. I gasped, looking around the room for who the culprit could’ve been. My aunt was laughing, and I rolled my eyes.

“You love holiday decorations, I thought it was perfect!” She laughed, teasing me.

“Right,” I laughed, “thank you.” I rolled my eyes, closing the box that my gift was in.

I looked over to Leo, who seemed to think that my aunt’s joke was hilarious. He looked at me, attempting to push away his laughter and asked, “is it my turn?”

I nodded.

He opened his gift, I had no idea what it could be. I hoped it wasn’t a romantic gag gift like mine. I could only take so much teasing.

Leo opened the box, pulling out a miniature tool kit. It was perfect. He beamed, smiling brightly, “Thank you so much! This is awesome!”

My aunt smiled, “Y/n had told us that you like to build things, so I thought it would be a good idea.”

“It’s perfect,” Leo said, “thank you so much.”

After gifts, the night eventually winded down. Everyone was tired after their big meals, and it had started to get even colder since the sun went down. My grandfather had turned on the news, which really started to put everyone to sleep.

My grandmother stood, hitting my grandfather lightly to stop him from dozing off. “We’d better get going before it gets too late.” She said, hugging my mother.

She hugged me, then hugged Leo, saying, “it was lovely to meet you, dear. We hope to see you again soon.” She winked at me, shuffling into the kitchen to get her coat. Leo nodded, saying goodbye and I could almost see a light blush on his face.

My grandfather said his goodbyes as well, and as soon as they were out the door my aunt gasped. “Look at that!” She said, pointing to the tv.

The tv showed a storm coming straight toward us, and the weatherman had said that there was a predicted 8 inches of snow by the morning. My aunt and uncle immediately stood, gathering the children to get their coats on and get ready to leave.

“It was so lovely to meet you, dear,” my aunt said, giving Leo a quick hug. “Y/n can you come here for a minute?”

I nodded, following her to the door as she gathered her family’s belongings. “I like him.” She said, nudging my arm.

“Me too,” I said, grinning back at her, and helping her grab her purse and gifts.

“Maybe the gift I got you will come in handy,” she said, winking at me and taking her things from my hands.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head, “I don’t think so, but thank you.”

“You never know,” she said, walking back to the livingroom to get her family.

After everyone left, it was just my mom, Leo, and myself in the livingroom working to clean up the trash from the gifts. I looked through the trash near where I was sitting, but I couldn’t find my gift anywhere. I thought that maybe my little cousin had grabbed it by mistake, and ignored the thought. I didn’t need it anyways.

We chatted for a little bit, my mom and Leo getting to know each other better. Soon, the conversation died. Leo moved to put out the fire.

“Are you two okay if I go to bed? I am exhausted,” my mother said after a bit, yawning with her words.

“Of course,” I said, standing up to say goodnight.

“Thank you so much for having me,” Leo said, smiling at her.

“We’re happy to have you. You’re welcome any time, Leo,” my mother said, standing to give me a hug, before bidding us goodnight and heading up the stairs.

I stayed standing, stretching and saying, “I think I’m going to head to bed too, I’m pretty tired.”

Leo stood up too, agreeing with me.

We headed up the stairs, grabbing his things on the way, and I showed him to the guest room. I secretly wanted him to stay in my room, but I wasn’t going to push it. There had been too many comments made about the nature of our relationship tonight, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel pressured in any way.

When we entered the guest room, he set his things down and sat on the bed. I reached out, giving him a hug, and was about to say goodnight when he spoke, "Do you actually want to hangout for a bit? I missed you and I wanted some time for just us."

I was shocked at how serious his voice sounded. Being around my family brought out a different side of Leo, a side where it seemed he didn't feel the need to deflect his feelings with humor. It felt weird, but I was relieved to know he could be his authentic self around them.

"You know, mi amor, some alone time," He said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I rolled my eyes. There it was.

"Sure, can I just change quick? Then I'll be back." I said, looking at him for confirmation.

His face cracked into a huge grin, and he said, "Why wait? Can't I just come with?"

I rolled my eyes again, backing away and leaving the room laughing. Maybe he just kept the joking to a minimum around my family so they didn't think we were together more than they already did.

As I got changed, I thought about his words. To be honest, they did have an effect on me. It made me nervous sometimes, even though I knew he was always joking. I think what made me nervous was that I almost didn't want him to be.

I shook my thoughts away, trying to allow myself to just enjoy the night, and slipped on a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top. Even in the winter, my room was so warm. Anything more than this and I would've been cooking.

I slid on a pair of slippers and headed back down the hall to the guest room. I knocked quietly, and the door swung open. Leo stood there, the same goofy grin on his face as when I left.

He leaned on the door frame, trying to look smooth and said, "So, do you come here often, or are you just here to set my heart on fire?"

I rolled my eyes, "Ha ha, very funny," I said, pushing past him and sitting on the bed. He stood there for another second, before quietly closing the door and coming to join me on the bed.

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. It was much colder in here than in my room.

"Cold, mi vida?" He asked, scooting closer to me.

"Yeah," I nodded, "My room is way warmer."

"Is this your way of trying to get me in your bed?" He asked suggestively.

"Leo!" I said, shaking my head again, although that comment did make my mouth feel dry. I wondered if I should test the waters. He flirted all the time, so why couldn't I? "Actually, yes, it is." I said, looking at him for a reaction.

He looked at me with wide eyes, unsure if I was being serious or not. I cracked a smile, seeing how his own game affected him.

"I'm just messing with you, dummy," I said, laughing lightly.

I got under the covers, still freezing, but he still was looking at me as if he had more to say.

"What's up?" I asked when I got settled under the covers. I lifted the other side for him to get under too, and he immediately obliged.

He had finally looked away, but he had an intent look on his face. I worried that I might've taken the joke too far. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything at all.

He got fully under the blankets, and turned on his side to look at me. I turned on mine as well to face him. He looked like he wanted to say something.

"What's up?" I asked again.

He shook his head, before opening his mouth, then closing it again.

"Leo?" I asked, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder.

"Your cousin asked if I'm your boyfriend," he said, his expression hard to read.

"Yeah..." I said awkwardly, removing my hand and looking down at my fingers, "Sorry about that, my family was a little confused when I said you were coming to visit..."

"Sooooo..." he drew out quietly, "Then what did you tell them we are, sunshine?" He asked, studying my face.

I looked back up at him, suddenly feeling trapped. I laughed, trying to hide my discomfort and said, "Friends?"

He looked away, shaking his head. I could tell something had hurt him. It was the same look he got earlier when he was thinking about his mom. It hurt me to see it.

I moved closer to him, trying to catch his eyes, "What's going on, Leo?"

He continued looking away. I could see him tapping on the mattress between us. I had never learned morse code, but I recognized it when he was using it. He tapped through the same code a few times, before looking up at me and saying, "...I just... I don't know, forget it."

I shook my head, taking his hand in mine and moving even closer, so that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Tell me." I whispered.

He paused, pursing his lips, squeezed my hand three times, and started picking at a loose string on the sheets with his other hand before saying, "I just have never been home with someone like this before. Your family was so good to me. I kind of thought that since you were bringing me home..." he trailed off again, hesitating before eventually pulling the string out of the sheets all together and saying, "I just thought that it meant we were more than that."

He finally made eye contact with me, waiting for my response. I smiled, looking at him to make sure I had heard him right.

Maybe it didn't always have to be almost. Maybe now it could be real.

I nodded, smiling gently, "It does mean that we're more than that."

He studied my face, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "So you were trying to get me in your bed all along. I knew it." he said, the grin taking over his face.

I shrugged, more confident this time. "I wouldn't complain."

He nodded, smirking wide and reaching into his pocket, pulling out a wad of something unrecognizable. He was always carrying weird things in his pockets.

Then I realized. It was the mistletoe decoration. The one that my aunt had gotten me. He was the reason I couldn't find it earlier.

I let out a loud laugh, realizing what his plan was. He chuckled, not being able to take himself seriously as he held the mistletoe over our heads.

He looked up at it, "You know, it's kind of like the law that you have to kiss me now."

"Well, we can't argue with that, can we?" I said, letting him lean close to me.

Finally, his lips touched mine. The kiss was soft, light, but still set me on fire. Suddenly I was much more aware of how cold the room was, and how warm his lips were. We pulled away, foreheads pressed together, feeling each other's breaths on our faces.

I couldn't find the smile on my face. "It's about time," I breathed, shivering.

He grinned, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into him. "You cold?" he asked, rubbing my back up and down.

"Yeah," I nodded, tucking my head into his neck.

He kissed the side of my head, tugging me even closer. My heart fluttered at the feeling.

"Oh shit!" Leo exclaimed abruptly, "it's snowing hard."

I turned around in his grip, looking to the window. He was right. It was snowing like crazy. I could practically feel the cold coming in through the window. I shivered again.

I turned back to Leo, smiling and whispering, "How would you feel about getting snowed in here for a couple extra days?"

He grinned, whispering back, "A couple days in bed with my girl? I'd say I just won the lottery."

I smiled, shivering again, "Want to go to my room? It's freezing in here."

He nodded, but smirked, "You just really want to get me in your bed, don't ya?"

"Maybe," I said, shrugging. I quickly got out of bed, eager to hurry to my room for the extra warmth. He followed me, and as soon as we got into my room we immediately jumped into bed.

I felt so peaceful, and so much more at home than I normally felt here. I hoped that he felt the same. My room was much warmer, but there was still a chill in the air. I smiled at him, reaching out to bring him close to me. He wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face my neck.

We got settled under the blankets, closer than we'd ever been. My heart was beating quickly, pure joy pulsing through me.

"I'm so glad you came," I whispered.

"Me too, baby," he whispered.

[radioactivatedspider]

Before the Cape

Main Masterlist 2013 Superman Masterlist

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Pairings; Clark Kent (2013) x reader

Genre; Romance, Domestic Fluff, Slice of Life, Pre-Superman Canon Divergence

Warnings; Mild sexual content, implied intimacy, soft language, mentions of alcohol (wine at dinner if you choose), general fluff overload

Summary: Before Clark Kent ever became Superman, he and his girlfriend Y/N built a simple, joyful life on the Kent farm with Martha and their dog. Between chores, cooking, laughter, and tender nights together, Clark found peace in love and home—long before the world would ever know his name.

565 words

Life on the Kent farm had its own rhythm. The rooster always crowed before the sun fully broke the horizon, the kitchen windows filled with golden light by seven, and by then, Clark was already pulling on his boots.

But Y/N was the only one who could convince him to pause.

This morning, she leaned against the doorframe, holding his coffee mug out like a lure. “You’ll get more done with caffeine,” she teased, the corners of her lips tugging into a smile.

Clark grinned as he reached for the mug, his hand brushing over hers. He was big and strong, but in moments like this, his gentleness felt louder than all that raw strength. “You spoil me,” he said, before taking a sip.

“It’s called balance,” Y/N replied, watching him drink. “You do all the heavy lifting, I keep you alive with caffeine and pancakes.”

Martha Kent shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later, amused at the sight of them dancing between the stove and the counter. Y/N had flour streaked across her cheek, and Clark was standing behind her, arms wrapping around her waist as he tried to sneak a bite of bacon.

“Don’t even think about it, Kent,” Y/N scolded, elbowing him back toward the table.

Martha only smiled, eyes soft. She hadn’t seen her son this carefree in years.

After breakfast, the day rolled into laughter-filled chores. Y/N tossed sticks across the yard for Shelby, the dog bounding joyfully after them while Clark stacked hay like it weighed nothing. Every so often, Y/N would stop and just… watch him. The way the sun caught in his dark hair, how he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He didn’t notice the way she looked at him, but Martha did—from the porch—and her heart swelled.

That evening, they cooked dinner together. Y/N chopped vegetables while Clark stirred the stew, both of them stealing little kisses whenever the other wasn’t looking. He bumped her hip playfully with his own, she flicked water at him from the sink, and soon the whole kitchen was filled with their laughter.

After the table was cleared and the house quieted, Clark tugged her hand, leading her upstairs. Their room smelled faintly of cedar and laundry soap. She lay back against the quilt his mom had stitched years ago, and Clark kissed her like she was the only piece of truth he had in the world. Slow, tender, unhurried. The creak of the old farmhouse bed mixed with whispers and soft laughter as he held her close, his forehead pressed against hers when the world seemed to stand still.

Later, they lay tangled in sheets, the window cracked open to let the summer night air drift in. Shelby was curled up at the foot of the bed, his soft snores blending with the sound of crickets outside.

“I could stay like this forever,” Y/N murmured, her head resting on Clark’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Clark kissed the crown of her hair and tightened his arms around her. “Me too.”

He didn’t know what his future held—what truths about himself would come crashing into their quiet little world—but tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight he was just Clark Kent. A farm boy in love, lying in bed with the woman who made every part of him feel like home.

[adore-gregor]

😓

[monicaalexandraaa]

I am over the MOON about this😍😍🩷🩷

The Lottery - Extra II

Read The Lottery here | ~2.8k words

From me: there is some passage of time that is not particularly marked. I think it will be pretty straight forward but this is not all in one sitting

Warnings: SEXTRA there is not an ounce of plot to this. it's all sex and nothing else. minors, dni

Summary: Harry has made her so many pancakes that she tastes like maple syrup.

It was no secret that Harry was a quiet, grumpy man. His mum was his hero, and suddenly she was just gone. It did an absolute number on his mental health. It hurt him immensely. It made him believe he’d never be in love. Never smile again. He wanted to leave that town and the diner behind. But if he did, it felt like he would be forgetting her. Which would never happen. But Gemma and Louis left, and he felt so lonely.

That was until the peachy girl he loved and adored so much sat at his counter and flipped his world around. Was worship the right word? He wasn’t quite sure. It felt like it. Harry wasn’t overly religious, but he would pay tribute to whatever god was out there for her.

The way she yawned had him weak in the knees. If she sniffled, he swore mountains moved. Her laugh? He was putty to her. Maybe that was a bit dramatic. But he was in love with her; and love was dramatic, wasn’t it? The moon rose and set with her—forget the sun and day he didn’t need it. He lived for the night and the quietness of his time with the angel that ate pancakes that ruined his ratios and stared at the moon in the middle of the night.

Worshipping her came in all forms. Making sure she ate breakfast, of course. One peach and one white chocolate chip pancake. Or her half omelets. Or maybe just a muffin. Sometimes it was fixing her pipes at home so she could take a hot shower. It was assuring her car was maintained. Decorating the bookshop each season and stocking the shelves with new arrivals as she saw fit. It was coming home to find her baking in his apartment or eating pizza on her couch.

But his favorite way to worship her was to make her come.

The need to make her feel good, a fraction, of how good she made him feel daily. That’s all he wanted. All she deserved.

“Harry,” she whimpered. He woke her up with his head between her legs. He was impossibly hard and all he wanted was the sound of her voice moaning his name while she finished on his tongue. She tasted sweet. He thought she was practically half maple syrup, so he wasn’t too surprised. “Harry, I’m sensitive,” she cried as he continued licking her swollen clit after he lewdly and loudly sucked and licked her clean of her orgasm.

“Mm, one more. Please, Peach? Want you t’feel good.”

“I feel too good.”

He chuckled softly against her core, but her fingers held his hair and didn’t pull him away from her, so he continued licking her until she finished.

Harry had a small shower in his apartment behind the diner. It was a great place to press the front of her body against the glass and fuck her into the enclosure. He had the pleasure of seeing her body steamy and obscured in the mirror over the sink across from the shower. He pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder as he slid into her from behind. “It’s too hot,” she moaned.

Harry all but slammed the knob behind him to ice cold. She was right; it was hot as hell in that tiny steamy bathroom. Pumping his dick into her wasn’t helping with the heat, even if the glass against her nipples was ten degrees colder. But the last thing he wanted was for her to pass out, especially before she finished. “I got you,” he promised, the contact of his hips slapping against her gorgeous ass each time he pumped into her made his heart race faster. She was so good. Carefully, she lifted her foot to the corner of the shower and the angle practically caused for fireworks. She whimpered instantly making Harry grunt or growl like a Neanderthal. “So good, kitten. Feel so good, y’want t’come?” He asked gripping her hips and pressing her harder into the glass with each thrust.

Her moans increased and volume and the last thing Harry wanted was the entire diner knowing he was making her come this hard in the middle of the day. “Please,” she cried. “It feels so good, I’m,” her voice literally broke and Harry reached in front of her with one hand to cover her mouth while the other held her hip steady.

“Shh, baby. We don’t want the whole town t’know how good it feels. S’jus’ for us, yeah? Jus’ you and me get t’know how good y’make me feel,” he groaned quietly in her ear. “Y’feel so good, Peach. S’like heaven. Such a pretty pussy wrapped around me, yeah?” He pressed another kiss to her shoulder hoping he wouldn’t make any of the noises he just asked her not to make. “Y’like this, kitten? Like being pressed against the glass? Gonna watch yourself come, hmm?”

“Harry,” she whispered against his hand.

It was insane that her quiet, grumpy, sweet, sexy boyfriend was capable of speaking such filthy things. The Harry that brought her coffee across the square and put up Christmas lights on her house was kind, reserved, and not this absolute sex god filling her up with more dick than she ever imagined he could have.

“So pretty when y’come, Peach. S’like m’favorite show. Captivating.”

“God, fuck,” she whimpered. “Please,” she begged. “It’s too much.”

But the arch of her back and the way she met his thrusts by pushing back toward him as he thrusted forward said differently. “Beautiful, baby,” he said dreamily. He removed his hand from her mouth and slid it down the front of her body to press the pad of his finger onto her clit making her whimper again and come around him with a gasp. He continued fucking her through the pleasure, admiring the way her whole body shook, catching the way her mouth popped open in the reflection of the mirror. “Stunning, really.”

It had been such a long time since Harry felt the kind of lust and love that she brought out of him. All he wanted was to have her wrapped around his cock. The first time he saw her walk into the diner he was overcome with how beautiful she was. He was lucky he was in the back of the kitchen, so he had a moment to control the rush of blood to his groin before introducing himself. With her routine of visiting each morning after that he could practically predict when he needed to steel himself for how stunning she’d look so he wouldn’t be sporting a hard-on in front of the whole town every time she entered the room.

But now that they kissed, loved, and fucked, it was next to impossible to keep his dick from hardening at the mere thought of her.

In the privacy of her house, they could hardly make it up to her bedroom and instead opted for fucking on her couch (or the stairs). Harry had her straddling his lap, his cock buried inside of her as she bounced arching backwards, so her hands rested on his knees. Her pretty nipples peaked and hardened, begging to be sucked while she fucked herself on his dick. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he moaned steadying her hips with his hands while he wrapped his lips around her nipples aching for attention.

Harry had a hard time thinking about tomorrow after his mum was gone. He couldn't think about any kind of romance, let alone sex.

But her pretty being was enough to turn it all back on. All he wanted was to stay home, ruin his bed sheets, and make her come so many times. “Feels so good,” she whimpered.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Come for me, Peach. Please,” he begged and buried his face in her chest as she did.

A small moan ripped through her. Her walls pulsing around him, hard, fluttering as her bounces became less rhythmic as she tried to maintain her balance. Her legs were aching, her breathing ragged, and a thin layer of sweat coated her soft skin. “Fucking beautiful,” he whispered to himself as he watched her ride out her orgasm. Harry held her hips to hold her steady.

It was a wonder she wasn’t sore. Harry couldn’t keep his hands off her, not that she minded. The orgasms felt good all around. She swore she felt smarter. Her skin looked softer. Her cardio improved and even though Harry never made her want, she couldn’t get enough. She throbbed at the sight of him. Her romance novels didn't compare to the ache between her legs.

If he smiled, she was done for. She practically licked her lips in anticipation thinking about how good it felt to have him inside her.

When Harry worried about her being too sore, he fucked her slowly with his finger. Just his middle finger pressing inside her while his thumb ran small and slow circles on her aching clit. “Too much?” he asked. It was almost clinical in nature. The way he knelt on the bed by her waist, gazing at his finger disappearing and reappearing between her legs.

She shook her head. It wasn’t enough but also very perfect. It felt like heaven. “Can I add another?” He watched in awe as her body writhed for more attention from his hand.

“Yes, please, please, please,” she begged.

He did so, adding his ring finger to the mix and she felt so full and warm. Harry was so fucking good at this it seemed cruel he never let anyone else in during the time that she had known him. But she was selfishly grateful that he never did. She didn’t want anyone to share the knowledge about how good he was. Plus, she would have been irrationally jealous now knowing he was making someone come like this in the past.

After what must have been at least two maybe three orgasms, they laid on his bed silently. His fingers trailed up and down the length of her arm. Her head on his shoulder.

“You never wanted to date all the time I’ve lived here?” She asked.

“I mean... I met you,” he shrugged. “Didn’t think it was worth it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She frowned.

“M’quite grumpy,” he smirked as he reminded her of practically the very first thing she ever thought of him. “Y’were all smiles and positivity,” he shrugged. “Didn’t want t’bring you down.”

“So, you just... haven’t had sex all this time? And you’re still that good at it?” She wondered.

He shrugged again with a smirk. “I had a good bit of meaningless sex while I was at university,” he admitted which she was right to assume she would be irrationally jealous about something in the past. At least she didn’t know who the women were. She could be blissfully unaware of his history as she intended to be. “When I was grieving my mum, I didn’t want t’do anything. Relationship-wise or sexually. I barely wanted t’get out of bed,” he explained. “I was jus’ so sad,” he repeated. “I didn’t think I would feel anything ever again.”

The idea made her frown deepen. Poor Harry. It was clear he felt a lot. She imagined the apathetic diner owner forced into ownership in order to keep his mom alive. Reliving her every move and step wishing to turn back time and just feeling completely trapped. Of course he couldn’t hold a relationship together. He could hardly hold himself together. “I would never want to rush your grieving process, but I wish you had told me you were going to ruin sex for me with anyone else. I would have waited forever for you.”

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “I don’t fault you for that,” he assured her. “Don’t get me wrong, m’very possessive of you now. M’gonna turn into a caveman if someone so much as looks at you,” he promised making her giggle. “But y’deserved t’be taken care of in whatever capacity y’found in the men y’dated.”

“Well, none of them could make me come like you do.”

 He sighed with a smile, satisfied in a way that wasn’t a mind-blowing orgasm. “Good,” he said smugly. It was quiet for a few moments again, his lips against her temple, his fingers circling her wrist. “Kitten?” He hummed.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t leave me, yeah? People I love always leave me. M’tired of being left and I know s’not fair t’ask you that, but I feel... I feel really safe asking you. Like you’ll know what I mean when I say it. M’not saying it t’be dramatic or anything. Jus’... yeah.”

Her heart nearly broke but immediately fluttered. “God, where would I go, Harry? I get all the orgasms and pancakes I want,” he smiled, shook his head and kissed her temple again. “Harry you’ll have to drag me out of this town kicking and screaming to get me to leave you. You’re gonna have to drag me to get me out of this bed, honestly.”

“I love you, Peach,” he smiled that gorgeous smile that was all hers. Because of her.

“I love you, too,” she wiggled up higher to reach his mouth. The only time she would ever willingly take his smile away was so she could kiss his pretty pink lips.

He pulled her tighter to him, his arms winding around her so he could pull her on top of him. He moaned softly with the weight of her fitting comfortably against him. His hands stayed on the back of her thighs, her legs falling to either side of his hips. Gently, she rocked herself against him, his cock already hardening against her core. Harry watched the moon charm on her necklace dangle and sway back and forth in front of him. It was the most tantalizing movie he could have watched. “Y’ready already, Peach?” He mumbled against her lips. She nodded. “So good, kitten,” he groaned. “Gonna make me come jus’ from this.”

She felt her entire body heat up. She loved making Harry overwhelmed by her. She was always overwhelmed by him and if she made him come from just rubbing herself against him then good. He always made her feel loved and safe he deserved to feel a fraction of how she felt. “You feel so good,” she whimpered.

“Fuck, Peach,” he moaned. “Keep going,” he begged.

“Like this?” She whispered.

“Jus’ like that,” he nodded breathlessly and brought her mouth down to his. His lips fit so effortlessly between hers, his tongue licking into her mouth, tasting her tongue the same way he licked into her to make her come. “Gonna make me come,” he warned. She grinded at the same pace and pressure as she had been but swiveled her hips into a circle as she did against his dick. “Ah fuck, Peach,” he groaned. His boxers turned wet and sticky, against her legs and they clung to her own underwear as she rubbed against him through his orgasm. He twitched at the sensitivity and gently pulled her from his hips. He kissed her again and again. Like every time he thought about not kissing her seemed like too much.

“S’your turn,” he ordered.

“I don’t need—”

“I don’t care. Come up here.”

“Punny.”

“Peach, sit on m’face and be quiet unless you’re going t’scream m’name.”

Harry wasn’t particularly scary when he made those threats but it was enough to make her wetter as she scooted her way up over his head. “Are you sure? I just came a minute—”

He yanked her hips down right as her pussy passed by his mouth. He sucked her clit and twirled his tongue over it making her gasp. She put her hands on the wall for support, but it was practically useless. Nothing could offer her enough support to keep her steady. Harry’s hands gripped her butt, fingers pressing into her. He moaned against her, dropping his mouth from her clit and focusing on the aching hole that hadn’t had his dick inside it for no more than a day and it seemed entirely too long.

“Taste so good,” he grunted against her.

“Harry,” she cried. “It’s sensitive,” it was the same thing she whimpered time and time again when he was insistent on making her come multiple times in the same round.

“Mm, I know, Peach. Can feel y’soaking m’face,” he smiled—smiled—against her core. Lapping at her like a popsicle on a hot day. “Better come quick,” he suggested. “You’re gorgeous,” he groaned. “Swollen, soaked, aching for me, hmm?” He asked. “Wanna be good for me and come?”

Without much more prompting she did exactly that. She ground her hips against his mouth the same way she did against his dick. She moaned as he wrapped his arms around her legs holding her suctioned to his face while she rode out her orgasm on his lips. He held her there even after she relaxed, her legs absolutely shaking against his ears while he licked her clean of her arousal.

“Peach,” he sighed softly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” she grinned and flopped onto the bed. “Can you make me some pancakes now?” She asked, closing her eyes. Harry kissed the back of her head.

“Always,” he promised. “For the rest of our lives.”

-- general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

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@rose-girls-world @claimingharrystigertattoo @inlikea-coolway @theseaview @lunaharrygurl @emmie2308 @fruity-harry @somebunnybaby @avas-queen-black @mema10 @tulips4harry @spinninc @sassamanda77 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @mp-269 @jmp1494 @fangirl509east @sideboobrry11 @drewrry @dutchtheatrelore @copiastricycle @mypolicemanharryyy @harry2121 @inharryshelter @fandomxo @sarah-thatstings-ann @yourlocalstilinski-valdez

I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[szatears]

just a lil' something, smoke.

summary: no matter how hard he tries to reject your advances, smoke always gives in. after all, you know his body like no other.

pairing: smoke x reader, platonic stack x reader.

warnings: use of the n word, allusions to sex, making out.

notes: first time writing in a couple months !!! literally had no plot with this one i just went straight off the bag lmao. also this isn't proofread at all!

It wasn't uncommon for you to find your way to his arms. Usually it would all be under his control; he'd call on you, he'd tell you what to do and you'd happily oblige. It went on like that for some time.

Only, you never got used to Smoke's hard exterior.

You thought that with time, you'd be able to read him better, but it seems it only become more difficult as time went on.

You and Smoke had been messing around for some time now, ever since he first laid eyes on you at a neighbourhood event he and his brother were "just passing by". But when he and Stack left for Chicago, all that went away.

You didn't expect the invite to the twins' new juke joint to find you, but there you were at the train station with Pearline when Stack found you.

"I ain't seen you in hot minute," he grabbed at your hand and twirled you towards him, ever the flirt. Your light pink sundress spun with you, frilly and light with air.

"Alright, Stack, let me go," you laughed, pushing at his chest. You turned around to check on Pearline, seeing her smiling at the twins' cousin, Preacher Boy. "What brings you back? Chicago too hard for you?"

"Girl, ain't nothing too hard for us," Stack waved you off, kissing his teeth. "We jus' wanted something a lil' more... familiar."

You rolled your eyes at him, whatever that meant.

"Say, we're having us an opening party tonight. Smoke and I got ourselves a new joint," a smirk graced Stack's face as you held a more quizzical look.

"Oh really? And whose pockets did you pick to get that new joint?"

"You want an invite or not, 'cause the way you goin', you gon' get blacklisted before it even open," he tilted his head to look down at you, his hat shadowing his face a bit.

"Alright, alright," you laughed. "I'll be there."

"Damn right," he smiled. "Imma tell Smoke too, that nigga sure could loosen up a bit."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at the mention of his brothers' name, whom you haven't seen since the night he told you he was leaving for Chicago, more like the night you found out rather than got told.

*

It was around 10pm when you got to the joint, the sound of music and laughter drawing you in. You couldn't lie to yourselves, the boys had outdone themselves on this one. Cornbread was at the door when you arrived, a smile on his face as you walked closer.

"Well, if it ain't lil' missy herself!" He laughed aloud.

"Hey Cornbread," you smiled, wiping away a curl from your face.

"Go on in, Stack an 'em expecting you."

By 'them' you assumed he meant Preacher Boy, who was with Stack when he extended the invite to you.

Walking in, the smell of food hit you straight away. The lights shone on everyone, illuminating faces and figures, some that you knew, some you didn't. Your eyes were looking for a certain someone's, never seeming to find them.

"I knew you'd come," you heard Stack before you even saw him. He swung his arm over your shoulder, a drink in the same hand. "You look good."

"You don't clean up too bad yourself," you patted his chest, a bright smile on your face.

He smiled back at you, gold caps glinting when they caught the light. "Aight, let's get you a drink, hm?"

He didn't give you tike to respond, walking you towards the bae section of the joint. You saw Annie behind the counter and a few others behind her.

"Hey Annie," you greeted her with a civil smile, to which she returned. Things between you and Annie weren't the best, but they weren't bad either. You knew better than to blame Smoke's personality towards you on the other woman in his life, especially because she'd been with him longer than you had.

You pulled out a few crumpled notes from your bra, but before they could even hit the counter, Stack had snatched them.

"Man, get that pocket change outta here," he said, pointing the cash back at you.

"Huh— I'm buying myself a drink, Stack, give it back." You huffed when he held it away from you again.

"It's on the house," he nodded at Annie, who grabbed a cup and filled it, handing it back to you.

"I thought y'all ain't do charity?" you laughed, accepting the drink nevertheless.

"It's a special night, and plus, you one of the few I like," he kissed your cheek, leaving as quickly as he found you, not before he stuck your cash under the strap of your dress on your shoulder.

You shook your head, moving through the crowd with your drink, smiling back at those who greeted you.

You found yourself a little corner to watch the stage and everyone else, leaning against the thick wood as you let the drink flow through your body. As you tipped your head back to drink more, your eyes caught his.

Of course, he was upstairs, watching over everyone else. His eyes stared right back at you as he took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke he exhaled wafting through the joint. You didn't break the eye contact, staring back at him as you drank from your cup.

It felt like you were staring at each other for ages, but seconds later he tipped his head to the side, gesturing for you to come up. Then he disappeared into a room.

Your breath hitched, your hand taking to your collarbone to ease the burn of the alcohol. You didn't know what to expect, things with Smoke were almost always unpredictable.

Regardless, you put the cup down and made your way slowly up the stairs to where you last saw him, adjusting the silky navy blue dress that you wore as you went.

The music was quieter upstairs, slightly muffled by the foundations and thickness of the room's doors.

You stood outside the room before knocking twice on the door, opening it shortly after.

His back greeted you, toned arms begging to be relieved from the slightest tightness of his shirt and waistcoat. He still had the cigarette, though when he turned to you, you knew it was only a matter of time before he ashed it.

You didn't say anything, leaning on the back of the door as you watch him.

He studied you for a bit, and that's when you really saw him for the first time in what felt like forever. His chiseled face, sculpted with time and effort. Those eyes that never seemed to soften, only at times when you got him loose enough to let go, just for a bit.

"Whatchu doin' here?" He said, startling you from your thoughts. You didn't expect that to be the first thing he said to you, but then again this was Smoke, he didn't care what he said to who.

"You told me to come up here, didn't you?" you smiled back sweetly, enjoying the feeling you got when you got under his skin.

"Stop sassing," he mumbled, ashing the cigarette at the end of the wooden desk.

He took a seat on the same desk, folding his arms across his chest.

"How you been, then? Didn't hear much from you these past days," you couldn't care less about how he was, and he knew that. You just wanted the truth and the honest truth.

He didn't answer you right away, simply allowed himself to eye you up and down. The way the dress hugger you perfectly, the navy blue on your melanin skin, the way it was cut low on your chest to expose just a little cleavage... he was enjoying it. Almost like it was just for him.

"You ain't got no where better to be?" He changed the topic again, much to your annoyance.

You let out a bitter scoff, already regretting following Smoke into the room. "You told me to meet you in here. Don't act like you didn't, Smoke," you kissed your teeth.

One thing about Smoke, he didn't do attitudes, regardless of whether or not he deserved it.

"Come here," he spoke to you softly, which should've alerted you if anything. Instead, you allowed your legs to take you to him standing right in front of his taller figure.

His hands rested on your waist, pulling you into him. Now, you stood between his legs as his eyes stared into yours.

"Why'd you leave, Smoke?"

He sighed but didn't act surprised, like he knew this was where the conversation would go. Your hands made their way to his broad shoulders, massaging gently.

"You already know why I had to go, business don't wait for no one."

You huffed at his answer, pulling back as much as you could whilst still in his hold.

"That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it."

"What else you want me to say?"

You look at him then, really looked at him. "I want the truth. Why'd you leave me? When you was just saying all that stuff about wanting to be better for me an' all... It makes no sense."

Smoke looked away from you when you said that, but you still felt his fingers dragging up and down your waist, almost like he was making sure you were real, that you were still in his hold.

When a few moments of more silence passed, you pushed away from him, ready to go back down and pretend none of this even happened.

But Smoke didn't let you. He turned you back around in his hold, your chest against his back. His head dipped down to your bare neck, kissing along. His beard tickled, but you found yourself too busy almost melting into him to register it.

"You scare me sometimes," he mumbled, so quiet you almost missed it.

"What?" you whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "When was you scared of anything?"

"You're too... good. I'on know how to handle that." He was speaking honestly now, and it made sense why he turned you away from him to say this. Smoke never shower any vulnerability. You thought he was immune to it but it turns out he just never wanted anyone to see that side of him.

"Smoke..." you trailed off when he began to suck and bite at your neck, eliciting the faintest of moans from your lips. You pressed back into him, needing to feel more.

"I had to leave. Not because of you but you know I ain't good for you... I'on know why you can't understand that." He brought his left hand to your throat, tipping your head back into his shoulder as he spoke. Your eyes closed, suppressing the lewd sounds threatening to escape. He was barely touching you yet already had you like this? Insane.

"I don't care about that, Smoke." You managed to get out.

"Yeah, well you should." The way he said it sounded almost like a laugh. "You don't make no sense, baby."

He was right. Smoke wasn't the type of guy that a lady should keep chasing if she knew he didn't have what she wanted. Yet you, you kept trying. And that's what confused him.

He did everything to throw you off of him — use you when it pleased him, shut you out, literally everything he could think of. But it seemed to only make things between you stronger.

You forced yourself out of his grip and turned around, now looking him right in the eyes. He could see how hot and flustered he got you.

"I do make sense. I always tell you what I want, it's you who acts like he don't know what he wants." Your hands caressed his face bringing his forehead to rest on yours.

Smoke closed his eyes, his hands cupping your ass as he held you against him. He shook his head, seemingly about to say something before he pulled away.

"Stop," you frowned. "Stop forcing yourself away from me."

"I have to," he grunted, looking anywhere but at you.

Still, you pulled his face back to your, making him look back at you.

"You know you want to," you whispered, dropping a hand from his face and down to his pants, stroking over his clothes bulge. Smoke groaned lowly, throwing his head back. "Give me a lil' something, huh, baby?" you asked sweetly. How could he deny that?

He brought his hand back to your neck, pulling you in til your lips touched his. You moaned almost immediately, it had been way too long.

Smoke kissed you like he would never get the chance to do it again, pulling you impossibly closer to him whilst one of your hands held the nape of his neck, the other still palming him.

He lowly moaned into your mouth when you pulled away slowly, biting his lip. You left him do what he did best, take control.

He turned you around, lifting you up to sit on the desk, his hands roaming all over your body. "You're something else," he whispered against your lips as you fumbled at the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt.

"Yeah, you love it, don't you?"

You felt him smile against your lips, just ever so slightly. If anything, that told you he wasn't ready to let you go. Not just yet. And that was enough for now.

He broke away from your lips to kiss along your neck, your head thrown back in pleasure as your legs wrapped around his body. "Smoke..." you whispered.

"Yeah, baby?" he kissed along your jaw, your hand wrapped around his throat as you pulled him closer to your face.

"I always get what I want."

[sleepy-little-stars]

andy speaks: a very self-indulgent fic 😞 as a humanities girlie, I just rlly want my silly nerdy stem bf ☹️ hot nerdy stem bf pls pls pls come my way 🙏 zayne will have his version of this too!! bcuz muehehe why have one stem bf when u can have two. TWO?! 😻 n poseidon raf is in the drafts 🙂‍↕️

stem bf!caleb who’s such a nerd trapped in a hot guy’s body, it drives you insane. he could be standing in front of you looking all hot with that pilot uniform of his but the moment he opens his mouth? you just wanna jump him there and then. 

“how much do you love me?” caleb hums in response to your question. he has his arms around you, swaying the both of you ever so slightly from side to side. 

“honestly? like about 9.8 meters per second squared. in other words, gravity is pulling me towards you.” he grins before leaning in to kiss your cheek. 

“could’ve just said you love me to the moon and back.”

“flowery words are your thing, sweets. not mine.”

stem!bf caleb who invites you for a date night at his dorm.

you show up with snacks and a list of movies you want to watch with him, such as barbie because you are going to sit him down and explain how barbie is one of the best movies of the century and the message it conveys to women and little girls around the world— wait.. why is he surrounded with legos?

“what’s with the legos?” 

“it’s not just legos, pip. it’s the 7,500 pieces millenium falcon. come on, help me with it.” he pulled you down beside him on the carpet, your legs deposited on top of his lap and an arm enclosing you to his chest.

“so, you invited me here to make me do labor.” you grumbled seemingly annoyed yet the hand reaching out for the building manual says otherwise. caleb merely chuckles at your faux demise, pecking your temple. “don���t worry. we can watch barbie as we build. and.. we’ll do a powerpoint night tomorrow. deal?”

“deal.” and so you spent the entire night wrestling with tiny building blocks to help complete his beloved spaceship. 

stem bf!caleb who keeps every paper plane you give him. when unfolded, the paper is filled with your words of love dedicated to him. 

stem!bf caleb who is your very own human calculator. you always bring him with you during grocery runs so you can easily keep track of the total as you shop. 

“caleb, add this.”

“bread is $2.49.. your current total is now $11.27.”

“thanks, babe. now, let’s go get chips.”

stem!bf caleb who watches all your favorite films or shows in his free times. he remembers all the times you mentioned them in passing. 

“since when did you watch girl, interrupted?” 

“last night. you were talking about it the other day and i didn’t really know how to respond so i watched it. now, tell me all about lisa again. her character was really something— ah!” he got cut off by you throwing your arms around him and peppering his face with kisses.

stem bf! caleb who yaps about science theories during cuddle time. your head is on his chest, his arms tight around you.

“time slows down when the gravity increases. that’s what you call gravitational time dilation. like, imagine you’re on top of a very high mountain. time would pass faster for you than for someone at sea level because the gravity is weaker the farther you are from the center— babe?” caleb looks down, lips quirked upon seeing you dozed off. he pinches your nose, earning a sleepy whine from you. “stop.” 

“you promised to listen to me talk. are you breaking promises now, pip?” caleb leans closer to bite at your cheek, grinning widely when you push his face away. “i’ll let you yap later. nap comes first.”

“is that a promise?” 

“yes.”

“okay. i love you.”

“.. love you too.” 

“good night.”

“hm.”

“you know, einstein’s theory of relativity—” 

“sleep, caleb.” 

masterlist here!

[missdynamighttt]

↳ ❝ FAT ASS LIKE HERS NEEDS A REAL MAN TO FUCK IT. ❞

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ synopsis: in which, you get tangled up with your boyfriend's arrogant, infuriating, and devastatingly hot rival, katsuki bakugou and ended up fucking... one too many times.

starring: pro hero! katsuki bakugou x enemy's girlfriend! reader ⍣ ೋ

disclaimers!: cheating on yo shindo, cheating with katsuki bakugo, body worship, implied mentions of anal sex, oral sex (f! receiving, face riding), manhandling, penetrative / p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie

note: usage of "sweetheart", "pretty", "pretty girl", "sweets", fem reader, implied plus size! reader, mean! katsuki, katsuki calls reader fat but not really (specifically, reader's ass), (hopefully) promoting body positivity. really thought this song gave katsuki vibes and havent seen a fic based off of it yet. reminds me of that montoya guy watching his girl fuck someone on camera lmao😭. time to give back to my community, hope you guys enjoy💜

╰┈➤ [katsuki bakugo was an asshole.] everyone knew that. and when it came to shindo yo, he was even worse. the two had never gotten along—never would. 

which was exactly why, when katsuki walked into the bar and spotted you, nursing a drink, frustration etched across your face, he couldn’t help but smirk.

it didn’t take a genius to figure out why. probably your boyfriend getting a little too damn close to another "friend" again. just like always. this wasn’t the first time, and knowing him, it wouldn’t be the last.

this was the kind of moment he lived for, a rare opportunity to get under shindo’s skin. sure, maybe katsuki didn’t hate shindo that much, but you? you were a different story.

he sauntered over, leaning an arm against the counter, eyes never leaving you. "rough night?"

you glanced up, instantly recognizing the pro hero standing beside you. with a sigh, you swirled your drink in its glass. “you could say that.”

“lemme guess... your idiot boyfriend givin’ you trouble again?”

“…something like that.”

“don’t know why you put up with him, honestly," he chuckled, the sound low and knowing. he tipped his drink toward you, watching your reaction carefully. "you deserve better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to appreciate you.”

your lips quirked, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “and you think you can appreciate me?”

katsuki had no shame, never did. so he grinned, a flicker of something dangerous in his crimson gaze.

"want me to show you, sweetheart?"

one thing led to another and soon enough— you were in his bed, limbs tangled, gasping his name, making sure you see the stars in the sky as he fucked the frustration right out of you.

and after that night, fucking you became katsuki's favorite way to piss shindo off.

you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly what this was. but did you care? not one damn bit. he had you in his bed more than your shitty boyfriend ever did. and yeah, maybe it started as a way to get under shindo’s skin, but somewhere along the way, it became something neither of you wanted to stop.

because katsuki? he was fucking obsessed with you.  

some nights, he’d pull you into his lap, hands splayed over your hips as he buried his face in your neck, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

“fuck, i missed you,” he groaned, voice thick with something dangerously close to vulnerability. his grip tighten, fingers digging into the softness of your thighs. “shouldn’t let you leave my bed, y’know that?”

you chuckled, tilting your head back as his lips trailed lower. “you’re never satisfied, huh?”

“so what?” he nipped at your skin, making you squeak. “i like my woman soft. more of you for me to grab.”

and grab he did. he was clingy in the worst way—always needing to have a hand on you, whether it was squeezing your ass, gripping your waist, or just absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh while you laid in bed together.

katsuki just loved how you felt in his hands.

then there are the nights when he'd lie with his head on your lap, letting you comb your fingers through his hair, one arm thrown lazily over his chest.

his eyes were shut, his expression relaxed, but every so often, his brows furrowed as he grumbled about his day.

like now.

“dumbass intern nearly blew up my whole damn office,” he muttered, eyes closed. “and kirishima kept laughin’ like it was the funniest shit he’d ever seen.”

you hummed, dragging your nails lightly over his scalp. “i mean… you do blow things up all the time. bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

his eyes cracked open, leveling you with a glare. “tch. ain’t funny.”

you bit back a smile. “a little funny.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose but didn’t argue. he never really did when you played with his hair. it was his weakness, and he hated that you knew it.

your fingers trailed down to his jaw, tracing the sharp edge. he leaned into your touch instinctively, like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

“you’re really pretty, you know that?” you murmured.

his eyes flickered open again, red irises locking onto yours. there was something unreadable in his gaze—something so raw and vulnerable.

“oi,” he muttered, shifting slightly, ears turning pink. “quit it.”

you grinned. “quit what?”

“saying dumb shit like that.”

“but it’s true.”

katsuki scowled, but the way he pressed his cheek into your palm gave him away. he huffed, eyes slipping shut again.

“…whatever.”

and he loved it. the times he's spent with you, whether he was fucking you or just talking about each other's day, he loved all of it. not just because it was a middle finger to shindo, but because katsuki got to have you all to himself. 

honestly? it stopped being about shindo a long time ago. but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rub it in the bastard’s face.

"she was beggin’ me to keep goin’ last night," katsuki bragged, arm slung lazily around your waist, knowing full well that shindō was fuming. his hand drifted lower, fingers trailing over the curve of your ass. “bet you don’t even know how to handle all this ass, huh? shame. guess that’s why she keeps crawlin’ back to me.”

shindo clenched his jaw, knowing exactly what katsuki was implying. he knew. knew there was truth in katsuki’s words. knew that every time he and you argued, you’d disappear for a while, only to return looking a little too satisfied. "you really think you're some upgrade?"  

"she does. especially when she’s whining my name into the sheets.”  

"shut the fuck up, bakugo."  

katsuki barked a laugh, shameless and sharp. he was pissed, good. that was the reaction he wanted. but he wasn’t done yet.

“she’s a greedy lil’ thing, too. always wantin’ more," he grinned, eyes flicking over to him before locking back at yours. "but look at her. how could i say no? she looks so fuckin’ perfect under me."

your face burns, heat creeping up your neck before he scoffs and turns back to grilling your ex, like you weren’t just standing there, completely flustered.

"did she ever tell you how much she loves it when i grab these—" his fingers trailed down your side, giving a firm squeeze and earning a small yelp from you. "—and i slam my dick into her? fuck her real nice and deep? moans so pretty for me, too. you ever heard it?"

and if shindo so much as opened his mouth, katsuki would throw in another dig.

"nah. probably not. bet she asked you if it was in yet.”  

"well, she's all yours," shindo said, fists clenching, clearly seconds away from punching him. and katsuki lived for it.  

"yeah, figured you’d say that," katsuki taunted. "she’s been stress eatin’ too much to deal with a weak-ass like you."  

and then, just because he was an absolute bastard, he'd go in for the kill.

"fat ass like hers needs a real man to fuck it."  

shindo looked about ready to swing, but you pulled katsuki away before things got too messy.  you could still feel the heat of shindo’s rage burning through the air. it thrilled you more than it should have. 

but behind closed doors? the same man who ran his mouth would spend hours pressed against you, whispering things he’d never admit to anyone else.

"c’mere," katsuki grumbled, tugging you onto the bed after another long day of antagonizing your ex. his arms wrapped around your waist, face immediately pressing into your soft stomach.

he worshipped you—every inch, every soft curve, but nothing captivated him more than your stomach.

he was obsessed, utterly entranced. he’d bury his face against it, his hands kneaded your sides, gripping, squeezing—memorizing, pressing lazy kisses to every dip and curve. he held your body with a reverence that bordered on possessive, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

"fuck, baby," he groaned, nuzzling into you like he wanted to disappear into your skin. “love your body so goddamn much. s’perfect.”

you chuckled, threading your fingers through his hair. "thought you said i was stress-eating."  

"yeah, stress-eatin’ on my dick," he muttered, pressing kisses against your tummy. "he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you."

“then why do you still do it, hmm?”

he looked up at you, red eyes dark with something almost desperate as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach.

"tch, you know why i do that. pisses him off. makes him realize he ain't shit. ‘cause he ain't."  

you shivered at the heat of his lips against your skin, biting back a smile as you run your fingers through his hair. so that’s what this was about. "you sure you’re not just obsessed with him at this point?”

he scoffed against your stomach, his grip on your waist tightening. “the hell i am. only thing i’m obsessed with is you.”

it was the side of him no one else got to see— the way he nuzzled into you, the way he pressed his lips to your skin over and over, like he couldn’t get enough. he'd grumble if you tried to move, holding you tighter to keep you in bed, murmuring "stay here. wanna hold ya."  

he loved how soft you were, how warm—how no matter how much he grabbed, squeezed, or traced his fingers over you, it was never enough. he needed you. it was like he was drunk on the feel of you, the scent of you. and truthfully, he was.

"love this shit,” he admitted lowly, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. he nuzzled into your tummy again, letting out a deep, satisfied sigh. "could live here."

you raised a brow, fighting back a grin as you looked down at him. “oh? you wanna live on my stomach now?”

“yes, baby,” he muttered almost desperately, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction while pressing another lingering kiss to your skin. “soft. warm. smells like you.”

you laughed, dragging your fingers through his hair. “so what, you’re gonna quit being a hero and move in here?”

he let out a gruff chuckle, turning his head to rest his cheek against you. “tch. would if i could. wouldn’t need a bed, a couch, nothin’. just this perfect spot.”

“oh yeah?” you hummed, tilting your head. “should i start charging you rent?”

he huffed against your skin. “tch. smartass.”

you giggled, brushing a thumb over the shell of his ear. “i mean, if you’re gonna move in, might as well contribute. utilities, groceries… maybe even a tummy tax.”

his red eyes flicked up at you, narrowing. “the fuck is a tummy tax?”

you grinned. “unlimited kisses. daily.”

he snorts, pressing another slow, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. “already payin’ for that, pretty."

and you laughed, because for all his big talk, katsuki bakugo adored you. as long as he had you, nothing else mattered.

and despite the way he ran his mouth, he never let you feel insecure. if he ever caught you looking at yourself too long in the mirror, he’d grab you and pull you onto the bed, hovering over you with that intense, fiery gaze.  

"the fuck are you thinkin’ about?" he’d demand, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing, leaving marks. "you’re mine. this body? all mine. and i fuckin’ love every inch of you. don’t ever fuckin’ doubt how much i want you."

and god, did he prove it.

he didn't just tolerate your body—he adored it. and thats why you found yourself looking down at him lying comfortably on his back, eyes dark with anticipation. he was waiting—no, expecting—you to sit on his face.

you shake your head, heat creeping up your neck. "i can just lay down, 'suki..."

katsuki scoffs, sitting up slightly, his hands already reaching for your thighs, clearly impatient. "tch. and deny me a great view? cut the crap and get up here, sweets."

you shake your head again. "i just- what if i’m too heavy?"

he lets out a sharp, exasperated scoff. "for who? me? well that’s rude."

"it’s not..." you hesitate for half a second, but that’s all the time he gives you. 

he yanks you down onto his face with a low growl, his mouth immediately sealing over your cunt. "stop stallin’ and just give me what i want..."

you hesitate, subtly hovering just above him instead of lowering yourself onto his face, holding onto the headboard for support. his eyes flick up to yours, and the second he realizes what you're doing, his expression darkens.

"the fuck do you think you’re doin’?" his grip on your thighs tightens, his voice a low, dangerous growl. 

“i don’t want to crush you—”

“are you fuckin’ serious?” his voice drips with pure offense, like you just insulted his entire existence. "you really think i can't handle you? think you're doin’ me a favor by holdin’ back?"

you try to protest, but he’s already yanking you down on his face, forcing you to sit properly. his growl vibrates against you as he buries his face between your thighs. the way he looked up at you—pissed off and starving—sent a shiver down your spine.

your face burned, heart pounding in your chest. "i just— i don't wanna make you uncomfortable."

katsuki let out a sharp laugh, the sound vibrating against your folds, lifting you by your hips to give him room to speak from time to time. 

"uncomfortable? sweetheart, the only thing makin’ me uncomfortable right now is you not sittin’ on my goddamn face like i told you to."

your lips parted in protest, but a startled moan escapes you as his tongue flicks over your clit, sharp and demanding. his grip on your thighs is punishing, locking you in place as he devours you with obscene hunger.

"katsuki—" you try to lift yourself, but his hands hold you firm.

"nah. shut up," he murmurs burying his tongue between your thighs without warning. a moan escapes you as he groans against your heat, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you firmly in place. 

"fuckin’ ridiculous," he mutters between licks, voice muffled. "ain’t takin’ this disrespect. you ain't doin’ me no favors by holdin’ back. told ya before— i want you—every fuckin’ inch of you." 

your breath hitches, and katsuki smirks like he knows he’s got you. his crimson eyes flicked up at you, glinting with mischief as he devoured the fuck out of your pretty little cunt, tongue glazed with his spit and your slick. 

"so don't you ever pull that hoverin’ shit again,” he warns, his tongue licking a broad stripe through your folds "or i swear to god, i'll make you sit here all fuckin' night—"

his words were cut off by the way he devoured you, lips and tongue working so hungrily that your legs nearly gave out then and there. his crimson eyes burned into you, daring you to try that shit again.

you whimper, thighs trembling, and he doubles down, tongue curling inside you before dragging back up to your clit, sucking just to hear you whine.

"fuck, baby," he groans against you, his voice thick with need. "taste so fuckin’ good."

your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging on the soft strands, but it only spurs him on. his hands slide to your ass, forcing you to take everything he gave you. he’s lost in it, completely drowning in you, and he likes it. loves it. wants more. 

"you drive me fuckin’ insane," he murmured, sucking your clit into his mouth with a filthy slurp. "you’re too damn perfect, and it pisses me off."  

your fingers tightened around the headboard, thighs trembling around his head. “how is that my fault? you're the one who—"

katsuki let out a frustrated growl against your cunt, cutting you off before you could finish. without warning, he flattened his tongue and dragged a slow, deliberate lick through your folds, making you gasp.

"its your fucking fault," he went on like he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to act so damn innocent.

his lips brush against your pussy as your legs threatened to close around his head, but his grip was firm, keeping you spread open for him. "prancin’ around, bein’ so goddamn pretty. takin’ up space in my head. gettin’ under my fuckin' skin and you expect me to act normal?"

you tried to answer, but he didn’t give you the chance. a sharp suck on your clit had your head tipping back, a needy whine escaping before you could stop it. his tongue slid through your folds again, swirling around your clit, and the sudden sensation made you choke on your words.

"katsuki—"

"nah. told you to shut up." he cut you off, voice muffled against your dripping cunt. "if you're gonna talk, you can fuckin’ moan."

your noises only spurred him on. your fingers found their way into his hair, gripping tightly as pleasure pooled in your stomach. his tongue worked you over with precision, switching between sucking and licking until your hips were rolling into his face, chasing more. 

"that's it," he muttered, sucking your clit into his mouth again, hard, and the moan that tore from your throat was anything but coherent, fucking you with his tongue. "you wanna run your mouth? do it like this." 

you could barely form a response, your mind going blank as he sucked hard on your clit, his tongue relentless. the only thing that left your lips was a desperate, broken moan.

"fuckin' knew it," he groaned, his voice sending another wave of heat through your body. "knew you’d sound so fuckin' pretty when you just shut the fuck up while riding my face. could watch you like this all fuckin’ day."

you let out a shaky breath, barely able to focus as his tongue flicked over your clit again. katsuki pulled back just enough to suck in a breath, his lips slick and glistening with your arousal. his crimson eyes burned into you, half-lidded and desperate, but still sharp with command.

“fuck,” he groaned, voice thick with hunger. “touch yourself, pretty girl. play with those pretty tits for me.”

your breath caught in your throat, and you hesitated, already feeling overwhelmed by the way he was devouring you. but his grip tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh in warning.

“c’mon, sweets,” he rasped, his tongue flicking out to tease your clit before pulling back again. his eyes dragged up your body, the heat in them making you dizzy. “be a good girl and gimme a show, yeah?"

with trembling hands, you reached up, cupping your tits, teasing your own nipples the way you knew he liked. you kneaded them softly at first, rolling your thumbs over your nipples, but the second you pinched them, katsuki groaned, his eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing in existence.

“fuck yeah,” he muttered, running his tongue through your folds before sucking your clit into his mouth again. “just like that, baby. play with those tits— keep puttin’ on a show for me while i eat this pretty little pussy.”

his tongue worked you over with hungry, unrelenting strokes, the obscene slurps and groans vibrating against you as he devoured you like a man starved.

you tugged at your nipples, your head falling back as pleasure rippled through you. your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around your nipples as the combination of your own hands on your body and his mouth wrecking you from below had your head spinning.

“katsuki—” you gasped, thighs trembling around his head. “i’m— i’m close.”

that was all it took. katsuki groaned deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your cunt as his grip on your thighs tightened. his tongue worked even faster, flicking and circling your clit with devastating precision, like he needed you to fall apart for him or he'd die.

"yeah?" he rasped between licks, his voice thick and wrecked. "then fuckin’ give it to me, sweets. wanna feel you cum on my face."

he didn’t slow down, didn’t let up for even a second. his hands urged you down harder, forcing you to really sit on his face, and the pressure—his tongue, his mouth, the way he sucked on your clit—sent you careening straight into your orgasm.

your back arched, a broken moan spilling from your lips as pleasure crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming. katsuki groaned against you like he felt it, like he was the one cumming, and he didn’t stop licking, didn’t stop devouring you, even as you trembled above him.

he finally pulled away, his lips and chin glistening with your slick as he sucked in a breath, eyes dark with hunger. he gave your thighs one last squeeze before gripping your waist.

“get up."

you blinked down at him, still trying to catch your breath. “what?”

“i said, get up,” he growled. "need to be inside you. now.”

you whined, shaking your head weakly. “katsuki, i just— i just came…”

“and?” he scoffed, sitting up slightly. “the fuck that got to do with me?”

before you could protest again, his strong arms moved, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. a surprised yelp left your lips, but katsuki was already on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, his body burning hot against yours with his lips on yours.

"don't care if you just came," he muttered against your lips, biting down on your bottom one before sucking it into his mouth. "wanna feel you squeeze the cum outta me this time."

your head spun as he hovered over you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. his hands were everywhere—gripping, kneading—like he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even a second.

"katsuki—"

"shut up," he growled, shoving your legs open with his knee. "you think i’m lettin’ you off that easy? nah. you got one, and now i’m gettin’ mine.”

you gasped as his hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them, his cock already hard and leaking against your folds. he positioned himself at your pussy, the tip of his cock pressing insistently against you.

"look at you," he murmured, rubbing his throbbing tip through your slick folds. "all fuckin’ messy for me already."

you gasped, legs twitching from overstimulation. “i— i need a second—”

“the fuck you do,” he muttered, lining himself up with your entrance. “you’re fuckin’ soaked. you’re fine.”

and before you could say another word, he thrusted into you, stretching you open in one slow, deep stroke.

"don't care what the fuck you say," he rasps. "bein’ so fuckin’ sweet, it makes me wanna ruin you."

your hands scrambled against his shoulders, nails digging in as you let out a choked sob, overwhelmed, tears pricking at your eyes as he kept moving, his cock dragging against your already-sensitive walls. “k-katsuki—'s too much—”

he didn't stop. didn't even hesitate. he knew better. knew you. if it was really too much, if you truly couldn’t take it, you would’ve said the safe word. and since you hadn’t? that meant you loved this—loved how he was using you, pushing you past your limits, making you take every inch of him.

“yeah? then why’s this pussy still fuckin’ suckin’ me in, huh?” he leaned down, his mouth brushing against your ear. “you know what to say if you really wanted me to stop, sweets.”

you whimpered, blinking up at him, your face hot and damp with tears. your breath hitched when he rolled his hips deeper, making your back arch off the bed.

“you like it, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his lips along your cheek, tasting the tears running down your face. his hands pinned your wrists down beside your head, locking you in place beneath him. “fuckin’ cryin’ and takin’ my dick so good anyway. knew you’d let me use this sweet little pussy however the fuck i wanted.”

your body shook with every thrust, overstimulated and overwhelmed, but the pleasure was so sharp and dizzying, that all you could do was moan through the tears. you sobbed, back arching, hands clutching at the sheets. it was too much, but it felt too good. 

 his thumb swiped at your tear-streaked cheek, his other hand pressing down on your lower stomach, feeling the way he stretched you open. 

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice husky as he fucked into you harder, deeper, making sure you felt every inch. “be good for me. just take it. let me use you, yeah?”

you could barely think, barely breathe, and yet you nodded. and that was all he needed before his grip on your hips tightened, his cock stretching you wide, and he really started fucking you.

his hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper inside you, groaning as your walls clenched around him, still fluttering. his hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head to make you look at him.

“look at you,” he murmured, taking in the sight of you, tears spilling down your cheeks, the way your lips trembled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. cryin’ for me. takin’ me like a good fuckin’ girl, squeezin’ me so tight, shit—”

your body trembled beneath him, your sobs mixing with broken moans as he fucked into you relentlessly. your arms struggled against his grip, desperate to reach for him, but he only pressed you deeper into the mattress, keeping you pinned.

“k-katsuki—” you gasped, tears slipping down your cheeks. “please—kiss me—”

he should’ve been satisfied with how wrecked you already were, with the way your body clenched around him so tight—but fuck, hearing you beg for his kisses?

that only made him worse.

“tch. still so fuckin’ needy, even when i’m ruining you.” 

his grip on your wrists loosens just enough for you to reach up. the second your hands touched him, you yanked him down, crashing your lips against his, desperate for the closeness, for the warmth of his mouth against yours.

katsuki groaned into the kiss, deep and hungry, swallowing your cries as he kissed you hard. his tongue pushes past your lips, claiming you just as much as his cock did. his thrusts didn’t slow, didn’t soften—if anything, he fucked you harder, like he wanted to ruin you completely.

“that what you needed, pretty girl?” he murmured against your lips, his breath heavy, your sobs melting into whimpers. “that why you’re cryin’? ‘cause you needed me to kiss you while i fuck you?”

you nodded frantically, another broken whimper slipping past your lips. “y-yeah—needed you—”

“yeah?” he smirked against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip before kissing you again—sloppier, deeper, making sure you’d never forget exactly who you belonged to.

his rhythm starts to stutter, hips snapping into you harder, sloppier, and you felt the way his body tensed, the way his grip on your hips turned bruising. he forced another helpless cry from you, and he groaned against your lips, drinking in every sound.

"fuck—fuck," katsuki whined, voice raw and desperate as he buried himself deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged, his lips brushing against your own as he lost himself in you. "you feel so goddamn good—s'fuckin’ tight, baby—"

you knew that tone—knew the way his voice cracked when he felt needy, when he was so fucking close to cumming. you loved when he got like this, when all his control slipped away and he was nothing but whiny, desperate need.

"katsuki—" you gasped, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "i'm—i'm close, i'm so close, wanna cum together—"

his grip tightened, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as he snapped his hips into you, his pace turning desperate chasing both of your highs. "fuck, yeah? c'mon, baby— wanna feel you cum, wanna fuckin' feel you all over my cock—"

his next thrust sent you over, body locking up as the heat coiled tight in your belly and snapped all at once. your moan shattered into a cry as your whole body trembled, clenching around him so hard its about to break him.

“oh, fuck—” katsuki choked, eyes rolling back as he lost it completely, slamming into you one last time before burying himself into your warm, wet pussy. his whole body shook, breath stuttering as he spilled inside you, groaning out your name like a prayer.

he kept thrusting—shallow, drawn-out rolls of his hips, like he never wanted to stop feeling you, even as he came down from his high. his forehead pressed against yours again, his breath heavy, his body spent.

for a moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths, your bodies still tangled, clinging to each other as you both came down from your highs. katsuki was still holding you, his grip tight but no longer desperate—just grounding. 

then, with a deep exhale, katsuki finally pulled out, rolling onto his side and gathering you against his chest. his arms wrapped around you securely, his large hand rubbing slow, lazy circles into your back. you felt his eyes scan over you with something softer than before—something almost tender.

“you alright, sweets?”

you nodded, still catching your breath, but the way your body trembled slightly didn’t escape him. he scoffs, sitting up just enough to lean over and press soft kisses to your damp forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“liar,” he muttered, but there was no bite to it. only warmth. “you cried, y’know.”

you let out a breathy laugh, snuggling closer. “you were relentless.”

he clicked his tongue, one of his hands finding the back of your head, his fingers slipping into your hair, the other resting on the small of your back, holding you close.

you melted into his chest, sighing against his skin. “you’re so warm…”

he smirked, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “duh. i’m literally made of explosions, dumbass.”

you lightly smacked his chest, making him chuckle. but his teasing quickly faded as he tilted your chin up, crimson eyes searching yours. his thumb brushed over your cheek, wiping away the last remnants of your overstimulated tears.

“seriously, though,” he murmured, quieter now. “you okay?”

your heart squeezed at how gentle he was being. how, despite how rough he could be, how demanding, he never once forgot to take care of you afterward. you leaned into his touch, nuzzling his palm.

“i’m perfect,” you smiled sleepily. “because of you.”

“tch. sappy little shit," katsuki exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. his ears definitely got redder.  “you sure, though? i didn’t—y’know… go too hard?”

you hummed, tilting your head to press a lazy kiss to his jaw. “i'm fine, katsuki. i promise." 

he just huffed, shifting to grab a towel from the nightstand. “yeah, well, you better be. was holdin’ back just for you.”

you snorted. “that was you holding back?”

katsuki shot you a look but didn’t argue. instead, he started cleaning you up, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. he was quiet as he worked, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“…was it really okay?” his voice was quieter now, hesitant in a way he rarely was.

you cupped his cheek, running your thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “yes. i’d tell you if it wasn’t, katsuki.”

his crimson eyes searched yours for a long moment before he finally exhaled, tension melting from his shoulders. “good.”

he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips, lingering there as if he never wanted to pull away.

“cause next time, i’m makin’ you cry even harder.”

you groaned, shoving his face away as he laughed, the sound deep and full of warmth. 

katsuki didn’t say anything for a moment after—just stared at you, his expression completely unguarded. no sharp smirks, no cocky grins—just raw, unfiltered devotion.

he stared at you like you’d just hung the damn moon. like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.  

you reached up to brush a few stray strands of hair from his forehead, and he caught your wrist midair, holding it for just a second before bringing it to his lips. the kiss he pressed against your palm was barely there, but it sent warmth blooming in your chest.

“you’re lookin’ at me funny,” you murmured, voice drowsy.

katsuki huffed a quiet laugh, but he didn’t look away. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you smiled lazily back at him. “like i just saved a bunch of kids from a burning building or something."

his smirk was faint, more of a ghost of amusement than anything. he pressing lazy kisses along your wrist, trailing them down to the inside of your palm. “you didn’t save a bunch of kids. you’re just—you. and i dunno what the hell i’d do without that."

your chest ached at the raw honesty in his voice, but before you could say anything, katsuki pulled you in even closer, pressing his face against your shoulder, like he was trying to hide.

“go to sleep,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your skin. “say any dumb shit about it, and i’ll smother you.”

you couldn’t help but smile as you curled against him, feeling the way his arms locked around you just a little tighter. “mhm. goodnight, katsuki.”

and then you smiled—sleepy, content, completely at ease in his arms.

katsuki stiffened. just for a second. just enough for you to feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hold on you tightened like he was trying to keep himself together.

fuck.

that damn smile. that look on your face. like he was your whole world. like you trusted him. like you loved him.

he clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly through his nose, like that would do anything to calm the way his heart was fucking pounding.

"goodnight." 

he was fucked. absolutely, completely, and hopelessly fucked.

because thats when katsuki bakugo realized he was in love with you. and he couldn't do anything about it.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ tags: ˚⋆ @kalulakunundrum @ch3rryjampi3 @lotusstarr @aranikai @emmab3mma @yannvi @gabby-ha @twoplayergaymers @xanneeeyyyy @akiii143 @ceeriusly-dumb @beabamboo @butlereyepatchbunny @qyuin @ocharavitys @dragonscribble @jimabbenamara @g0dawnlita @sourgrapesthings @seraphiicallyy @aawwq @kaybug88

[nanamiskentos]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."