#and being reckless and doing stupid shit over and over again

[maraudereestauderelb]

Lipstick & Bad Decisions (Nikki Sixx x Reader)

You're tired of bad dates and boring men in suits who only see your face and not your fire. But the last person you'd ever let yourself want is your reckless best friend, Nikki. That is… until one fight too many...

“The only reason I haven’t fucked you yet is because I have no interest in having daddy’s little girl next to me, crying in the morning when I tell her to leave.”

Warnings:

Friends to lovers, angst & unresolved tension, verbal fights, alcohol use, soft smut vibes / heated kiss, strong language

Also: Pre-Fame Nikki

You sighed as you looked at the mirror in front of you. Your night had been awful! The date you had, had been nothing but horrible. You really started to get sick of it. Rich men - usually older than you and better educated and yet unable to keep up an interesting conversation! You knew you weren’t stupid, but most of the time you felt like the men you dated would enjoy it much more if you were. Pretty to look at but without a brain.  

You sighed again.  

You just couldn’t help it! You weren’t into men in fancy suits, acting like real gentlemen, successful. Why were they all the same? So goddamn boring…  

When your latest date had tried to kiss you over an hour ago, obviously hoping for an invitation inside, you had backed off, thanked him for the nice evening and had rushed through the door to your apartment. Next time was going to be better. The next guy was going to be the right one. As if that wasn’t what you always told yourself!  

At least your best friend seemed like he had a great night. Nikki’s idea of a great night. Only a moment ago Nikki had given you a quick call asking for help and by now you already knew what that meant. Of course, you knew after years of being friends. It meant you would walk over to his place and make a scene. 

After you had switched your fancy dress for a more comfortable blue jeans and a black shirt, you walked over to his apartment. Thankfully, he lived just down the road.  

You took out the keys for his apartment and took a deep breath before you opened the door. You were ready for an Oscar-worthy performance.  

You headed directly for his bedroom and opened the door to it happily exclaiming: “Hey baby, surprise!”  

The girl next to Nikki in bed looked like she was about to have an heart-attack but by now you were used to any kind of reaction, so you kept going with an equally shocked face-expression: “Nikki! I- What the hell are you doing?! What is this!”  

For a second a soft grin found its way to Nikki’s lips before he was back in character: “Oh shit, Y/N…I swear, baby, let me explain this!”  

He jumped out of the bed, only dressed in his briefs, and tried to get close to you but you pushed him away: “Don’t touch me, you unfaithful little bastard!”  

“You have a girlfriend?!”, the girl in his bed found her voice again. Your signal.  

“Looks like he had a girlfriend!”, with these words you ran out of the bedroom again and out of the apartment, down the stairs. It had turned into a routine. You were doing this about twice a month, although it had started to become more often over the past weeks, and like every time you hid behind a big tree outside the building until Nikki’s one-night-stand had left before you made your way back to his apartment.  

You had thought about going home this time, but you didn’t, although you were horribly tired and exhausted.  

“Oh there she is, my sweet little girlfriend!”, Nikki laughed when you entered his messy living room.  

He was sitting on his sofa and, thankfully, had put on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. 

 “I’m really not in the mood, Nikki”, you rolled your eyes and crossed your arms in front of your chest.  

“You alright, princess?”, he eyed you puzzled with a big grin on his lips before he opened himself another bottle of beer, which had been standing next to a few others on the coffee table. God, this man was slowly killing you …  

“I’m great, thanks for asking. But if there is nothing else, I can do for you, I’ll go home now”, you had already turned around when his voice caught you between steps: “Hey, stop, Y/N! What’s wrong?”  

You sighed but turned around.  

“Nothing. I’m just wondering when you’re finally growing up and at least learn how to deal with your one-night-stands on your own.”  

Ignoring your words he teased you: “Shitty night, huh?”  

“Yes, Nikki. I had an awful night!”  

“Another boring rich dude?”, he asked sounding a lot more bitter than he had intended. 

Sometimes you caught yourself wondering what would have happened if Nikki had ever asked you out on a date. You wondered if you’d have accepted his invitation… But except some drunk flirting, you had never been anything but friends. 

After all you both had pretty different expectations of life, so you had told yourself. Nikki was funny. Nikki was smarter than anyone gave him credit for. Nikki was handsome. But besides that, Nikki was an asshole. He was impulsive, reckless and adventurous. He had absolutely no plan for his life! And that shit could be exhausting! 

“Yes, Nikki, another boring rich dude, not like it’s your business.”  

“I’m your friend. It’s my business”, he answered before he took another pull on his bottle.  

“And you’re drunk.”  

“Whatever. Sit down princess! Grab a beer and tell good ol’ Nikki all about your horrible date with that boring little piece of shit”, with these words he petted the place next to himself.  

“I don’t drink beer, Nikki, and you know that”, you pursed your lips.  

“I know, I know”, he grinned and got up from the sofa moving towards you. He came so close he left you unable to move. You hadn’t expected him to get this close.  

“Look at that cute pout of yours, princess.” His thump swiftly brushed over your lower lip making your breath hitch in your throat before he turned around like nothing had happened: “Just let me check if I have something for you to drink. Because I like you so much better when you’re drunk.”  

After biting your lip involuntarily his words got through to you while he was looking through a cupboard filled with different bottles.  

“Beg you pardon.”  

“What?”  

“What do you mean, you like me so much better when I’m drunk?”  

“You’re not that uptight and stuffy when you’re drunk”, he explained looking through the bottles without realizing how much he had offended you.  

“Are you kidding me, Nikki?”  

“No, why?”, he asked confused and finally found a bottle of cheap wine: “Here we go, princess!”  

“Nikki, I’m serious.”  

“What? You are uptight and stuffy.”  

“I’m not!”  

“Yes, you are! Otherwise you wouldn’t date all these boring, rich fuckers!”, he shouted at you.  

Fuckin’ hell, this topic made him sick every damn time. Nikki despised your choices in men, not because they were boring and shallow, but because he could never be like them.  

“You know damn well why I do that!”  

“Yeah, this entire “A girl has to look out for herself”-bullshit!”, he laughed and sat down: “The way I see it, you have two choices. Either you go home, or you sit down and get drunk with me, so you and I forget how underfucked you are.”  

“What?!”  

“It’s true! That’s why your always so tense and bitchy! None of these other dudes manages to give it to you the way you would need it to loosen the hell up!”  

He had no idea why he was saying this and he wanted to stop it, but he couldn’t. He wanted to stop shouting at you, but no one ever managed to rile him up the way you did!  

“My sex life is none, I repeat: NONE, of your business, you insensitive asshole!”, you shouted back at him. Why was he saying this? How could he?  

“I know it’s not!”, he got up again: “Besides the fact that it’s technically nonexistent.”  

“Because I’m not like the girls you fuck every now and then?!  I don’t sleep with the guys I date because I choose not to, but I could! I swear one word and even you’d take me to your bedroom to take me yourself!”  

His eyes grew wide.  

“What? Don’t tell me that’s not the truth, Nikki!” Tears started to run down your heated cheeks, making his knees weak. What had he done?  

“Y/N…”  

He had lost all confidence and slowly started to realize what he had just thrown at you. He shouldn’t have said that. It only took him the blink of an eye until he had run over to you.  

“Fuck, Y/N…I…I didn’t mean to say that! I’m such an ass…please- please stop crying, babe”, he tried to grab your hands, but you escaped his touch.  

“Answer me, Nikki”, you sobbed: “Is this what this is all about? You haven’t had enough yet? You want me to get this other bitch back here?”  

Fuck, this man had you wrapped around his finger and didn’t even know it. Of course, your entire body was screaming for him, begging for his touch! But you couldn’t give in… you couldn’t lose him as a friend… you just couldn’t.  

“No, no, no”, he quickly answered and wanted to press your body against his but you raised your hands in defense: “Don’t touch me!”  

“Y/N…please, I’m sorry!”  

“You’re my best friend, Nikki! How can you…why would you say that?!”  

“Because you made me lose my shit!”, he let his shaking hands roam through his dark hair and over his face: “And I’m sorry!”  

“I made you lose your shit?!”, you felt anger growing inside of you again: “Why? Because you can’t stand the truth?!”  

“I can’t stand the truth?!”, he exhaled sharply: “Am I the one crying again because I don’t get what I want?! Fuck, the only reason why I haven’t fucked you yet is because I have no interest in having daddy’s little girl next to me, crying in the morning when I tell her to leave!”  

Unable to say a word you stared at him for a while. Obviously he was as shocked by his words as you were and yet he couldn’t take it back, although it was one of the biggest lies, he had ever told anyone.  

“Fuck you, Nikki”, you said before you turned around and wanted to leave his shit hole of an apartment. You had to go. You couldn’t look at him any longer.  

You heard his steps behind you and tried to walk faster, not giving a shit what else he had to say. He wanted to hurt you? He had reached his goal!  

“Y/N, wait!”, he grabbed your wrist and turned you around as fast as he could and before you were able to do anything against it or were able to understand what was happening, he had pressed his lips against yours. Your eyes widened in shock before they suddenly fell shut.  

You didn’t want to return the kiss, but you couldn’t resist. You had waited so long for this, his presence took over all your senses. One of his hands was still wrapped around your left wrist and the other against your back, pulling you closer, while his lips tenderly moved against yours. God, you had always wondered what he would taste like. You wanted him. Fuck, how badly you wanted him. But not in the way he wanted you…  

And the moment, you remembered this fact, you finally escaped his lips and before you were able to control yourself your palm had hit his cheek with a loud smacking noise.  

“Why did you do that?”, you shouted at him angrily and still out of breath.  

He had kissed you. Nikki really had kissed you. Fuck, and it was hard for you to stand properly. You needed more of this. More of his kisses. More of him.  

“Why did I do that? You just slapped me!”, he looked at you shocked.  

“Because you kissed me!”  

“Yeah? That’s a reason to slap me?”  

“Why did you do that?!”, you shouted again, ignoring his words.  

Exactly. Why had he done that? He wished he had the answer to that.  

“I…Y/N- I knew if you had left this time, I never would have seen you again…I had to stop you from leaving and I didn’t know what else to do…”, he answered honestly and for the first time you were able to see the pain behind his eyes.  

“I can’t let you leave me, okay?”, he answered: “I shouldn’t have kissed you, baby…”  

Breathless you were staring at him. You didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t let you leave. What was that supposed to mean? Wordless you reached out for his lower lip, to wipe away the stains of your lipstick, but he reached for your hand to stop you in your way.  

“I swear, princess, if you do this now, I can’t guarantee anything”, he growled with a deep voice, you weren’t used to but send a shiver down your spine.  

“Nikki…”, you whispered still not sure what to say, only inches away from screwing all your principles. And you hated him for it, but yourself even more.  

“Yes?”, he leaned his forehead against yours.  

“W-what is this supposed to be?”, you were looking down to your hands nervously: “Because I really want you… listen, you won and I-”, but he interrupted you, gently lifting your chin up, so you would look into his eyes: “Y/N, don’t…”  

Was he really about to do this? After all those nights he had spent awake thinking about you, about this exact situation, he was telling you to stop, when you finally wanted what he had wanted this entire time? Fucking hell, he loved you! He felt like he had been thrown into ice-cold water when the realization hit him like a train. He loved you. And he couldn’t risk you leaving.  

“Y/N”, he sighed, not knowing where to start. He knew there was no way you’d feel the same. He wasn’t good enough for you. He had known it right from the start. But he couldn’t hide it any longer. He was sick of lying to himself every damn day!  

“The truth is”, he inhaled deeply: “The only reason I haven’t had you in my bed already is because I'd have no fucking idea how to treat you right in the morning, Y/N.” 

 “W-what?”, you asked puzzled.  

“I don’t know anything about this, okay? I want to treat you right. I want to give you what you deserve. But I can’t! I just can’t, Y/N…I want to but I can’t…”  

“Nikki, are you- what?”  

“You know it’s true… I don’t have a fucking job! I don’t have a perspective! I’m just hopping from one band to another, drinking and fucking around! I am not what you want!”  

“But you are, Nikki!”, you demanded the second you understood what he was trying to say and softly placed your palm against his cheek: “You are what I want!”  

“No, you don’t mean that! You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!”  

“You’re right…”, you admitted almost crying again: “I don’t know that. But I don’t care, Nikki.”  

“I’m just going to disappoint you…sooner or later.”  

“You won’t! I trust you, okay?”  

Without hesitation he sealed your lips once more and this time you weren’t backing off. You quietly moaned into the deep kiss, filled with so much desperation you forgot to breathe. He immediately took his chance to caress your tongue with his. Your fingernails were buried in his shirt and excitement flooded your entire body. Fuck, how much you loved this man.   

You kissed until you were gasping for air, your faces still so close you could feel your hot breaths against each other’s sensitive skin.  

“You’ll have to be patient with me, Y/N…”  

You chuckled: “I promise.”  

“Fuck, you are so beautiful”, he exhaled as his thumb caressed over your soft cheek.  

“You are doing great so far.” You smiled up at him.  

“Tell me, princess, what am I supposed to do now?”  

You hesitated a moment while you were caught up in a fight with yourself, before you answered: “After I already screwed over one of my rules tonight, I’ll better go now. And tomorrow morning you are going to call me so you can ask me out on a proper date.”  

“You want to go now?”  

“We want to do this slowly, right?”, you grinned.  

“Do we?”  

“Yes, we do!”, you placed another sweet kiss on his lips: “So please be a gentleman and see me to the door.” 

[oneiroy]

👋🌸 it’s been a hot second since I’ve sent a random question so! In light of dawntrail taking us to a Jungle-y location…. How well does Ryss do with the heat? And how does she keep cool when the suns trying to bake everyone :0

hell yeah random questions my beloved!!

ryss deals rather well with the heat! and thank god given that her partner is well. a walking furnace eheheh

you're more likely to hear her complain about being cold than warm usually, but when things get unbearable, her favorite way of cooling down is to go for a swim! in the sea, in a lake, in a river, doesn't matter! she loves to swim around to exercise, to try to spot fishes if she can, or even just to let herself be rocked by the waves if she's staying there for a while.

it's her favorite method but it's not rare that it backfires on her. after all, she is not immune to sunburns, and floating on the sea is definitely not a good way to avoid them! in the summer and/or in sunny locales, she's often sporting the worst tan lines known to man after a few too many sunburns. even when she's not suffering from a recent sunburn, her skin is littered with sunspots because of that!

[woollypoison]

Never odd or even

Male reader x Le Sserafim Kim Chaewon Word count: 10k

"It’s fifty-fifty. It either happens or it doesn’t."

You set your glass down on the table so hard it nearly cracks. "It is not fifty-fifty."

She shrugs—Chaewon’s quintessential uncaring attitude about anything you say—as she falls down into the couch. "But it is, though." She pops open another beer like she hasn’t had enough to drink already.

She always does this. Chooses some ridiculously wrong position to dig her heels in. Like if she just believes it to be true, the universe will bend to her will out of sheer exasperation. You should just ignore it, and just let her believe what she wants to believe. There really is no point to it with her. You drag a hand down your face, because you've been here before. You’re always here. There is a universe where you’ve been having this argument since the dawn of time. Monty Hall sits upon his cosmic throne and watches you suffer.

"You pick a door," she says, holding up one finger like she's making a serious mathematical point and not actively committing a crime against logic. "And then Monty—whoever the fuck he is—opens another door. And now there’s two left. So, you know. Fifty-fifty. You either win the prize or you don’t win shit."

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

And she still doesn’t care. If anything, she revels in your frustration, grinning and taking a lazy sip from her beer.

“I thought you liked your girls a little stupid,” she muses. You like Chaewon. Always have; since before her rejection and until now.

She might be onto something.

“That’s what I saw earlier at the club, anyway,” she mumbles, and it’s pointed, a sharp dagger concealed by a hushed voice.

You pay it no mind. It’s just Chaewon being Chaewon. Doing everything in her power to annoy the fuck out of you. You shake your head. “I like my girls with a basic understanding of probability.”

She hums, her gaze dragging over you, and it lingers. Long. Too long. So long it’s causing the alcohol induced haze to retreat from your brain. Then she just smiles again, takes another sip, and the buzz is back.

Chaewon stretches, arms flexed into a peak above her head, sliding against the backrest of the couch, her head landing against the armrest of the couch opposite of where you're sitting. Her legs stretch out off of the floor, her dress riding up, clinging to and stretching on her hips.

It’s a performance, designed to squeeze out resistance from any sap that would dare defy her. It’s impossible to tell if this is just Chaewon’s purest form, her instincts kicking in to naturally make any man submit, or if it’s a carefully crafted weapon, deliberately utilised and aimed with immaculate precision. Either way, it’s fucking lethal. Lace-trimmed thigh-high covered feet land in your lap, crossed. You glance down at them. Stifle a thought of fucking the exposed part of skin right below her dress and above her socks. Breathe out through your nose, annoyed.

She sees. She was waiting for you to see, to be more exact.

“What?” she asks, but she knows the answer. Feigning innocence, but the chances of it convincing you are slim. “Is the view not to your liking?”

You flick your eyes up to meet hers. Flat. Unamused. Stern. “Jesus, Chaewon.”

She cocks a half smile, hands up in the air like she’s being put under arrest but confident she can flirt her way out of it. “Relax. It’s just a joke.‘

Right. Just a joke. One she’s been playing at for far too long now. One you’re absolutely not in the mood for tonight. One that is quintessentially Chaewon. Mean. Sloppy. Reckless.

That’s what alcohol does to her. She gets all handsy and touchy and feely, disregarding any feelings or reservations you’d have about being touched meaninglessly by the girl that didn’t want you.

And the joke is not exclusive to you either. You’ve seen her like this before, with other guys. Hands on their shoulders and theirs on her hips, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. It’s just her usual mess. It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s warm, just warm enough that you can feel her through your clothes. But warm enough to make you fear the sparks could ignite something that shouldn’t be. Before you can have any more prohibited thoughts, you shift, trying to nudge her legs off of you.

She doesn’t budge. Deliberately. Straight up refuses to even acknowledge the attempt.

You sigh. “Get your legs off of me.”

Chaewon blinks at you, lashes fluttering faster than your heart can beat, her lips pouting— a poor substitute for saying she can’t believe you’d say that to someone this cute. She chuckles, transforms it into a smirk, and tilts her head.

“Make me.”

She presses the arch of her foot against your crotch. It’s right on target. Light. Testing. Provocating.

It’s impossible not to react. You could sit here, not do anything, let her rub your hardening cock through your pants a bit, enjoy the feeling of her getting you worked up. But that’s not what this is about. You know this pattern. As soon as you acknowledge it, it stops, and even if it didn’t, it would all be meaningless.

So you react. You grab her ankle, and shove her legs off of you.

She lets out a soft “oh,” before laughing, low and amused. She works herself back up right, shifting her legs underneath her, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit deterred. 

“Wow,” she mocks. “Sensitive.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your drink. It’s water. Unlike Chaewon, you know when to quit, much to her annoyance. “Stop being weird and focus.”

“I am focused!” she retorts, all tension and energy. “Are you focused?” she says finally, slow, saccharine, like honey that's taking its sweet time to drip from a spoon into your mouth. “Not too distracted by how fuckable I look in this dress?”

You don’t acknowledge it. Again, no point. You set your glass down with a deliberate clink— any noise to replace what she just asked—then reach for three random objects on the coffee table; her phone, a book, and a coaster.

“We’re settling this tonight.”

She puts her beer back on the table, folds her hands in her lap, and sits with her whole body pointed at you. She shakes her body loose with slight movements. Then, slowly, she smiles.

“Please,” she says, voice sultry and teasing. “Teach me a lesson, professor.”

You’ve probably explained the theory to Chaewon more times than there are episodes of the show that inspired the discussion. It’s time for a practical run-through. You grab the three nearest things you can find and leave standing upright to function as make-shift doors—your phone, your glass of water, and a book Chaewon has been quipping from for the past month, How to Date Men When You Hate Men—and you form a neat row of three. “Let’s drill it into your skull. Three doors. One has a prize. Pick one.”

And for all the effort you put in, she barely looks. Eyes on you, finger pointing in a different direction. “The book.”

“Right, and that was a random choice out of three, meaning—”

“That I was either right or I was wrong. Fifty-fifty.” She shrugs, and shuts the door on this method of having her understand.

She’s perfectly frustrating. “it’s not fifty-fifty—”

She shifts the opposite way from her previous slide, her head landing in your lap. Her cheek rests against your thigh, and her provocation pokes at your heart. She gazes up at you, lashes fluttering a hypnotic rhythm. “This is more comfortable. Keep going.”

How could you?

“Chaewon.”

She hums, but she doesn’t acknowledge your protest. “What? Does having a cute girl’s face this close to your dick make you nervous?”

Ignore it. If you acknowledge it, it only gets worse. You push it down, she’ll eventually grow bored, and as long as the boulder doesn’t slip from your hands, you’ll be done with this forever. “Okay, so now, Monty—”

“You’re looking a little serious,” she muses, herself looking anything but. “Would you look like that while getting head? All furrowed brows, all focused?” Her lips curve deviously like the curveballs she’s throwing you. “Or would you be more relaxed? I can go deep, you know. No need to worry about me.”

Every cell in your body is telling you to push back, take her up on what she’s offering, and let her ruin this night. But you know. You’d get your hopes up, but she’d just call it a silly joke. Keep ignoring it. She’ll get bored.

You take a slow breath. Slow down your rhythm. “Are you done? Monty opens a door that isn’t the prize. That leaves two doors with potential. Your first pick was only right one-third of the time, so if you switch—”

“Aaaah.” Her mouth opens, tongue peeking out like a landing strip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s waiting for you to shove your cock inside.

That’s it.

You shove her off, not rough, but firm, standing up from the couch you might have sunk in immediately. “Can you cut it the fuck out?”

She’s back upright, giggling, back landing against the couch, legs curled beneath her. “What’s wrong? Blood rushing away from your head?”

“Do you ever stop?”

Her arms stretch over her head again, and you’re starting to see a pattern with the way her dress is stretching against her hips. “Not when I’m having fun.”

It’s maddening. Talking with Chaewon is selecting a door, continuing to talk with her is being shown the wrong door and choosing to take it willingly. “You really don’t care how frustrating you make the Monty Hall problem, do you?”

She smirks. She must think she has it all figured out. “I already told you. Either something happens, or it doesn’t. Fifty-fifty, dude.”

“That’s really not how probability works.”

“That’s how life works.”

You shake your head, and accompany it with an equally disappointed sigh. “You just don’t want to admit when you’ve made the wrong choice.”

She stills, and it’s eerie. It shouldn’t have happened. Then, like a mask slipping back, she recovers with a sly grin. “Or maybe I just like my way better.”

Before you can argue, she makes her move, getting up, pressing against your arm, chest squishy, warm and deliberate against you. “But you can explain it to me as many times as you want.”

She’s impossible. “Chaewon—”

And she leaves no room for response. “Go on,” she purrs, pushing her tits smush against your bicep, molding around the way your muscles tense. “Teach me.”

Your patience and her dress have one thing in common. They’re both razor-thin. “I mean it.”

She hums, and she smiles, and she’s convinced you’re going to give in any second now. “Not a fan anymore of me touching you?” Her voice drops, all warmth and provocation. “Would you rather reverse the roles, have you touch me? Be careful. I’m sensitive.”

Your fingers wrap around her wrist, pulling it high with a firm and stern motion. “Cut it out.”

She clicks her tongue, and scowls in return. The joke is over, and you ruined her fun. “You liked it plenty when that slut at the club was all over you.”

“That’s different,” you say, your jaw tightening up. She knows it is, and it’s not fair. Does she think she can get away with it just because you’ve got a thing for her? Or, used to have, you try to convince yourself.

She’s so clearly unimpressed it’s almost hurtful. It wasn’t a lie though. It was different, that girl at the club never tore your heart out. But none of that matters when Chaewon wants to have her fun. She scoffs. “Must’ve been nice. You didn’t even flinch when she touched you. Just leaned into her, didn’t push her away like you do with me.”

You don’t answer. You let go of her wrist, sit back down, unsure what to make if anything yourself. You could have gone home with ‘that slut’. Had a great evening. Instead, you’re here, keeping your promise to Chaewon that you’d make sure she got home safe, wasting another night on a girl that should have long been in your past already.

That same girl plants both her knees next to yours on the couch, dress creeping above her hips, exposing the slightest hint of black and lace panties straddling your lap, settling against you.

You hate how right she feels here.

She rocks her hips down, just slightly, just testing the waters. And like an experienced professional, the joke’s back on. “You sure you don’t want to have a little fun?”

Your hands clamp around her waist—not pulling her closer. Pushing her off.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Just concedes as the distance grows.

“Come on,” she murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. “You used to love looking at me.”

Your arm extends fully, pushing her as far as your body allows. “That was a long time ago.”

She lets out a small scoff, more hurt than the lost one, finally relenting and shifting off your lap. The joke is no longer fun for anyone in this room.

You just have to bite the bullet. Separate her from yourself, let the alcohol fade from her system and figure out what to do after that. “Go to bed,” you exhale sharply, a forced sense of finality in your voice. “I’ll sleep here, and be gone before you wake up.”

Chaewon stares at you like you just suggested the unthinkable. Her eye twitches, a habit you’ve long learned to associate with her being so upset that something is going to break. Then, she exhales sharper than you did, standing up. “Fine. Whatever.”

She turns, stomping toward her bedroom, her pumps exploding with sound every step of the way. “It’s still fucking fifty-fifty, by the way!” she yells, right before she slams the door.

It’s suddenly silent. Silent enough to hear your heartbeat going crazy.

She’ll calm down soon enough. Hopefully.

The heat of her body still burns against you, scorching where she was pressed against you. But if you ran after her now, you’d get burned alive. You rub your hands down your face, sinking into the couch, staring into the ceiling as you mentally prepare for what’s bound to be a sleepless night. There’s no escaping those as long as Chaewon is a part of your life.

-

Sleep doesn’t come.

You want to blame it on the horrible way this couch is digging into your back. Or the sounds of the city being ever present. Or the dim glow of some street lights seeping into the living room through Chaewon’s curtains that never managed to fully close. But comfort isn’t the issue.

It’s your damn mind, that can’t shut the fuck up.

Too many thoughts, all tangled together like a string of memories that wrapped around itself far too many times. Her hands, her voice, her weight in your lap. Her unusually prickly temper, and her enhanced sloppiness.

It all feels too fucking familiar, and the moment you admit that, there’s no holding it back.

It started as a night much like this one. You and Chaewon, at her place, sitting too close for friends but too far apart for lovers. Laughing at everything and nothing. Drinking just enough to make the lines blur. You had thought—maybe. Hopefully.

And for a moment, you know, you had been right. It seemed like the kind of night you’d eventually be able to tell your kids about. An edited version, to cut out the once-in-a-lifetime pounding you intended to give her, but still, magical in its own way. 

The way she let you kiss her. The way she kissed you back. The way her eyelashes fluttered to pull you into the kiss. How her left thigh rode up yours. The way her fingers locked behind the nape of your neck. The way you told her you liked her.

Then the way she pulled back. The hesitation in her eyes. The way her voice broke when she said “I don’t think we should do this.”

The way a crack formed on your heart, barely being pushed together by the rest of your more logical organs as you forced yourself to nod and agree, to act like it was fine. Like you were fine. Like you hadn’t just managed to secure the right door, only to be forced to step into the wrong one.

And the way your heart formed a second crack when you saw her again. She was still the same. Still Chaewon. Like nothing had happened.

But something did happen to you.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not easy to ignore. Chaewon is an addiction to you, the next hit of this sweet obsession entering your veins as your screen lights up.

Chaewon: You awake??

You know you should just be failing at sleeping again. This can only lead to misery.

You: Yeah.

It’s quiet for a bit, but a new message makes its way to you all the same.

Chaewon: Cant sleep

If only she knew how she cursed you with the same fate. If not for her you’d be sound asleep in your own bed right now, or even better, in the bed of that chick you met at the club. What did she say her name was again? Kazuha? Instead, you’re here, repeating old patterns with exhausted probability.

You: That sucks.

Your answers are curt. Too perfect with punctuation for your usual back and forth. She doesn’t respond right away. She might be stubborn and annoying about things she’s convinced she’s right about, but she’s never been oblivious.

Then:

Chaewon: Are we okay?

You’re upset, but not heartless. It tugs.

You: We’re fine, Chaewon

Chaewon: Thats not a yes…

You might just scream out of frustration, your phone dropping on your chest, but obviously you can’t. She’d hear. She’s impossible. So fucking stupidly impossible. And yet, you find yourself typing anyway.

You: Do you want me to lie?

The pause is longer this time. Should you feel bad or just so tired that it doesn’t matter anymore?

Chaewon: No Chaewon: IdkChaewon: I just get nervous when ur like this

You: Like what??

Chaewon: DistantChaewon: CarefulChaewon: Upset with me

Your fingers hover over the keyboard without action. She’s not wrong. You are being careful. It’s her fault. She’d break your heart a second time in less time it took for it to beat. That’s dangerous.

You: Idk what you want me to say Chaewon

Chaewon: Idk either…Chaewon: But I miss how we used to talk

The memories flood in of the two of you just shooting the shit, countless evenings. Still…

You: We’re talking now.

Chaewon: U know thats not what i meant

And she’s right. You do know, but this is just easier. For you, for her. For the both of you.

Chaewon: Cant you just come over here and talk w me?

Chaewon: I miss you…

And before you can even overthink it—

You move.

-

There is a thought that creeps into your mind as the door creaks open and you step into her room. Something about a lion’s den, and then another one following it up about it actually being the lionesses that do the hunting. There’s no point to it. They all fade in an instant. She’s no huntress right now. She’s vulnerable, like prey, enticing you to be the hunter, looking so ready to be pounced on; curled up beneath her blankets, only the soft shape of her against the sheets to lure you in.

“Hey.” It’s a solid way to start a conversation, but you can’t help but expect more from her after calling you in.

You nod, eyes fleeing from hers, shifting awkwardly by the door. “Hey.”

It takes a while before you move. The same goes for her. She’s squinting, her eyes getting used to the darkness. She’s always been stubborn about letting you help her get a blue light filter on her phone.

She finally stops, and for a moment, your eyes meet hers. She carries a soft smile, the kind that made you fall for her in the first place. But there’s a difference in it; barely perceptible; most definitely flown under the radar by people not so obsessed with her face. There’s precaution sewn into it. The sides of her smile are constantly shifting and trembling, like she doesn’t know whether to keep it there or to switch to a more neutral expression. Then, she shifts, her left arm pulling out from under the cover and tapping the sheets next to her, an unspoken invitation.

You sit down with a sigh, back turned towards her. You’re not far, but you’re not close either. A safe distance, you think to yourself. The mood isn’t tense, but also not comfortable. Just… unsure.

You can hear her laps part, exhale, almost say something, and then close again a couple of times. It’s not until you finally turn to face her that she speaks.

“Do you remember that summer at the beach?”

Your eyebrows raise on instinct, disbelief unmistakably painted across your face, impossible not to notice, not even in this darkness. “How could I forget?”

The muscles on her face relax as her eyes drift away from your eyes, seemingly getting lost into her pillow, which she clutches tight. “You remember how you were so worried about me you gave me a piggyback ride back to the house?”

“No,” you scoff, “I remember you guilt tripping me into carrying your soaking wet ass across the sand.” Your face turns away from her again, hands clutching the side of the bed as your eyes veer off into the distance past the window; letting the glass serve as a canvas to project your memories onto.

You hear the sheets rustle behind you as she works herself upright, before reminding you exactly why you helped her back then in the first place. “You weren’t complaining back then! You were way too busy copping a feel of my ass.”

“Okay, now that’s not fair,” you snap back much too fast, much too flustered. “I wasn’t copping a feel, I was keeping you from falling. And besides, you weren’t helping either! Just hanging there all limp, mumbling you’d never be able to walk again.”

“I mean, it just hurt so bad. That jellyfish really fucked me up,” she chuckles back, and you can feel the pressure of her back leaning against yours.

There’s a soft silence, the one drenched in feelings you’d much rather stay in, instead of moving on to an uncomfortable reality. So you keep painting, hoping the window holds your memory-scape just a little longer.

“Do you remember what we kept talking about? To keep your mind off of the pain?”

You can tell she knows in the way she responds with an “Oh my god.”

Both of you say it at the same time.

“The fucking Monty Hall problem!”

There’s a beat of silence. First it’s a chuckle. It turns into laughter, and it quickly grows uncontrolled, unstoppable. The kind that makes the memories seem brighter, makes your body feel lighter, the kind that makes you throw your head back as she does hers. You both open your eyes staring at the roof, now sharing the same canvas to display footage of past days.

“God,” you breathe, your head locked in place but your eyes drifting over towards her face. “I miss those days.”

She giggles, nose scrunching. “I don’t miss what that jellyfish did to me.”

The laughter fades, and you think that maybe, just maybe you could forget about earlier and go to bed without feeling like shit. You shift, and she does too, turning towards her as she moves back to her original spot, leaning against the headrest, crawling underneath the blankets with her legs.

Your breath catches as you look at her. Your stomach turns. “Chaewon.”

She blinks, glancing up at you. “Hmm?”

“Did you—” You inhale sharply, but you can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Did you seriously invite me in here just to talk un-dressed like that?”

Her brows furrow. Then she follows your gaze, shifting slightly, and—

Fuck.

Black lace, delicate, thin. Your favorite.

She freezes. "Oh."

Oh? Fucking oh?

“Why the fuck are you like this?” you explode.

Her eyes widen. "No! I—" She scrambles, tugging the blanket back up over herself. “I wasn’t—” “You said you wanted to talk, Chaewon.”

“I do!” Her voice pitches up. She’s pulling the sheets up hurriedly, using them as a shield from you, all you can see is her cheeks changing color ever so slightly. This time because of the embarrassment instead of the alcohol. “I promise… I do…”

It’s hard to believe that. It’s all so familiar, and all so fucking frustrating. “You know, this is just like you to do,” you ramble, and it’s hard to stop once you get going. “Always so fucking obsessed with getting a reaction out of me, never stopping to think for a second about how I feel!”

Her face softens, and the way she looks at you makes you sick. Like she thinks you’re right. “That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

“I swear!” She shouts, looking panicked and it’s enough to finally get you to shut up. “I was still out of it all, too mad and too drunk when I got back here. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t—” and a big, shallow breath interrupts her, the kind that just appears and leaves you with less air than before. “I wasn’t thinking, okay?” You want to believe her. But tonight has been too much. Too many provocations, too many lines blurring that she would turn back from, and in turn, you would let form scars.

Then you sigh, sitting back down. “Okay.”

“Are you…” her voice trembles as she tries to figure out the specifics of your answer. “You’re shaking. Are you mad?”

Your mind is still trying to slow down, and answering gets forgotten. She takes that as an answer, obviously. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not so mad that I’d be shaking, you idiot.” Your voice is quiet. “It’s just way too fucking cold in here. And I was thinking.”

There’s no hesitation, because that’s just how Chaewon is as she shifts, making room. “Get under the covers.”

“Chaewon, please—” you start, but she’s not having it.

“I won’t try anything, okay? I promise,” she interrupts you, sounding calmer already. There’s a touch of pleading in it, but not the whiny kind she uses to get you worked up. It’s more desperate, more real. “Just give me a chance to prove I’m being serious.”

You don’t move at first. Stubbornness is inherent to both of you, after all. She tugs on the sheets impatiently. You sigh, but it’s obviously performative, a last jab at her to let her know you’re only doing this just because you’re cold. And she wasn’t lying. She properly keeps her distance, just sharing the warmth of the bed. It’s immediate and comforting, but you don’t allow yourself to sink into it.

“See?” she murmurs. “Not a trap.”

Not yet. You don’t dare say it, but you don’t have to. She sees the thoughts in your eyes. So she shuffles, turning away from you.

The silence stretches so long you start focusing on the noises it can’t beat into submission. Your breathing. Her breathing. The creaking and crumpling sound of the bed and the sheets as you move.

“I wanted to talk, and we talked so… that’s—that’s good. I guess,” she whispers. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind talking some more.” She lets a little space in between for you to insert yourself into. You never do. “But if you’d rather pretend like I’m not here, I get that too. I’ll shut up.”

It’s endearing, and your response is a little mean, letting her wait in silence for just a little longer before replying. “I’m not pretending. I need somebody to blame the lack of space I have in this bed.”

She smiles, soft. You can’t see it, obviously, but you feel it. Somehow. She shifts under the blanket, closer but not touching. She’s apprehensive. And she meant what she said.

“Is this the first time we’ve slept in the same bed?” she asks, but she masks her tone enough that she could play it off as talking to herself if you decided to not respond.

“Nope,” you correct her. “There was that one time in sophomore year. You showed up at my door at, like, three in the morning. Absolutely shitfaced, mind you.”

She lets out a small, embarrassed groan, and you know you’re on the right track.

“I remember that,” she mumbles. “Barely.”

“You couldn’t figure out how to get to your dorm. Said not even Monty Hall could help you find the right door.”

“How do you remember all that?” Chaewon questions, like you had no right to have that memory.

“Are you kidding me? How could I forget? I told you to take my bed, and that I was gonna crash on the couch,” you continue explaining, your lips curling upwards.

“But I didn’t let you?”

“Nope. You didn’t trust my roommate worth shit. Which, fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. You keep going though, less for her alone or you alone, both for you both.

“You grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away. Looked me dead in the eye and said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave me alone with that guy here, he smells like crusty socks and assault.’”

Chaewon lets out a strangled sound that’s half mortified laugh, half groan. “Oh my God.”

“So I gave in. Got in bed next to you. Fully clothed. On top of the covers. Like a gentleman.”

“You didn’t sleep for a second that night, did you?”

“Of course not. You starfished. One arm across my chest, one leg thrown over me like a fucking seatbelt. You had me trapped, dead to rights. Didn’t help you made me paranoid that my roommate was actually going to do something.”

She laughs—really laughs. Warm, unguarded. Then she rolls onto her side, facing you again. Her eyes search yours. "It was easier, wasn’t it? Back then. In college. At the beach. You carrying me like an idiot, me acting like I couldn’t walk, and you trying to turn probability into a personality trait."

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh. More like one of those nose breaths that accompanies an abbreviated text. “Because it was.”

Her smile fades. “You never needed me to ask. You always just… stayed.”

You shift slightly, your fingers brushing the edge of the blanket. Her eyes drop there, then rise again.

“I think I’m a leaver,” she says. No warning. No lead-in. Like she had to say it fast before she lost the nerve.

“What?” It leaves your mouth before you can even blink.

But Chaewon swallows, her eyes retreating downwards. “I think that’s just who I am. Some people stay, and some people leave. You’re the kind of person that stays, and I’m a person that leaves. Because if I go first, I don’t have to wait until you become a leaver just like me.”

She looks at you like she’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like she’s already bracing for the recoil.

“I know it’s selfish,” she adds quickly. “But that night… when you kissed me, and then said you really liked me—I panicked. I did what I always do. You were giving me a choice, and that scared the hell out of me. So I picked the choice I always make.”

She breathes in. Exhales slow. Really takes her time, her eyes drifting slightly upwards now.

“And for a while, I told myself it was just another fifty-fifty. You know? Just a game of chance I lost. You either leave or get left. You either lose something or end up lost. And I thought—" she breaks off, swallowing again, part of her voice getting swallowed with it, "—that it would go away like the rest. That I’d forget. That it’d stop mattering."

You stay quiet.

“But it didn’t. It stuck. You stuck.”

She shifts again, knee brushing against yours beneath the blanket. Her voice cracks a little.

“And I started noticing things,” she says. "Little things. Like the first time you didn’t wait for me to text goodnight. Or when you were with someone else and you had that smile that I thought was reserved for me. Or when you stopped arguing with me about dumb shit just to keep talking."

Her voice wavers.

“And then I realized I didn’t just pick wrong. I watched the right door shut. And then I heard it lock. And that’s why I know your stupid fucking Monty Hall problem is wrong. I should’ve had another shot. Another choice. But life didn’t open a wrong door—it just took the right one away. And that’s why I know it’s just fifty-fifty. And I lost my coin toss at happiness.”

There’s a second of silence where your brain short circuits.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you mutter.

She blinks, but it helps her to finally look at you. “Ouch?”

You sit up, tossing the blanket off like it offended you. “No, I’m serious. You think my door shut? You fucking locked it.”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off, your pace quickening. “The fact that I stayed around all this time is proof enough that my door is still unlocked. It wasn’t up to me to reopen that door.” “I—” “But you had to try.” Chaewon’s eyes flicker—not away, but deeper. Her breath hitches, and you swear it’s the first real sound she’s made in a while that didn’t have a smirk behind it. She shifts forward just slightly, only enough that her leg brushes against yours again, like she’s testing if the signal’s still green.

“You’re saying… it’s still open?”

You drag a hand through your hair, eyes rolling ceilingward before locking onto her again. “It was never fucking closed.”

Her lips part. They’re trembling now. She’s not teasing this time. “Then why—why didn’t you ever—”

“Because I’m not gonna beg,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I’m not gonna crawl through the fucking keyhole when you slammed the door in my face.”

She flinches. Just barely. But enough.

“I didn’t need you to beg, just…” she says, softer, like she’s going over the math again in her head. “I don’t know… I—” Her voice dips, trails, then steadies. “I’m here now. I’m trying.”

You look at her. Clear as day in the middle of the night. She's curled up next to you, defensive and ashamed and stubborn all at once. Her eyes are too glossy, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the comforter like they’re looking for somewhere to hide.

And then she breathes, and her voice breaks.

“I just wanted you to want me still.”

And that? That fucking cracks something open.

You reach for her—no grand gestures, no cinematic swoop—just firm, necessary motion. You cradle her jaw, fingers sweeping her hair back, and when you speak, it’s low and final and absolutely everything you’ve been holding back.

“I never fucking stopped.”

There’s no pause this time.

No “but what if—”

No “are you sure—”

No more fucking Monty Hall.

Just her lips crashing into yours, messily, hungrily, like the apology she couldn’t say and the forgiveness you weren’t ready to offer have decided to cancel each other out with tongue.

It’s not careful. It’s not gentle.

It’s honest.

She’s on your lap again, only this time it’s not a joke. Her knees bracket your thighs and she grinds down with purpose, gasping when she feels you through your boxers. Her hands slide beneath your shirt, nails catching skin, and you curse under your breath as heat swells in your gut, undeniable and urgent.

You break the kiss, forehead against hers. “Still cold?”

Her laugh is shallow, much too distracted with making sure she can properly share in your body heat. “Yeah. Make me warm.”

“And here I was thinking you were hot enough as is.”

She smirks, and it’s real this time. Like the one you saw when you barely knew her, but knew enough already. Not a mask. Not a trap. Just her.

And she whispers, “Don’t stop this time.”

Like you could. Besides, you’re not even sure it’s only meant for you. With the way she’s tugging and removing your clothes, kissing your shoulders and pulling you tighter, it’s like she’s making up for lost time. For every second spent being careful. Your hands trace her body, taking your time to really make sure every curve and beauty mark is stuck in your mind forever.

“God,” you mumble under your breath, pressing your lips to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, working your way down until you’re kissing the edge of a black lace bra that was almost the reason you stormed off earlier. “I can’t believe how beautiful you really are.”

Her breath hitches. “I know.”

And you’ve missed that, too. Her confidence. The way she can say things like that without irony, because she knows exactly what she’s worth—she just never thought she’d be worth it to you once more.

You kiss her through the black lace, and she shivers when you nip at the edge of her bra, as close to her nipple as you can get. She doesn’t waste any time herself flicking open the button of your jeans. You’ve always thought she needed a helping hand, both of yours pushing your pants further down. They’re not even off properly when she pauses, eyes blown wide, honing in on the tent in your boxers leaving little to imagination.

“Wow,” she says, and it’s almost weird to hear her say it without sarcasm.

“Wow?” your voice is rough, coming out in a single breath.

She nods, and her lips part as she yanks your boxers down, eyes almost dazed as she takes you in. “Wow.”

It’s a reverent look. It’s a look that suits her as long as it’s directed towards you, you think. Her fingers reach out like she’s about to wrap them around you, but she stops right before she makes contact, and the look in her eyes changes. Smug now. Knowing.

“I need a moment,” she says, and you know she’s up to no good. “You can’t just swing that in a girl's face and expect me to make it easy for you.”

A throb shoots through your cock, hips twitching without your consent. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

But she just smirks.

“Chaewon.”

“Shhh,” she says as she shuts down any and all protest, and her voice is the perfect combination of exasperating and enticing. “I’ve got my own Monty Hall problem lined up for you.”

You groan, but it’s more of a plea for mercy than a protest. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” she purrs, fingers grazing the base of your cock before pulling back again, making you hiss.

“Three doors,” she says, and the way she looks at you is obscene. “My front door, my back door, and my... ehm... mouth door?”

You’re gone. You’re fucking gone. “You are so lucky you're fucking hot.”

She keeps going, relentless. Her grin is pure mischief. “Which one have I imagined you fucking me with the most?” She rolls her hips, testing you. “Pick right, and you get to fuck it.”

“And if I guess wrong?” Your voice is rough, needy, everything you never let her hear before tonight.

Her eyes burn. “Then you eat me out first.”

It’s a rigged game and you both know it, but you play along anyway, letting her set the rules and stack the deck and deal each card. You lean forward, drag your lips up the line of her jaw. “That’s an impossible choice. You want all of them.”

She moans, a hiccup of laughter and want, and the weight of her shifts in your lap, urgent. “You wish. You only get one.”

But her hips are grinding now, a rolling, deliberate pressure that tells you exactly what her body needs. The answer is and always has been: every option, at once, and all of them leading back to you.

You palm her ass, fingers splaying underneath the lace edge, and the way she shivers tells you she wasn’t expecting you to touch her with that kind of certainty. For all her bravado and gamesmanship, this is how you win: you move first, and you don’t hesitate.

“Let’s see,” you murmur, mouth against the shell of her ear, making her gasp. “Back door—” a squeeze, a knead that pulls a little yelp from her, “—doesn’t seem like your style. At least not as a first move.”

“Don’t count me out,” she breathes, and you hear the competitive edge in her voice, the same edge that made her stay up all night just to prove you wrong about some irrelevant, beautiful, dumb thing.

You laugh, slow and low, and she shakes against you. “Mouth door,” you say, and you can’t help but grin at the way she’s already licking her lips, hungry, needing to prove something. “Obvious contender. But I think you want it right here.” Your hand finds the heat between her legs, cups her through those ridiculous panties, and her eyes go wide, her breath gone.

You wait a beat. She’s never been great at waiting, but she’s trembling now, lips parted, waiting for your verdict.

“And if I told you it’s definitely not the back door? Does your answer change?” she pants.

You consider your odds. “I think—” you start, but she interrupts.

“Actually,” she says, and the way her voice drips with satisfaction is almost enough to make you lose. “I don’t give a fuck. I want your cock. Right here.”

She grinds against you, and you can’t help but think you’re never spending another day without that feeling.

“Fuck,” you groan, because she won this round, and she knows it. “You don’t play fair.”

She bites her lip, smiling, then reaches between you, fingers wrapping around you with a perfect, firm pressure. “And that’s why you love me.”

She’s right. She’s wrong about so many fucking things, but she’s right about this.

You thrust up into her hand, and she moans, her body arching, her hair falling down her back. You reach for her hips, hooking your thumbs under the lace, and she lifts herself up, letting you pull it down, off, away. She doesn’t care where it lands; she’s already lowering herself back onto you, and you’re closing the distance, guiding your cock to her needy cunt.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, so close to her you can taste it, the subtext of admission against her skin. “I’m not saying it first. I’ll force you to.”

She rocks her hips, taking you deeper, her breath catching with a shudder. “Yeah? You think you can make me?”

You grit your teeth, the friction of her tight around you making it almost impossible to think. “I know I can.”

“Big words,” she gasps, riding you faster, harder. “Think you can back them up?”

You reach between you, your thumb finding her clit, and she cries out, her whole body shaking, her walls clenching around you. “You first,” you growl, and you can tell she’s sensitive. “Say it.”

Her eyes roll back, her lower lip caught between her teeth. You know it, you have her dead to rights, this is your win, and then—”Nuh-uh.”

You thrust up into her, relentless, and the pressure builds, mounting, and she’s so fucking tight around you, and you want her to say it, need her to say it.

She grinds down harder, her nails dragging your shoulder blades, and it’s too much. Too good. Too fucking hot. “You’re gonna say it,” you gasp, your thumb circling her clit faster. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” she pants, her head falling back as she rides you with abandon, her whole body trembling, her breath hitching with every thrust. “I know—oh fuck—you.”

You watch her face as she rocks against you, her lips parting, her eyes wide and desperate and defiant. She’s so close. So close you can feel it, the way she’s fighting it, wanting to hold out, wanting to win.

“Say it,” you growl, thrusting up into her again, harder, not easing up on her clit.

She gasps, and this has to be it. She’s trembling, tightening, drowning in ecstasy and she’s— “I’m—Fuck, I’m cumming, you fucker,” she manages to choke out, and she cums hard. Her head drops forward, no further admission, still no winner as her whole body shudders, her walls clenching around you like she’s weaponizing her orgasm against you, trying to pull the words from you.

You swear, a rough sound that’s almost a surrender, and she laughs, breathless, smug, still shaking in your lap. “You first.”

Your grip tightens on her hips, and you’re so fucking close, but you hold on, hold out, your breath ragged. “I’m not going to give up,” you groan, thrusting up into her in a wild frenzy, loud clapping of flesh colliding now strangling the room. She lets out a strangled sound, and her eyes go wide letting you know she didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect you to only go harder, to keep fucking her through her orgasm, keep pushing her over the edge again and again and again until she might pass out.You thrust harder, deeper, and her voice breaks, her body wild against yours.

You hold on, and she holds on longer. She’s so tight, so wet, and the heat is building, and you feel her clench around you, feel her mold to your shape. Her mouth opens, and you can’t tell if she’s about to say it or if she’s too far gone, and then—

She pulls off of you. You watch, stunned, as she drops to her knees and wraps her mouth around your cock, and the sight alone is enough to make you lose it. You groan, a deep, ragged sound, and she moans around you, the vibration pushing you over the edge. Your hands tangle in her hair as you come, hot and hard, spilling ropes of cum into her mouth.

“Fuck, Chaewon,” you choke out, the last of your breath leaving your body as every drop of cum you had does the same, her lips still tight around you.

Then she pulls back, and her eyes are on you, wide and bright and triumphant. She cups a hand beneath her chin, opens her mouth, and—

“I love you,” she says, letting your cum spill out over her lips, and there’s a laugh behind it, a tremor of amusement, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Like she knows she just won all over again. She wipes her mouth, cum streaking her chin, her neck, her chest, and she looks so absurdly beautiful you can’t even be mad.

“Chaewon,” you breathe. It’s exasperation and wonder, the way you’ve said her name so many times before. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Really?” She bats her lashes with a coy look, licking her lips like she’s savoring every last drop of the chaos she’s caused. “Aren’t you supposed to say it back?”

You grab her by the waist, pulling her back up to straddle you past your softened cock, and she giggles, squirming in your lap. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you can’t get enough of it,” she teases, her smile widening,

You stare at her, chest heaving, the words settling into the spaces that were empty for so long. Then you let out a breathless, helpless laugh, pulling her face up to yours, kissing her despite all the filth she let drip out to cover her sweetness.

“Fuck you,” you say between kisses, but there’s no heat behind it, just the weight of relief and joy and everything else you’ve been holding back. “How do you win even when you lose?”

She smiles against your mouth, and you feel it in every part of you. “I guess I’m just smarter than you.”

You do. You say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like you’ve spent the last year waiting for your chance.

“I love you, you idiot.”

She makes a soft sound, and for a second you think she might cry, but it’s just a laugh, bright and giddy and so fucking happy. “I’m glad you do.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare,” you say as you shake your head, trying to hide the cartoonishly large smile she forced upon your face. “And you’re stuck with me,” she says, kissing you again, her body melting into yours, all softness and satisfaction. Her voice dips, teasing, warm. “Or did you forget?”

“Never,” you murmur, and you mean it. Hell, you’d bet on it.

Her body shifts in response, her being melting into you, her skin sticky but hot against yours. “So,” she says, and it’s light and breezy like that summer day still stuck in your memory, like you’re somehow back in a familiar rhythm, but new nonetheless. “You really think you can handle me?”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around her. “I’ve been handling you for years without the benefit of getting to fuck you.”

She pinches your side, but it’s playful, and you can tell she’s trying not to smile. “Asshole.”

“Yeah,” you say, kissing her forehead. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

She nods, and that alone was worth all the suffering. Because it’s honest.

“Shit,” Chaewon breathes, your skin stuck together with dried cum, pulling loose from you. “We’re a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, well, it’s your fault for trying to be funny,” you say like you’re not covered in it too.

She shakes her head, and it’s like she’s saying it’s your fault for not being the first to say you love her. “We can’t go to bed like this,” she proclaims, trying her best not to get too much filth on her sheets. “C’mon. Shower.”

“Together?” you ask, and she just rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest fucking question you’ve ever asked.

You follow her to the bathroom, the air chilly and the tile cool underfoot. She turns on the water of her shower, letting it heat up as she looks back over at you, one eyebrow lifting like she’s pondering if she should just keep it to showering or not.

“Get in,” she says, pushing you towards the shower. “I’m not letting you sleep until you’re clean.”

She’s already stepping toward the shower when she realizes you’re still standing there. Her eyes narrow, but her lips curve. “What? You’re dawdling now?”

You shrug, and she laughs. It’s not the sound she makes when she’s trying to get under your skin, but the one you’d almost forgotten she could make. Uncomplicated. Real.

She starts taking off the only thing she still has on—her thigh high socks that were the main culprit in why you failed to pick up a girl earlier tonight. You were way too busy admiring how good Chaewon looked, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting me to do it for—”

You catch her hand, stop her from peeling them off. She freezes, looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“Let’s pretend I lost your three doors challenge,” you murmur, and you hear her breath catch. “It’d be a shame not to eat you out with how good you look in those.”

“So you were staring! I fucking knew it,” she shouts gleefully.

You don’t give it a response. You just hoist her up, and she wraps her legs around you like it’s instinct, gasping, more eager than surprised, as you let her ass meet the bathroom counter. You spread her thighs open to admire, sink to your knees in between them, and look up, getting lost in the way she looks down.

“Oh my god,” she sighs out. “Are you really—”

 You don’t let her finish. You drag your tongue up her slit, and her head falls back, the sound of the shower almost drowning out her moan. Almost, but not quite.

“Fuck,” she gasps, the first of many. “Right there. Oh, right—”

You swirl your tongue around her clit, and her hips buck, her whole body trembling. She’s close already, too close, and you know you could end this in seconds, but you don’t. Not yet.

Your hand slides up her thigh, and she shudders as you press a finger against her asshole, teasing, gentle. Her breath catches, and you feel her body tense, then relax, opening for you.

“Shit,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. You work her with your tongue and your fingers and your everything, and she’s shaking.

“Holy fuck,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “You’re—shit—you’re better at this than explaining math problems.”

You groan, a low, rough sound, and the vibration makes her shudder. “Careful, I might bite.”

She laughs, knowing you’re all bark, and her fingers tangle in your hair, not quite pulling you closer, but not allowing escape either. “Don’t stop,” she begs, and she wears it so well that ideas flood your mind. “I’m so fucking close.”

feel her body tense, tight and perfect around you. “Right there. Oh—” You curl your finger, the final bit of tension she needed to release, clenching hard, her hands in your hair, her body on fire. “Oh God, oh—”

She cums hard, her body arching, her legs closing around your head as she cries out, the sound raw and desperate and so fucking good. Your finger slips out but keep your mouth on her, not letting up until she’s shuddering, breathless, her hands tensed up tugging at you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, and you feel the last tremors of her orgasm as they ripple through her. “How did you—I can’t—” She’s lost for words, and it’s ammunition for next time you fight over something stupid.

You don’t move until she tugs at you weakly, pulling you up, and the look in her eyes is almost enough to make you drop to your knees again.

You grab her hand, pulling her toward the shower, but she doesn’t budge. Instead, she drops to her knees, fingers splayed on your thighs. “I’ll admit, you’re pretty fucking good,” she says, her eyes gleaming with challenge. Everything’s a competition with this girl. “But I’m better.”

You don’t have time to respond. Her mouth is on you, hot and wet and perfect, and you groan, your head falling back. She works you with a skill you didn’t think she had, her tongue swirling, her lips tight, and all you can do is hold on. She pulls back, and the sudden loss makes you gasp. “Feel free to cum wherever you want,” she muses, and your mind floods with options. All too enticing.

Her pace is relentless, precise, and you feel her smile around you, a smug curve against your skin. She’s rapidly proving her point.

“Chaewon,” you groan, and you’re not sure if you’re leading into begging or commanding. “Fuck, that feels—”

She hums, a low, teasing sound, and the vibration makes you curse. Her fingers slide down, cupping your balls, and you feel yourself throb against her tongue.

You’re close, too close, and she knows it. You can tell by the way she pulls back again, her lips glistening, her eyes wild. “I’m not done with you,” she says, and you swear you might die.

“Fuck my face,” she says, and you tremble, your whole body going tight.

“Chaewon,” you gasp, but she’s already got you begging for more, her hands on your thighs, guiding you inside.

You thrust, and she takes it, takes you, her mouth so fucking good you can’t believe this is real. She moans and gags around you, and it’s a sound you’ll hear in your dreams for the rest of your life.

She looks up, her mouth full, and the sight is obscene, incredible. She’s not stopping, not giving you a second to catch your breath, just letting you use her, and it’s all too fucking much.

You’re so close, the heat building, your control slipping. You fuck her face, your hands tight in her hair, and she’s caught between you and the counter, letting you use her, letting you lose yourself.

“Oh God, Chaewon,” you groan, your thrusts erratic, desperate. “I’m gonna—”

She pulls back, and you gasp, her lips getting pressed against the tip of your dick. She strokes you, her lips swollen and wet, and— “Do it,” she commands, tilting her head back, presenting her face and her tits and her abs and every target you could choose, her eyes pleading to cover not one but all. “Come all over me.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it. You cum hard, your whole body tensing, and she moans as your release hits her face, her lips, her cheek, her chest.

“Fuck,” you groan, and she smiles, licking her lips, and you’re so spent you almost collapse right there.

Then she’s pulling you down, kissing you, and you taste yourself on her tongue.

“At least I was worth the wait, right?” she murmurs, and you pull back just far enough to see the way she’s grinning, the way she’s looking at you like she thinks she won. If only she saw herself right now, you’re clearly the winner.

“Think I’m ready for that shower now,” you say, and you can’t help but smile back, because you’re a mess, and she’s a mess, and you came into this room specifically to be less of a mess; and you love it. You love her.

The shower is still running, heating up the room, and you both stand up. She pulls you with her, and the water makes quick work of the art you just made. What a waste, but a waste you love to spend with her.

She notices your face change as the cum disappears from her visage, and chuckles lightly. “You’ll get plenty of other chances.”

You wash her and she washes you back, and it’s slow and easy and comfortable. Like you never thought it could be again. But better. No rush, no desperation. She works the shampoo into your hair, but you can’t stand to not annoy her for another second, pulling her under the spray and rinsing her off.

“Hey,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her eyes bright.

“Hey yourself,” you say, dragging your thumb across her cheek, her lips, her collarbone. “Think I like you like this.”

“Wet?” she asks, and she’s teasing, but there’s a softness behind it.

“That too. But no. Mine,” you say, and her expression shifts, her eyes going soft, her hands coming to rest on your chest.

“You know,” she says, her voice quiet, thoughtful, “That makes you equally mine.”

You tilt her chin up, kissing her, and she melts into it, into you. “I guess that means we both won today.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound, the best feeling, the best everything. “Guess I can get used to it if it’s with you.”

Eventually you turn off the tap, and she shivers as you wrap her in a towel, pulling her close. “Bed?” you ask, and she nods, simple and easy.

She helps you dry off, and you help her, and you just can’t let each other be right now. She tugs at you, at your hand, constantly leading you, hair still wild and just damp enough to be okay going to bed with. She slips beneath the covers fully naked, but it’s too cold to worry about any of that, so you follow.

You pull her against you, or she pushes herself into you. It’s hard to tell who’s more desperate. Point is, her back is against your chest, and it fits perfectly. Like she was made for it.

“So,” she says, her voice a sleepy mumble, “are you gonna lose your shit if I say it’s fifty-fifty again?”

You groan, exasperated and affectionate, and she giggles, burying her face in your neck.

“Chaewon,” you say, and she turns just enough to look at you.

“Hmm?”

You wrap your arms around her, holding her, holding everything. “You’re fucking annoying. Never change.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, and you know this is the real win. Not the game, not the challenge, not the give and take of a thousand heated mathematical arguments—but this. Her. You. Together.

“Promise,” she whispers, and you feel her breath slow, feel her body relax, feel the unlikeliest odds settle in your favor.

You hold her tighter, and the silence this time is comfortable, a weightless, blissful quiet that lulls you both toward sleep. You barely hear her next words, but they seep into you, the last sweet, stubborn thing you need to know.

“I still think it's fifty-fifty.”

[creati-bunny]

YOU TOOK THE THUNDER SPEAR FOR LEVI ACKERMAN; he observes your bandaged state on the ground. The image of a copious amount of blood gushing out of your stomach was enough to make him feel like puking his guts out; the lifeless eyes you had will forever haunt his nightmares. It was a very, very horrible mistake to have you by his side; he was right to believe that everyone he gets attached to will eventually leave him. Stupid, stupid of you—him to let you take care of Zeke.

You were barely breathing, and it fucking terrifies him.

Even within the premises of his squad and his enemies, his eyes could only focus on you. Even when Jean attacks Reiner, confronting him about Marco’s situation—even when Mikasa is this close to killing Annie, why does it matter anymore?

Even his squad got turned into those sick, mindless titans he will forever despise; all because of a wine, and he was naive to think that Zeke is under his control. The ignorance of people will never not put them in danger; they were lacking information, and Levi knew that Zeke is a cunning piece of shit.

He will kill Zeke. He promised Erwin, and he promises you.

Levi’s dull gray eyes are only compromised by regret, misery, and sorrow. His right hand is enclosed in yours; your right eye will forever be gone, and two of your fingers have perished in the explosion—he is convinced that you are unable to regain your skills again.

He does not want you fighting anymore. Levi has enough with losing someone, especially since the fight is not yet over. A shaky breath of relief leaves him, seeing your left eye trying to flutter open; pain is all you feel, not being able to move a single muscle in your body.

You tried to talk, but Levi shushed you. His eyes are glazed with guilt—Zeke escaped, and you almost died.

“A-Are you okay, Levi?” You force yourself to croak out your voice, brittle and hoarse; he was lucky to understand enough. You cannot lift a finger without feeling excruciating pain in your limbs. “Were you hurt?”

Levi hates your selflessness.

“Was I hurt? Have you taken a good look at yourself after you were trying to be a hero, huh?” Levi seethed, glaring daggers at you; you cannot help but feel bad, sensing the crack in his voice. “Who told you to fucking save me? I can handle him myself!”

You were silent, letting him voice out his frustrations because of your recklessness. You realized yourself that you are only looking at him with your left eye—the other was gone, forever. You did not care and even thought it was the right thing to do; Levi thinks otherwise.

You cursed your body for not being able to speak properly, wanting to prove your point. Levi does not waste time in berating you; endless curses and insults spout out of his mouth. “I should never have let you be on patrol with me,” he exclaimed with pain in his voice, blurring out the voices in the background.

Levi’s lips almost tremble. He felt his body weakening when he stared into your eyes, still filled with resolve to risk your life for someone. It will never go away, you remind him repeatedly—the love you have for him.

You utter with no hints of fatigue, “I will do it again if it means saving the love of my life.”

You are reckless, stupidly reckless.

“You do realize that this shit you pulled can be in vain if I were to just bite the dust later on?” Levi glowered at you, pinpointing the reality of the situation. “You are not a weapon or a bag of meat to use for my safety; you are weak, stupid, reckless and oversentimental.”

He wonders why the hell he fell for you and your antics. Levi glowered at you, making you shut your mouth when you saw his angered eyes. “Forget it, die for all I care.” He proclaimed without any bite in his voice, knowing he did not really mean it.

“My, such comforting words,” you muttered breathily in sarcasm. You forced yourself to sit up, wincing and groaning when the pain hit your stomach. “Usually, people say ‘thank you’ for doing a good deed for them.”

Levi will surely kick your ass really good one day.

“Can the man I love give me a kiss?”

He wants to fucking beat your ass for acting so unserious while he pours his heart out. You were giggling—quite painfully at that. Levi thinks your mind was hit too hard that it makes you react inappropriately whenever you converse with someone. “You got some fucking nerve to be laughing right now.”

Levi’s words died in his throat as he saw your gesture for him to sit beside you. You were already listening to Hange’s strategy, while laying your head down on his shoulder. He still wanted to argue; he really did. Unfortunately, your smile stopped him.

He is not a big fan of displaying affections publicly, yet of course, he is not a heartless monster to not give in to your needs, even though you are irritating as hell; warm lips pressed against yours, a bit too hard that it made you wince at the pressure—enough to almost open your wound at his pettiness. You look at him like someone ruffled your feathers before he proceeds to watch the scenario in front of you two.

Serves you right for being an idiot.

A minor feeling of regret seeps inside you, knowing that without you, he may not express this adorable side of him anymore. That when you die, you might not live up to the day you marry him.

Maybe you are stupid after all.

reblog if you like it :) || image is by Sabertoon.art

[sirxlla]

You Randomly Get Kidnapped but You Can Handle Yourself (Batboys)

(Requested by @nesting-dreams ily sm thank you for all the ideas/prompts xxx)

------------------------------------------------

Dick: He was never one to have or tell you what you could and couldn't do. For you, you wanted to work a job like a regular person even though he said he would financially support you. You didn't want to feel like you were mooching off of him.

So as unfortunate as it was you were trying to get in your vehicle after working a really long shift at the hospital while on the phone with Dick, a man came up behind you and they were very swiftly beaten with a metal waterbottle.

Dick was obviously very worried cause of what he heard and he was already patroling the area which meant he very swiftly came to you. You were sat ontop of the man, his arms pinned under your knees as you brutally smacked him over and over with a waterbottle.

"You wanna kidnap people in the middle of the night, You Little Shit?!" You were yelling.

Nightwing had to pull you off of the man noticing the damage you did, it took everything for Dick not to laugh at this man. He got beat up by a tired nurse with a fuckin waterbottle, needless to say he was proud and the man was swiftly arrested. The pair of you went home to have a well deserved nap.

Jason: Being the man he is he decided that it was a fantastic idea to give you a very strong tazer for your birthday because he thought you might need it and you really wanted one.

"I hope someone would, I'll taze their dick off!" You waved the uncharged tazer around very happy about the gift.

"You'll taze their dick off?" He laughed as he appreciated your enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, when you hope for something bad to happen it usually brings bad things around, you we're trying to get into the apartment with Jason was on the other side which of course the dumb ass trying to kidnap you didn't realize that.

By the time Jason get out there you were very clearly tasing this mother fucker in the balls. The man was groaning in very obvious pain, a shot of electricity to the family jewels didn't feel very good.

"You wanna go again, Asshole? You want me to taze you in the mouth, I'm sure that shit hurts just as much."

"I think you got him, Babygirl." He was smiling with full pride. He knew you would never use the taser without knowing 100% that you could do it without getting hurt and you very successfully did.

The man was left there and Jason brought you back inside, put your tazer back on the charger and then showed you all the ways he was very proud of you.

Bruce: He really didn't want you to have any sort of self-defense tool because he knew that if you fought back the likelihood that they would hurt you is extremely higher.

Naturally, you being you you bought a little bracelet that if you press it then it makes a very loud noise which can hurt whoever's ears you're pointing it at.

Another feature on there is that it sent him your location which was probably something that he would have been okay with if that's all it did but alas it was not.

From sparring with Bruce you knew a lot and this asshole pissed you off, trying to kidnap a woman while she was pumping gas? "I think the fuck not."

You had very promptly pushed the button and cupped it against the man's ear which caused him to get disoriented and fall flat on his stupid face.

"That's why you don't mess with girls at the gaspump! Suck my metaphorical dick, Motherfucker!" You would think that this was a Fortnite game with the way that you were acting, to anyone else it would have been the funniest thing ever but of course Bruce doesn't have the biggest sense of humor.

He thought what you were doing was reckless and stupid, you should have gotten your car and left. Bruce proceeded to lecture you the entire night about exactly what you should have done and why it was dangerous and how you're lucky that it didn't turn out worse than it was.

"We don't take pride when we hurt someone and we sure as hell don't gloat. What we're you thinking? He couldve got up. That was reckless."

Tim: Tim craved coffee like it was some sort of drug needing to be injected into jis veins and you really really loved the little muffins the coffee shop had. You got up early in the morning and we're making your way to the coffee shop.

You figured out you were being followed quite quickly so of course the only thing you had in your bag was your wallet and maybe a few pens. Nothing the regular person would think would be overly useful in a situation like this.

The pen was useful though if you used it right, it was swiftly brought between your fingers, you texted Tim you were being followed. He very promptly shot out of bed to protect you, throwing on whatever close were scattered around the messy bedroom.

Once he found you, you were leturing the man on all the places you could stick the pen. The man was on the ground pinned to the floor. None of the Batboys were ever gonna let their woman go out of sight without some sorta training.

"I could stick this in your jugular, if you'd like. I could gove you the choice you were never gonna give me."

"You could stick it in his eye, its less lethal and could be considered an accident." Tim chimed in with a smile, the smile on Tim's face was quickly matched by yours.

The man underneath you was panicking because for all he knew you two were complete psychopaths considering jow many Gotham has. He started begging for you to let him go, You got off him while clicking the pen which made him run off like a little crybaby.

Tim and you walked hand and hand to the coffee shop like nothing ever happened. You both knew the pen wasn't what scared him if was your confidence and the way you spouted things off like a crazy person.

Damian: Damian was very much his father's son and he would do the same psychotics weird ass shit that Bruce did. The only difference was he asked you and you very clearly said no to a tracking device being put in you but that did not stop him from doing it and he did it very easily without you noticing.

Of course he didn't know anything was wrong until he noticed that you're tracking device really didn't move too much. He was kinda worried but it was instantly interrupted.

The phone rang and it was a guy calling for ransom while a guy in the background argued with you and said something about you stabbing him in the ass.

"We want a million." The man said off the bat.

"That's all your gonna ask for?!" Then there was the sound of the phone hitting the floor while you beat the shit out of them with a chair leg.

"You should really have better quality shit if you're gonna kidnap someone!" You yelled while the two men grunted on the floor, the first one had had the chair smashed into his back and this one was being wacked with a chair leg.

Damian showed up in regular clothes, he could tell by the phone call you didn't need any help.

"How the fuck did you know where I am?" You asked with clear suspicion and irritation.

"I traced the cell phone call." He lied very easily but there was something off and you could tell. He always kind of scratched his chin when he told you a lie and he had a shitty poker face.

"You put a tracker in me?! When we get home, you are cutting it out. I dont care that you track me but I'd rather not have a weird piece of metal in my body, Damian! I already have this stupid birth control for you, but at least that shit's been tested."

He knew that there was no point in fighting with you so therefore when the both of you got home, he cut it out and he stitched it back up and did everything he could to apologize without actually saying the words. You wore tracking bracelet from then on, a lot less invasive of the body.

Damian definitely was left apologizing over that for months cause he knew he betrayed your wishes and your trust. It was flowers, jewlery, gifts galore. Damian was never good with his words, you knew he was sorry but you wanted him to say it. Once he did the tension between the two of you quickly evaporated into thin air.

-> Masterlist <-

-> Send me prompts if you'd like <-

[miltonbarbie]

Wukong, Mk, and Macaque with a very hyperactive + bubbly crush </3

[Mentions of NSFW]

🍑 Wukong 🍑

He always loved how talkative and straightforward you were, he's never seen someone as confident as you before.

When you first met, his first thought was literally just: WOW. This person is A LOT.

Would honestly listen to you for hours even considering that he can get impatient with other people sometimes.

Greet him with a hug, he'll try playing it off all cool and stuff but he lays awake at night thinking about it.

You two go out to the amusement park a lot. And your always dragging him to roller coasters or REALLY fast rides. He's 100% gonna excuse himself to go to the washroom and then throw up. But he loves you too much to ask you to leave.

He notices every little thing you do, like when your sitting down and you start kicking your feet. He's gonna die and come back to life.

As much as an amazing, strong, powerful and supercool (his words, not yours!) Diety he is, when he thinks about you he legit starts twirling around and jumping up and down squealing like he's your biggest fan.

I feel like he's really good at art, so he's gonna ask if he can draw you once in a while. Tell him you love it, and he's just gonna fall for you again. Even better if you hang it up in your house.

When you start dating, you'll feel more comfortable enough to get more relaxed around him, but it still shocks him how behaved you can be if you want to. He's definitely still used to you being all Impulsive and whatnot.

You two are literally the embodiment of eccentric reckless cutie x chill enabler and it works so well for you two.

This immortal fucking GOD is simping over a hyperactive human dumbass and he feels absolutely no shame for it.

Also let's be real, Wukong is the biggest whore known to mankind. So we all know damn well he's had fantasies of pounding that little mortal pvssy until you screamed.

🍜 Mk 🍜

Oh boy oh boy..

YOU TWO ARE LITERALLY MEANT FOR EACH OTHER. PERIOD.

You two gush over everything together, doesn't matter whether it's a show you love or some random shit Mk keeps rambling about like some bootleg illegal ripoff of a Monkey king inspired video game called "MONKE KANG: Asskicker 3D"!!!!!!!!

You both are stupid but you love each other justtt the same <3

In between shifts he'll get caught by Pigsy trying to text you and he'll do it again. And again. And aga-

So much ADHD.. You two get overstimulated being around the other so as much as you don't want, you have to take breaks from seeing him sometimes.

But even with all that energy he has, you still can't get enough of lil' ol' Mk.

He once tried to secretly replace himself with a clone because he wanted to hang out with you but got busy.. You found out right away and yapped about it for 4 hours.

Mk is emotionally unavailable most of the time, so when you two get some alone time, it takes all the strength in him not to confess flat-out because he missed you so so much.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn't the Monkie Kid because it takes time away from being near you. But it's okay, you plan stuff every once in a while.

You got really jumpy and happy when he showed you his Monkey form, and he let you brush his fur for the rest of the day. Now he's like that most of the time because one, he can't really control it. And two, you love his monkey form anyway!

He's definitely thought of fucking you animal-style in that form too.

Have fun being idiots together, the rest of the gang are on literal MISSIONS to keep you two apart.

🎭 Macaque 🎭

Ohhoo he loves seeing that stupidly pretty face of yours whenever you get all excited..

But to be honest, he thought you were REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING at the beginning when he first met you.

He only began to soften up a few weeks or maybe a month or two after realizing how much of a sweetheart you were, and that your hyperactive traits were just a part of what makes you, you.

Sometimes when you're in your room and you're on a call with someone, he'll send one of his shadow clones to listen to your voice for him so he can jerk off to it.

You go to all of his plays, and he's usually a confident guy. But one look at YOU? He's so close to accidentally stuttering on the stage he has to mentally slap himself to make sure not to.

His biggest turn-on is when you wear skirts and you're jumping around all giggly n stuff while he gets the perfect view of your ass.. That's why he prefers to walk beside you or slightly behind you to get that 4k quality.

You two definitely have that Yapper + Listener vibe. You can talk about some absolute bullshit and hell, he'll still be listening to you. But half the time he zones out imagining what that mouth of yours would look like on his cock.

He wanted to buy you roses but got embarrassed (surprisingly) and shoved them up Wukong's ass.

He's a biter. He's such a biter and even while keeping that "friendly" attitude with you, he always finds a way to put his teeth on you. Whether you're fighting over a snack or play fighting. Even during a regular conversation he just bites your shoulder?? Kinky much??? (Yes, he is.)

You found him sleeping on top of your ceiling so you threw a rock at him to wake him up and he started borderline hissing at you like he had rabies. He then realized it was you and didn't speak to you for a whole week.

You make him do things he wouldn't regularly do and it pisses him off.

[writeriguess]

hey darling! could I please request a katsuki bakugou x yn (dating) whereby they got into a heated argument post fight (against a rather dangerous villain) in which yn took a shot that was evidently meant for kats, so he’s reprimanding yn on how careless they are (as he struggle to properly express himself), thus, yn just accepts his scoldings and mean words and became distant w him. of course, he feels guilty after some time and tries to talk to yn, but it’s not going in his favour whatsoever (a cliff hanger type of ending please, thank you!)

Fears

The air was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and gunpowder, the aftermath of the battle still fresh in the ruined streets. Katsuki Bakugou’s hands were clenched into tight fists, his jaw locked so hard it could snap. The streetlights flickered dimly, casting long shadows over the debris, the only sounds being distant sirens and his own ragged breathing.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" His voice was raw, hoarse from shouting commands during the fight—but this was different. This was anger laced with something else, something heavier. "You just fucking jumped in front of me! Do you have a goddamn death wish?"

You stood there, the pain from your injury dull compared to the sting of his words. The wound on your side throbbed, the makeshift bandage already darkening with blood. But what hurt more was the way he was looking at you—furious, livid, like you had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

“I—”

“No! Shut up! You think you’re a hero for pulling that shit?” His crimson eyes were ablaze, but they were also shaking, betraying the fear he refused to voice. "You don't get to be so fucking reckless! What if—what if you had died, huh? Did you think about that?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he masked it with a scowl, stepping closer, towering over you as his hands trembled at his sides.

You swallowed hard. "I just... I couldn't let you get hurt, Katsuki. I—"

"That's not your fucking job!" He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "You’re supposed to have my back, not throw yourself in front of me like some dumbass martyr! You think that makes you strong? It makes you fucking stupid!"

You bit your lip, absorbing the weight of his words. He didn’t mean it—at least, not the way it sounded. You knew that. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely audible over the distant sirens.

Bakugou stilled. His breath was ragged, his hands still trembling at his sides. He wanted to say more, but the words refused to come. He wanted to tell you that the thought of losing you had made his blood run cold, that seeing you bleeding out on the ground had sent a fear through him that he didn’t know how to handle. He wanted to admit, in some messed-up way, that he had never been more terrified in his life.

But all he did was scoff. "Whatever. Just... don't fucking do it again."

You nodded once, silent. And then you turned away.

Over the next few days, something changed. You still showed up to missions, still trained, still shared space with him—but you weren’t really there. You didn’t joke around like before, didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t linger near him like you used to. You spoke when necessary, but your words were short, distant.

And he fucking hated it.

At first, he convinced himself it was fine. That you just needed space. That you’d snap out of it soon enough.

But days passed, and nothing changed. And the guilt settled in, suffocating. It ate away at him during training, during missions, during sleepless nights where he found himself replaying that moment over and over. The way you had looked at him. The way your voice had sounded so... small.

One evening, he finally cornered you outside the agency, frustration boiling over. "Oi," he called, but you barely glanced at him before continuing down the steps. His eye twitched. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

You halted but didn’t turn around. "What do you want, Bakugou?"

The way you said his name—so formal, so devoid of warmth—sent a sharp pang through his chest. "What the fuck is your problem?" he snapped. "You've been acting weird all week."

You exhaled slowly, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. "I got your message loud and clear, alright? You don’t have to yell at me again."

His brows furrowed. "What message—"

"That I'm a reckless dumbass who needs to stay out of your way."

Bakugou's mouth opened, but no words came out. Because that wasn’t what he meant. That wasn’t what he wanted you to take from it at all.

You finally turned to look at him then, and something in your eyes—something unreadable, distant—made his stomach drop. There was no anger, no fire, no fight left in you. Just a quiet kind of acceptance. And it fucking scared him more than any battle ever could.

Before he could get a grip on what to say, you turned and started walking away again.

And for the first time in a long time, Katsuki Bakugou didn’t know how to fix what he had broken.

[piastappies]

˗ˏ` EMOTIONS! 🍵 ´ˎ˗

pairing. theodore nott x reader

summary. theo never handled his emotions right, and when his girlfriend shows up in a wrong moment, things escalate and theodore doesn’t know how to fix it.

THEO HAS BEEN A TICKING BOMB LATELY and you knew that. it’s been bothering you, but every time you tried talking some senses into him, he brushed it all off, saying something too stupid and reckless for you to hear, so the topic was dropped sooner than it was brought up.

it was one of those times again, when a recurring thought was planted into your brain that you didn’t know your boyfriend like you thought you would. theodore hasn’t been himself lately, which made you worry tons. he’s been smoking much more and getting into fights more often as well as getting into trouble with the teachers, losing the points for your house, which… well, you didn’t care that much about it. what you cared for was theo’s wellbeing.

since it’s been a christmas break, you had gone home to spend time with your family, which meant your contant with theo was limited to a few letters that he was doing somewhat fine, yet you’ve been smart enough to know that spending christmas with his father and grandfather could never make him feel fine, not even a little bit. it was the breaking point in you that you’ve decided it’s the end of brushing you off.

“riddle, berkshire – out.” you barged into the dorm, glaring at your boyfriend’s dormmates, causing the first one to groan in annoyance.

“jesus, can’t be in your own room anymore.” mattheo rolled his eyes at you, yet he knew it was coming, so he dragged his ass up, patting theo’s back. “good luck with that one, nott.” he muttered before leaving the room with lorenzo, who just sent you a sympathetic smile.

theo, on the other hand, just glanced at you for a second, knitting his eyebrows together. “what do you want, l/n?” he asked, his nose still burried in between pages of a book you gave him for christmas.

“oh, last name basis, al–fucking–right.” you grumbled, grabbing the book away from his hands, your body trembling with fury. you hadn’t had a proper conversation in over two weeks, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be a decent man towards you. “what’s going on with you, nott?”

“get off my dick, y/n, really.” he rolled his eyes, expression matching the one his roommate had a few moments earlier. “i don’t have fucking time for this shit.” theo added, clearly agitated.

“well, you want it — you have it, i’m not getting on your dick anytime soon.” your voice was thick with emotion as the mention of celibacy earning you a look. “i know something’s going on. i know that, because i’m your girlfriend and i care about you. just trust–” you started, but the sentence wasn’t meant to be finished, because nott cut you off.

“then don’t. merlin, i don’t need a fucking babysitter, hoovering over my ass all the time. you’re not my bloody therapist, l/n. i don’t fucking need you to stick your nose into my business 24/7.” theodore stood up, his nose almost brushing yours before you took a step back, startled at the sudden outburst. “and sex? don’t amuse me, for merlin’s sake. i could leave the dorm right now and find someone to bone if i wanted to.” his tone was harsh, while his words were like knives thrown at you as a reward for being a caring girlfriend.

your boyfriend looked at his knuckles, his gaze focusing on the ring as he begun to take it off, making your pupils widen. “go. give it to someone who’s gonna be crazy enough to put up with your obsession about emotions. i’m not doing that anymore.” he muttered, pushing the ring into your palm.

“fine.” was the only thing that came to your mind after his words. your body continued to tremble and at this point, you couldn’t have been sure if it was your annoyance or broken heart that he just broke up with you. “just keep your promise and stay away from me. maybe join the death eaters too, for all i care, you’ll fit in perfectly.” with that, you left his dorm, slamming the door behind you as you fought with tears flowing down your cheeks.

“troubles in paradise?” mattheo grinned at you playfully, not noticing your tears-stained face as you were storming through the common room to the exit of the room.

“go fuck yourself, riddle.”

it wasn’t even five minutes later, when mattheo entered his shared dorm, his expression utterly confused as his mind was doing its best to connect the dots. “what’s with that gal of yours?” he asked theo, plopping down onto his bed, lightning up a cigarette right after.

“she’s not my gal anymore.” nott mumbled in response, almost untouched by the entire thing that just happened and that took his best friend by surprise.

“what do you mean she’s not your gal anymore?” he asked, his frown deepening. “lad, don’t tell me she broke up with you, you love this girl to death.” riddle added, scanning his friend’s face for any sign of uneasiness or a clue to understand all of it.

“i broke up with her.” theo replied with a shrug.

“merlin, man, why?” mattheo asked another question, this time being left without an answer as nott shut the curtains of his bed, putting on a silence spell.

IGNORING THEODORE ALL WEEK HAS BEEN EASY as you weren’t in the same year as him. you’ve been grovelling inside about the break-up, but from what your mother had always told you, when you were younger, you remembered that all the teenage boys were shitty and you couldn’t — by any means — let him know how much hurt you were. ignoring him was easy, all because, in your eyes, he didn’t even take any effort to show you remorse for what happened, from what you’ve known, he didn’t even look at you once.

the worst part of loving theodore nott was not being able to brush off all the concerns and worries that lived rent free in your mind, whenever you’ve noticed him walking through the hallways. nevertheless, he didn’t want you to care about him at all, so that was what you were planning on doing. kept your head high and your feet steady on the ground.

what you didn’t know, was that it wasn’t pride that made him keep his eyes away from you, but guilt. from the moment he woke up the day following your argument, his organism was flooded with guilt and shame to the point, where he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror.

he fucked everything up just like his father always told him that he would. he broke the promise he’d made to himself that he wouldn’t drive you away, wouldn’t hurt you like his father hurt his mom, yet he did. you were the only person in his world that made him feel like a normal human being, one, who could love and be loved, but he had to ruin it all, because his pride wouldn’t let him to open up to you.

it’s been already a week since the biggest mistake of his life, as he called it, and theo’s entire body hurt. he was popping pills with blaise like candies, because sobriety and consciousness made everything worse. he couldn’t stop thinking about you — about your expression, when he broke things off with you, the hurt in your eyes and the way you were holding yourself after that.

people, not close enough to you, might’ve been fooled by the facade you’ve built around you, though not theo. he’d known you for years prior to your relationship, he’d seen you both happy and miserable and now? now, you were beyond miserable. you might’ve kept your head high with the biggest smile on your face, but he’s known. he always would — whether you wanted him to or not.

quidditch practices were the worst, all because you were always there, yet never watching him. it wasn’t even up to you to be there and theo was certain of it. you were there, so your best friend wouldn’t have to sit through an entire practice alone, while she watched lorenzo with starstruck expression all the fucking time.

“lad, you have to apologise to her, sort it out.” enzo sighed, putting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “aoife’s worried about her. ‘m not really surprised, though, she started smoking weed on daily-basis again. aoif’s saying she can’t remember, when she saw her sober for the last time, but it’s better than bawling her eyes out over some asshole, aoif’s words, not mine.” having a friend, who was also somehow close to you and your best friend was a blessing in disguise. lorenzo kept him updated, not leaving out all the insults aoife lynch threw at him for breaking her best friend’s heart.

a loud sigh left theo’s lips as he leaned over the table, his forehead falling onto the wooden surface as he let out a groan. “i don’t even know what to do, enzo.”

“my suggestion? get your shit together.” mattheo chimed in, a playful grin on his face. “i mean it, theo. the gal of yours keeps showing up to my spot and i can’t deal with her tears anymore. get your shit together and fix it.”

“the problem is, matt, i don’t know how.”

the opportunity, although being totally… stupid, occurred at the end of another week during a game with hufflepuffs. theo’s entered another stage of grief and has been going around the school angry at everything. so, when the game came, he was playing rougher than usually, because he needed an outlet to the built-up anger.

of course, you’ve noticed. how couldn’t you? you’ve been keeping an eye on him for the entire two weeks. despite your promise to aoife, you couldn’t let it go. no matter who he was, your boyfriend, a friend, a stranger or an enemy, you couldn’t stop worrying about him and doing your best to look out for him. so… when he was forcefully pushed off his broom by diggory, you were running down the stairs before he even hit the ground. you needed to be beside him or it would kill you.

he was unconcious for almost two more days, making it a sixteen days without hearing his voice and you were going crazy, spending every single second, occupying the tabletop placed next to his bed. his hands in between yours as you kept it close to you. did he deeply pained you with his words? yes. would you let him be alone in the hospital wing? of course not.

“y/n/n.” he whispered suddenly, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry.” nott let out and you weren’t sure if it was some kind of sleep talking or your delusions leading you on. “i’m so sorry, baby.” he repeated his words with a term of endearment, squeezing your hand weakly.

“theodore…” your words hitched in your throat as you moved the hair aside from his forehead. “don’t think about it now.” you whispered in a coy manner. “it doesn’t matter.”

“i can’t.” he coughed out. “i can’t stop thinking about it. about you. i’ve acted like a dick, but i didn’t mean it. you’re my world, baby, i’m so, so sorry. you were right all this time, i build up my emotions inside of me and let it get the best of me in the worst moment. i’m so sorry i hurt you, i swear i hate myself for—��� he continued his rambling, slowly opening his eyes to have a look at you.

“hey, teddy, please, don’t think about it now.” you pleaded, still holding his hand. your thumb caressing his palm. “just rest, okay? please. we’ll talk about once you’re well-rested and out of here.” your voice was gentle.

he shifted in his hospital bed, hissing as his ribcage hurt immensely. “no, cara, please.” he muttered, bringing his lips to your palm. “listen, i can’t get over what i told you. i’m so fucking sorry, baby.” he whispered.

“teddy…” you started, but he cut you off.

“no. i’m sorry i said all those things to you, you didn’t deserve all the shit i gave you.” he let out a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “you need to hit me. for all the pain and suffering. oh god, and the tears. you should just kill me at this point.” theo muttered, and honestly? he did deserve the beating for what he’s done, but the three days of unconsciousness due being knocked off the broom, you could let it go. it could be his fate share of beating.

“just shut up, will you?” you sighed, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “we’re fine.”

[hunkadorusrex]

Tim doesn’t like Ponyboy Curtis much.

Everyone says Curly's the bad influence, but Tim knows better. Those two are like gasoline and matches: bad enough on their own, a massive disaster in waiting whenever they're in each other's general vicinity, and getting into the kind of trouble that makes Tim want to knock their heads together.

Used to be, he felt pretty neutral about him, same way he feels about most of the trouble Curly gets himself into—because Curly gets himself into plenty, and Tim’s got better things to do than keep track of every stupid thing his little brother does.

But now—well. Now he likes Pony considerably less.

Because a few months ago, it was shoved right in his face that Curly and Ponyboy aren’t just getting into their usual brand of reckless, stupid bullshit. They’re getting into something else entirely.

He’d suspected. Some part of him had always known, that uncomfortable itch in the back of his brain telling him there was something about the way Curly talked about Pony, something about how he carried himself after they’d spent time together.

Then it stopped being an itch and became a full-blown infection.

He would’ve gone straight for Curly’s throat over it—no real plan, just fists first, questions later—but Angela got in his way. Beat him to the punch, literally.

Tim has fought with Angela before. This was different.

Angela, who could cut to the bone with a look. Angela, who was spitting mad, protective in a way Tim never sees unless it’s about Curly. Because Curly is hers, first and foremost. Her twin.

She might want to kill him half the time, but she’d be damned if anyone else ever got the chance.

She got between them, and she won.

And in the months since, Tim’s simmered down.

He still doesn’t like it, but he’s got bigger problems than what his brother gets up to behind closed doors. Whatever. Not his business.

But he does have a problem with Ponyboy Curtis for other reasons.

The kid’s too flippant, too flighty, too unwilling to admit what he's really doin' here. Tim watches the way Curly looks at Pony when he thinks no one’s paying attention, the way he is about him, and it pisses Tim off—because his brother is all in. And it don’t look like Pony is.

And if Pony’s just jerking Curly around—well.

Tim isn’t gonna do a damn thing about it. Not at all. Not unless Pony really deserves it.

---

Right now, though, it’s a rare peaceful afternoon. The gang’s hanging out on the porch, watching what might as well be live entertainment: Pony and Curly bickering like an old married couple.

Curly’s talking shit. Pony’s giving it right back. The gang’s enjoying the show.

Angela, standing off to the side, is watching them with an air of long-suffering exhaustion. This is her fault, after all. She brought home another damn animal—a goat, this time. At least this one’s useful, she insists. Pregnant, too. Cheap milk, once she births the kid.

And she put Pony and Curly on fence duty.

They’re getting into it, naturally. Pony’s fussing about how Curly is definitely doing this wrong, and Curly’s calling him a know-it-all little bitch, and it’s all so normal.

Until it’s not.

It happens—fast, too fast—one second, Curly’s running his mouth, and the next, there’s a crack, a sharp blue light, and then—

Curly drops like a stone.

There’s a second—one single second—where no one moves. Where Tim’s brain refuses to process what’s just happened.

Then the world explodes.

Angela screams for someone to call an ambulance. The gang lurches forward. Tim’s feet move before he’s even fully aware of it, legs carrying him across the yard toward his baby brother, toward—

Then Pony is there.

He’s shoving at Curly’s shoulders, shaking him, hands frantic. “Curly—Curly, come on—”

Tim watches, stunned, as Pony presses his ear to Curly’s mouth, fingers feeling for a pulse. His breath catches—his face crumples—but he tilts Curly’s head back anyway, positions his hands, and starts pushing.

Thirty compressions. Two breaths.

Again.

Again.

Pony’s talking under his breath. Tim can’t hear the words, but the kid looks like he’s praying.

It feels like forever. It feels like the longest damn minute of Tim’s life.

And then—

Curly gasps.

His whole body jerks. His lungs drag in a shuddering, ragged breath, and then he’s coughing, heaving, alive.

Pony breaks.

All the fight, all the panic, all the tension in his body collapses, and he falls into Curly’s chest.

And starts sobbing.

Not quiet tears. Not the dignified, sniffly kind of crying that a guy can pass off as no big deal. This is ugly, gut-wrenching, shaking kind of crying, the kind that tears right out of a person when they’ve just watched someone they love die—and then come back.

And Curly—dazed, disoriented—immediately starts trying to calm him down.

“Hey, hey,” he rasps, voice raw and weak. “What the hell, Pony? I’m the one that just got fried.”

But his hands are already moving, already gripping Pony’s shoulders like he’s the one reassuring him, and it’s so goddamn obvious.

Curly doesn’t even know what just happened. Doesn’t realize he died, for a few seconds. But what he does know is that Pony is crying, and that means Pony needs him, and that means he’s gonna be there.

Tim watches the whole thing from where he’s half-collapsed onto the grass.

Sees Pony pressing his face into Curly’s chest, Curly weakly wrapping an arm around him, mumbling, “S’okay, dumbass. Ain’t dyin’ today. Stop cryin’.”

And Tim—

Tim closes his eyes, lets out a breath.

Yeah.

Okay.

Maybe Pony ain’t so bad after all.

[kryptznnn]

♡- Between Us

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

➸ INTERESTS; - na'vi!neteyam x fem!omatikayan reader

➸ BACKGROUND; - You and Neteyam were completely polar opposites. He was hardworking, focused, careful, and of course responsible, as he was to be the future oletekayan of your people. You however were reckless, careless, and lived your life to the fullest; you were free, and he admired that from you. Whether it was your strong heart and spirit or your carefree lifestyle, something was drawing him towards you. How will things go once he realizes your sudden closeness with his younger brother and distance between your relationship with one another?

➸ WARNINGS; - wc.3.4k, fluff, heated tension, kissing, idk couple shit, oneshot

➸a.i; - back w another banger !! gotta say thank u to consistency and not procrasinating as a uni student!! 🌸my main navigation

ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷

You stood and watched from afar with your closest friend; Kiri, as her older brother was in the forest, on a 'date' as his father had described it with a girl around your ages.

The situation was humorous honestly, as you were all a group seated by the lakes in the village, she approached Neteyam, introducing herself and her interest in him and wanted to get to know him more as she expressed her interest in him.

You couldn't quite remember her name, Cela't probably. Honestly, she had earned your respect, her boldness was admirable and flattering, obviously taking everyone by surprise. Of course, you and Lo'ak shared your 'oohs' to which Neteyam had rolled his eyes, gotten up moving elsewhere with her and talked to her more in private.

You watched as they said their goodbyes to one another, but not without a hug being shared, to which you eyed Kiri, and she did the same to you. Right after she walked off, he shook his head, waiting for her to reach a distance far enough before he cupped his hands over his mouth.

"You guys can come out now! I know you're here" He shouted, you froze and looked over to Kiri yet again, she only shrugged. Before you were able to make your appearance Lo'ak and Spider peered out from the bushes a few feet beside you.

Well, it seems as if you two weren't the only people with nothing to do and were curious to where this date would lead too. They walked over to Neteyam, sharing laughter and stupid jokes, then small talk. You took it as the perfect opportunity to walk in, you quickly grabbed Kiri's hand and walked over to the boys.

"Soo how did it go?" You asked, standing in front of Neteyam, who was partially surprised to see you and his sister, both with large smiles plastered on your faces with eager eyes awaiting his answer. He placed a hand over the back of his neck and shrugged.

"She's nice and respectful, I think you guys would like her, she said she's willing to meet you all." He said hesitantly, looking at everything else other than your eyes, he physically couldn't meet your gaze.

In all honesty, he never wanted to go out with her to begin with, he didn't want to get to know her, what she likes, how she feels about certain things, how many family members she had, none of it. He had no reason to explore and go out to see other women when he had already had his mind set on who he wanted.

He wanted you.

Neteyam knew who he was from a very early age, and everyone else did too. He was collected, but also compact, whenever he had his mind made up nothing could change it. So, when he had his mind made up on you it made things all the more difficult to be around you. He'd rather save himself from the awkwardness of it all.

"Buuuuuuuuuuuut" Lo'ak added, poking his brother in the arm who quickly swatted his hand away.

"But I don't think we'll go anywhere further than being friends, I don't see her in that way" Neteyam responded, now folding his arms with a hint of guilt on his face, you scoffed and shook your head.

"Why not!! She's pretty, tall, nice, and she seemed to really like you, friend zoning her is crazy!" You said, throwing your hands up in the air, the others nodded their heads in agreeance. Followed by Spider and Lo'ak calling him a 'skxawng' as you and Kiri laughed in response.

"Because he likes someone else, duhh! Like so deeply madly in love, I mean it's written all over his fac-" Lo'ak cut himself off, slapping his hand over his mouth wide-eyed. Spider and Kiri both shushed him as you looked to them all in confusion with your mouth agape.

Neteyam froze and gritted his teeth at Lo'ak, who repeatedly apologized over and over for his stupid slip up. So, it was true, you were surprised of how blind you were to not even realize it.

He liked someone else,

No

he was in love with someone else

madly in love.

You took a deep sharp breath and said your goodbyes to the group, quickly turning around and walking away making your way back to your family's hut, tears threatening to pry out your eyes and soak your face. Lo'ak quickly pushed past the others and caught up to you immediately knowing something was up, speed walking side by side with you.

"Damn you walk fast as hell hold on" he said, grabbing your arm attempting to slow you down, you just shrugged him off and rolled your eyes. You stopped walking and turned to look at him, eyeing back to the group and especially Neteyam.

"Don't make things more awkward than they already are" you whispered to him, then grabbing his hand and walking further away from the group deeper into the forest. Lo'ak immediately understood the reason as to why.

Their father had raised each of them to have keen eyes, as something he learned back in his days when he lived with the sky people; 'lip-reading' is what it was called, and honestly you didn't like it. It was useful at certain times of course you couldn't complain, but you hated how much of an invasion of privacy it felt like.

Where you two hid the group could still see you, well more specifically Neteyam, who hadn't removed his eyes off of you since you had turned to walk away.

"I can't see what they're talking about, Lo'aks' back is facing here" he spoke, irritation in his voice. Kiri only shook her head as Spider attempted to pat his shoulder, to which he couldn't really reach towards their height difference and patted his back instead.

Neteyam was more or so surprised at first, seeing you and Lo'ak spend most of your time together, you were Kiri's best friend, and it was sure Lo'ak already had his own.

He tried to pry a reaction out of sister of course, asking if it had bothered her how much time you and Lo'ak have spent together the past couple of days. Of course, to his dismay she only shrugged and said she didn't mind, and it was almost destined for the two of you to become close in such a short period of time.

You two were just another version of one another in all honesty. Same personality, same integrity, same attitude, and same careless free living. This saddened Neteyam, he always wondered whenever you were alone with just him were you ever that happy, and what is it that Lo'ak had that he didn't.

Your positive attitude and confidence is what made him realize what he felt for you. At first it was admiration, which he explained to his father on their early fishing trips before his maturing stage. The way he described you and how his face lit up his father could already tell where this was headed, but he just told him they'd have this topic of conversation when he was older in nearly a decade.

Now when he described you, he was unable to hide his smile and bashful face. As he spoke in a loving tone all it took was Neytiri and Jake to share a glance to know what Neteyam was feeling.

It was love, and not just any ordinary family, or platonic friendship kind of love. It was a romantic kind of love, the kind of love he described that he 'wasn't able to see anyone else beside him other than you' kind of love, and he's felt like this ever since.

"Y/n, seriously, you need to talk to him" Lo'ak spoke, placing his hands on your shoulders, you only shook your head.

"And say what exactly?? You're insane!! 'Hey, I really like you and have had a crush on you for a while, but I just found out that you like someone else. I just wanted to get my confession out of the way and move on bla bla.'" You shouted in a whisper, making a fake talking hand to mock yourself and Lo'aks' idea, he sucked his teeth.

"It's not what you think okay? Just give it a shot please, you're in over your head you won't get rejected." He yelled in a whisper back to you, you rose a brow confused by his words, what did he mean you wouldn't get rejected?

Unless if

"Neteyam has feelings for me?" You asked, Lo'ak just gulped, nodding his head then cursing at himself. "So, you knew this whole time about us both and didn't say anything?" You asked again, now becoming upset by his actions, feeling played. Lo'ak threw his hands up in a way of surrender shaking his head.

"It wasn't my business to tell, it still isn't, which is why it's so important you two talk okay?? I thought the closer we got the easier it would be for either of you to just jump off the bat and say something, but no one has, so go." He said, placing his hands down and on over your shoulder, completely unaware that the others had all left to return back to their hut, all except Neteyam of course.

You smiled at Lo'ak, moving shortly to the side then giving him a large hug and thanking him, before walking back to the site everyone was, hand in hand.

You quickly let go of Lo'ak and walked over to Neteyam, a big cheerful smile on your face as you grabbed his hand. He wore a sad expression on his face seeing the short moments of intimacy between you and his younger brother.

Neteyam was used to the expression of jealousy, he's worn it before and has seen what it does to other people, but it wasn't what he was feeling now. Right now, he felt pain and betrayal, from you and more importantly his brother, who knew how he felt. Now thinking it was some sort of competition or challenge now for love, for his love, and it felt like he was losing.

"We must go, I have something important to tell you, let's go to the hallelujah mountains, niwin." [quickly] You spoke with excitement, now pulling Neteyams hand, he straightened his sad expression and looked over to his younger brother who was preparing to part his ways back to the hut as well. Giving his brother a thumbs up and winking, mouthing the words 'you got this bro' before leaving.

Neteyam's head had now turned back to you, who was leading him through the opposite of the forest towards where the ikran's rested. He took this initiative too truly examine your face and excitement radiating off of your body. It reminded him of when you two were children, always doing things you weren't supposed too, sneaking around late at night to the hallelujah mountains or special spots underneath the tree of souls.

He was always left in amazement by how you created the most beautiful or adventurous things out of nothing, or maybe your caring and sweet personality when it came to interacting with children such as his youngest sister. Every single thing you did drew him towards you, and he could hardly understand what went through your mind, but that's what he liked the most, the fact you were unreadable.

"We should go to our favorite spot there c'mon, wake up your ikran so we can go" you whispered in a frenzy, practically buzzing all over. He only laughed softly while looking at you, letting go of your hand and petting his ikran softly, whistling to it while you looked up at the night sky and the stars from above, shining so brightly.

He slowly walked over to you, placing his hand out for you to take before making your way to his ikran, stepping on slowly after he was seated, sitting behind him and placing your hands around his torso, holding him tight.

He only smiled, deep down missing this feeling. The scent of you and the feeling of your head resting on his back while your hair tickled his upper back and lower neck as you two flew into the night sky to the hallelujah mountains.

Truth be told, through the entirety of this your heart was racing. How could it not, you were excited, anxious, concerned and confident. All of your emotions mixed so quickly you couldn't tell which one you were feeling. You were also worried that Neteyam would've been able to hear your heart beating out of your chest, so you took a deep breath to keep your composure.

"Is this 'serious talk' about what you and my brother were talking about? In the forest earlier?" He asked, turning his head slightly to the side to see you, you propped your head up and turned to him, resting your chin on his left shoulder.

"Uh yeah, kind of? It's a long story, but um.." you lead on, not sure what to say next. You didn't want everything to come out now, you wanted to wait for the perfect timing. "All I can say is that it's about how I feel, and you can't know until we get to our destination." You said proudly, slipping a quick joke of how you wished you could pat yourself on the back, to which he laughed at.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷

You walked over to the small cave you and Neteyam had explored as children, claiming it as your own. You had cleaned it and decorated it with one another of treasures you had gotten from each of your adventures and your several 'near death' experiences from being so reckless. Fortunately, Neteyam was there every single time to save you, to where you two would laugh about the matters afterwards.

"Za'u, niwin, we have to clear the air." [come, quickly,] You spoke, grabbing a large cloth and draping it over yourself to stay warm, as you gave another one to Neteyam, to which he thanked you and smiled in return.

He wasn't sure if you could tell, but his heart was beating loudly, and quite harsh, as if ready to burst out of his chest. He kept fidgeting his fingers, and trying to steady his breathing, but his mind was rushing to millions of questions.

Were you going to tell him about his brother? Did you like his brother? Did you know he liked you? Did you know how much he likes you? Is something wrong with you? Your family?

His heartbeat was ready to deafen him, thumping so hard in his ears he genuinely believed his brain was beginning to ring as well.

"I've wanted to talk to you for such a long time now, I always pictured how this would go or what would lead up to this moment, but I never thought it would happen this way.." you stared, smiling to yourself as you picked up one of the shells Neteyam had brought here a few years back off the walls of the cave and fidgeting with it.

Maybe he would've felt something was off with you or your confession, or not believe what you were to tell him as you were the first person to encourage him to go on his date with someone else. If you really like someone you wouldn't push them to go find something in someone else, they wish to see in you, that's obvious enough.

You licked your lips and swallowed, parting your lips to speak, but hesitate.

Just spit it out, spit it out

"I've thought about us, and our friendship for a while Nete..." You said, still keeping your eyes locked onto your hands and your new 'toy' that helped you relax your nerves a little. Stopping the pounding coming from your head and hands, which were previously trembling. "I feel drawn to you, in a way I can't really explain. I do love being your friend, and I love all of the memories we've shared with one another, but I feel like there's something else there." You spoke with your eyes shut, now no longer fidgeting your fingers. Your cheeks had flushed madly to a point only Eywa would know, you felt your entire body tense up and heat up.

It's over, you did it, you spat it o-

Your thoughts were cut off by a pair of lips meeting yours, snapping out of your trance you open your eyes to only see Neteyam pulling back from you, wetting his lips. Your mouth was left agape, you didn't expect this to happen.

"I'm in love with you Y/n, I have been since we were children, even before we found this cave and stashed all of our memories in here. I see a better version of myself through you, even though our personalities and responsibilities are complete opposites it's only drawn me to you more and more with each passing day. I don't think my feelings will ever change for you unless if they're getting stronger and honesty, I don't want them too. When I saw how often you'd be with L-"

You cut him off, removing your shawl and coming up closer to him, closing your eyes and kissing him passionately. You didn't want to hear anymore, you didn't want to keep talking or going around bouncing back and forth, you just wanted him. You wanted to hug him, kiss him, console him, hold him, love him, and you wanted him to do the same to you.

Before you were even able to pull an inch away, he had already dived back into action, placing a hand over the back of your head and upper neck, bringing your lips back to his and kissing you passionately. You could practically feel him smile through the kiss, making you smile as well.

Within seconds you two pulled away, both out of breath, hands over your chests trying to catch it. You placed a hand over Neteyam's chest, slowly climbing off of him as he watched you intently, placing a hovering hand over your back in case you toppled over.

You both looked at one another and smiled, then burst into laughter, hugging one another tightly. Although this confession hadn't gone how either of you predicted, the outcome was worth it.

"You cut me off, skxawng" [idiot] he joked, to which you chuckled, shaking your head and placing it against his broad chest.

"It's easier to show than tell, plus your speech was all sappy you would've made me cry" you added. You earned a chuckle from him as well as he wrapped his arm tighter around you.

Eventually after some time you two had accidentally drifted off to sleep, but only for a short time, as you jumped up and woke him, telling him it would probably be the best time to return back to the village as everyone else was probably worried, he nodded in agreement.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷

"Tìfnunga, they might be asleep" [quietly] Neteyam spoke, placing his index finger over his lips, you nodded as you tip toed lightly along with him to the entrance of his hut, hand in hand.

He tugged your hand lightly, as you looked up at him, just to smile and feel your cheeks heat up. He slowly opened the flap entrance to find all of his family, and yours, seated inside eyes set on you both.

No words were shared at the moment, everyone's eyes glanced to you, then your lover, and then your interlocked fingers that couldn't be pried apart by anyone else no matter how hard they tried. Then they all looked at one another, nodding in agreement as you and Neteyam looked over to one another.

Then a sudden outburst of cheers began, everyone 'woo'-ing or clapping and calling out their battle cries out loud, you only shook your head and laughed, now hugging Neteyam's arm as he laughed as well.

"Thank Eywa it's about time you two returned we've been waiting forever!" Lo'ak spoke, throwing his hands up in the air as Kiri shook her head and pointed her thumb at him.

"This bigmouth told everyone you two were gone and that he had spoken to you, and said we have to celebrate when you come back" Kiri said, her index circling the room when she mentioned the word 'everyone', making Neteyam smile.

"The only time my baby brothers' mouth hasn't gotten me in trouble" Neteyam joked, pointing at Lo'ak than thanking him, who accepted his gratitude, then immediately scoffed after realizing his backhanded comment.

Now this is a life you could get used too, all you ever wanted with the person you've always wanted.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷ˋ°•*⁀➷

✴🕷 please do not copy, plagiarize, edit, or translate any works submitted by me. all works are originated and all other pictures used within those works are online images. thank you!! @kryptznnn

[inkdrinkerworld]

Logan and reader fighting about one of them being reckless in the field? 👀

Went with Logan x Scott’s sister!reader for this🤭 angst to fluff, canon level violence, Scott and Logan mentioning death but no actual death

“You were stupid and reckless! How the fuck did you think that was smart?” Logan’s voice rings out in the jet, his heart racing as he looks at the many cuts and bruises all over you.

“You do stupid shit all the time Logan. I had to make a call, and if I had to do it again I would.” Your voice is steady even as Scott cuts you a look.

Sure, jumping between two of the Sentinels was stupid, but you banked on Scott being near you and your own molecular alteration powers to fry them- and you were right.

Your brother wouldn’t even look you in the eyes, he kept his eyes on the gashes on your body. The wounds that soaked through your suit and had you pressing onto them.

“You could’ve fucking died. Do you get that?” Logan wants to punch something, there’s too much anger in his body right now and he needs to dispel it.

He’s hoping that something else pops out so he can jump out of the jet and attack it. He needs to do something with his worry other than yell and scream.

You roll your eyes, turning to look at him and hissing as you do, the gash on your side bleeding a bit more.

Logan reaches for you, claws out and slashing away part of your suit to get a good look at it. For a split second, even when you’re arguing, you can’t help but think about how much he cares for you.

What he finds is mottled skin, purple and black bruises forming around your cuts. “Fucking kidding me.”

Scott gulps a breath, his eyes sting. “I think there’s a first aid kit somewhere. I’ll go look for it.” Your brother’s voice is rough from unshed tears and you want to comfort him, but he’s gone before you can say anything.

As Logan presses his hand into the wound to keep it from bleeding, you sigh and touch his arm.

“I can die at any time Logan. It doesn’t matter if we’re fighting Sentinels or if I’m in the school. I can die at any time.” You’re not good at dispelling concern, but you also won’t apologize for doing what you did.

“Bub, that already scares the fuck outta me. Scares the fuck outta Scott even if he’s acting like he’s not affected. I’d burn the fucking world down if you died, do you get that? If I thought I could just even the score a little bit, I wouldn’t fucking hesitate princess.”

You mull over his words, thinking about how you’d react if something happened to him or Scott. How broken and lost you’d feel if you lost them and you sigh.

“I won’t apologize for doing reckless shit. Our entire job is reckless shit,” Logan huffs, a little smile playing on his lips. “But I understand. I’d do the same if something happened to you or him. I’m sorry you were worried.”

It’s the best he’ll get and he’s taking it. Logan’s lips press against your forehead and temple.

Scott comes back with all the necessary supplies, “I’ll stitch you up.” He says softly, Logan giving you one last kiss before going to clean all the shrapnel out of him.

Scott doesn’t say anything for a while, only when he’s pulling the last stitch through does he mutter; “I’m glad you didn’t die but please don’t make me look at you do that shit again.”

Scott almost never gets teary, so to hear the rawness in his voice has you stunned. “I won’t Scotty,” you hug him as best you can with such fresh stitches. “But I knew you had me. Knew you wouldn’t let me die.”

He laughs, flicking your forehead. “You’re a piece of shit.”

You shrug, smiling even wider when Logan comes out the bathroom with a change of clothes for you. “C’mon bub, let me clean you up and get you outta that damn suit.”

[xmpsrrr]

After the blowout

(bakugo x reader)

The training room still stank of burnt ozone and scorched rubber—your boots sliding slightly on the blackened floor as you leaned over, hands braced on your knees, lungs screaming. Your pulse thrummed at your temples, and your limbs felt like molten lead. Across the room, Bakugo stood, arms crossed, chest heaving under the weight of exertion and fury.

You barely looked up before you felt it coming.

“What the fuck was that?” he snapped, voice razor-sharp.

You straightened, slowly, sweat trailing down the side of your neck. “It was called strategy.”

“It was called stupid.” He stalked toward you, boots thudding like warning shots. “You left your back open. You let me get behind you—if I’d used even half the blast I normally would, you’d be laid out on that mat.”

You didn’t flinch. You were used to his yelling. His anger. But today, there was something else. Something unsettled. It sat in your gut like static.

“And yet here I am,” you said, shrugging.

His nostrils flared. “You think this is a game?”

“No,” you said evenly. “I think this is training. And last I checked, I’m allowed to adapt mid-fight. Maybe if you’d adjusted instead of exploding first and thinking later—”

His hand hit the wall beside your head, hard. Not touching you. But close enough that the crack of it made your breath hitch.

“You’re reckless,” he growled, leaning in. “And you piss me off. You pull these stunts like your life doesn’t mean shit—”

“I know what I’m doing,” you said sharply, heart hammering in your chest now for a very different reason.

His face was inches from yours. His breath was hot and uneven, jaw clenched tight enough to crack. But his eyes—those furious, wildfire eyes—were searching yours like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t say out loud.

“I don’t care if you know what you’re doing,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t get to put yourself in the line like that when I’m out there with you.”

The silence hit heavy. Your lips parted slightly, and you weren’t sure if you were going to fire back or breathe him in.

“Why?” you asked, throat dry.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“You really don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was hoarse now, lower, like he was finally letting it crack. “I see you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t mean anything, and I can’t fucking think. All I can picture is your body hitting the ground and me not being fast enough.”

The admission lodged itself in your chest like shrapnel.

You didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Because suddenly you were aware of every inch of space between you—and the way it felt like his body was magnetized to yours. Like some invisible thread had pulled too tight to ignore anymore.

“You don’t get to do that,” he said again, softer. His hand came up, hesitant—hesitant, from him—and brushed the side of your jaw, thumb grazing over the sweat-slick skin just below your ear. “Not when I—”

He stopped himself.

You stepped into his space anyway.

“You what?” you whispered.

His eyes locked with yours. Fire and hesitation battled in them, but when his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you forward, the hesitation lost.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was Bakugo—all raw want and too much pressure and not enough air. You kissed him back with every frustrated breath you’d ever wasted on him, every sleepless night replaying your fights in your head, every almost-touch, every unsaid thing.

His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space. He kissed like he fought—dominant, intense, like he needed you to feel him in your bones.

You didn’t just feel him.

You melted into him.

When you finally broke for air, your hands were in his hair, fingers curled tight. His mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, your neck like he didn’t know how to stop. His breath was hot, shaky.

“You’re always pushing me,” he said into your skin. “Driving me crazy. And I hate how much I fucking care.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whispered.

“Too late.”

He leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his lips bruised and parted. “You wanna do that again?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Or are you gonna run like you always do?”

You stared at him.

Then you pulled him back in, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m not running,” you said against his lips. “But you’re not dragging me anywhere unless I let you.”

A slow, predatory smirk curled his mouth. “Then give me permission.”

Your answer was another kiss—harder, deeper—and the promise that this time, you weren’t going to pretend there was nothing between you.

Because something had broken.

Or maybe finally clicked into place.

hope u guys enjoyed!

[invinciblewaffles]

So I have an idea for a Dick Grayson x spider!girl!reader series.

Its like an enemies to lovers where its set in young justice but its my own storyline. So Nightwing is always criticising her and other shit and so they both hate each other. They both go to Gotham Academy and he knows her secret identity but she doesn't know his, because at the time Batman told him not to tell anyone. Anyway so Dick's always teasing her and just being annoying and she always snaps back and so on.

And at some point she gets sucked into Miles Morales's universe along with the other spider people in that movie, but that bit will be quite brief.

But when she gets sucked in Nightwing/Dick goes a bit crazy looking for her.

And after many soft moments after missions on rooftops and multiple times of Nightwing getting mad at her for being reckless, they have an angry confession in the rain which goes something like,

"Why do you even care?!"

"Because I fucking love you!"

And so they start secretly dating, so the team doesn't know, but the problem is he still hasn't told her his secret identity.

So during the day he's annoying Dick Grayson with that stupid smirk and she acts like she hates him, but at night she's sneaking out onto to the rooftop only for Nightwing to kiss her and grip her hips like she's going to disappear. And when the truth finally comes out...

Idk if that made sense or not, but tell me if you think I should write this as a series please!!

Edit: So I started writing chapter 1, but hated it so I might scrap it and start over, but like probably later when I'm in my Dick Grayson phase again. Sorry!

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

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

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, poor mental health, mentions of previous injury, possible ooc,

part 23: realization.

🔹🔹🔹

fuck every single thing in your life leading up to this point.

that’s the main thing you’ve been repeating to yourself since waking up and the ensuing argument with bruce, how have you been so stupid? so reckless and sloppy? you broke character in front of batman repeatedly. the hospital visits, the information he freely gave you about criminals, the way he acted in the fucking alleyway. it was so so obvious he was keeping an eye on you, not for bruce, but because he is bruce. You wanna punch yourself in the face as hard as Bruce did.

that means he knows what the other vigilantes know about you right? whoever put the bug on your phone, probably bruce himself your encounters with red robin, who else is involved? shit, that explains so much about alfred’s behaviour too.

you need to get out, you’re not safe here, that much is clear now. the room you’re currently laying in is probably bugged by now if it wasn’t already, you’re sure everything you’ve done to the phone is compromised if they found the case files you’d been idly making in your spare time. Your programs, your files, your hacking, even your attempt at an AIs probably completely useless now, and you don't think you've got it in you to clean the hardware again…

you’re currently lazing in your bed, you’d popped a painkiller and sloppily changed your own bandages just to assess the damage to yourself while attempting not to look too professional at this, even though you’re completely alone in the dark guest room. the skin of your shins is irritated and near glassy from both the burns and the medicated ointments smeared liberally all over them. luckily the cuts on your chest are better than you’d thought last night, they’re shallow enough that no stitches were applied, all the better for you. though the bruise on your face is nasty looking by now, swollen knot on your jaw paired up with a scabbed over busted lip, all it took was one glance in the bathroom mirror to see you got messed up.

There's a knock at the door, you tense before slowly crawling out of bed to see what's up.

Alfred brought you a plate of food, you didn't take it, the hardened eyes and tense posture enough to have you wandering what might be on it other than seasoning. Is it too paranoid? Maybe, but you've allowed yourself to be too comfortable with these people for too long. You'd simply murmured something about nausea and shoved the plate back into the tray before quickly closing the door on him before he could get anything else out. You made yourself ignore the persistent knocking as you'd stumbled back to bed.

Now you're in the bathroom pretending to wash up.

Carefully checking a few small bills for signs of trackers embedded within the paper while the shower stands empty behind you, the sound of water hitting the shower floor is almost relaxing in a way.

You moved things slowly, one pair of boots left in the bathroom, one clean hoodie, pair of pants, extra pain pills, if you were being watched a mad scramble for stuff would have them kicking the door down and doing who knows what to you. you need to remain calm, sulky looking sure, but your body language and expressions can't betray you.

Are you a prisoner to your training or are you in danger with these people? Batman's considered a hero…but is Bruce Wayne? The man's a self-proclaimed philanthropist with many charities to his name, but so was Stark. And that man's not exactly a good example. The way Peter described their mentorship said enough. Shit doesn't Batman work with children?

The thought alone had you stress-pacing on aching, numb legs. You couldn't guess how old red Robin is, or the purple clad lady or the one in full black, but Robin was definitely a child, a young one at that. Where did he even get access to a…..

Unease settles in your gut like lead, a young boys face flashing through your mind and bringing your pacing to a deadstop in the center of the bedroom. A boy who has katanas hanging up in his bedroom, a boy who knows how to drive a car and would take point behind you when you're incapacitating someone….fuck everything you were doing, you need to go see Damian right now.

You slip out of the bedroom with quiet, measured steps, rolling your weight on the pads of your feet evenly as you stalk down the dark empty hall. You don't have a plan, you don't even know for sure where to find Damian. He could be out running the streets with Bruce right now for all you know, but surely he wouldn't keep the kid out this late right? Then again maybe he would. you don't exactly know the real Bruce, do you.

You should've seen that coming considering how hard you've tried to hide the real you.

the manors quiet tonight, it feels like an odd juxtaposition compared to how loud your thoughts are currently, how crazy things have felt the last twelve hours. as you go room to room it faintly occurs to you that maybe damian wouldn’t want to see you right now, he’s clearly been keeping bruce’s secrets, maybe this will end in you flaming yet another bridge….

you’re already at his bedroom when your thoughts get the better of you, your feet automatically turning and moving to carry yourself away when something shuffles beyond the shut bedroom door. you pause for just a moment and listen to the light footsteps padding around the room, and then you start to back away silently. you don’t need to do this, this isn’t your responsibility right?….

The door creaks open, damian takes half a step out of the room before freezing like a deer in headlights, foot still hovering as you both stare at the other, you try to leave regardless of the awkward confrontation but he quietly calls out to you before you can dissapear back into the dark, he quickly finds his feet and trots out into the dimly lit hallway to grab at your wrist before you get a chance to trot off.

“(Name), I've been wanting to talk to you since last night.” he blinks up at you expectantly, frown on his face like you've offended himwith your escape attempt, his grip is surprisingly tight. does he think you’re gonna pull away?

You find yourself studying him closely for a moment, his height, hair color, the way the kid carries himself…. the thought that he might really be batman's Robin hits you like a (another) punch to the face. What the hell is Bruce doing to this kid? Your hand subconsciously finds itself on his shoulder, gripping him tighter than either of you'd expected.

“Damian…” you stop yourself before you can say anything, what the hell do you do in this situation? Ask if he's okay? Ask if he's Robin? Does he realize the danger Bruce is putting him in? Does he know he'll never be normal if he wastes his childhood like this? You don't want Damian to turn out like you.

He scowls up at you as you silently seem to be processing something, your expression makes you look so uncomfortable as you squeeze him while staring blankly at him, he shakes the wrist he's still squeezing to snap you out of it, you're starting to creep him out a little.

“(Name)?….”

You need to get a grip on yourself, don't say anything stupid to the kid just because you're concerned - “are you….”

You stop yourself just in time, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough you're surprised you don't taste blood. finally you manage to choke out a quiet “…are you okay?”

Damian blinks confusedly as he glances up at you, shuffling his weight foot to foot while his nose scrunches at your odd behavior. “…yes, I'm perfectly fine thank you. Are you alright? You're the one who was attacked repeatedly.”

right, people usually ask about things like that after someone's injured, the wounds are minor enough though. He Doesn't need to worry himself with that. “I'm fine, I've had worse.”

He scowls up at you and releases your wrist to cross his arms over his chest petulantly, you feel like you've just selected the wrong dialogue option in a game…

“You shouldn't be up too much right now, if you irritate chemical burns you'll -”

You quickly hold your hands up as you interrupt him, wincing slightly as his frown deepens and his eyes narrow up at you as you speak.

“Damian I'm fine. I promise you, it's….. Never mind.” you sigh and look away, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly.

He huffs at you pointedly. “I'm starting to think you were hit in the head harder than we realized.”

The sassy response actually gets a small snort out of you, even if you can't bring yourself to ask him what you really wanna know…it's kinda nice to see he's acting normal. Even after everything that's been happening, it's both odd and comforting in a twisted way that he's doing well while you're completely spiraling by the hour, it's like a reminder how small your issues are.

“Oh wow, thanks kiddo I'm really glad you're here for emotional support.”

You roll your eyes at him but quickly reach to mussy up his hair so he knows you're not offended, though he dodges your hand and huffs at you again. Then he pauses and just stares at you with a contemplating look, lips pressed together and brows furrowed as a strange silence settles over the two of you once again.

When Damian does eventually speak, he sounds hesitant and subdued. His words halted as he studies your reaction carefully. “…father says that you're afraid of him, why is that?”

You blink, for a moment you thought you'd misheard him, but no. He's watching you closely with concerned eyes and baited breath, the shift in tone is jarring and you can only dumbly mumble out a confused question.

“I - what?”

Damian presses on, his eyes look down either side of the hallway before returning to staring up at you earnestly. Like he's pleading for an answer. “…are you? It's okay you can tell me.”

You didn't even register yourself taking a step back until Damian takes a small step after you, he looks unsure of himself while you quickly try to fix the situation before things get out of hand, this isn't what you wanted to talk about with him. “No? No! I don't know where he's getting that from…. Or why he'd tell you that, honestly. But no, I'm not afraid of him.”

“…. Then why do you look ready to leave?”

You open your mouth to reply to that, but not a single sound escapes you. The hall falls silent, neither of you say a word and your gaze falls to the carpet below your feet. You don't have it in you to lie to the boy.

🔹🔹🔹

You barely registered stumbling back to the room, half shutting the door before climbing unsteadily into the bed with a weariness that reminds you of those first days in the hospital. Who knew a little physical harm and stress could tire you out this badly…the burns especially ache terribly just from that little movement, you'll definitely pop another pain pill in the morning.

Maybe you'll be able to think more clearly then.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: I'm very, very sorry this is so late y'all 😭 I've been suddenly dealing with multiple things at once so I haven't had any free time, I'll accept any tomatoes and rocks thrown my way 😔 anyways poor widow isn't handling things well are they? Seems like they need to smoke something and take a long nap.

Taglist: @cxcilla @mercuryathens @dind1n @redsakura101 @ninihrtss @let-me-dance @ladykamos @one-piecelover @cuntiesweet @omnivirgo @shirp-collector-of-fixations @spidermanluvr444 @br33zy-blizzardz @lunarapple @findingjaxx @4rachn3 @buckturd @tsxukikami @paastaboi @duskeras @ibelyss @1abi @that-creepy-girl-000 @kaylaphantomhive @viilan @karmaxq @dr7girl

[spider-stark]

RECKLESS

paring | foggy nelson x reader

summary | statistically speaking, fucking your annoying coworker is never a good idea. but who cares about statistics?

warnings | MDNI 18+, sexual themes & situations, no real plot (just concepts & vibes bb), your yearly reminder that i can't write smut, not edited we die like foggy in dd:ba (fuck that show)

word count | 660+

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy–”  

“Foggy!” Your voice was sharp. His face—cheeks tinted rosy pink—was so close to yours that, with the slightest movement, your noses were at risk of bumping together. “Stop. Talking.”  

His breathing was erratic. His gaze flitted between your eyes and your lips, as if unsure of where to look. “Sorry.” A second of quiet, and then: “It’s just—are we doing this? Like, actually doing this?”  

You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kill him.  

You wanted him to shut up and to never stop talking ever again.  

“Foggy?”  

“Yes?”  

“I mean this in the nicest way,” you told him, though your tone indicated otherwise, “but don’t you think now is a little too late to be asking that?”  

Your skirt was pushed up to your goddamn waist. Whatever skin wasn’t covered by the thin fabric of your panties was pressed to the smooth, cool varnish of his desk. His palms pressed flat against the side of your thighs, fingers occasionally flexing with the urge to squeeze, held back by a most infuriating sense of restraint. 

His hips were wedged between your legs. Even through the barriers that separated you—his slacks, your panties—you could still feel him pressing against your core.  

Hard.  

Thick.  

“Well, you know what they say.” He gave a little shrug, nervous and adorable. “No time like the present, amirite?”  

You couldn’t agree less.  

But this was what Foggy was good at, wasn’t it? Pushing your buttons, getting under your skin. The two of you were opposites. Oil and water, yin and yang. If you said down, he said up, if you said red, he said green.  

And if you said Let’s Fuck, Foggy Nelson was for sure the type of guy to look you dead in the eyes and say: Actually?  

“Franklin–” his nose scrunched at the use of his real name “–I can feel every inch of your dick pressing against my–”  

His grin widened. “How are you feeling about that by the way?”  

You sucked an agitated breath through your nostrils.

“Presently? Not so good, Franklin.��� Your glare bored right through the soul of him, menacing as it was in any courtroom as you stressed, “Not. So. Good.”  

You hated this.  

You hated him.  

Just minutes ago, the two of you had been at each other’s throats—a common occurrence during late nights at the office. The catalyst had been stupid. For tomorrow’s opening statement, you wanted to present the teenaged client as wholly innocent. But Foggy—stupid, stupid Foggy!—wanted to paint them as misguided youth. That way, he argued, if the plaintiff brought forth enough evidence to prove the client guilty (which, to be fair, they definitely were), then the jury might still take pity on them if it seemed they’d been failed by a larger system.  

It was risky. Reckless. No better than a blatant admission of guilt, really.  

And that was exactly the point you’d been trying to make—your finger jabbing against his chest, his jaw clenched with frustration—when, suddenly, the Earth shifted on its axis and his lips crashed against yours.  

As a lawyer, you prided yourself on being a person of extreme logic.  

Facts and figures, reason over impulse. You valued sense. Statistics. You never made a move without ensuring that success was not only possible, but probable.  

And workplace relationships? Ugh…  

Let’s just say the numbers weren’t in your favor on that one.  

“Foggy,” you raked your fingers through his soft blonde locks. Tugged, relishing in the way his eyelids fluttered shut, plush lips parting with a sweet, almost whimpering, sound. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time.” Your voice was low, firm. “Stop talking and start fucking. Got it?”  

He was already nodding, already fumbling for his pants, before the last word had even left your tongue. “Yes ma’am,” he choked out, so dutiful and submissive that you forgot all about facts and figures, reason over impulse.  

Fuck statistics.  

You were doing this.  

Definitely, definitely doing this.

a/n - god. if i knew how to write smut? i'd love to continue this. such a fun concept (in my opinion). anyways, hope you all enjoyed this little short piece about the most precious human to ever live (count your days, born again).

as always, could be ooc, but I do my best so cut me some slack lmao