#from “is it the fifth floor?” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aeyumicore · 10 months ago

Text

shot, shot, shot, shot!

what happens when the four love and deepspace men get drunk and jealous? there's only one cure and it's in between your legs!

━ ✧.˖ PAIRING: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel (separate) x female reader (afab)

━ .ᐟ✧ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot

━ ✧.˖ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 15.7k

━ .ᐟ✧ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, mentions of alcohol, recreational drinking (characters and mc), jealousy (guys + mc), drunk characters (guys + mc), use of Y/N, pet names, unprotected sex, never pulling out, fluff/crack/banter, individual content warnings below with their respective fics

━ ✧.˖ LINKS: original inspo | ao3

A/N: SURPRISE ITS HERE EARLY! oof another fic for all four guys? who is she? but actually after this i likely won’t be writing for all four guys like this again, or at least for a while. if i can somehow get better at writing fics that are 1-2k then ill start doing scenarios with all four again! i tried to keep this one short and they’re still all 3-4.3k per guy…this scenario was originally based off the one video of the drunk asian guy! see the clip above under ‘links.’

enjoy guys!! i’ll be taking a much needed break but may write slowly in my own time :) just depends how i feel, how much inspiration i have! i’ll still be on tumblr but will mostly be on my twitter <3 until next time bbs!

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 4.3k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, sylus refers to reader genitalia as ‘she,’ public sex, sex in an alley, standing/against the wall sex, finger sucking, choking, outdoor sex, voyeurism, needy sylus, drunk sylus, jealous sylus, use of pet names, mentions of guns, tiny bit of violence, cumming in coochie, panties over cummies

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | video (how sylus kisses you in this)

Luke and Kieran watch the way Sylus’s eyes track you under the strobing lights of the nightclub. It wasn’t out of the norm for their dear boss to be obsessed with knowing a certain Hunter’s whereabouts. But this was excessive, even for him.

The way he’d already shattered two glasses with the force of his fingers, his eyes scarily unblinking as they trailed your every movement. The club manager didn’t dare kick Sylus out, apologizing to him as he’d cleaned up the glass from Sylus’s feet. But Sylus was too distracted to even notice.

The pair of troublemakers supposed it had to do with the fact that some sleezy drunk had his hands all over your bare thighs. They knew if Sylus had his way, that very man would be unconscious on the floor in half a second flat. But of course, when it came to you, Sylus was helpless as he was whipped, giving into your every desire, even if it physically pained him to do so.

And you had ordered Sylus not to intervene, not when you were undercover, trying to get classified information from the powerful men that frequented this very nightclub in the N109 zone. So he was left at the bar, quite literally fending thirsty women off left and right, watching the way you pretended to laugh amongst the unsuspecting targets. He tried to distract himself from the men who so clearly were thinking of ten different ways to fuck you.

A privilege reserved only for him.

So the twins, who had so enthusiastically begged to tag along, devised a plan to help Sylus take his mind off planning literal murder.

Really, they were trying to help!

But maybe they should’ve stopped after the fifth drink. When Sylus’s cheeks flushed the same shade of red as his eyes, ebbing all the way up to the tips of his ears.

And they definitely should’ve stopped after the tenth drink. When Sylus’s body started to move on its own accord, his Evol practically parting the crowd of drunk and sweaty clubbers to get to you.

But at that point there was no stopping the formidable man from taking what he wanted. And what he wanted, what he needed, was you.

Honestly, you nearly breathe a sigh of relief when you feel Sylus’s familiar Evol wrapping around your wrist, yanking you backward and away from the disgusting man trying to feel you up. You’re so happy to feel his strong arms around you that you don’t notice how atypically clumsy his Evol feels, like grasping for something when blindfolded.

“We’re leaving.”

Sylus’s words are dominating and commanding, ‘no’ not even a fathomable possibility. But there’s a slight waver in his gruff voice that makes you raise your eyebrow at him in question.

The idiotic man before you wraps his clammy hands around your waist, pulling you back, “Hey man. We’re in the middle of something.”

You look up to see Sylus’s crimson eyes, trained on the way the man’s fingers dig into your bare skin, burning with something dangerous, the air around him crackling with an erratic and sinister energy, and you know you have to defuse the situation as quickly as you can.

You bring your elbow to the man’s groin, digging hard. He groans pathetically, wilting to his knees. Truthfully, you didn’t have to elbow him that hard, but you’d become nauseated with how disgustingly he’d been looking at you, touching you, for the past thirty minutes.

“No, we’re really not.”

With that, you slip into Sylus’s side, his large arm wrapping possessively around your naked shoulders, your hand resting on his abdomen. Sylus’s lips quirk up, deeply satisfied with the way you can bring men twice your size to their knees before they can even blink. His girl.

As the two of you make your way out of the crowd, you start to notice the way Sylus’s movements are unusually sluggish, his feet trudging one after the other. Considering Sylus was always poised and elegant, you instantly knew something was amiss. When Luke and Kieran fall into step behind you, you turn to the two masked men.

“What happened?!” you hissed at them, “What happened to ‘Watch Sylus? Easy peasy lemon squeezy?!’” Your fingers are raised in air-quotes as you recall their confident words and uncontrollable giggles when you’d tasked them with keeping Sylus in line, knowing he’d have a hard time watching you faux flirt with other men, no matter how self assured he was.

Kieran is the first to speak, clearing his throat as the four of you exit the nightclub, the night air ruffling through your hair, “Well, you see –”

But he’s cut off when Sylus roughly grabs your chin, pulling your eyes up to his.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Your eyes flicker to his, surprised by his demanding, yet needy, words. Sylus smiles when you look up at him, his eyes, as unfocused as they were, beaming down at you.

His rough fingers caress your cheek, burying his face into your hair, inhaling your intoxicating scent, “Beautiful.”

The scent of alcohol on his breath is so strong you nearly wince. Luke and Kieran seem to notice your realization at the same time, their eyes widening as you start to yell in disbelief.

“Is he drunk?!” you demand, your arms wrapping tighter around his waist, Sylus in a world of his own as he mutters incoherent mumblings into your hair, shifting his weight onto you.

The twins grin at you sheepishly, raising their hands in surrender. Luke speaks, “Well, in our defense, boss never gets drunk –”

“Yeah! Boss is such a heavyweight –”

“So we thought, a few drinks might loosen him up –”

“You should’ve seen him! He was thiiiiiis close to commiting a crime –”

“So really, you should be thanking us!”

The twins finish rattling off, looking at you with puppy eyes.

You sigh, unable to feign anger at them, “How many drinks did you give him?”

“Umm…what was it Kieran…like…eight?” Your eyes widen as they scratch their chins.

“No…no, it was definitely closer to…like twelve?”

“Well we also gave him those cute little drinks with the umbrellas, he seemed to really like those!”

“Yeah and they had little chunks of fruit in them! Maybe that cancels out the alcohol?”

“Yeah! And the one with the olives too! Plus, boss always drinks like a bottle of wine a night!

“So we thought…a few mixed drinks…couldn’t hurt anyone!”

Your head spins as you try to keep up with their conversation, digging through your purse to find the unopened half bottle of water you’d brought. You quickly unscrew it, bringing it up to Sylus’s lips.

Sylus looks surprised when the cool plastic touches his lips, but once his hazy eyes focus on you again, he visibly relaxes. The sharp vermillion hues in his irises melt at the reflection of you, softening into the most beautiful carmine pools of red wine.

His hands come over to cup yours, holding your fingers affectionately in his as you tilt the water back so he can drink. You have to tip toe upward so you can follow his grip, his gulps greedy and eyelids shut in relief, the sensation of your hand cupping his jaw feeling like his own personal heaven.

With the plastic at his moistened lips, his eyes flutter open to look at you, his lids heavy with intoxication. Even though his eyes swim with a murky tiredness, they glow when they watch you, glimmering with a star-struck adoration. His intensity stares you down, a knowing heat piercing right through you. The very same heat that has seen both your naked body and soul.

The moment feels hot and strangely intimate. It definitely felt illegal to have Sylus looking at you like that while Luke and Kieran stood behind you.

He’s so distracted by you, eyes never leaving yours, that nearly a third of the water splashes onto his chest and the pavement floor. He drinks so enthusiastically that you almost want to giggle at how submissive he looks, drinking so obediently from your hands, eyes following your every move. Fortunately the pair of whispers behind you remind you that, even if Sylus stares at you like he’s ready to mount you right then and there, you are not alone.

When the bottle drains, he crumples it in one hand, tossing it to the nearest waste bin.

As it hits the metal trash can, you tear your eyes away from the way Sylus heatedly watches you, turning back to Luke and Kieran, “Are you two insane?!”

The twins look positively offended.

“How did you even convince him to drink so much?”

“Well, he was so distracted watching you that he just downed anything we put into his hands...”

You bite your lip, realizing how difficult it must’ve been for Sylus to sit back and just watch. But he did it, for you.

“Y/N.”

You try to ignore the way Sylus is stroking the bare skin of your shoulders, fingers coming dangerously close to your neck. His ruby eyes beg for your attention.

“Sylus might drink a lot, but he drinks wine –”

“Y/N.”

“Not hard alcohol! Look at how red he is! You guys, this was recklessly irresponsible!”

“Y/N.”

Sylus pulls you forcefully back into his arms, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, teeth nipping at your pulse. Through the darkness of the night, you pray Luke and Kieran can’t see the way Sylus whispers into your ear.

“I need you.”

You fight the shiver that threatens to unleash through your unsuspecting body, his hot breath washing against your skin, the contrast of the brisk night air making you all the more sensitive. His fingers hold you in place, his hard body pressed into your own.

You sigh, trying to brush the arousal away, “Let’s get you home, yeah? We can –”

He nips at your earlobe, eliciting a squeak from your lips as he gruffly demands, “Now.”

Before you can protest further, Sylus’s eyes direct to the twins in front of you, the pair of them snickering to themselves knowingly as he dismisses them, “We’ll meet you at home.”

–

You didn’t even make it to your car.

Far from it, you found yourself pressed into the cold brickwall of a nearby alleyway, not fifteen feet from where Luke and Kieran had left the two of you. Sylus’s lips are latched onto yours in a furiously passionate embrace, his hands alternating between grabbing torridly at your waist and threading into the back of your neck, weaving into your sweat-dampened hair.

Your arms are wrapped around his neck for support against his torridly forceful kiss, his head tilted to the side to give him full access to your mouth, your lips, your tongue.

He doesn’t even stop to breathe, opting to inhale your breath as his own. His tongue forcefully explores every inch of your open and willing mouth, and you struggle to keep up with his excitement. His fingers massage your neck, grabbing eagerly at every part of you he can reach.

Sylus has always been passionate, but this was something else. It felt as if the alcohol in his blood amplified everything tenfold, leaving his cock thicker than ever against your shivering abdomen. His hands roam down your naked back, pulling at your waist again, pressing your body harder against his erection that leaks against his underwear.

Sylus’s head tilts to the other side, your face moving opposite his to instinctively receive his unbridled passion. He cups the back of your head again, shielding you head from hitting the wall, the force of his kiss pushing you against it violently.

He pulls away briefly, panting into you, his canines grazing into the soft skin of your ear, “You’re going to be the death of me, little dove.”

You want to question him, but his lips are back on yours in an instant, consuming you once more. His fingers grip your jaw so tightly, funneling all the emotions he’d held back, while watching you on the dancefloor with other men, into the way he holds you against the wall. Into the way he devours you.

He gives you a brief second of reprieve, pressing his lips into your neck, voice coming out husky and sulky, “I don’t enjoy seeing you with other men.”

You gasp as he pushes you impossibly deeper into the wall, teeth simultaneously digging into the curve of your neck. Your fingers thread up into his hair, tugging to ground yourself as Sylus sucks your soft skin.

“M-sooorry,” you slur, as if you’re the one who’s drunk, “B-But I got the information I – nnghn – needed.”

Sylus growls into your skin, “I knew you would. You’re a force to be reckoned with.”

His thumb presses against your bottom lip, eyes glazed over with a drunken hunger, “And you always have me at your mercy.”

It isn’t long before he has your back arched into his abdomen, the front of your sweat slicked body pressed into the cold alley wall, his cock buried in your wet gummy walls. Your panties are pushed messily to the side, your skirt hiked up to your waist.

Sylus’s fingers are shoved into your mouth, claiming to try and minimize your sounds so passerbys don't hear the filthy things he was doing to you. In reality, he was just addicted to your sweet mouth wrapped around him.

His other hand holds both of your wrists, locking them against the small of your back, leaving you absolutely at the mercy of his thick cock ramming in and out of you.

“S-so damn beautiful,” Sylus is almost slurring, having gotten more drunk the longer the alcohol sat in his stomach. The acoustics of the dark alley made his body pounding against yours all the louder and more sinful.

His thrusts are sloppy, the alcohol making it harder for him to maintain control. But that only serves to arouse you more, the sight of Sylus’s hazy eyes when you crane your neck back to see him, the sweat sticking to his flushed skin.

You can only moan, the pads of his fingers pressing down into your tongue. The loud drunken giggles of people passing by make your eyes widen, but Sylus doesn’t stop, only going faster.

“Never gonna let another man touch you, ever again,” he moans into your ear, as he ruts angrily into your g spot, his fingers pressing tiny bruises into the fat of your hips. He’s ten times handsier when he’s drunk, almost as if the alcohol makes his muscles itch, your body his fixation..

He spins you around suddenly, nearly making you lose your balance, his cock entering you just as quickly as it had slipped out. Sylus is desperate to see your beautifully hooded eyes, the faces you make when you come undone for him.

You grip the thick muscles of his neck, admiring his damp and exposed chest. The buttons of his shirt had been yanked open in the drunken shuffle, leaving little to imagination.

“H-Hey,” Sylus mutters, the faintest hint of a whine beneath his words, “Look at me.” His thrusts, sloppier than ever, never stopping.

You grin, despite how blissed out your mind is becoming, at his adorably needy behavior. As you let your eyes lose themselves in his, you stroke his jaw lovingly.

“Tell me,” he pants, his cock twitching as it presses insistently into your walls.

“Nngh — T-Tell you what Sy?” you coo breathlessly, nails digging into his sweaty skin, trying to distract yourself from the no doubt filthy brick wall pressing into your exposed back.

“Tell me how I make you feel,” Sylus’s jaw tightens dangerously.

He thrusts especially hard and deep when you don’t respond, capturing your wrist and pressing it into the wall above your head, effectively trapping you against the wall, “Tell me.”

You squeal, biting your lips, “Sylus! F-Feels s’good. N-No one else can — hng — make me feel like this!”

Sylus’s glossy ruby red eyes flicker, his fingers finding your clit pressed against his pelvis, “Yeah? You love my cock, don’t you sweetheart?”

You want to smile at how adorably needy his words are, the alcohol fueling him with the rare desire to be validated. Instead you just nod vehemently as he plays with your clit, “I dooo!”

Sylus grunts, struggling to breathe as you tighten around him. He grabs your cheeks in between his fingers, squeezing them firmly until your moans are muffled, “Shhh, we wouldn’t want someone to find us, would we little bird?”

You nod obediently, but your body responds instinctively to his words, your abdomen fluttering in excitement at the thought of being caught in such a compromising position, with the revered leader of Onychinus no less.

Sylus chuckles darkly, his every nerve receptive to your tiniest micromovements, and especially the excited way your pussy clamps down on his erection. His lips come down to kiss your jaw sweetly, contrary to the mean way he bullies himself into your cunt.

When he reaches the space beneath your ear he presses a tender kiss there, whispering huskily, “I can feel the way you’re tightening around me. Do you like the idea of someone watching us?”

Your eyes widen at him, and that’s all the answer he needs.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I would love to give them a show. Especially that man who had his hands all over you, hm? What was his name?”

“I-I d-don’t – hah – remember,” you wheeze, holding on as he bounces you into the wall, the sound of drunk bar patrons growing louder.

Sylus smiles darkly, his red eyes glowing in satisfaction, “Good girl. This pussy belongs t’me, hm?” His words come out in a purr, slightly sluggish with intoxication.

You can’t speak, opting to nod as eagerly as you can, your brain muddling against the pleasure of your joined bodies. Sylus chuckles at your wordless agreement.

“My precious dove…can’t even speak?” he coos, fingers still splayed out against your poor quivering clit, the wet sounds of his furious ministrations echoing throughout the dark alley. He leans in close to your ear.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. She’s so loud she might as well be answering for you,” he grins, clearly talking about your soaked and squelching pussy against his demanding thrusts.

You’re about to retort when you hear another group of people passing by the alley. Your hands fly up to your mouth, forcing your uncontrollable moans away. Your eyes squeeze shut as the patter of feet gets closer and closer, fear and excitement taking over.

“Ah-ah,” Sylus tuts, “You know better than to hide your beautiful sounds from me.” Your eyes widen when his words sink in.

Your hands fly to Sylus’s broad shoulders, but it’s too late to push him back. His hands find the globes of your ass, lifting you off the floor, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. At this angle Sylus can fully bounce you on his cock, using you however he wants. At this angle, the swollen tip brushes right into your cervix. At this angle, it’s physically impossible for you to muffle your cries.

Your nails dig into the ropes of his shoulder muscles as you squeal. Sylus only grins as the sound of feet falter, right in front of the alley.

You try your best to whisper, “Sy-Sylus, please. Th-they’ll hear.” But it was pointless. Even if you could hold back your whimpers, the echo of his arousal dampened pelvis slapping against the space where your thighs met your ass bounced off the walls of the alley like a resounding bell.

“You say that…” he murmurs, fingers coming back down to your clit, balancing you in just one arm, “But why is she getting so tight?”

He’s right, and there’s no denying it. Sylus is well acquainted with your body, knowing exactly what excites you, what you don’t like, what you love.

The heavy footsteps gradually fade, likely too drunk to hear anything than the pounding of distant EDM music. Sylus hears you sigh in relief, releasing a bated breath, but your cunt stays as tight as ever around him. It drives him insane.

Nearly getting caught has only pushed both of you to the cusp of your orgasms.

“Close, dove?” Sylus whispers into your ear, one hand pressed into the wall, the other bouncing you on his quivering cock.

Your head is thrown back as you nod, gasping for your next breath, “Y-Yes! So cloooose Sy!” At this point you don’t even care who could possibly hear you, only able to focus on the angry way Sylus’s cock twitching inside you, stroking your g-spot, begging to paint you white.

“M-Me too, Y/N,” Sylus’s uncharacteristic stutter, driven to madness by the alcohol and you, makes you clench down, hard.

He hisses, hips stuttering, teeth clamping down on your shoulder, tongue subsequently coming out to lap at the space where he bit down, soothing your skin.

The push of pain, the pull of pleasure, it’s just enough to tip you over, careening down the cliff of your orgasm. Your head falls back, eyes rolling with them, body fully preparing to show Sylus just how much you loved him.

But Sylus has other plans, squeezing your cheeks in between his fingers, directing you to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me, please.”

His commanding words remind you that he’s very much still intoxicated, making him adorably needy for your attention.

When your eyes level with his, his red eyes sparkle happily, like a puppy getting its ears scratched, “Hello, my love. Show me, hm?” The duality of his lovable desperation and his downright malevolent plunges into your cervix blurs the lines between pleasure and reality, sanity and madness.

You nod eagerly, holding his intense eye contact, while you burst at the seams, spraying all over his still clothed abdomen. Sparks of white hot electricity travel through every one of your nerve endings while you cum on him.

Sylus gulps, in awe of the way you sing for him, shame thrown to the wind. If anyone were to walk by, they’d hear the way you screamed for his cock. Hear the way your body made him gasp for his next breath. How he grunts with each rope of cum that he dumps into your waiting hole, each sloppy pump filling his vision with bleary stars.

As he cums, he whispers brokenly into your ear, “C-Can never get enough. I love you, sweetheart.” One of his big hands comes up to clamp around your throat, his fingers pressing down forcefully as he erupts inside of you.

“Ngh…I love you Sylus,” you murmur against the pleasure of your constricted air flow, clinging to him, truly like an injured bird.

Sylus kisses your lips tenderly as you both come down from your highs, his fingers carefully laying your panties back in place. When he sets you on the ground, you nearly collapse, your legs quivering from the way they’d been locked around his waist. His arms are back around you in an instant, holding you steady. His cum flows out of you like literal tears, but you can only clamp your thighs shut and pray your pathetic soiled panties can catch the streams of his milky seed.

He guides you carefully out of the alley, pressing affectionate kisses into the crown of your head as he holds your waist protectively. You’re so dazed you hardly notice that your skirt is still ridden up, until Sylus gently pulls it back down, smoothing the rumpled fabric with his large hands.

The sounds of two far too familiar voices greet you when you emerge from the backstreet.

“Are you guys finally done?”

“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been waiting?!”

Sylus groans, running his hand down his face, “Didn’t I tell you two to go back to base?”

And though you’re thoroughly mortified at the idea of the twins having walked into your…situation, you can’t help but smile at the way Sylus handles Luke and Kieran. Like a father reprimanding his children.

“Well we did —”

“But then you guys didn’t come back for a while —”

“So we thought maybe something happened!”

You shake your head at their frenzied explanation, the smile stretching on your lips as you watch the twins move their hands animatedly in their defense, “You guys are impossible.”

Luke gasps in exaggerated earnest, “How can you say that after what you’ve put us through?”

Kieran nods in agreement, shuddering dramatically, “Yeah! I feel like I just walked in on my parents…”

“You two better watch yourselves before I confiscate your guns again,” Sylus sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. But you can see the corner of his lips fighting an amused smile.

Luke and Kieran simultaneously gasp, their reaction making it seem like Sylus was a father grounding his children, taking away their toys. You burst out into giggles, hugging Sylus’s side to keep warm as you watch the comical situation unfold.

“There’s no need for you to do that, Sy,” you murmur, looking up at him, admiring the way the moonlight frames his face. Sylus peers down at you, his face softening, before nodding curtly.

The twins snicker. Luke uses his hand as a shield in front of his mouth to whisper to Kieran, pointing to Sylus behind it, “Whipped.”

You shoot them a smile, a deceptively innocent and sweet grin, “I’ll gladly confiscate them for you.”

There’s nearly a cartoon puff of smoke left behind when the twins scurry off, desperately clutching their holsters and begging for mercy.

Sylus chuckles as he watches them run off, his arm slung over your shoulder, pulling you closer to his side as he presses a kiss into your forehead.

“Truly a force to be reckoned with.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.8k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, drunk mc and xavier, pre-established relationship (but not first time), public sex/voyeurism, sex on the dance floor, standing sex, fingering, dancing without leaving room for jesus, grinding, jealous!mc, not a content warning but xavier is wearing tight black shirt and jeans…….MMMMMM, unprotected sex, handjob through clothes

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | pics (how xavier and you make out in this)

The thumping beat of club music pounds in your ears, making it difficult to hear even your own thoughts. But you really didn’t care, too intoxicated and having too much fun dancing with Tara in a throng of sweaty club goers.

The both of you had requested today off, wanting to see an up and coming DJ at the Linkon Lounge. You’d started the night off at your apartment, getting dolled up in your wispiest lashes and outfits that made you feel strong, confident, and beautiful. You’d shared a couple shots of tequila before slipping on your heels and scrambling out of your apartment, in a fit of tipsy and hushed giggles.

Coincidentally enough, you ran into Xavier on your way out. Your blonde-haired partner was in the apartment lobby, grabbing his mail, when you and Tara bumped into him, literally. If it weren’t for Xavier’s quick reflexes, his forearm darting out to wrap around your waist, you definitely would’ve ended the night before it began, with an ice pack in your hand rather than a fruity drink.

And that’s when Tara had invited Xavier out with you. Truthfully, you were sure Xavier would say no. The club definitely wasn’t his scene, and he undoubtedly had plans to have a cozy night in. But you were pleasantly surprised when he blurted out ‘yes’ before Tara could even get the words completely out. Tara knew Xavier wanted to come to keep an eye on you, and she was all too happy to play matchmaker.

You hadn’t seen Xavier for what felt like at least fifteen minutes. You assumed he went off to the bathroom, or maybe to order some more drinks. Before long, you started to worry.

“I’m gonna go look for Xavier! Will you be okay?” you practically scream over the music, pulling the side of Tara’s face to your mouth so she can hear you better.

“I’ll be here!” she yells, pointing at her phone, “Text me if you can’t find me!” You nod, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

You push your way out of the crowd, apologizing profusely as you’re met with the displeased looks and groans of drunk patrons.

Eventually you make your way to the edge of the dancefloor, scouring the area for Xavier. You had a difficult time focussing your eyes, stumbling about, but did your best to look for the enigmatic Hunter.

You quickly check the line at the bar before deciding to check the bathroom. It’s then you catch the glint of familiar platinum blonde hair, Xavier’s body leaned up against the wall near the public water fountains.

You gulp at the sight of him, his head leaned back to rest against the wall, his hands folded across his chest. The musky sweat of the enclosed space made his black fitted t-shirt cling to his biceps, his skin glistening with sweat under the pulsing LED lights.

Even from this far away, it’s clear Xavier is drunk. His eyes are hooded with intoxication, his throat bobbing with shallow breaths.

You’re about to approach him when the groups of people in front of you shift, and you see a girl latched onto Xavier’s bicep. The two look far too cozy, Xavier not doing anything to push her off as she speaks animatedly up at him, her eyelashes batting seductively.

It’s not like you and Xavier were dating…but it was clear there was something deeply intertwined about the two of you. That, and the fact that you’d been intimate several times. But you had to admit, you’d never made things exclusive.

You turn on your heel, thoroughly perturbed at the sight of Xavier with someone else, making your way back to where you’d left Tara.

You’d just broken into the crowd when a firm hand catches your wrist, stopping you from pushing further. You turn back sharply, ready to throw your fist back, only to be met with the sight of Xavier, in all his flushed and handsome glory.

“Where are you going?”

You fight the urge to smack him, jealousy a true green-eyed monster, instead just feigning ignorance, “What? I can’t hear you!” You gesture wildly with your hands to emphasize your point. You turn away from him, starting to tug your wrist away again when he pulls you back, hard.

He twirls you effortlessly into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around you, secure and unrelenting. You look up at him in question. He leans down, and your breath catches as his lips come an inch away from yours. But he doesn’t kiss you, instead whispering into your ear.

“I asked where you were going. Didn’t you see me?” his breath is warm against your ear, the smell of alcohol invading your senses over the pounding music.

“You looked busy. I didn’t want to intrude,” you try to keep your voice level, but you can tell it comes out petty. You hope through the deafening music, Xavier can’t hear how sulky your voice is.

Xavier looks confused in his drunken state, but shouts into your ear, his tone genuine and endearing even amidst the music, “You’re never intruding.”

You sigh at his sweet words, tiptoeing up to speak to him and trying to be nice, “Who was your friend?”

Xavier looks even more bewildered for a second, before realizing the implications of your words, a lazy smile painting his features. He holds you close, one hand on the small of your back, the other coming up to touch your cheek.

“Not my friend. She couldn’t find her friends and wanted to wait with me.”

You roll your eyes. Xavier was too sweet and unassuming for his own good.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Xavier chuckles, “You don’t have to be jealous, I only have eyes for you.”

Your cheeks flare amidst the flush of alcohol on your cheeks at his words, and before you can speak Xavier is leaning down to kiss you. You squeak in surprise, but respond to his lips, kissing him back.

Xavier kisses you slowly, gently, and tenderly. You can barely even hear the music around you, the musky people bumping into the pair of you. All you can feel is Xavier, lips on yours, his hands stroking your bare skin, his hardening erection against your stomach.

He pulls away for air, his lips swollen and wet from your passionate kiss. Your ears pound in excitement at the way Xavier looks down at you, hungry and wanting more. You hook your arms around Xavier’s neck, pulling him down until your foreheads brush against each other.

“Dance with me,” you whisper loudly against the music. Xavier’s eyes shine with excitement, and he nods, his hands gripping your waist as you start to sway to the music.

You turn around so you can watch the flashing lights, the alcohol making them look like a light show. You feel much bolder with the liquid courage running through your veins, so you grind back into Xavier, your rear molding perfectly against his crotch.

Xavier hardens so quickly against your movements, your body feeling so perfect against his. The alcohol makes everything feel much more fluid and raw, his body responding excitedly.

He too is fueled by the courage of intoxication, his hands roaming from your hips to your stomach, just above the fat of your cunt. He can feel the way you shiver at his touch, and he decides to dare further.

His strong hands wander up, until they cup your breasts through your sheer dress. He rests his chin on your shoulder, whispering into your ear.

“Is this alright?”

You crane your neck backwards to nod at him, eyes flickering to his lips. Xavier leans in to kiss you again, one hand still playing with your nipple, the other reaching up to hold your throat against him gently. The two of you kiss so passionately, so messily, that you hardly notice the crowd of equally drunk and horny people around you.

As you kiss him, your hand comes backward to cup the back of Xavier’s head, grabbing at his soft blonde locks. Your body continues to rock sensually into him, relishing in the way his hard erection sits between the slit of your ass.

Looking up at him through your wet eyelashes, you whisper, “M-More. I want more.”

Xavier groans, looking around, trying to find the quickest way out of the crowd. But you can’t wait, too aroused by the way Xavier’s shirt clings to his muscles, the way his cock fights against his jeans, straining to be with you.

The alcohol dares you to be bolder than you normally would ever be. You grab his wrist, bringing it down to the hem of your minidress, guiding his fingers to slip under it.

You can feel Xavier stiffen behind you, eyes darting around to make sure no one is watching. But he quickly realizes quite literally no one cares about the two of you, too focussed on the music, too focussed on their own partners, to even spare you a glance.

So he follows your lead, his hands roaming under your dress, digging into your soft thighs. You moan into his ear, your head laid back on his shoulder.

With his palm so close to your cunt, you grind right into his open hand, wanting more friction, more of him. Xavier groans at your enthusiasm, quickly forgetting about the people that are packed around you like sardines. He feels something damp against his fingers, making him all the more desperate to have you.

“You’re wet,” Xavier whispers sluggishly into your ear, “Is this all for me?”

You groan at his words, your muscles twitching with anticipation. You try and look at him, the back of your head still resting on his thick shoulder. Your hand grasps at the back of his neck, forcing his eyes to drift down to you, the azure blues flickering to your lips before they come back to your gaze.

“Touch me, please.”

Even under the strobing lights of the club you can see Xavier’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening. His eyes flutter shut as he leans down to kiss you.

At the same time, his finger gingerly dips into your folds, moving your panties to the side. At first he just rubs up and down with his middle finger, enjoying the way you moan into his mouth. But it becomes far too unbearable, not being inside you.

He slowly dips his middle finger inside of you, hissing when your little hole sucks him in tightly.

“Is this okay?” Xavier asks, wanting to make sure you’re alright. Your eyes dart around lazily, making sure no one can see Xavier’s hands underneath your dress.

You nod, your eyelashes fluttering shut as Xavier starts to pump in and out of you. The energetic music makes everything feel more surreal, only the occasional jostling of people bumping into the pair of you reminding you of exactly where you are.

Xavier’s index finger finds its way inside you, his thumb rubbing at your slippery clit. He alternates his free arm between shielding you from people pushing as they pass by, and cupping your breast through your dress. In all your writhing, your ass continues to grind against Xavier’s cock. Under his jeans, he’s leaking so profusely that your body rubs around the slick, creating a sticky mess.

Xavier pumps inside you, enjoying the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him, the feeling of risk and wrong.

“Please – Please don’t stop,” you pant, looking up at him with starry eyes.

The look of complete and utter bliss on your gorgeously flushed face makes Xavier bite his lip, “I’ll never stop, angel.”

You clench down hard on his fingers at the endearing pet name, one he so rarely called you. It makes you writhe against his hot and hard body, pressed firmly into you, like a puzzle piece.

With your back still turned to him, you reach your hand back to where his bulge presses into you. With careful hands, you cup the massive swell of his manhood, biting your lip when he moans into your ear, teeth grazing against your earlobe.

You rub him enthusiastically through his jeans, enjoying the way he writhes under your touch, his cock straining through the tight restraint of his pants.

“You’re evil,” Xavier groans, pressing kisses into your neck, trying to contain the moans he wants to make for you.

You lean your head back, staring at him through hooded eyes, “Should I stop?”

Xavier holds you tight, almost crushing you, to keep you from stopping.

“No. Never.”

You giggle, turning back to the club stage, watching the DJ perform, hands finding their way back to Xavier’s crotch. His pants are heavy and breathy by your ear, fingers scissoring in and out of you furiously.

Soon enough, the feeling of just your plush body against his isn’t enough anymore. He needs more.

With his fingers never pausing, he asks, his voice smooth and sultry, “I need to be inside of you, is that okay?”

“Please,” you whisper huskily, grinding against his fingers, “I want you.”

You can feel Xavier shifting behind you, pulling out his cock. He feverishly pulls your panties down just slightly, so that they rest under your cheeks. He lifts your dress, enough to give him access but making sure you’re still covered. He would rather die than let anyone see your precious body.

As the music comes to a peak, the beat building alongside your release, Xavier slips his erection into you. You’re thankful for the heavy bass of the drop because you quite literally cannot hold back the scream that rips from your lips as he pushes himself into the hilt.

One of his hands travels from your waist to under the front of your dress. When he finds your clit, he pinches down hard.

“You’re so cute,” Xavier hisses into your ear, picking up his pace, “Were you jealous earlier?”

“N-No! Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the arm he has buried between your legs.

“Mmm,” Xavier hums, clearly not convinced, “That’s alright, Y/N. You have nothing to be jealous of, ever.”

“I-I’m not – I wasn’t!” you gasp, forcing the words together as Xavier’s cock nearly finds its way into your throat. But at this point you knew he could see right through you.

“Would travel through time and space for you,” he murmurs, words full of a boundless affection, “I only see you.”

He puts all that same adoration and passion into the way he fucks up into you, holding you protectively in place, making sure no one so much as brushes against you.

Your moans are strangled when his cockhead angles into your g-spot, cutting off the drunken confessions on the tip of your tongue. Xavier’s girth was always something you had a hard time getting used to, and taking him standing was infinitely harder. Your inner thighs burned with the strain of how fully he stretches you out.

Xavier’s hand comes over to cover your mouth, his smile pressed against your throat. The alcohol makes Xavier irregularly chatty, his inhibitions lowered completely, “You’re so loud. Does it feel that good?”

Your eyes are rolled back mesmerized by the flashing lights, unable to discern what comes from the nightclub’s light show and what comes from the pleasure of Xavier’s poignant thrusts. You do your best to nod, your teeth sinking into Xavier’s palm to keep yourself conscious.

You’re nearly doubled over now, your jelly legs unable to hold you up, with only the support of Xavier’s strong hand against your cunt and his other arm wrapped around your chest. He holds you up as securely as he can, his own intoxication growing having not drank any water since you’d arrived at the club.

“Are you okay?”

Xavier’s head snaps up to see a club patron in front of you, a concerned look on his face as he kneels down to be eye-level with you. Xavier squick readjusts to make sure you’re covered.

Your eyes widen, trying to straighten up, “F-Fine!” You nearly scream as Xavier continues to thrust into you, his movement much more conspicuous but somehow more intense.

“Are you sure? You don’t look so good.”

You want to be kind, but you can really only focus on the way Xavier continues to fuck you, not even caring that the good Samaritan in front of you was this close to realizing what was happening. The fact that you were still very much drunk did not help.

“N-No, I’m fine,” you squeak, eyes rolling back when Xavier hits your g-spot. You can’t see him but you just know he’s enjoying the position he has you in. He smirks in satisfaction, grinding into your ass, his thick length nestling into your every nerve.

The man looks skeptical, especially at your unfocused hooded eyes, “Do you want some water?”

He’s about to reach out to touch you, when Xavier yanks you back, both arms wrapped protectively around you, “She’s fine.”

At Xavier’s harsh tone, the man recoils, looking up, almost as if he’s just noticing Xavier. He nods awkwardly before disappearing into the crowd.

Xavier resumes his vigor, kissing your neck and whispering, “Mine.”

“Now look who’s jealous,” you giggle languidly, gasping when Xavier drives into you harder.

“Not jealous. It’s just the truth,” he murmurs, tilting your head back to kiss you, fingers back on your clit.

His tongue explores your mouth excitedly, your pleasures quickly reaching a peak after coming close to being caught. Your body convulses around him, wanting him to push you into the oblivion of ecstasy.

“Always so tight,” Xavier groans, “I-I won’t last long like this…”

You squeal, your sounds drowned out by the vibrating music, “Ngh – me too Xavier.”

“G-Gonna cum,” Xavier gasps as your cunt strangles him, ripping away from your lips and panting for air.

You crane your neck back to look at him, your eyes wide with wonder and desperation. The blissed out look on your beautiful face makes Xavier groan, his hips stuttering into his climax.

“Cum for me, Xavier,” you beg, impossibly close as well, “Want to feel you.”

Xavier shuts his eyes, his body following your every command. His cock explodes inside you, filling you with a hot warmth that spreads all the way to your fingertips and toes. Xavier doesn’t speak as he cums, only suckling hungrily at your neck, moaning and whimpering into your bruised skin.

He keeps thrusting into you, even as his cum starts to leak out of your hole, wanting you to come undone too. Even when the overstimulation starts to border on pain, he refuses to stop.

His cum makes it so there’s zero resistance, only the pure pleasure of his cock against your throbbing gummy walls. Soon, you’re cumming too, screaming into the pulsating music, your climax crescendoing with the drop of the song. The symphony of it all, the alcohol, the threat of being caught by any one of the dozens of people around you, makes it one of your most intense orgasms yet.

Your body instinctively clenches down as you release, making you cream all over Xavier, a mix of both your arousals. Xavier watches in awe at the beautiful way you cum, for him. It’s enough to make him pump a few more ropes into you, even as his dick throbs sharply in protest.

Xavier hugs you to his chest tightly, holding onto you for support as his cock quivers inside you. You can feel his chest heaving against your back, shifting as he slips out of you and redoes his zipper. Xavier puts your panties back into place, pressing a faint trail of kisses along your shoulders.

Suddenly, the crowd feels suffocating and icky and you desperately want to be somewhere quieter with Xavier. You pull him out of the crowd, nudging throngs of drunk and horny patrons out of the way as you make your way to the bar. Xavier follows you sluggishly, his fingers barely closing over yours as you guide him out..

When you reach the bar, you order a water and turn to Xavier worriedly, cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“Xavier,” you urged, “Are you okay?”

Xavier’s eyes flutter open, his eyes slightly rolled back, “M’okay. Just sleepy.” You giggle, patting his face gently, realizing the haze in his eyes is a mix of intoxication and post-sex bliss.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re always so sleepy. Especially after…”

Despite Xavier’s eyes remaining closed, he smiles and mumbles as he leans against the wall next to the bar, “Can’t help it. You drain me.”

You blush furiously, despite it being loud enough where no one can hear you two. The bartender hands you a glass of water, and you bring it up to Xavier’s lips. Xavier’s eyelids flicker open, his long eyelashes fluttering as he takes in his surroundings again, like he’s so intoxicated off the alcohol and you that he can’t make sense of his bearings.

You take his chin into your palm, tilting him up gently so the water doesn’t spill. Xavier drinks obediently, not letting a single drop go to waste. His position against the wall makes it so that you tower a few inches over him, so he has to look up at you through his eyelashes. With each gulp of the icy water he never breaks eye contact with you, staring at you with all the awe and devotion in the world.

His hands gently grip your wrists, nuzzling into your hand. The way he watches you makes you want to squirm, his eyes glimmering under the flashing lights. His azure eyes feel like they hold the weight of an entire galaxy, but in reality it’s the reflection of you that makes his eyes sparkle with the brilliance of the stars.

“Hey! There you two are!”

You whip your head around to see Tara excitedly hurrying over to you as Xavier finishes the last of the water.

You turn to her, “Tara! I’m sorry, I found Xavier but then we got…caught up.”

She smiles and shakes her head. There’s a knowing mischief in her eyes, as if she doesn’t believe you, “It’s alright! I made some friends.”

She looks at Xavier. Even though you no longer hold up the empty glass to his lips, he still stares at you with the same starstruck look, a post-orgasm mist over his entire face.

“Why does he look like that?”

Your cheeks burn and you scramble to find an excuse, “Oh, he’s fine! He’s just drunk. And sleepy. Very sleepy.”

Tara grabs your chin, tilting it up in a squint, inspecting you. You’re about to ask what’s wrong, if maybe your false eyelashes came off, but when you look down at your shoulder you see exactly what she’s looking at.

A bright red, purpling bruise. In the exact shape of Xavier’s lips.

“Oh, I bet he’s sleepy.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.7k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, drunk zayne, needy zayne, jealous zayne, couch sex, booby sucking, pretty vanilla tbh, slightly sub zayne, zayne begs a lot, prone bone, doggy, choking, making out, cumming in coochie, mentions of birth control usage, zayne is a lightweight

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | video | art (credit to @roschea-arts)

You stumble into your apartment, nearly tripping over the threshold as Zayne’s heavy arm slumps over your shoulder for support. You kick your heels off, briefly bending down to slip Zayne’s shoes off, before you lead him to sit on your couch.

“Sit here while I get some water for you, okay?” you whisper worriedly against Zayne’s nearly unconscious face, pressing a kiss to his heated and clammy temple. Zayne doesn’t respond, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a shallow breath, nodding gently.

Well, this was definitely not how you’d expected tonight to go.

When you’d invited Zayne as your date to the annual UNICORN hosted Hunters’ Association Banquet, you expected it to be a relatively uneventful night. You never expected your raven-haired surgeon boyfriend to get drunk. In fact, you’d never seen him so much as tipsy since you’d known him.

And that was something Zayne intentionally made sure of; alcohol was not something he indulged in, ever.

Except when you’re so busy socializing all night that he gets unbearably bored, curious, and desperate for your attention.

So that’s how he ended up absolutely plastered off two cocktails. In his defense they were deceptively fruity and sweet, the rims coated in thick crystals of sugar. Truly his kryptonite.

So when Zayne grabs your wrist while you’re talking to a fellow Hunter, spinning you gently to his hard chest, you’re completely taken aback.

“Apologies. Can I steal my girlfriend for a moment?”

Your colleague, standing before the both of you, looks flustered at Zayne’s commanding voice, nodding fervently before he turns to leave. His face is pale, not realizing you’d brought a guest to the banquet, much less a guest that looked as handsome and imposing as Zayne. You whip around, eyebrows raised, to face the surgeon in question.

His face is uncharacteristically red, the tips of his ears burning so adorably bright. The first few buttons of his shirt had been undone, the collar disheveled, like he’d pulled at it until the enclosures gave way. What’s more, the tension that colored his words, alarming and unusual.

“Zayne? What’s wrong?” you reach up to touch his cheek worriedly, gasping at how warm his normally chilly skin was, “Are you not feeling well?”

Zayne releases your wrist, instead capturing your hand on his jaw with his own palm, pressing you deeper into his cheek. He practically purrs into your touch, nuzzling into your hand warmly.

“You feel nice.” His voice is low, almost a rough whisper against the cheerful laughter of the night.

It was very unlike Zayne to be so blatant with his affections, especially in front of either of your colleagues. In this case, the packed banquet hall of UNICORN’s annual Hunter’s banquet, filled with curious and nosy onlookers, peering at the two of you embracing in the middle of the party.

Perhaps the bustling activity became too overwhelming for Zayne, especially given that you had been pulled every which way to discuss your recent mission successes. You’d hardly had a chance to make sure he was doing okay.

“Did you want to leave? I can —”

Zayne pulls you closer to him until your bodies are pressed together tightly, his slender fingers holding your waist in place. You squeak in surprise, blushing as you try to ignore the prying eyes of your colleagues as Zayne strokes your cheek, fingers playing with your loose strands of hair.

“Who was that?” Zayne’s voice is deceptively calm against the top of your head as he breathes in your familiar scent, masking the demand and restraint lurking just below the surface. Your pheromones calm him down slightly, making him feel much more at ease.

“Who was who?”

Zayne bends down to reach your ear, his normally calm and stoic voice much more shaky than usual, “That man, who was making you laugh. He seemed friendly.”

Zayne’s words tickle your ear, making you shiver. It’s then you can smell the alcohol on him, as he leans down to whisper in your ear, the bitter scent of vodka mixing with the faint smell of his cologne. Suddenly the questions of his irregular behavior clicked.

You lean back to look at him in shock, “Zayne?! Are you drunk?”

Zayne looks sheepish, his hazel eyes still intense, “No. I don’t – hic – don’t think so.”

You want to laugh at his incriminating hiccup, the surgeon undoubtedly intoxicated. That fact is only confirmed to you when you tip-toe up to peck his lips and taste the bittersweet trace of alcohol on him.

“You were so busy, I got curious and decided to...indulge. Just this once,” Zayne admits, his eyes never leaving yours as he holds you close.

You don’t speak, in shock at the way his words are slightly whiny and sulky all at once, something you never heard from Zayne. Zayne was never one to be jealous, and much less to actually show that jealousy.

Zayne’s eyes lower, glowing at you in a soft regret, “I’m sorry.”

You giggle, resting your head on his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. For that brief moment, you forget all about the watchful eyes around you, only able to focus on the man you loved before you.

“How many drinks did you have?”

He pauses, looking genuinely deep in thought as he tries to recall the night, “Two, no…maybe three.”

You grin wordlessly. Zayne never drank, so he was undoubtedly a lightweight, that was no surprise. But you would’ve thought it would take more than three drinks to knock the formidable man off his ass.

Zayne’s jaw clenched as he admires how beautiful you look tonight, his wandering alcohol-fueled desires pushing him to want to see much more, “Would it be alright if we called it a night?”

You nod, peering up at him, “Of course, are you not feeling well from the alcohol?”

Zayne averts his eyes, clearing his throat. His neck bobs against his undone collar, his tie hanging loosely around his chest.

“I’m alright. I just…want to be alone with you.”

By the time you arrived at your apartment, Zayne had gotten considerably more drunk, the alcohol being further absorbed into his bloodstream.

You hurriedly bring him a cool glass of water, standing in between his thighs, over his limp body. Zayne’s head is thrown back against the cushion of your couch, already having yanked off his suit jacket and tie, the articles of clothing strewn over the arm of the seat, his neck and collar exposed. His snowy pale skin is splotched red, practically radiating a wave of heat.

Your fingers cup his sharp jaw, tilting his chin up, shifting to hold his heavy head in the palm of your hand, stroking his cheek lovingly. Zayne’s eyes flicker up to yours as you tilt him up, his glasses slightly fogged up from the heated crimson flush on his cheeks. His eyes light up when they meet yours, his eyelashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. You bite your lip, trying to keep your wide smile at bay. He looked so utterly adorable like this, looking up so affectionately obedient like this.

You bring the glass gently up to his lips, encouraging him to drink. Zayne obeys, lips latching onto the edge of the cup as you tilt it forward, gently nudging his chin upwards with your other hand.

His eyes flutter open at the feeling of your touch, his golden emerald irises trained solely on you as he drinks, refusing to look away. He’s so focussed on you that dribbles of water stream down his chin as he gulps down the entire glass, falling onto his collar.

His eyes never leave yours as he chugs the entire glass of refreshing water, the whites of his eyes shining in the dim lighting of your apartment. If anyone else saw the way Zayne looked at you, they’d swear they could see hearts reflected in them as he drank from your hands. He looked at you as if his entire world spun around you, the center of his universe.

When you pull away, Zayne’s eyes still don’t leave yours. Instead, they appear to become more intense, more fiery.

“Zayne? Do you want more water?”

He doesn’t answer. You’re too distracted by the incensed pools of peridot when Zayne yanks you onto his lap, lips capturing yours hungrily.

–

“Ngh – Zayne!” you moan, pulling away from his demanding and bruising lips. Zayne grants you a brief break to breathe, but his fingers firmly hold your hips in place atop his erection that strains against his buckled pants, the two of you nestled deep into the couch cushion.

He gives you a second before he’s yanking your chin towards him again, soft mouth crushed against yours in an instant. Your lips are captured gently between his teeth, his hunger for you insatiable. The taste of alcohol is still faint on his tongue, and he wants nothing more than to overwhelm himself with the taste of you.

You’re completely engulfed by him, the ferocity of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his breath against your tongue. Zayne’s jaw alternates, side to side, trying to give himself the best access to you he can possibly get. The cool touch of metal grazes against your cheeks, his glasses pressing against you in the vigor of his embrace. He groans in frustration into your mouth, forcing himself to briefly pull away.

Before you can even question him, he’s yanking his misted up glasses off by the temples, tossing them onto your coffee table without a second glance, without a single care. His eyes are hooded with desire, his glasses no longer obstructing you from him. They shut sensually when he leans back in, lips parting as his glasses clatter louding against the table.

He says nothing, smashing his lips into yours once again. You can vaguely feel the distinct bump of his nose, pressing into your skin, when he grabs the back of your head, pulling you harder against his all consuming hunger.

His tongue is unbelievably tender against yours, despite how urgently and desperately he devours you. His fingers press into the divots of your arched back, his arms are completely wrapped around you, bringing you into an affectionate embrace as he continues to consume you whole. His fingers stroke up and down the half exposed expanse of your back, enjoying how soft you feel against his big hands.

You grind down onto his cock as you try and match his passion, your panties sticking to your soaked folds. Your thighs are spread so widely against his legs, that the dampness smears against his dress pants, your dress doing little to hold anything back.

Zayne hisses at the delicious pressure, lips leaving yours to gasp into your ear, his hot breath caressing the sensitive skin.

“D-Don’t,” he gulps deeply, alcohol and anticipation making him trip over his words, “Unless you're willing to take responsibility for the consequences.”

You shiver at his words, leaning in to kiss his reddened earlobe, “And if I am?”

And that’s how you find yourself naked, sweaty, and writhing on your back, under the pressure of Zayne’s half naked body on top of you, his cock ravaging every inch of your poor cunt.

Zayne is a mumbling and moaning mess above you, droplets of sweat beading on his bright red temples, his damp hair dangling below his forehead. His unbuttoned dress shirt flies wildly, his thick muscles twitching every time his lower half drives into you like a madman. If it weren’t for the sweat lining your back, you’d undoubtedly be pushed around the couch like a ragdoll under Zayne’s furious passion.

You can barely see Zayne’s eyes, his dangling bangs obscuring much of his frantic face. You do your best to sit up, your chin on your chest, watching the way Zayne’s glistening body jackhammers into you, his rhythm erratic and desperate.

Trying not to drool, you watch his abdominal muscles twitch, his briefs and dress pants hanging off his hips. He’d been so eager to bury himself inside of you that he didn’t even take off his clothing, instead pulling his cock out from under the top of the waistband of his briefs. It’s so heavy and thick with excitement that the restraint of his brief’s waistband is no match for it.

“M’sorry,” Zayne mumbles, so slurred you barely even hear it through the clinking of his undone belt, hanging off his waist.

“Wh-what?” you pant, tugging at the sweat-soaked shirt that clings to his back.

“Didn’t mean to get so intoxicated,” he pants breathlessly, almost sounding guilty, “I’m sorry.”

Your heart clenches at the vulnerability shining in his eyes. You know he’s not used to letting himself feel his emotions like this, to really give into his needs and desires.

“Zayne, don’t apologize,” you whimper through the pleasure, stroking his cheek, “You’re allowed to let go sometimes.”

Your words nearly make Zayne snarl, his pelvis slapping into your ass, his hands elevating hips, your thighs wrapped tightly into his sides.

“You’re so good to me,” he rasps, eyes rolling back as his praises make your body instinctively clench down, “I–I love you.”

“A-ahh nghn – love you s’much Zayne,” you squeal as he thrusts even deeper into you, his confession only increasing the passion he feels for you in the drunken moment.

You’re surprised when you feel his damp hair pressing against your forehead, his cool lips brushing a soft kiss onto it, deceptively gentle compared to the way he ravages your wet heat.

“M’always thinking about you,” Zayne moans, voice muffled as he kisses your forehead over and over, unable to keep his lips, his hands, off of you.

“I think about y’too Za–ayne,” you pant, trying to focus on forming coherent words through the shape of his erection being molded into your core. You knew just how vulnerable the fog of alcohol had made Zayne and wanted more than anything to reassure him.

But his cock stretching you out, nearly the width of a clenched fist, made that so difficult.

“You looked – you look ravishing tonight,” he slurs, kissing down your cheek and onto your neck, “Had a hard time tonight, watching you – hic – be the most beautiful girl in the room.”

Your chest flutters and you blush, clenching onto him, “H-Hardly.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, giving you a pointed thrust, making your breasts jiggle at the force, “Look at what you do to me.”

His fingers cup your breast forcefully, squeezing down on your poor nipple, “You know I’m not one for jealousy…”

“But even I am not immune when you look like that, giving everyone but me your attention.”

“Sorry, my love,” you murmur, trying your best to speak through his frantic thrusts, “You know you’re the one I come home to at the end of the day.”

Zayne’s eyes darken with satisfaction, his fingers twirling your nipple in between them, “I suppose. But does that give you the right to let men flirt with you shamelessly all night?”

“Zayne, they weren’t —” But apparently protesting was a mistake, because Zayne only starts to hammer into you harder.

“They were,” he growls drunkenly, letting his emotions take control for a split second, “But I can’t really blame them, not when you look like this. Not when you feel this perfect around me.”

You whine at his words, his simultaneous threats and praises making it impossible for you to think straight.

“I-I’m soorry,” you find yourself apologizing, wanting to please Zayne, “Won’t do it again, I’ll b-be good!”

“No need to – hah – apologize, my love,” Zayne groans, “Not when I plan on reminding you exactly who you belong to tonight, all night.”

Your body convulses around him, knowing just how much stamina Zayne has, just how serious his slurred words are. Zayne’s hips falter, his body buckling into you.

“You’re s-oo tight,” he groans brokenly, letting his head fall down to your chest, “All for me, right?

“Allll f’you! Only you!” you cry, your fingers gripping onto the back of his shirt when his teeth close over your nipple, nibbling gently. You claw at his back, desperately wanting to be able to touch his bare skin, but his white dress shirt is in the way.

“That’s my girl,” he moans, words muffled by the way his tongue circles around your hardened peaks, suckling like he was trying to find the antidote to intoxication, “So good for me.”

As his thrusts grow sloppier, you know he’s coming close to his end. But you’re surprised when he pulls out suddenly, leaving you feeling empty.

“W-Why?” you demand, leaning up on your elbows in protest. Your eyes widen, almost salivating, when you see the way Zayne is gripping the base of his cock, the thick head red, angry, and ready to burst. He curses, forcing himself to take deep breaths, desperately trying to hold his orgasm back. He was learning that alcohol significantly decreased his normally endless supply of stamina.

“Don’t want to – ngh – finish yet,” he pants, hooking his arm under your back and flipping you over so that your back faces him, your hips arched slightly off the couch. He quickly takes off his pants that are pooled by his knees, his briefs still clinging to his muscled thighs.

You squeak in surprise when you feel the wet smack of Zayne’s cock against your ass, the surgeon hissing at the painful yet arousing sensation. The sting helps to keep him from exploding right onto your beautiful body.

“Ngh – Zaaayne!” you squeal when Zayne shoves himself back into you, parting your cheeks to give himself better access. You claw at your couch as he picks up his speed, rhythm still unsteady.

“I’m sorry,” Zayne apologizes, his words bordering on frenzied babbles as he pounds into you, his heavyset balls slapping against your clit, “M’sorry, love. Let me make it better.”

He leans down, pressing a trail of kisses down your spine, his pelvis rippling against your rear. His veiny forearms cage you into the couch, his foot lifting to step onto the cushion, right by your waist. With his leg raising as leverage, he can truly jackhammer into you.

Zayne goes absolutely feral in this position, his fingers coming up to grab a fistful of your hair, tugging gently as he bounces up and down on your ass. The sounds of skin against skin, drunken moans, and moist squelches resounds like a symphony in the early morning lighting of your apartment.

His grasp tightens in your hair, his other hand kneading the plush of your ass as it ripples against his thrusts. His voice lowers, throwing his head back with a moan, “Been waiting all night to have you like this.”

“Oh-oh God!” you cry when he thrusts into you, particularly hard and deep, making you see stars, “Zayne I-I can’t – I’m so close!”

Zayne hoists you onto all fours, gently lifting your upper body by your neck so that you’re pressed firmly against him with your knees holding you up. He kneels behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist while the other secures your neck against his chest.

“Me too, angel,” Zayne pants into your ear, his breath hot and moist. You can feel the truth in his words, his thighs shaky against yours, his thrusts erratic.

“Please, let me cum in you,” Zayne rasps.

“When have I ever denied you?” you respond. Zayne came inside you nearly every time you two were intimate, ever since you’d started birth control.

“It’s a waste, if it’s not inside you,” Zayne slurs, “You’ll take it, right?”

When you don’t respond, too wrapped up in the bliss of it all, Zayne’s hand descends to pinch your nipple. The power of his thrusts, the tease of his hands, his aura. He commands authority,

“Tell me you’ll take it all, for me.”

“I will, I will! P-please Zayne, give it to me!”

Zayne groans, grip tightening against your body, hugging you for dear life, “That’s my girl, that’s it, just like that.

Zayne has always been vocal, but his drunken ramblings have taken it to another level. You clench down, ready to come undone to the sound of his filthy praises.

Zayne is close behind you, hands kneading your breasts, balls slapping against your clit, “It’s coming Y/N, take it. Take it for me, please.”

You scream in response, cunt spasming around the last of his messy ruts. Zayne’s own strangled groans mix with the sound of wet flesh slapping against each other. You can feel every beautiful ribbon of white hot cum painting your insides, coating every inch of your waiting womb.

Zayne’s skin often felt ice-cold, but his cum always came out so hot and heedy. And now, with the flush of alcohol still clouding his circulation, his milky ropes of seed nearly made you feverish.

Zayne slumps against you, his body spent, drained bone-dry. The weight of him against your quivering muscles is too much, and your thighs give out, sending you crashing into the couch. He catches you before you can slam face-first into the carpeted floor.

He sets your limp body gently into the couch, shrugging off his white button-up.

“Zayne,” you murmur groggily, savoring the image of his muscles peaking through his open shirt, “Come cuddle.”

The corner of his lip twitches, “I will, sweetheart. Let me clean you up first.”

Using the clean inside of his shirt, he carefully wipes off the slick that collects at your inner thighs, before it can pool onto the couch. Your legs are putty in his hands, Zayne cleaning you with the utmost care and tenderness.

When he’s done, he settles beside you on the couch, shifting you so that your neck rests on his forearm. He holds you close with one arm, the other drawing lazy circles into your stomach.

Zayne turns his head to the side, pressing a kiss into your temple, “Thank you. For taking care of me tonight.”

You can tell by Zayne’s calm and steady tone that he’s sobered up quite a bit from the orgasm, the control returning to his deep timbre.

You giggle, nuzzling deeper into his arm, the hairs of his underarm tickling your shoulder, “I hardly did anything.” In the comfortable silence, your eyes start to flutter closed.

“You did more than you know,” Zayne whispers, the tender smile in his voice unmistakeable. You simply nod, muttering incoherently as you fall into a deep and sated slumber.

“You are everything.”

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.9k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, car sex, publix sex/slight voyeurism, sex while pulled over in da passenger seat, bottom raf, riding, face sitting, rafayel is a MUNCH, oral f!receiving, jealous raf, drunk rafayel, protective rafayel, somewhat mentions of violence, unprotected sex, no pull out ever

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: original inspo | pics 1 | pics 2 (both rafayel's car)

The night road ahead of you is peacefully calm, the drive back to Rafayel’s house a peaceful and scenic trip. There's very few cars beside yours, well Rafayel’s, on the main roads back, likely because it was close to 2am.

You were honestly having way too much fun driving Rafayel’s car, thoroughly enjoying the purr of the beautiful Benz. You didn’t have the opportunity to drive many cars, let alone a Gran Turismo.

Your fingers tap gently along the rim of the steering wheel, admiring the elegant LED lights that kept you awake. Rafayel had the car’s interior lights set to a blushed lavender color, ever since you’d said it was your favorite setting. It reminded you of the pink in his cotton candy eyes.

Your eyes flicker to your right, briefly checking on Rafayel as he groans beside you in the passenger seat.

He sat with his arm propped up against the passenger side window, his head resting on his palm. His breathing was still shallow, his eyes closed in a restless and light sleep. The alcohol was no doubt making it difficult for him to rest.

You sigh to yourself, trying to think back to how the night had ended disastrously with him so damn drunk.

Rafayel had invited you as his date to one of his endless art exhibits, a few cities over from your home. Only this one was special.

When they’d unveiled his starring piece, a beautiful oil painting on a massive canvas that nearly reached the ceiling, you nearly fell to your knees.

Because Rafayel had painted the most exquisite portrait of you.

You, surrounded in ribbons of coral and seaweed, the most colorful globs of intricate paint surrounding you, a mosaic of sea glass. You, dancing in the endless sea of pastel turquoise. You, in Lemuria. His home.

Rafayel had painted you countless times before, you were his muse after all. Even if he never admitted that openly to you. But this was different, he’d never so openly shared you with this world before. Never wanted to open himself up like this, to anyone, to you.

It was beautiful as it was magnificent. It made you feel like the most beautiful person in the world, more gorgeous than you’d ever felt in your entire life. The way he’d put paint to canvas and created literal magic.

It appeared others thought so too. All the patrons attending the gala that night clamored around the oil canvas, press snapping photos, writers grabbing at Rafayel, trying to get anything for their tabloids.

It was nothing out of the norm. You’d become quite used to the glitz, glamor, and madness that came with being his girlfriend.

What was unexpected, was the attention you got, as the subject of the painting.

The people who wanted a piece of you, the stunning woman in Rafyel’s newest piece. Rafayel did his best to keep you comfortable, shooing away the throws of people trying to get even a morsel of anything from you.

“Rafayel. It’s okay. I can handle it,” you give him your best reassuring smile, “Go mingle with your guests, I’ll be fine.”

Rafayel looks reluctant, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist, unwilling to let go. Eventually you convince him, with the promise of a reward later if he listened, to go speak to the serious sponsors and buyers that demanded his attention.

“Never should’ve painted that damn thing,” he muttered as he walked off, looking back at you as Thomas dragged him off. He should’ve known sharing you with the world would have driven him insane.

So you spent the rest of the night trying to be as sociable as possible, not wanting to upset any of Rafayel’s guests. After a few hours you finally found a free moment, finding yourself in front of the portrait once again. Most of the people had cleared out, giving you a chance to really admire the masterpiece.

Rafayel was undeniably talented, maybe the most gifted artist in the world, you’d always thought so. But the way he painted you here was more than just art.

It was his heart on a canvas. And his heart, his entire world, was you. Every fiber of his soul, woven together into a tapestry of lustrous colors, each one depicting a different memory.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You turn your head to the stranger’s voice, coming face to face with a handsome man, clad head to toe in the most luxurious brands. He stands so uncomfortably close to you that you can smell the nauseating cologne wafting off of him. And yet it’s his aura that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably.

He fills in your awkward silence, eyes looking you up and down, “Definitely not as beautiful as the real thing.”

You really don’t know how to respond to the stranger’s boldness, in shock at how forward he’s being. Your relationship with Rafayel was no secret, the paparazzi having photographed the two of you publicly many times. And you’d walked into the gala on Rafayel’s arm.

“Thank you,” you say curtly, offering a small smile, trying to return your attention to the display.

“I’m going to buy it, you know. And then maybe after, I can buy you a drink?” when his hand lands on your bare shoulder you flinch back, ready to resort to your tactical training. The thought of this man buying a portrait of you makes you nauseous.

Before you can give him a piece of your mind, he’s falling backward with a surprised yelp.

“Hands off the art,” an all-too familiar voice snarls, as he stands between you and the man. You’re too shell shocked to realize Rafayel is clearly drunk, his charismatic voice drawling muddily.

“Don’t touch me,” the man snaps, “I bought this piece, I legally own it.” The way he says ‘piece’ makes your blood boil, the misogyny dripping off his words.

Rafayel, drunk as he might be, catches on too. Fire burns in his eyes, matching the heat of his Evol. Thomas isn’t far behind, looking at you with desperation on his face, begging you to help him defuse the situation. Rafayel was spontaneous enough as it was, there was no telling the lengths he’d go to when he was intoxicated, especially when you were involved.

You reach your hand out, grasping Rafayel’s fingers and gently pulling him back towards you.

“He’s not worth it,” you whisper when Rafayel’s head snaps to you, his eyes softening instantly when they land on you. Rafayel spares the man, rubbing his wrist with a grimace, a glance. You wrap your arm around Rafayel’s waist tugging him close to you and trying to lead him out of the nearly empty gala.

Rafayel takes a deep and shaky breath, before nodding slightly. As he turns to leave with you, he glances back to the man and Thomas, his chin raised.

“It’s not for sale.”

“B-But I already wrote the check,” the man blew up, face red with anger and disbelief.

Rafayel smiles, a fake and genuinely terrifying smile, “I don’t care how many checks you write. You’re never looking at her again.”

It’s enough to even send chills down your spine.

With those words, Rafayel exited the gallery with you on his arm, you rubbing soothing circles into his back. It was rare Rafayel got full blown drunk; you’d seen him tipsy numerous times, but he was always careful not to cross the line into completely losing control of his inhibitions.

As he slumped in the passenger seat of his car, he briefly explained just how he found himself so shit-faced.

“Everyone was taking your time,” he slurred, breathing heavily. The alcohol made him bluntly honest, much more so than he’d normally be about something like this.

“Oh, Rafayel…” you giggle, bending over to latch his seatbelt in, “I know, it’s usually you getting the attention, it must have been weird to share it. I’m sorry.”

Rafayel scoffs, his head resting on the window, “S’not why I was upset. I don’t like sharing you.”

You bite your lip to fight the smile that threatens to sneak its way onto your face, “Why didn’t you just come back?”

“Was trying to distract myself. Didn’t want to disappoint you,” he mutters, his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest as you start the car, “I know you wanted me to talk to the annoying old farts.”

And then he promptly dozed off, like a precious little baby.

You were about 15 minutes from his place when Rafayel stirred awake from the mere feeling of your hand on his thigh. It was far too dark to see the tent growing in his pants, all from your fingers stroking his sensitive thighs, even when he was unconscious.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, giving him a smile when you see the movement in the corner of your eye, “You feeling okay? I have water in my bag.”

“P-Pull over,” Rafayel slurs, still clearly drunk. His eyes are glued to your palm on his leg. Not even he knows why the innocent touch has him so worked up and feral.

“What?!” you exclaim in a mix of disbelief and shock, “We’re so close to home –”

“Pull over,” he urges you again, the strain between his legs growing painful, “Please.”

His urgency makes you nervous, and you quickly find a secluded area you can pull over, turning your hazards on when you do so.

“Do you need to throw up?” you turn to him worriedly, grasping his thigh tighter in your fingers and rubbing soothingly, unsure of what to do.

Rafayel groans at your unknowingly innocent actions, rubbing his hand down his face, which only makes you worry more.

You undo your seatbelt so you can sit on your knees and face him, your hands still rubbing up and down his thighs, hoping to make him feel better.

Rafayel takes that opportunity to undo his own seatbelt, hoisting you out of your seat and onto his lap. You try to muffle your scream as he effortlessly carries you onto his lap, cramped between his body and the front dash. It always surprised you just how powerful Rafayel’s body was despite his toned and slender build.

“Rafayel!” you squeal as he sits you on his lap, “What are you doing?!”

He doesn’t speak, only looking up at you with big wet eyes. He spreads your thighs so that they cage his own legs, his hands resting on your sumptuous hips. Despite his strong and possessive hold, you’re still able to twist around to grab your tote bag, pulling out a plastic water bottle.

“Don’t need to throw up,” he mumbles, looking up at you through his long and dark eyelashes, “Jus’ need you.”

With his hand on your back he pushes you down until your chest is flush with his, capturing your lips in a feverish all-consuming kiss. The bitter and sharp taste of alcohol is still strong on his tongue, his lips impatiently messy and insistent. Rafayel rocks up into you as he loses himself into your embrace, his very clear and prominent erection begging for attention.

“R-Raf!” you pull away, even at his whiny refusal, hands still tugging at the clothing at your hips, “Did you really make me pull over for this?” Your eyes dart around nervously, making sure there’s no cars around you. But it wasn’t necessary, Rafayel’s windows were so tinted that even if you had your nose pressed to the glass you wouldn’t be able to see much.

“Come on, at least drink some water while we’re pulled over,” you untwist the cap of your reusable water bottle.

“No,” Rafayel pouts at you, the rose flecks in his eyes glow as he looks up pleadingly at you, “I don’ want water, wanna kiss you.”

You can’t help but laugh, despite the risky and precarious situation you find yourself in. That situation being Rafayel’s very excited crotch.

“Don’t laugh,” Rafayel broods, his bottom lip jutted out, shiny with a sheen of saliva, “I wanted to be with you all night, ‘specially when everyone was getting your attention.” He presses his chin onto your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your body wash and pressing wet kisses into your neck.

“Wan’ my reward now,” Rafayel slurs, his wandering fingers hooking under the thin strap of your evening dress, slipping it off your shoulders.

“You’re drunk Rafayel,” you reason firmly, even though your body is already betraying you. Your thighs squirm, widening instinctively for him, excitement pooling at the apex of your legs.

“Sooo?” Rafayel’s head fall backs onto the headrest, “Just give me a taste, please?”

You want to keep a level head, deny his insane request, but his hard body against your pliable one makes you desperate for more. Besides…the windows are almost completely blacked out and you were in a very secluded upper-end neighborhood, where all the homes had nearly miles of yard between them.

“Fine…” you concede, “But only if you drink some water.”

Rafayel’s eyes practically radiate, nodding eagerly and raising his lips to the cool bottle. His sudden willingness is comical, and you smile fondly at him as you help him to drink. Rafayel’s fingers squeeze against your waist, your soft skin making him grow thicker and hotter by the second.

His body unconsciously grinds against you as he drinks the water, eyes open wide with a faux innocence, staring right at your heated and flushed cheeks. He’s so focussed on admiring the irresistible look of desire on your face as he relentlessly rocks into you, that he doesn’t even feel the cold streams of water trickling down his shaky chin.

His fingers trace delicate and intricate shapes into your waist, eyes hooded at the feeling of your heat against his throbbing member. His eyes never leave yours as he finishes the last of the water, looking up at you through his thick purple eyelashes. His eyes shine brightly, the pinks in them accentuated by the LEDs of the car, watching you with a vast sea of desire.

Just as you remove the bottle from his lips, Rafayel lowers the angle of the passenger seat, as far down as it can possibly go.

You shriek in panic, clutching onto Rafayel as the chair dips suddenly, limbs flailing wildly. Rafayel takes that opportunity to lift your thighs, hoisting you nearly to the top of the passenger seat until you’re kneeling with his face in between your thighs.

“R-Rafayel!” you yelp, gripping onto the leather backseat for balance, thighs squirming at the feeling of his warm breath fanning against your exposed lips. The slick that had pooled in your panties makes you much more sensitive to his heated pants. Practically dripping onto his face.

“You promised a taste,” he mumbles, all consumed by the way you glisten against the dim indoor lights of his car. He doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s pulling your panties to the side and licking a fat strip up your slit, all the way to your clit.

“Ngh – Raf!” If it weren’t for his strong hands on your thighs you would’ve crushed him with the way your knees buckled and you nearly fell on top of him.

Rafayel doesn’t speak, only a filthy string of wet slurps and strung out moans audible, this tongue writhing against you, positively starved. The way he makes out with your cunt makes your muscles melt, your body nearly melding into the seats.

Rafayel can feel your shaky legs struggling to keep you up and he pulls your hips down, guiding you to sit on his face. In your surprise, you fall completely, a choked sob of bliss ripping from your mouth when Rafayel completely engulfs your weeping cunt into his mouth.

You're a babbling mess of the most lewd cries, your thighs clenching unbearably at the pleasure Rafayel’s tongue forces into you. You try not to put too much weight on Rafayel, but he only pushes you down, wanting you to crush his skull.

“Tastes so sweet,” Rafayel moans into you, the vibrations of his praises reverberating through every single one of your nerve endings. As he eats you with a relentless excitement, his eager nose strokes along your folds, gathering your arousal with every stroke.

“And it’s all for me,” he whines in the most pussy drunken voice you’ve ever heard from him, likely from the heavy intoxication, “No one else's, just mine.”

You can tell he’s still reeling from the encounter at the gala, with the man who’d wanted to buy the piece he’d painted for you. Just reassuring himself of things he already knew to be fact.

“And you’re mine,” you gasp through the sparks in your vision, wrought with pleasure. You do your best to keep your nails out of the expensive leather upholstery, tearing at Rafayel’s skin instead.

He grunts with the sting of your scratches, the pain fueling his excitement, which he funnels into the way he devours you, slurping up every single drop that pools down your lips.

With one hand on your thigh, he palms himself through his dress pants, jerking furiously.

It isn’t long before he yanks you away with a desperate gasp, carrying you back down onto his lap, “Need to be inside you now, ‘kay?”

The ears ring with the whiplash, the pleasure being yanked away suddenly, staring at Rafayel with dumbfounded wide eyes. You barely register when he takes his bare cock out, rubbing it up and down your absolutely drenched folds, your dress bunched to your waist.

He holds himself firm in his fingers by the base, squeezing down as he rubs up and down your glistening slit, peering up at your rosy cheeks.

“Baby?” he huffs, sounding faraway, “Can I?”

You barely even register your nod, your body moving on its own volition. Rafayel grins, lining himself up and not wasting another second before sinking himself into you, his favorite place in the entire world.

Your face is stuck in a perpetual oh as Rafayel sinks all the way into you, his veins especially prominent in his intoxication. You can almost feel them throbbing as they squeeze against your tight walls, his hips flattering when he feels himself hit the soft walls of your g-spot.

“Ngh – I love you, Y/N,” Rafayel moans, his arms coming up to wrap around your back, pulling you tightly against his torso.

You nuzzle your head into Rafayel’s chest, needing the support as he starts to rock into you, bouncing your body off his lap with the strength of his thighs.

“O-Oh God,” you whimper into his chest, letting him man handle you against himself, too overwhelmed by the way he’d made you feel with his tongue, and now his cock.

‘J-Jus’ like that, baby,” Rafayel mewls into the crown of your head, taking in deep lungfuls of your scent. His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you almost can’t breathe, but you only want him to hold you harder, tighter.

You can’t even be bothered to care that you’re fucking in such a public area, the risk of getting caught just a faraway thought. The only thing you can find yourself caring about is the way Rafayel drives deeper into your guts, forcing you to look at him as he buries himself into you.

“Hah – pretty girl,” he breathes out, his body slowing. You realize the alcohol must be making him tired, and you force your weight onto your knees.

“L-Let me, Raf,” you whisper, sitting up as much as you can until your head brushes against the car roof. Rafayel watches you with wondrous eyes as you begin to ride him.

“Oo-oh shiit,” he groans, mesmerized by the way you roll your body into him, “You're so perfect, Y/N. Just like that, please don’t s-stop.”

You whimper, biting your lip and trying to control the way his cock has your body screaming for release. You lean back onto his knees, one hand grappling at the window for leverage, the other cupping his balls.

Your hand is met with the wet condensation of the frosted window, the mixture of yours and Rafayel’s torrid breaths fogging up the interior completely. It’s such a sensual sight that you clench down on Rafayel, thinking about the passion of this moment, in the confined space of his favorite car.

Rafayel lets out the most delicious string of moans and expletives as you gently massage his balls in your fingers, fondling them delicately, “Oh God, that feels so good, you feel – angh – amazing.”

You throw all your energy into rolling your hips against Rafayel’s pelvis, wanting to use him until you were utterly spent.

“So big Raf,” you wail, struggling to keep up a rhythm as his size splits you in half, “I-I’m soo clo-ose.”

“Fuuck, me too,” Rafayel grunts, his neck craning back, back arching slightly at the way you ride him so filthily, “Don’t stop, I’m almost – ngh – there.”

His lewd words are your last straw, your hips stuttering as your cunt coils tightly around his length, your body orgasming so intensely through your tightly shut eyes. You desperately hope no one is nearby, because the muffled screams coming from the inside of the car were sure to be audible.

“You love me, right?” Rafayel slurs, his eyes wet and on the verge of coming undone, needing your words to be the final push.

“I love you Raf,” you gasp brokenly, still bouncing on his lap, “Soo-oo much!”

Your vice grip on him has Rafayel seeing stars of his own, the blinding pleasure signaling his own release. As he cums, he brings you back to his chest in a heated embrace, babbling into your mussed hair.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” comes his strangled mantra, the words overflowing from his wet puffy lips, “My Queen.”

You whimper as Rafayel fills you with rope after rope of his hot seed, it already beginning to seep out of your hole and down his still hard length. He gives you everything he has, the soul nearly being sucked out his body through his cockhead.

Rafayel digs his nails into your back as you overstimulate him with your languid thrusts, urging you to stop.

“N-No more,” he whines, holding you in place, “You’re trying to kill me.”

You still your hips with a chuckle, listening to his rapidly pounding heart, “I would never.”

Rafayel strokes your hair, holding you against his body, his cock softening and slipping out of you. You wince at the feeling of how much dampness leaks out of you, sitting up and trying to cup yourself so it doesn’t leak all over Rafayel’s seats.

But Rafayel holds you back down, “No. Stay.”

“Rafayel, it's going to ruin the seats!”

“I don’t care,” he mumbles, his voice still sluggish from the alcohol, nuzzling his face into your chest as he hugs you to keep you from moving.

“You care, you love this car. I love this car,” you whine, trying to pull away and keep the slick from spilling everywhere, but he doesn’t relent.

“Just say you love the car more than me,” he sulks, his bottom lip protruding.

You glare at him, before deciding to tease him and play along, “I love the car more than y–”

Rafayel covers your mouth with his hand, squinting at you, “If you finish that sentence I’ll scream.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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yurimage · 1 year ago

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somehow every disability pride month just ends up with me complaining about things. LOL.

anyways, this past year going off to college has made me realize how much i depend on others as a chronically ill person. this last school year i got majorly sick about 4 or 5 times i think??? and when i get sick, i get like devastatingly sick.

when all my friends simply had stuffy noses and sore throats, i was bedridden unable to eat or drink upwards of 3 days at a time. it's been like this ever since i've been chronically ill, but usually my mom is there to bring me something to eat or help me to the bathroom. at school i didn't have her and i realized how vulnerable i am with a common cold.

i couldn't leave my room to get water, or my dorm to get food, even getting to the bathroom was stupidly difficult. my friends and roommate were wonderful people to rely on but even then i still struggled majorly.

i don't like really have a point to this post, mostly i just wanted to vent but also i guess to draw attention to how hard the transition from childhood to adulthood is for disabled people. having to figure out health insurance and appointments on your own for the first time with disastrous consequences if you can't is rough. having to drag yourself to class or work is just hard when you're battling extreme fatigue or mobility issues. it's just rough man and i can only come up with so many proactive strategies to try and mitigate obstacles.

#also had to learn how to really fight for myself lol #housing put my disabled ass on the fifth floor and then the only elevator that went from street level up broke and i had to beg housing for #nearly a month until they finally moved me to a lower floor #zelle.txt #disability pride month

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rosemaryhoney27 · 4 months ago

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Sweet war

The Justice League was no stranger to summoning powerful entities, but as the glowing green portal ripped through the air in the Watchtower, there was an unspoken tension among them. They had expected a dark and ominous figure. Instead, a teenager with stark white hair, glowing green eyes, and regal black-and-green robes with a shimmering, ethereal crown atop his head floated before them.

Danny Phantom, the Ghost King, had arrived.

The moment he set foot—or rather, floated—on the Watchtower’s floor, he held out a gloved hand, his expression neutral but expectant.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” he said. “I assume you called me for something important. Where’s my offering?”

John Constantine, ever the opportunist, smirked and stepped forward. With an exaggerated flourish, he reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette before dramatically crushing it between his fingers. Then, placing a hand over his chest, he said, “How ‘bout my soul, mate?”

Danny turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly before his lips curled in distaste. “Ew. No one wants your broken, old soul, Constantine.”

The League collectively inhaled sharply. Superman coughed to cover a chuckle. Batman’s lips twitched ever so slightly. Zatanna stifled a snicker behind her gloved hand. Constantine, looking slightly offended, scoffed and took a drag of a new cigarette. “Well, can’t blame a bloke for tryin’.”

Wonder Woman, arms crossed, took a step forward. “Then tell us, Ghost King, what is it that you desire?”

Danny crossed his arms, looking at them all appraisingly. Then, with a small smirk, he said, “Honestly? I just want some good homemade sweets. Best you can find.”

Silence stretched between them as the request sank in. Then—

“I know just the thing,” Superman said immediately, a fond smile spreading across his face as he thought of Ma Kent’s famous homemade pies.

Batman hummed. “Alfred’s cookies.” His tone was decisive, as if it were an undeniable fact that they were superior.

Superman’s gaze sharpened. “You think your butler’s cookies can top my mom’s pies?”

Batman turned his head just enough to meet Superman’s challenge. “Yes.”

Danny, watching this unfold, raised a brow. “Wait—”

Flash grinned and clapped his hands together. “Oh-ho! This just got interesting.”

Wonder Woman smirked. “A contest of sweets, then?”

And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.

Superman wasted no time contacting his mother, explaining the situation with excitement in his voice. Meanwhile, Batman sent an encrypted message to Alfred, who replied with a simple: Understood. Commencing preparations.

Danny, who had just wanted some cookies or pie, now found himself at the center of an intergalactic baking war.

“Uh,” he started, watching as Superman and Batman prepared to bring their respective champions into the fray. “…This isn’t what I expected, but I’m not complaining.”

Constantine clapped him on the back. “Buckle up, kid. You just started the Bake-Off of the Century.”

And so, the great Bake War between Ma Kent and Alfred Pennyworth commenced, all for the favor of one very amused Ghost King.

Two days later, the Watchtower kitchen was in utter chaos.

Flash had somehow been appointed the official taste tester and was already on his fifth plate, buzzing with sugar-induced energy. Green Lantern had made a bet on Alfred and was wearing an apron that said Kiss the Cook, despite not actually doing any cooking.

Martian Manhunter was curiously sniffing a pecan pie, while Wonder Woman was critiquing Superman’s rolling technique. "Kal, you are treating that dough as if you were forging a sword. Relax. Let it breathe."

Batman, meanwhile, had an array of meticulously measured ingredients lined up in front of him. Alfred had given him explicit instructions, and Batman followed them with the precision of a man planning a high-stakes infiltration.

Danny was sprawled across a floating chair conjured from his own ectoplasmic energy, munching on a cookie from an early batch. “You guys do realize I could just declare both the winners, right?”

Superman shot him a look. “That’s not how this works.”

Batman nodded gravely. “There must be a victor.”

Danny snickered. "You guys are way too into this."

Constantine lit a cigarette and leaned against the counter, watching the madness unfold. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Alfred and Ma Kent, meanwhile, were exchanging polite but intense glances, silently acknowledging each other as true culinary warriors.

The Ghost King had spoken. The battle for baked good supremacy would rage on.

#danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #dpxdc #superman #alfred pennyworth #ma kent #ghost king phantom

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skyward-floored · 4 months ago

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*Me rewatching all 75 episodes of a tv show* it's fic research. very important.

#i have to get in the proper star wars mindset for this au and also in case i ever actually write a plain old star wars fic #besides you can never watch Rebels too many times #started it like a month ago i think #i'm in the middle of season 3 hehe #this'll beeee... I think my fifth watch through #of course i've seen season one like 8 or 10 times but yknow #that show did a lot to me at fifteen ok #rambles from the floor

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gojover · 6 days ago

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WOULD THAT I.

he has spent four lifetimes repenting for his sins and searching for you. in the fifth, he finally gets it right.

pairing: jinu x fem!reader tags & warnings: romance, angst, hurt/comfort; reincarnation!au, previously established relationship!au. changes to canon. mentions of death & sins, blood, injuries, past lives, jinu remembers all his lives but learns how to love you in each one, profanity, alcohol consumption, historical inaccuracies, implied sex, etc. inspired by hozier’s would that i. word count: 8.7k

SEOUL, KOREA. EARLY WINTER, 1936.

It’s become a habit now, for Jinu to walk the alley behind Hwaryeohan Cha-jip every morning. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just out for air, but his feet always take the same turn—past the ink shop, past the frozen rice fields. The snow came early that year, dusting the rooftops of Bukchon in white. Jinu walks until he finds the teahouse, half-tucked between two aging hanoks, with its faded wooden sign and wind chimes made of porcelain spoons.

You work there. He knows this now.

You sweep the floors with your hair tied up in a red ribbon, humming songs no one else seems to know. You boil water in the back room, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows, wrists red from the heat. Sometimes you lean out the window to shake out a cloth, and Jinu watches from across the street, heart in his throat, as if looking at you might somehow unmake the curse.

It doesn’t.

Gwi-Ma’s words still echo like older thunder in his ears. One lifetime for every sin, the demon king had said. He doesn’t remember what he did to deserve this; only that it was enough for the king to curse him with memory, and longing, and you.

You, who never remembers him. You, who are always just out of reach.

Still, this life feels different. He’s not a lonely musician. He’s just Jinu. Just a man in a wool coat with frayed sleeves and too many lifetimes folded into the lines around his eyes.

Somehow, that compels him to step inside.

The bell above the teahouse door is delicate and cracked, like it’s been broken and glued back together a dozen times. It tinkles faintly as he enters, and you glance up from behind the counter. He orders ginger tea. It’s too hot, a little bitter. He drinks it anyway.

You don’t say much to him at first, just slide the cup forward with a polite nod, fingers dusted with flour, and return to kneading dough in the back. Jinu sits in the corner, watching steam curl from the rim of his cup, pretending to read a book he’s read a thousand times before.

He returns the next day. And the next.

Sometimes you smile at him now. Sometimes you ask if he wants something sweet with his tea. He always says yes, just to hear your voice again.

“Do you work nearby?” you ask one morning, wiping your hands on your apron.

“No,” he says. “I walk a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Even in the snow?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you laugh. The sound cuts through every century he’s lived without you. It makes something ancient in him ache.

You tell him your name one day. He already knows it, of course, but he pretends it’s the first time. He says it softly, rolls it on his tongue like a promise.

He brings small things sometimes: a book of poems; a silk ribbon the same colour as the one you wear; once, a tiny jade rabbit charm that he leaves near the register when you’re not looking. You find it later and keep it in your purse. You never ask if it’s from him, and he never tells you.

Some days, he helps. He carries water from the well; repairs a broken chair leg; teaches you how to fold paper cranes when the shop is slow. You sit across from him at the low table, your hands awkward at first, and he watches you fold the wings silently.

You crease the edge of the paper with your thumbnail, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jinu doesn’t laugh, though the sight of you furrowing your brow over something as simple as a paper crane is enough to pull a smile to his mouth. He leans forward and gently adjusts the angle of the folded wing.

“Like this,” he says quietly.

Your fingers brush, briefly, barely. It’s nothing—but to him, it’s everything.

After that, you start leaving out an extra cup when you brew tea in the morning, even before he walks in. You stop pretending not to notice the way he always sits in the same corner seat. You learn that he prefers ginger tea with honey, that he likes his bread warm and his jam unsweetened. You listen to him hum under his breath when he reads, even though his eyes don’t always move across the page.

He learns that you braid your hair when you’re nervous, and that you’re saving up for a trip to Busan, and that you talk to the teapot when you think no one’s listening.

Sometimes, when it snows harder than usual, you don’t get any customers and the city stays quiet. On those days, you sit across from each other on the heated floorboards, sipping tea and listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Once, you fall asleep like that—cheek pressed to your folded arms, exhaustion shuttering your eyelids. Jinu doesn’t wake you. He watches the snow gather on the windowsill and thinks about how peaceful your face looks in this life.

He wonders if this is enough. If friendship is enough.

You wake, embarrassed, and he just smiles and tells you to rest more. You blink at him, still sleepy but shake your head, so he asks if you want to learn how to fold a lotus next. You do.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

It’s your honeymoon. At least, that’s what the world thinks.

The hotel is charming in the way French hotels are supposed to be—wrought-iron balconies, velvet drapes, and wallpaper the colour of old pearls. The floorboards creak under his feet, and the hallways smell faintly of orange blossoms and candlewax.

Below, the Seine coils through the city, meandering long and slow. Gondoliers shout in lilting voices from the water. The bouquinistes have already opened their green boxes along the banks, selling secondhand poetry and crumbling maps to tourists who still believe Paris belongs to lovers.

Maybe it does. Just not to the two of you.

Jinu stands by the window, shirt half-buttoned, tie discarded somewhere near the settee. The silk catches on the carved wooden leg. The breeze lifts the edge of the curtain, letting in the sound of clattering dishes from the café downstairs.

The light falls soft on your face where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair in long, even strokes, the red ribbon that you’d used to tie your hair back wrapped around your wrist. Your nightgown is lace-trimmed and far too sheer for the cool morning. He thinks it must be uncomfortable. But you wear it anyway, spine straight, chin lifted, always composed. You don’t look at him. You haven’t looked at him all morning.

There are two coffee cups on the table. One is untouched. You didn’t like the roast, but you won’t tell him that. You’ll let it sit there and grow cold because indifference is your sharpest weapon, and you know exactly how to wield it.

The lace shifts again as you move, bare shoulders catching the gold light. It’s almost enough to make him forget; almost enough to believe this life could be different. Maybe, if he just reached out—if he touched your shoulder, softly, just once—you’d remember something. The way your fingers once curled around the fabric of his hanbok, or the way you said his name.

It’s your honeymoon, and you can barely stand to be in the same room.

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE WEEK AGO.

Jinu promises to take you to see the cherry blossoms after work.

You’re half-asleep on the sofa when he tells you, legs tucked beneath you, your blouse rumpled and your slacks creased at the knees. Your fingers are curled around a mug of ginger tea you’ve forgotten to sip from, the steam long faded. The apartment glows in the evening light—low and golden, brushing everything it touches with warmth. It rests on your cheek, your collarbone, the line of your neck.

The window is cracked open just enough for the air to carry the sound of birds and distant footsteps. Someone laughs downstairs—the neighbour’s kid, maybe, or a passing couple. In the kitchen, the rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime, and the smell of jasmine rice begins to mingle with the faint perfume of laundry soap and honey.

The sakura have started blooming early this year, soft clouds of pink dusting every street, like the city’s been dipped in blush and left to dry slowly. He noticed them that morning on his walk to the train: the way petals clung to the sidewalk like confetti, the way one landed on the shoulder of your coat and you didn’t notice.

“Don’t forget,” you mumble without opening your eyes, voice warm and worn out, lips brushing the rim of the mug. Your feet are bare, and you wiggle your toes sleepily when he sits beside you.

“I won’t,” Jinu says, and he means it.

He never forgets, not in this life.

He reaches over and gently lifts the mug from your hands, careful not to spill it, and sets it on the coffee table beside your phone and a half-finished crossword. Your handwriting is in blue pen—curvy, a little impatient. He glances at it, then turns his attention back to you.

“You should change out of your work clothes,” he says.

“M’comfy,” you whisper, not moving an inch.

He laughs softly. “You say that. Then you complain about the wrinkles in the morning.”

You hum noncommittally, already slipping towards sleep. Your head tilts until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts a little to make it easier. Your hair smells like lemongrass shampoo and the rose spray you use in early spring. Jinu leans his cheek gently against the top of your head.

“Are we going tomorrow or Saturday?” you ask.

“Tomorrow,” Jinu says. “I want to go before the crowds come.”

“You hate crowds,” you agree, nodding.

“You hate them more.”

You smile. “Smart man.”

Jinu slides his arm behind your back, warm and solid and steady. He closes his eyes and listens—to your breath, to the tick of the clock on the wall.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. EARLY SUMMER, 1972.

Jinu slings his arm over your bare waist, and thinks that this might be the life.

Maybe Gwi-Ma took pity on him. Maybe this is a loophole, and it comes with jazz and heat and the way your lipstick smeared against his collar an hour ago. Maybe it’s not a trick. Maybe, for once, he gets to stay.

Your breath is steady now, but your skin is still flushed, slick with the last traces of sweat. The cotton sheets stick to your thigh where it’s thrown over his hip, and your fingers twitch against his ribs, still restless in sleep.

He lets his hand drift up the slope of your side, slow and gentle, the way a man touches something he knows will leave him. He watches your lashes flutter, the corner of your mouth twitch as you stir.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

You hum without opening your eyes. “Barely.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear. “Should I stop?”

“If you’re asking that, you already know the answer.”

So Jinu doesn’t stop. His hand moves, slow and familiar now, tracing the curve of your hip. You shift closer, still half-asleep, until your leg slides between his and your mouth brushes against the underside of his jaw.

It’s easy like this. Too easy.

Your bodies know each other even if your minds don’t. There’s no fumbling anymore, no pretending. Just heat and breath and the memory of your name whispered into the crook of his neck, again and again, like you’re trying to brand yourself into him. Maybe you are.

He holds you afterward, and listens to the rain starting up again outside the window—soft at first, then steadier. Jazz spills in from the bar two floors down, muffled by distance and glass, but still there. Like everything in this city, it lingers.

“You’re staring,” you say eventually, not unkindly.

“I do that,” Jinu says.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, and burrow deeper into his chest. Your fingers trace a line over his collarbone, idle and absentminded, like you’re not really thinking about what you’re doing.

“You always act like you know something I don’t,” you mumble. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to figure it out.”

Jinu swallows. “Figure out what?”

“Whatever it is you keep hiding behind your eyes,” you say. “You always look so sad, Jinu.”

His arm tightens around you just slightly.

You’re not wrong. You never are, not in any life. Even without memory, your intuition is as sharp as it’s always been. You’re like a compass that always swings toward the truth, even when the truth is something you have no idea about.

Jinu considers lying, or laughing it off. But you shift again, and your thigh brushes against his. You’re close—so close, close enough that he almost lets the truth slip past his teeth. You’ve died in my arms before. You’ve looked at me with your last breath. I’ve been cursed to find you again and again and again.

Instead, he says, “Maybe I just like the way you look when you sleep.”

“Poetic.”

“I try.”

You lift your head to look at him. There’s mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and a tiny crease on your cheek where it pressed against the pillow. Your mouth is a little swollen from kissing, and your voice is hoarse in the way that drives him insane.

“You know this isn’t forever, right?” you say, softly, like you’re offering him a kindness by saying it first.

“I know,” Jinu says.

You nod, like that’s what you needed to hear. “Good.”

But you don’t move. You don’t pull away. You rest your chin on his chest and look at him like you’re memorising the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes.

“God,” you whisper after a while. “This would be so much easier if you were an asshole.”

Jinu laughs and says, “I can be, if it helps.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re good. That’s the problem.”

He kisses your forehead and tries not to think about the way your voice cracked.

JOSEON, KOREA. WINTER, 1798.

It is snowing the first time Jinu sees you, and your name forms on his mouth like habit.

It’s not the name you carry now—not the one assigned to you by court records and a royal appointment, or the one embroidered into the hem of your hanbok in gold thread. It is the name you’ve had in your previous lifetime. The name he’s whispered into your skin, into your dying hands.

Jinu doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t dare.

He watches you from the far side of the courtyard, where the snow has muffled the world and the stone paths disappear beneath white. His breath fogs in the air. A court servant speaks beside him—something about a grain levy in Jeolla—but Jinu isn’t listening. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You walk gracefully, holding a lacquered tray to your chest, with your back straight. Your hair is pulled into a sleek bun, adorned with a single ornamental binyeo shaped like a plum blossom. It is the sign of a new concubine: favoured and untouched. The wind catches your sleeve and flutters it gently, and his chest clenches at the sight of your wrist. A thousand memories flicker through his mind like reeds in the current.

Yet, your face is unfamiliar in this first life. Younger, and softer. Your eyes don’t carry memory. You don’t look at him with recognition or contempt. You don’t look at him at all.

You pass through the courtyard, and Jinu stands frozen under the shadow of a ginkgo tree, as though time itself has collapsed.

Later, in his private study, he asks about you. He pretends it’s nothing—an idle inquiry wrapped in courtesy, spoken to the right eunuch over warm rice wine.

“The girl who came last month,” he says, carefully. “The concubine gifted by the Governor of Gangwon. What do we know of her?”

“The new Lady?” The eunuch says your new name, the one that doesn’t feel right in Jinu’s mouth. “She is quiet and well-mannered. Literate, I believe, though she comes from no family of rank. She entered the palace under the northern court’s petition—her village suffered a flood, and her people sought mercy. The Governor offered her as tribute.”

“Tribute,” Jinu repeats, tasting the word like ash.

“She was chosen for her beauty,” the eunuch adds. “Nothing more.”

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

You married him because you had to.

It was a bargain struck behind closed doors, a compromise made with fathers and fortunes and convenience. He had wealth, and you had a family in debt. It was all very civilised, very French. The papers printed your photograph beside a headline that called it a union of elegance and fortune. They didn’t print the part where you refused to meet his eyes.

At dinner, you speak to him in French, formally, like a woman who doesn’t wish to be misunderstood, and doesn’t care to be known. You order for yourself. You never ask if he’s read the books you quote. You let the silence stretch until it breaks and sip your half-finished wine instead.

Jinu lets you. He nods when appropriate, smiles when it seems polite, swirls his wine, and pretends not to watch the way you cut your food too carefully.

He thinks about how different your voice sounds in this life. How your laughter is a stranger to him. He remembers the you who laughed easily, the you who danced barefoot in the snow, the you who wrote him letters in the margins of books and left pressed flowers between the pages. That version of you isn’t here.

In this lifetime, you wear gloves to dinner and never once let your fingers brush his.

But you’re beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.

It kills him a little, every time.

You look like a painting he’s seen before and can’t quite place; one he’s spent lifetimes trying to find again. Now that you’re here—flesh and blood, name and ring and contract—you’re more unreachable than ever.

You don’t sleep in the same bed. The suite has two, and that’s something you requested specifically. He remembers the clerk glancing at him with a look that hovered between pity and apology.

The bellboy had asked, “Madame, shall I draw the curtains between the beds?”

“Yes, thank you,” you had said.

You don’t ask him questions: not about his work, not about his past. Not about the faraway look he sometimes gets when the light hits the Seine just right. He doesn’t ask you, either. The truth is, you are not his, in this life.

He wonders if you dream of him. He wonders if somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the silk and bone and flesh, something stirs when he says your name. He wonders if you ever wake in the middle of the night with a pang in your heart that you don’t understand.

Jinu hopes so, because he has woken up like that every night of this life.

SEOUL, KOREA. WINTER, 1937.

By the time Seollal passes and the paper lanterns are taken down, the people in the neighbourhood begin to notice—not with suspicion or idle gossip, but with a kind of slow, blooming fondness. They don’t whisper behind their hands or snicker when Jinu walks by. Instead, they smile.

The old woman with the parrot—Madam Kwon, who lives above the fermented soybean shop—starts referring to Jinu as your shadow. Every morning, as she feeds her bird sesame seeds and counts her prayer beads in the sun, she croaks out, “Your shadow’s early today,” when Jinu turns the corner near the tea shop. The parrot repeats her, mangled and gleeful. Sha-dow, sha-dow!

You glance up from the window, smothering a smile.

The boy from across the alley, barely thirteen, who runs errands for the ink shop, has started tipping his cap at Jinu each morning. One day, when he passes, he calls out with the overconfidence of youth, “She likes persimmons, you know. Bring her some. The kind with the wrinkly skins.”

Jinu hides his amusement behind a polite nod. The next day, a small cloth pouch of dried persimmons appears on the tea shop counter. You don’t say anything, just tuck them into the cupboard—but you save one, and when Jinu comes in at closing, you place it on a small plate beside his tea without a word.

The grocer, Mr. Baek, an older man with a permanent frown and a weak knee, lets Jinu pick through the fresh vegetables first whenever he sees him on the path to the tea shop.

“You work too hard, boy,” Mr. Baek grumbles as Jinu hoists a basket of firewood onto one shoulder.

“He’s not a boy,” Madam Kwon snorts from her usual perch. “He’s a man, Baek. Can’t you tell?”

“A man, huh?” Mr. Baek eyes Jinu’s hands, callused from helping with the heavy work around the shop. “Well, even a man needs to rest his back before it breaks.”

Jinu only smiles. “I’ll rest after I’ve swept the steps for her.”

They all approve of him, though none say it directly. The world is starting to tuck Jinu into your corner of it without him needing to ask.

One afternoon, while the snow still clings to the gutters but the breeze carries a hint of plum blossoms, an elderly couple walks in from out of town. They speak in slow dialect, asking for ginger tea and warmth for their aching bones. Jinu is seated by the window, sketching quietly in his notebook. As you prepare the tea, the woman glances at him, then at you.

“Your husband doesn’t say much,” she remarks.

You nearly spill the water. “He’s not— I mean, we’re not—”

Jinu looks up, and the couple laughs kindly. “Ah, forgive us,” the man says. “You have that look about you.”

“What look?” you ask, wary.

“The look of people whose silence with each other is comfortable.”

You don’t respond, but when you set the tray down in front of them, you notice Jinu watching you closely. After they leave, you go to clear the table. There’s an extra coin left on the tray, and the old woman has pressed a paper fortune beside it: “Love that arrives quietly stays the longest.”

You crumple it without thinking.

But later that night, after the shop has closed and the windows are shuttered, Jinu finds it smoothed out on the back counter, your handwriting scribbled in the margins: “Don’t get any ideas.”

He smiles.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1971.

Jinu finds you by accident, really.

He’s searching for a bar—any bar—on an unnaturally rainy Friday night, his collar turned up against the warm drizzle, the air thick with the smell of sweet olive trees and fried catfish. The city hums with life even in the storm. Neon flickers on puddles like oil slicks, and brass spills from half-opened windows.

He’s already passed three places too crowded, one too quiet, and a fourth that reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash, when he turns down a narrow side street he doesn’t remember the name of.

He finds a wooden door, warped with time and painted a moody red. It sits beneath a hanging sign with chipped cursive that reads: The Red Ribbon. A string of paper lanterns hangs overhead, glowing soft through the rain like a trail of fireflies.

Inside, the bar is low-lit and warm, a haven from the storm. The air smells like cinnamon smoke and lemon rinds, and something old—like velvet curtains and perfume that clings to skin. There’s a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glass on glass, and music.

No—not music. A voice.

Low and rich, not quite singing, not quite speaking. Like honey melting in a warm cup of tea. It curls around the room before he sees you; dips into the cracks between shadows; holds him still.

You’re on stage, beneath a gold spotlight, wearing a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, one heel perched on the edge of the stool as you croon into the microphone. Your voice doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it, slow and sultry and effortless. You sing a cover of I’ll Be Seeing You, but it’s yours now, softer, smokier, as if the song’s always belonged to you.

In your hair, tied just above your ear, is a red ribbon.

Jinu stops breathing.

You’re older in this life. Sharper. Your voice curls like cigarette smoke, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. But it’s you. Of course it’s you. He would know you in any century.

You don’t see him. You never do, not at first.

The room fades. Jinu’s heart hammers.

Gwi-Ma’s curse, so old now it’s half-forgotten, curls tight in his ribs like a warning. This is the fourth time, he thinks.

The bartender is young, with freckles scattered across his nose. “What can I get you?”

“What’s her drink?” Jinu asks, nodding toward the stage.

“She switches it up sometimes. But mostly it’s gin and tonic. Extra lime.”

“Then one of those. And whatever you recommend.”

He carries both your drinks over when you step off the stage, undoing the ribbon in your hair deftly and shaking your head. You wrap the ribbon around your wrist and raise an eyebrow when he stops by your table.

“That for me?” you ask.

Jinu sets the gin and tonic down. “Extra lime.”

“Let me guess,” you drawl. “First time here, heard me sing, got curious?”

“Something like that,” he says.

JOSEON, KOREA. SPRING, 1799.

It is well past curfew when you slip into the old library pavilion.

The moon is high, its light diffused through the paper lattice windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and ink wafts through the air. Outside, the plum trees stir in the breeze, petals tumbling like tiny, perfumed ghosts.

You shouldn’t be here. No one comes here anymore—not since the roof began to rot, not since the scrolls were moved to the new annex.

But you know the door that creaks just slightly less. You know which floorboards to avoid. Most importantly, you know no one will be looking for a concubine in the archive of forgotten histories.

You light a single oil lamp and walk the aisles barefoot, your skirts brushing against shelves of neglected poetry and old Confucian texts. You’re looking for something. You don’t know what; only that your chest has been heavy lately with something unnamed, and that reading makes it easier to breathe.

You’re so engrossed in a worn volume of Tang poetry that you don’t hear him until it’s too late.

“What are you doing here?”

You whip around, heart slamming in your chest, the book nearly slipping from your fingers.

Jinu stands in the doorway—half-lit by moonlight, half-shadowed, like something conjured from the very pages you were reading. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for the evening, wearing only a dark overcoat tied loosely at the waist. His hair is unbound at the nape, a sign that he, too, thought the night would pass without interruption.

You gasp. “I—I didn’t think anyone—”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, though there’s no bite to it. Just curiosity, and a hint of wariness.

You lift your chin. “Neither are you.”

He arches a brow, and you realise your mistake. Of course he’s allowed anywhere he wishes—he’s one of the King’s closest ministers. But instead of correcting you, he steps further inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“What are you reading?”

“Poetry,” you say.

“May I see it?”

You hand him the book with reluctant fingers. He takes it carefully, as though it’s precious. You watch as he scans the open page. His lips move as he reads silently. Then, softly, aloud:

“In the quiet night, the moonlight before my bed perhaps is frost upon the ground. I raise my head and see the moon, then lower it and think of home.”

You say nothing.

“You miss it,” Jinu says quietly. “Your home.”

“You can’t miss what you barely remember,” you say, shrugging.

“Still, you’re here,” he says, closing the book. “Risking punishment for poetry.”

“I thought this place was empty.”

“It is. Mostly. You’ve been here before,” he says.

“Will you report me?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.

He watches you for a long moment, and shakes his head. “No. But if you’re going to read by lamplight, you shouldn’t sit so close to the paper screens. It casts a shadow.”

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE MONTH AGO.

On Jinu’s birthday, you surprise him with a picnic beneath the sakura.

It’s a Tuesday, technically a workday, but you convince his supervisor to let him off early and drag him, half-confused, half-laughing, onto the Marunouchi Line. You refuse to say where you’re going, only grin over the rim of your coffee and tap your knee against his like you’re buzzing with a secret.

He figures it out by the time you’re walking down the path at Shinjuku Gyoen, past couples and families and students with cameras, every tree dripping in soft pink petals. The wind is light, enough to lift your hair and scatter a few blossoms onto his shoulder. You swipe them off with a delicate touch, fingers brushing his collar.

“Here?” he asks, looking around.

You point to a quiet spot beneath a tall cherry tree, where the ground is dappled with sunlight and pink. “Here.”

He watches you set the blanket down and unroll the bento boxes you packed that morning, tied in checkered cloth, still warm. Tamagoyaki, onigiri, simmered daikon, the pickled things he likes. There’s even a small chocolate cake hidden in your tote, which you keep sneakily tucked behind your legs like it isn’t obvious.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, sitting beside you. His voice is warm. He never quite knows what to do with being loved like this—not when it’s freely given.

“I know,” you say. “But I wanted to.”

Jinu looks at you for a long second. You’re wearing that soft blue sweater he likes, the one that slides off your shoulder when you’re not paying attention. The sunlight hits your cheekbones and catches in your lashes, and he thinks—like he always does—that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You open a thermos, pour him tea, and he raises it in mock solemnity.

“To thirty-three,” he says.

“Thirty-two,” you correct.

“Am I?”

“You always forget,” you say. “You’ve been forgetting since we met.”

He laughs. “Feels like I’ve lived a hundred years already.”

You don’t say anything. Sometimes, when the light hits his face just right or he says something echoes in your mind, you wonder.

You’ve always had strange dreams: places you’ve never been, languages you’ve never studied, and a man who always looks like him, even when he wears a robe, or a bloodied uniform, or a wool coat in the snow. You never tell him this. You’re afraid it will break the spell.

Instead, you offer him another onigiri and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. “I’m glad you were born.”

Jinu closes his eyes and laces his fingers with yours, lets you lean your weight into his side; lets the breeze scatter petals in your hair; lets the warmth spread down his spine like he’s standing in the sun after a long, long winter.

MANCHURIA. WINTER, 1944.

It comes as no surprise, then, that when the war begins, you and Jinu get married and business at the teahouse dwindles with every passing day.

The papers are signed quietly one late afternoon, in the cramped back office of the local administration hall: two names written in black ink, side by side, binding you together not by love but by survival. There is no time for anything else. The world is already falling apart.

The Japanese occupation deepens its grip. All around you, men vanish into forced conscription, women into labour camps, into silence. The air grows tighter with fear. Propaganda posters replace the poetry on the streets. The teahouse shutters for good.

You and Jinu are sent away within the month. He becomes a soldier. You become a nurse.

You are not the only married couple split between posts, but somehow, impossibly, the army places you both near the front. You meet sometimes between camps. Once every few weeks, maybe. Sometimes longer.

Each time, your reunion is brief and practical. You sew up the tears in his uniform. He shares what little rations he’s stashed away for you. He never forgets to hand you a pair of gloves or wrap your scarf tighter, or tie your hair back with that red ribbon with shaking fingers. You always insist he sleep for at least two hours before returning to his unit.

There is no time for affection. There is barely time for sleep.

But sometimes, when you are alone—when the tents are quiet and the snow piles against the canvas—he touches your face in the dark, and you lean into him without a word. Sometimes you rest your forehead against his shoulder, and Jinu runs his hand up and down your back.

The night you die, it is snowing.

The war has reached a new fever. There are no longer clear lines, no longer rest stations or warning signals or predictable patrols. The world is burning in patches, and no one can remember what day it is.

Jinu is stationed near the ravine when the call comes—medics down, supplies hit, critical injuries. He runs before they finish speaking.

He doesn’t recognise the wreckage of the medic tent at first, just the shape of it, torn open by gunfire and winter wind, canvas flapping in the air. The snow is tinged red. Bodies are scattered everywhere.

You’re still alive when he finds you, but barely.

You’re half-buried beneath another nurse, shielding her even in unconsciousness. Your side is soaked through with blood, spreading dark and fast across your uniform. Your breathing is shallow, more rasp than breath. Jinu drops to his knees beside you.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me. It’s me.”

Your eyes flutter open. Focus. Unfocus. Finally, they find him. “...Jinu?” you breathe, your voice thready.

He laughs, because it’s either that or scream. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You stubborn woman, what were you doing here? You were supposed to be safe.”

“I stayed.” You cough, wet and small. “One of the children… the boy with the bad leg…”

“I know,” Jinu says. He does know. He always knew you’d stay. He presses his hand to your wound. His other hand cradles the back of your head. Snowflakes melt on your cheeks.

Later, they find him still holding you, long after the snow has buried your boots and the blood has dried stiff on his uniform. He won’t speak for days, won’t eat. When he finally returns to his post, he doesn’t say what happened; he only writes your name on the inside of his sleeve in black ink, where no one else can see.

Years later, when the war ends and the country forgets the names of its dead, Jinu does not. He leaves a folded paper crane at every teahouse he passes, and he never remarries.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

On the third day of your honeymoon, Jinu takes you dancing.

It is a Friday evening, and the city glows with the kind of gold that never quite fades, even as dusk creeps in. From the hotel balcony, the streets below shimmer with laughter, carriage wheels clattering against cobblestones, parasols twirling, violins warming up in salons beyond shuttered windows.

He waits for you in the sitting room, dressed in pressed trousers and a charcoal waistcoat, a pale lavender cravat at his throat—the one you picked, absentmindedly, on your first day in the city. The silk still smells faintly like you.

You emerge from the bedroom without a word, gloves drawn tight over your wrists, gown cinched neatly at the waist. You’re beautiful, but distant.

Always, always distant.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.

The carriage ride is quiet. The air smells like summer rain and perfume, and Jinu watches your profile in the glass—the slope of your nose, the way your eyes follow the shape of the Seine like it’s memory. You haven’t touched him since the day you arrived. Your hand rests lightly on his arm now, like you’re afraid even weight might give too much away.

He wants to ask about the letters.

The ones you receive from a different postbox. The ones you tuck away before he enters the room. He’s never opened one, but he doesn’t need to. The handwriting is always the same: slanted, and familiar only to you. He doesn’t ask. He never does.

Tonight, he only wants to pretend.

The ballroom is in Montmartre, crowded and warm, lit by chandeliers that make the dust shimmer. The band plays slow waltzes, the kind that linger in your throat even after the music fades.

Jinu places a hand on your waist. You let him.

Your fingers rest against his shoulder, delicate as frost.

He draws you closer, searching for something in your eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but the practiced smile of a woman doing what is expected.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice low.

You look away. “I’m tired.”

“Of dancing?” Of me?

You don’t answer. Jinu guides you in a slow circle. You follow, graceful, perfect. A doll in silk and pearl. Yet, every few beats, your gaze slips towards the doors; towards the windows; towards something far away. He’s used to it now. Gwi-Ma’s curse has hardened him, but just because he is used to it, it does not make it any easier to be the consolation prize in this lifetime that never belonged to him.

“Do you love him?” he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Not in this life. Not in this world where your father sold your hand to erase a debt, and his name was the one on the contract. Not in a marriage made of cold sheets and polite lies.

Jinu exhales slowly. “It does to me.”

You meet his gaze, then, and something flickers in your eyes. Not love, or forgiveness—just sadness, deep and quiet, like the kind that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.

“You’re not a bad man,” you say softly. “You just aren’t mine.”

He closes his eyes. The music swells. Couples spin around you both like falling leaves.

Jinu doesn’t say another word. He just holds you a little tighter, for as long as the song lasts. Because after tonight, you’ll drift further away. He can feel it, that tide pulling you towards a life you’ll never have and a man he will never be.

But for this dance—just this one—he lets himself imagine you’re his.

The next day, the divorce papers are finalised and the money is settled. You move to Vienna the week after.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1972.

The bartender tells Jinu you moved to Chicago.

He says it like it’s nothing, like you didn’t leave a hollowed-out space where your voice used to sit on stage at The Red Ribbon, smokey and golden and soft as dusk.

“Packed up two weeks ago,” the freckled boy says, polishing a glass. “Didn’t say much, just left a note for Missy in the back. Said she got an opportunity, somethin’ better. Maybe a record label.”

Jinu doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them.

He nurses his bourbon in silence for a while, and lets the saxophone on the radio spill into the half-empty room. The walls feel thinner without you—less velvet, more echo. The stage is dark now, the piano covered in a wrinkled sheet.

When he asks for your address, the bartender raises an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

“I was her lover,” Jinu says, and it’s not wrong.

The man shrugs and writes it down on the back of a bar napkin, sliding it over with two fingers. It’s smudged at the edges, ink bleeding from moisture left behind by someone else’s glass. But the words are clear.

South Side. Chicago. Apartment 2B. ℅ Langford Records.

Jinu stares at it for a long time. He folds it once and pockets it.

That night, in his apartment above the bakery on Dauphine Street, he sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning low and a single lamp flickering behind him. Rain taps gently against the window, steady as a metronome.

He finds a sheet of paper, ivory and heavy. He doesn’t plan to write much.

October 12th, 1972 New Orleans

You left without saying goodbye.

That’s not a complaint. Just… an observation.

The bartender said Chicago. He said you packed light, but you always did. I used to wonder how someone could carry so much in them and still leave so little behind. I guess I have my answer now.

I keep thinking about that night on the balcony. You, with your lipstick smudged and your heels kicked off, humming some Ella Fitzgerald song that only you knew all the words to. You asked me if I believed in fate. I said no. You laughed like I was missing the joke.

I think I get it now.

Maybe it wasn’t fate. Maybe it was just timing. Bad, as always.

I don’t know what you’re chasing up there—music, love, a version of yourself you can finally live with—but I hope you find it. And if you don’t, I hope it finds you anyway.

I won’t write again. This feels like enough.

But if it ever rains in Chicago, and you think of me, just know I was thinking of you too.

– J.

Jinu folds the letter carefully and slides it into an envelope but doesn’t seal it. He stares at it for a long time. Then he sets it on the counter beside his keys and goes to bed without turning out the lamp.

He never mails it, but every now and then, when the rain hits just right, he reads it again.

JOSEON, KOREA. LATE SUMMER, 1799.

They charge you with treason.

No matter how many times Jinu kneels before the King, no matter how many sleepless nights he spends rewriting every record, begging the court historian to leave your name out of the final script, no one listens.

It is easier to silence a concubine than to question a minister, easier to blame a woman for sin than to hold a man accountable for love.

So, on the last evening of your life, they dress you in white: a shade meant for funerals; for forgetting.

Your hair, once combed and oiled and pinned with mother-of-pearl, hangs unbound down your back now. The servants didn’t bother with ceremony. They gave you water, and left you in a corner of the gardens, as if you were already half-gone. You sit on the edge of the low stone wall, staring at the lotus pond, legs tucked neatly beneath you and wrists bound.

The ropes around your wrists bite into tender skin—tight, too tight—but you won’t ask them to be loosened. The guards know better than to keep an eye on you. You’re not dangerous, just inconvenient.

You know he’ll come.

You don’t look surprised when Jinu appears between the carved columns, breathless, his topknot hastily tied and robes disheveled. His boots make no sound against the wooden floor as he drops to his knees before you.

“Please,” he says, his voice shredded down to the bone. “Please tell me you’ll hate me for this.”

You blink slowly. Your lashes are damp with the humidity. “Would that make it easier?”

“No.” Jinu shakes his head. “But I want you to have something.”

There’s no moon yet, but the light from the lantern by the steps is enough to see him properly. His lips are chapped. There’s ink on his sleeves, on the soft crease where his palm meets his thumb. He hasn’t stopped writing letters, then. Petitions. Pleas.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “If they see you—”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ll strip you of your title.”

“I don’t care.”

His hands are trembling when they reach for yours. He cups your bound wrists with reverence. His touch is a contradiction—soft, but desperate. His thumbs brush over your bruises. You don’t flinch.

Between his palms, you feel something cool press against your skin, smooth and weightless. Your fingers twitch, instinctively curling around it.

A jade rabbit.

The kind children carry for luck. The kind lovers carve when words aren’t enough.

You remember once, weeks ago, a charm just like it left behind on the counter behind the Queen Dowager’s quarters—no note, no name. You’d tucked it into the folds of your robes and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Now, you understand. You clutch it tighter.

“You said once,” Jinu whispers, “that you didn’t believe in reincarnation.”

You manage a faint smile, remembering his stories of the demon king and the curse of love and memory because of sins past. “I still don’t.”

“Well.” His eyes close briefly, lashes dark against his cheek. “I’ll believe for both of us, then.”

The cicadas outside scream like they know how little time is left.

“It’s just a story,” you say. “No one remembers their past lives.”

“I do,” he says, and something deep in you twists, aching. “And I will. I’ll find you again.”

“I don’t want to be remembered like this,” you whisper.

“I won’t remember the ropes,” Jinu says. “I’ll remember the way you fold paper cranes, and recite poetry, and the sound of your laugh when you think no one’s listening.”

Your throat tightens. There’s a sob there, buried deep, but it won’t surface. You’re too tired for crying. “Don’t—”

“I’ll remember,” he says. “And one day, somewhere—when you are free and unafraid—I’ll press this rabbit into your palm again, and you’ll know.”

“Jinu—”

He leans forward slowly, and presses his forehead to your bound hands. The lantern’s light glows between you. The cicadas hush. Far in the distance, a temple bell rings the hour. It’s almost time.

TOKYO, JAPAN. PRESENT DAY.

These days, you find it harder to sleep. The dreams are worse now, beguiling and long and sad. They stretch like old film reels behind your eyes, full of half-familiar cities and names that slip away when you wake. They end with Jinu, always Jinu—but not Jinu at the same time. He wears different clothes, speaks in languages you don’t remember learning.

You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one arm heavy and warm across your waist.

This version of Jinu sleeps with his mouth slightly open, his breathing even, steady. His chest rises and falls against your back, his palm curled gently beneath your navel. The window’s been left ajar, and the scent of sakura drifts in on the night air. You press your hand over his absentmindedly. His fingers twitch in his sleep and close tighter around you.

You sigh. Your forehead presses into the pillow. It’s too early or too late to be awake, and you’re tired—so tired—but your body doesn’t know how to rest anymore. Not when your mind insists on wandering. Not when you wake up crying into a man’s arms and can’t tell him why.

You almost speak, but he stirs before you can.

“Mmh,” he mumbles, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. “You okay?”

“I… had that dream again,” you tell him.

Jinu lifts his head. He’s groggy, eyes swollen with sleep, but he’s already frowning. Already reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“The one with the snow?” he asks.

You nod. “And the red ribbon. And a jazz bar.”

He doesn’t laugh, though you’d expect anyone else to. Instead, he kisses your shoulder. “Come closer.”

“I’m already close.”

“Closer,” he says again, like the space between you could ever be enough to stop the ache. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can keep the dreams at bay.

You turn to face him, legs brushing his under the blanket. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Do I do something wrong in the dream?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But you’re sad. Like… you know something I don’t.”

His throat works. His thumb runs along the apple of your cheek, just once. “Maybe I’m dreaming it too.”

You stare at him. It’s too dark to read his expression clearly, but something in you catches at the thought. Maybe he’s dreaming it, too: the same ink-stained hands, the same gardens, the same unfinished goodbyes.

“You think so?” you whisper.

He nods. “Remind me,” he says. “I found this antique rabbit made out of jade yesterday at the market. It reminded me of you. Remind me to give it to you.”

“Okay,” you say, and bury your face against his chest and let him wrap both arms around you. You press your palm over his heart.

“You talk in your sleep, too, sometimes, you know,” you murmur into the dark. “Who’s Gwi-Ma?”

You’re teasing, mostly—half-asleep, your words loose around the edges—but there’s a small, curious lilt to your voice that makes Jinu still for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible, just long enough for you to notice.

You continue, lightly, unaware. “Should I be worried?”

He should’ve prepared for this. He’s had five lifetimes to come up with a better answer. Five lifetimes of choices and mistakes and prayers spoken into temples and alleyways and bomb shelters. Five lifetimes of watching you slip through his fingers, of losing you just when he thought he might have a chance.

He should’ve been ready.

Jinu exhales slowly, lets his palm slide a little higher on your stomach, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. Your breathing is calm now. You trust him.

He leans in and kisses your shoulder again, and says, “No one.”

You shift a little in his arms, not entirely convinced. “Sounds like a someone.”

He smiles against your skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just a strange dream. One of those names that sticks for no reason. You know how it is.”

“We’re weird,” you mumble. “I mean… you and me.”

“I know,” Jinu says, and he means it more than you’ll ever understand.

You don’t see the way his gaze always rests on you in the dark after you drift off. You don’t feel how tight his arms become, how he pulls you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish in your sleep.

You don’t know that he remembers everything.

The snow in Bukchon. The teahouse. The library in the palace. The battlefield and your name on the inside of his sleeve. Paris and silence. New Orleans and the ribbon in your hair. The prison courtyard and the jade rabbit you clutched until the rope took you. All of it.

He remembers the taste of your ginger tea; the colour of your blood on his hands; the sound of your voice in French; the way you looked at him in a jazz bar in 1972 and said, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

Too late, he’d wanted to say. Too many lives too late.

Now, in this quiet Tokyo apartment, with your fingers unconsciously curled into the fabric of his shirt, he knows Gwi-Ma has finally allowed him to keep you. The king has grown tired of watching him suffer. That was the promise, that in this fifth and final life, he can keep you safe and warm, tucked into his side, where the only real concerns are whether he’s put the laundry to dry, or what to cook for dinner.

Jinu watches the sky begin to pale through the window, watches your lashes flutter in sleep. He watches your mouth part like you’re about to say his name, even here, even now. He thinks about the red ribbon he keeps tucked inside his coat pockets, and worn-out letter in his dresser, and the jade rabbit he keeps underneath his pillow, and he smiles into your hair.

a/n: hi! thank you so much for reading :) i watched kpop demon hunters on sunday and i could not stop thinking about how little we know about jinu’s past and about how rumi’s mother met and fell in love with a demon. that little thought about jinu’s past turned into a full-blown fic that i wrote imagining that jinu’s past sin was abandoning his family (except i obviously tweaked it) & that gwi-ma is more like hades in terms of punishment as opposed to like. a demon king. the poem that jinu reads out aloud is a translated version of quiet night thought by li bai. have a wonderful day!

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #jinu #jinu kpdh #kpdh x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader #jinu x reader #jinu fluff #kpdh fluff #kpop demon hunters fluff #jinu x you #kpdh x you #kpop demon hunters x you

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whoevenisjavier · 1 month ago

Text

sugar coated, lies unfolded

pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader

summary: you try to stay away, to do the right thing, but somehow, you end up back in your boss’ bed... well, your boss and his wife’s bed.

part 1 here

tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48 and married. reader is 25 and has a boyfriend. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! receiving). unprotected piv. anal fingering. she does stuff to him while his wife is on the phone i’m sorry.

w/c: 10k

Someone is talking about the ripple effects of the Forbes cover on New York’s business scene, explaining how the new feature on Harry Castillo will influence decisions made by investors and agents, especially now that Castillo & Co. is expanding operations in Asia.

“It’s an unbelievable feat to be on the cover of Forbes twice in just twenty months,” the public relations manager is saying.

You jot down the word unbelievable on your iPad before the rest of the sentence drowns in flashbacks from the night before, flooding your brain like quicksand made of memories, tastes, and touches.

You shift in your chair, wishing you were anywhere but a conference room at eight-thirty in the morning, and your gaze, though fixed on your tablet screen, starts to blur around the edges.

Between your legs is tender, deliciously sore in all the right ways after being claimed by the thick length of Harry until almost two in the morning, when he finally dropped you off at home.

You didn’t even make it to the bed in his Lenox Hill apartment. You had sex on the white oak floor in the living room, on top of a blanket, desperate, and everything on you is sensitive today.

You slept with your boss. You actually slept with your boss.

God. Harry has such a filthy mouth.

Someone calls your name.

“Do you think he’d want that?”

Your eyes meet those of Harry’s personal PR manager, who has one brow raised. You like her. She’s sharp and direct and doesn’t have time to waste, a trait that’s written all over the look she’s giving you now.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” you admit. “What was the question?”

An impatient sigh.

“I asked if you think Harry would want to talk about his career journey.”

“No,” you say immediately. “He covered that in the last interview, and he’ll kill someone if he has to answer the same questions again.”

The intern to your left scrambles to erase something from her own iPad.

When you leave the meeting, it’s settled that Harry’s next interview will be with Forbes, set to be edited and published on a rush schedule. Now you need to inform him, schedule the interview, send ten thousand emails.

You press the elevator button and wait. When the doors finally open on your floor—Media, Marketing, and Advertising—there are three people inside, and your boss is one of them.

Your first instinct is to stay put, but one of the men is holding the door open for you, and Harry is looking at you with an unreadable expression. Everyone knows the two of you get along well, so you can’t exactly not step in.

“Good morning,” you say as you enter, greeted politely by the other two men. You stop beside Harry, both of you facing forward, side by side. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Morning.”

His tone is polite and to the point, as it always is when other people are around.

The doors close. The elevator screen shows stops on the fifth and seventh floors before heading to the fifteenth, where Harry’s office is. Background music resumes while you focus on breathing mechanically, because even that feels too tense right now.

Is he thinking about how he practically begged to come inside you twice?

The elevator stops. One of the men steps out, exchanging good mornings.

At some point last night, he brought up your boyfriend while he was still inside you, and you wanted to kill him for it, because your body was torn between being turned on by the wrongness of it all and feeling sorry for your partner, who was probably asleep at that hour, completely unaware of how his name was being dragged through the situation. But then the irrational possessiveness bug bit Harry and he made you admit your boyfriend didn’t fuck you nearly as well.

The elevator stops again. The last person exits, leaving just you and Harry in the confined space. The music starts up again.

Harry speaks first.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, still looking ahead.

“What do…” you start to say, then remember how, toward the end of the night, you told him you were so sensitive between your legs, something Harry then soothed with his own tongue. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“You complained.”

“I made an observation,” you clarify. “Because it’s true. You and my boyfriend are different. And with you, it was hours.”

He says nothing.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about this at work,” you remind him. “Last night didn’t happen.”

The doors open on your floor, and Harry, without addressing your last comment, holds them open for you to exit first. You both begin walking to your respective places — your desk, his office — and you slip back into your executive assistant persona. The one who doesn’t know what his sweaty skin smells like, how his kiss tastes, or the sound of that deep groan when whispered into your ear.

“I need to talk to you about the Forbes interview,” you call after him. “Can we schedule a meeting at three?”

“Yes. Put it on the calendar, please,” he says without slowing down or looking back.

He enters his office and shuts the door behind him, which means: do not disturb.

So you don’t.

You and Harry are good actors. That you gotta admit.

For the next three weeks, nothing happens. He’s your boss, you’re his assistant, and that’s the only dynamic that exists between you. The world keeps spinning. And you don’t get fired, which was a very real possibility in the mental report you filed the morning after that night.

You start arriving earlier so you don’t have to stay late, which means you don’t have to be alone with him. Harry stops sending cryptic messages about his meetings. He also stops emerging from his office when you walk in wearing the red dress he once said he loved.

Three weeks later, on a Friday at four p.m., Harry steps out of his office and walks over to your desk.

You look up from the Excel spreadsheet where you’re logging his personal expenses and ask politely,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“Are you going to the cocktail party?”

He’s talking about the Castillo & Co. event tomorrow night, celebrating the release of the Forbes issue featuring his new interview.

“Yes, of course. Do you need something?”

“I need you to come with me to the tailor and take the suit to my apartment. I’ve got something at six, won’t have time to go back to my house.”

“Okay. Now?”

“Now.”

You nod, like the good assistant you are, and save the file before shutting down your computer.

In silence, you both head down to the parking garage and slide into the back seat of Harry’s car. His driver is already behind the wheel. Harry immediately crosses one leg over the other, foot bouncing, and pulls out his phone. You turn toward the window as the car leaves the underground lot.

This is the first time you two are in a car together after that night, that had felt so different.

Harry had dismissed the driver, so he was the one behind the wheel. The silence back then was heavy with anticipation, tension, and the electric certainty that something was going to happen. When he stopped at a red light, he leaned across the console to kiss you and slid a hand under your skirt, pressing against you through your underwear in a way that made you feel completely, undeniably his.

You squeeze your thighs together and close your eyes, steadying your breath.

The moment shatters with the sound of your phone. You glance down and see “baby” on the screen — your boyfriend. You’d asked him to call to plan dinner.

Shit. Perfect timing.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly. In your peripheral vision, you catch Harry’s foot stilling. Your boyfriend is cheerful, loud enough that Harry can probably hear every word. He asks if you’re still at the office. “No, I’m heading to the tailor with Harry, then I’ll go straight to your place. Is that okay?”

He says it is. Says he bought a special bottle of wine because the pink label reminded him of you—your favorite color—and the ache in your chest tightens.

“You’re so sweet to me,” you say, and maybe it’s just in your head, but your voice sounds too guilty. He tells you that you deserve it. You don’t know what to say, so you ask, “Do you want me to pick anything up for dinner?”

He says no. Says he just wants one thing from you. You lower your voice.

“What do you want?”

The car is dead silent. Your phone volume is up too high when he says, “I want you on the kitchen counter, wearing nothing but your panties, while I cook.” That’s your assignment, he adds.

You let out an awkward little laugh, praying Harry didn’t catch it.

“Deal,” you say. “See you tonight.”

When you hang up, Harry isn’t on his phone anymore. He’s just staring out the window, unreadable.

You arrive at the tailor and the driver opens your door. Harry joins you on the sidewalk and, for the first time in nearly a month, places a guiding hand at the base of your back as you walk inside. He used to do that all the time, but apparently that kind of touch was banned after what happened between you.

The receptionist greets you and leads you to one of the private fitting rooms. Three of the walls are mirrors and two velvet couches sit in the corner. There’s a tray with water and candied orange peels, and, In the center of it all, is the raised circular platform where Harry usually stands during fittings.

She shows him the suit, neatly arranged on two hangers, and tells him to try it on. Then she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

You head straight for one of the couches, which makes Harry’s hand fall away from your back.

“Want me to wait outside?” you ask, out of habit, as you sit down. You’ve done this a dozen times.

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” he says, pulling off his shoes.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Off comes the blazer, placed on the rack. Then the watch and the cufflinks are dropped into the tray. Then come the buttons—first the sleeves, then the collar, all the way down…

You clear your throat and open your phone, responding to emails, not looking at him.

“So your boyfriend cooks for you,” Harry says casually.

And just like that, you know he heard everything.

Half his chest is exposed. He’s not even looking at you as he untucks his shirt and slides it off, standing shirtless in front of you, wearing only slacks.

“Yeah, he likes to cook.”

“Is it a special occasion?”

“Does it have to be?” you counter, eyes glued to your screen.

“Just asking.”

He unbuttons his pants, and you lock your gaze on your phone.

“Anniversary,” you finally say, which makes you realize that you’ll need new lingerie for tonight.

“What if he proposes again? Will you say yes?”

“Harry,” you say firmly, lifting your gaze now that he’s put on the dress pants. “That’s none of your business. You pay me to manage your life, but that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about mine.”

“I love how passive-aggressive you get when I bring up your relationship. You hate it.”

“I don’t hate my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t say you hate your boyfriend. I said you hate your relationship.”

He starts buttoning the newly fitted shirt, and his tone is so maddeningly casual you feel heat rising in your chest.

“You just want me to hate my relationship so you can feel a little better,” you say, holding your fingers up, barely apart, “just this much better, about the fact that you hate yours too.”

“I don’t need to feel better about it. I know the truth. If we didn’t hate our relationships, we wouldn’t have had sex.”

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“Oh, that again. Has it helped? Not talking about it has made you think about it any less?”

You lock your phone and set it aside. Adjust yourself on the couch and look directly at him. Your voice stays quiet, but sharp.

“Of course not, but what do you want me to do? I’m in a relationship, you’re married, we have lives, and I need my job. And even if I do think about that night, I can’t do anything about it. So yeah, it’s better to pretend.”

“So you do think about it.”

“If that’s what strokes your ego, then fine, yes. I think about it. There hasn’t been a single damn day since that night that I haven’t remembered it. It haunts me.”

Harry finishes buttoning his shirt, tucks it in, then slips on the blazer. The suit fits like a glove. Every seam perfect, every line flattering.

“I told you I had morals,” Harry says quietly after a beat. “But I put them aside for you. And now, here I am, with none, asking you to keep going.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Keep going what?”

“What started that night in my office. I’m not going to ask you to break up with your boyfriend, and I won’t promise I’ll divorce my wife. I can sign a five-year job security agreement if that’s what it takes to make you feel safe. But I want you.”

“This won’t work.”

“Do you want it?”

What a stupid question. You nearly die a little every day from how much you want him.

But your answer never comes, because the tailor opens the door and walks in, greeting Harry cheerfully.

And now you can’t stop thinking

You think about it as you head to Harry’s apartment to drop off his suit, ignoring the pair of gold hoops on the entryway table that make it painfully obvious he’s a married man. You think about it later, when you go to your boyfriend’s place and undress for him. And even later, in the shower, when you notice the mark he left near your breast while you were having sex.

This has absolutely no chance of ending well, and you’ve never been the kind of person who lets irrational impulses get in the way of your career. But for the first time… you’re tempted.

And the worst part? You can’t tell anyone. Maybe your therapist, but she’ll just say again how unhealthy this dynamic is, and you don’t want to hear that. And you don’t trust her that much with this kind of secret.

You think about it as you get ready for Harry’s cocktail party, aching to see him and hoping for permission to touch him.

Your boyfriend approaches, eyes wide when he sees you in the strapless red gown, and lets out a whistle.

“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be seen with you tonight?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you from behind and kissing your neck. “You look gorgeous. Stunning dress.”

“Harry gave it to me. Well, he gave me the money and his personal shopper bought it,” you say, because there’s no way you could afford a Schiaparelli, and your boyfriend is used to hearing about the things Harry buys you whenever there’s an event.

All so you look presentable as Harry Castillo’s executive assistant, of course.

“Of course he did,” your boyfriend says, rolling his eyes. “Ready?”

When you arrive at Castillo & Co.’s event hall, hand in hand with your boyfriend, you realize that, no, you’re not ready. The decor is tasteful and elegant in shades of fawn, black, and ice white and everyone is in black-tie. At the back of the room, a digital display showcases the Forbes cover. Harry looks amazing in the photo, completely fitting for the role he holds, but the headline reads: From Concrete to the Top of the World.

He must’ve hated that.

“Do we have fancy whiskey?” your boyfriend asks as you start to cross the room. “And shrimp cocktail?”

The questions are rhetorical. Before you can answer, he plants a loud kiss on your lips and heads off toward the food tables. You watch him walk away, wishing he stayed with you, but then a waiter offers you a glass of champagne and you accept. You walk toward the edge of the room, and sip while scanning the space.

People are gathered in polished little clusters, all impeccably dressed and beaming. But there’s a larger group crowded around one person, and the reason is Harry, who’s speaking with ease and commanding the social scene with effortless charm, looking absolutely delicious in a tux.

Your view is partially blocked when his wife appears beside him, placing a hand on his forearm, looking radiant in a white off-shoulder draped gown. Without stopping his sentence or glancing her way, Harry slips an arm around her waist.

She seems to glow under his touch. You understand the feeling, despite the hundred-pound weight settling in your stomach.

How ridiculous, to feel jealous of the wife. You are the wrong one, not her. And how twisted is it that, beneath the jealousy, there’s a flicker of satisfaction because Harry wants you, not just her?

Harry laughs at something one of the men says. He scans the room briefly, and that’s when he sees you. Your stomach twists, and nearly melts, when his eyes sweep over you from head to toe, so subtly that no one else would notice.

Smoothly, he turns back to the conversation, as if his attention had never strayed.

Your own attention is pulled back by your boyfriend returning.

“There’s so much food,” he says, his excitement making you laugh. He laughs too, but insists, “Seriously. It’s insane. Have you eaten?”

You shake your head, and he grabs your hand, guiding you toward the buffet tables. There are a million options, and you let yourself get distracted by them so you don’t start looking for Harry, which doesn’t work, because ten minutes later, he’s the one who finds you.

His wife is with him.

“Darling,” she says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “That dress is stunning. It’s Schiaparelli, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you reply, and she keeps looking at you like she’s waiting for an explanation. You add, “A loan from Harry, so I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

“It’s not a loan. It’s yours,” Harry says, leaning in to greet you with a kiss on the cheek. His smell, what the fuck. He extends a hand to your boyfriend. “So you’re the boyfriend.”

“So you’re the boss,” your boyfriend jokes as they shake hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Castillo.”

“Likewise,” Harry says, though the tone is anything but warm. Then to you: “My PR rep asked for a few photos of us. Can you do that now?”

“Sure,” you reply, accepting his offered arm.

Harry kisses his wife lightly and says he’ll be right back. You do the same with your boyfriend. Together, you walk toward the PR team, and once you’re far enough from the crowd, Harry speaks, eyes still forward.

“Have you thought about it?”

“Do I have a deadline?”

“So you’re considering it.”

That shuts you up. Yes, you are considering it.

“If we were to do this,” you murmur to Harry, smiling politely at one of his business partners entering your field of vision, who’s always courteous to you, “I’d want that job security agreement.”

“I’ll call my lawyer right now and have him draft the contract.”

The conversation pauses as you reach Harry’s publicist—a tall man who always wears eccentric suits, whether because of the patterns or the bold colors. Tonight, he’s in blood-red with round glasses and greets you with a giant smile.

“Stunning,” he says, kissing both of your cheeks. “What an honor for Harry to be seen with such a beautiful woman.”

You shoot him a look.

“Besides Mrs. Castillo, of course!” he adds quickly, and you decide not to check your boss’s face. “Shall we?”

You and Harry pose in front of a wide LED panel bearing the Castillo Construction & Co. logo. He places a hand on your waist without a hint of a smile, and you fall into your executive posture: back straight, polite, demure smile.

Photos are taken with instructions from both the photographer and the publicist. When it’s over, but before you and Harry can step apart, he leans in, under the guise of a polite hug, and whispers in your ear:

“She’s traveling for work tonight. If the answer is yes, you know where I live.”

Then he disappears into the sea of people who can’t wait to be near him.

By sheer luck, you don’t see Harry again during the next two hours you remain at the cocktail party. Your boyfriend indulges in the expensive whiskey, and you sip two more glasses of champagne, but there’s an anticipation humming beneath everything you do, like something is lurking.

Like the night won’t end at your home, in your bed, with your boyfriend.

You leave around nine, and you practically have to guide your boyfriend into the Uber waiting at the curb. He’s nearly unconscious on the ride back to his apartment, just awake enough to walk on his own. You help him inside, stay with him while he showers, and then watch over him as he collapses into bed.

A glass of water and two aspirins on the nightstand. A kiss on the forehead. And then he’s snoring, totally out.

You close the door gently behind you and, leaning your back against it, pick up your phone.

You open your chat with Harry. The last message is a simple “ok” you sent after he asked to reschedule a meeting.

There’s no telling how long you stand there, staring at the screen and imagining a thousand different scenarios, but when you finally type something, it’s:

“Let the front desk know I’m cleared to come up.”

Because even though your name is on the list of people with access to his apartment, the building has strict policies about non-residents after 8 p.m.

Harry replies ten minutes later:

“Done.”

The doorman, an older gentleman who’s always polite, greets you as always: with a gentle tone, a compliment (this time about your dress), and a polite question about whether Harry’s being a decent boss. But you catch the slight wrinkle between his brows, the subtle confusion in his smile. It says: What the hell are you doing here at this hour?

You see the same look from the security guards, and from the person at the front desk. But you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and pretend your reason for being here is purely professional.

You build a whole story in your mind as you walk across the marble lobby, your heels clicking with each step, just to make it easier to face. Harry needs a report for Monday morning, and he’s paying you overtime for it, but the source documents are physical, and he can’t scan them.

He took them home because he planned to work on them tonight, but the cocktail party took over his evening.

You step into the elevator and enter the code for Harry’s apartment.

And he remembered the report at the event, of course he did, because the partner he’s meeting on Monday mentioned looking forward to the negotiations. So you, ever the good employee, offered to stop by and grab the documents.

The elevator doors close, taking you toward the penthouse duplex, and you shut your eyes, erasing the fake narrative.

Now, it’s just you and your conscience.

There’s no report. No meeting. No overtime. Now it’s just Harry and you, both willingly choosing to do this and hurt your partners in exchange for nothing more than physical satisfaction.

The doors open into the private foyer of the penthouse, warmly lit and lined with framed art. Harry is standing in the doorway of the apartment, barefoot, blazer gone, bowtie undone and hanging loose at his collar.

You take one step forward, leaving the elevator.

“How was the rest of the party?” you ask, trying to sound casual through your nerves.

“Good. They liked the feature.”

You stop a few feet away, feeling his eyes on you. You twist your clutch in your hands.

“We left early because she had to catch the flight,” Harry adds, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “Want to come in? I think I still have some champagne.”

You nod, agreeing, and step inside as Harry closes the door behind you. The long hallway leading into the living room, all decorated in earth tones and golden light, greets you like a witness.

“There are some things I’m assuming based on the fact that you’re here,” Harry says behind you. You turn to face him. “But obviously, I need you to say it.”

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”

He watches you for a beat, reading your face.

“Morals?”

“It’s called having a heart.”

He smiles, and it’s far too sensual for the subject at hand.

“Speaking of hearts… what excuse did you give your boyfriend?”

He walks past you, heading down the hallway, and you follow. The two of you move into the living room, and you settle onto the couch, watching as Harry disappears for a few seconds and reemerges with an unopened bottle of Bollinger and two flutes in his hands. He sits beside you, and within moments, the bottle is open and champagne is flowing into both glasses.

You slip off your heels. Harry tosses his bow tie onto the coffee table. And only after you’ve taken your first sip of champagne do you finally answer.

“I didn’t need an excuse. He was asleep,” you say, referring to your boyfriend. “I think he had a lot of whiskey.”

“That’s a shame. He could’ve spent the night with you, but he chose to drink,” Harry replies, settling in beside you as he clicks his tongue. “Rookie mistake.”

“You think it’s exciting to sleep with me because it only happened once and it’s forbidden. After three years, he doesn’t think like that anymore.”

“There isn’t a universe where I don’t find having you in my bed exciting.”

That makes you blink slowly at him, then at the ring on his finger, while the champagne tastes suddenly bitter on your tongue.

He notices where your eyes have landed.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gesturing to the ring.

You don’t even need to think, which probably bumps you up twenty points on the I’m-A-Terrible-Person scale.

“No,” you say, because it’s true. “Did you feel guilty?”

“Tonight?” you nod, and he draws in a long breath. He seems to test a million possible words before landing on: “No. I didn’t. I was angry at your boyfriend, and then I felt like an asshole for that.”

When you don’t respond, Harry throws the question back at you.

“Did you?”

You take another sip of champagne, gaze fixed on the massive TV mounted across from the sofa.

“I wish I had. It would be easier to deal with all this if I felt guilty.”

Harry reaches over and takes a lock of your hair that had fallen over your chest, twirling it around his finger before brushing it over your shoulder. He does the same with the others, gently moving each strand behind you, letting it fall down your back.

Before anything else, he places his glass on the coffee table beside the bottle and settles into the cushions.

“Come here.”

The way he pulls you brings your body into his, with your back partially resting against his chest and your legs tucked beneath you.

“I usually have answers for everything,” Harry says. “But for this? I don’t.”

You tilt your head just enough to hear the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear, and you intertwine your fingers with his. His arm rests over your right shoulder.

“It’s okay… I don’t need comfort. I’m here because I want to be.”

Harry makes a low sound, like agreement, and presses his hand flat against your chest. He can probably feel the same quick heartbeat under his palm.

He changes the subject because that’s the smarter choice.

“You look beautiful in that dress,” he says near your ear, his voice more intimate now, more private. You close your eyes and savor the sound like it’s dessert. “Everyone was looking at you and envying your boyfriend.”

His hand drifts lower, cupping your breast over the smooth silk of your gown, his touch feather-light. Your skin prickles.

“But I’m the one they should envy, right?” Harry keeps whispering. The dress has a slit that’s just wide enough for him to slip his hand underneath and cup your breast. “I was trying to think of a way to make that obvious.”

“That you’re cheating on your wife with me?”

His soft thumb finds your hardened nipple, and a wave of heat rolls between your legs as he circles it.

“That I got what all those wide-eyed bastards wanted.”

“You’re awfully possessive for someone who’s the other man.”

He laughs, and you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration under your cheek against his chest. You smile, and the smile stays as Harry reaches for the small zipper on the side of your dress and slowly, slowly pulls it down.

The fabric loosens with each inch the zipper drops, and you’re the one who slides the top of the dress down to your waist, exposing your breasts. His hands cover them one at a time, squeezing gently, and you push them toward his palms.

Soon, it’s his mouth on your neck, lips parted over your sensitive skin. You have to tighten your grip around the champagne flute just to keep from dropping it as Harry kisses and bites your neck, his beard scraping and tickling in a way that leaves your whole body weak.

“Turn around and kiss me,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the coffee table.

When he leans back into the couch again, you kneel on the seat beside him, just like that first night in his office, and meet his mouth. Harry holds your face with both hands but lets you set the pace, following your movements. And you devour it, because you’ve thought about this too much. His kiss, his taste, the way he leads without ever needing to be rough.

Your mouths part wider, undoing all the restraint that’s built up over the last three weeks. Harry slides one hand down to finish unzipping the dress completely and pushes it off your hips, leaving you in nothing but panties.

You’ve barely thrown the dress to the floor before his hand is already inside your underwear, and your knees weaken. He finds the slickness there and mutters a curse under his breath before sitting up straighter to get a better angle as he rubs slow circles over your clit.

The blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you barely register the phone ringing.

Both of you freeze, breaths and hearts racing. You meet Harry’s gaze, seeking some sort of shelter in it, and he looks back at you, lips red, before glancing toward the coffee table.

Before he can move, you kiss him again. Screw the phone. Harry immediately sinks back into the kiss, and the middle finger still inside your panties traces slowly from your clit down to your dripping entrance. It doesn’t take long before he slips it inside, and you swing a leg over his lap, settling into him.

The phone stops ringing.

Harry moves slowly, probably remembering how sensitive you were last time. He takes his time with just one finger, working you open, making you wetter. Your clit is practically throbbing, and he starts to speak—

—but the words are swallowed up by the phone ring again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry mutters, clearly annoyed, pulling his hand from your panties and gripping your waist. With you still in his lap, he leans forward and grabs the phone. You feel his whole body tense beneath you when he sees the screen.

“What is it?” you ask.

“My wife,” he says.

You want to be a bitch and tell him not to answer, to hang up, but you can’t. Even though you know he might actually listen if you said it.

“Answer. It could be important.”

Harry squeezes your waist as you try to move off his lap.

“Stay,” he says, and clears his throat before answering. “Hi, darling. Everything okay?”

“Hey, babe. Why didn’t you pick up the first time?”

You can hear her voice clearly because she’s speaking loudly and because of how close the two of you are, but you stay quiet and still, as if moving might somehow make her see you.

The lie rolls off his tongue effortlessly.

“Sorry. I was on a video call with some investors in Japan. I didn’t see the phone ring.”

You keep your eyes on his as your hand reaches the button on his pants. You undo it silently, then ease the zipper down.

Harry doesn’t stop you.

“I’m at the airport,” his wife is saying. “I upgraded to business class, but for some reason they need you to authorize the purchase on your bank app.”

“That’s strange. They’ve never needed confirmation before.”

With the zipper all the way down, you slide your hand into his underwear and pull out his hard cock. Your mouth practically waters.

“I said the same thing!” she laughs. “I think I’m just going to cancel and try using my own card… Not the joint account.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but it’s exactly when you lick your hand and wrap it around him. His jaw tightens and his eyes flutter shut. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a sharp breath.

“Harry?”

“I can authorize it from here,” he says into the phone, eyes glancing down to follow the motion of your hand. “Up to you.”

“Hmm… no worries, I’ll just use mine.” A pause. “My flight boards in thirty minutes and you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

“What?”

You remove your hand from his cock only to quietly slip out of your panties. His gaze drops, devouring the space between your legs, and you sit back down on his thigh, not caring in the slightest if you leave a wet mark on his pants.

She says,

“The way you fingered me in the car after the party.”

Your hands freeze. You raise an eyebrow at Harry, and he gives you a small, crooked smile before replying to his wife,

“You liked that?”

“Mhm. Too bad I couldn’t make you come, too.”

You narrow your eyes and squirm with jealousy. You tighten your grip and focus on the swollen tip. Harry tries to stop you, but you challenge him and keep going, watching his expression break. You want her to hear.

“I didn’t need to,” he manages to say. “That was for you.”

Harry moves the phone away completely, whispering a curse just as her voice returns on the other end.

“But I miss sleeping with you.” Her tone is overly sweet, but there’s a hint of real sadness buried beneath it.

The smile that threatens to curl your lips is cruel and selfish, and you don’t dig too deep into what it means. Probably something about how you’re about to have what she wants. Which is awfully childish, you know that.

But part of you feels for her. That’s what you think as you lift yourself onto your knees, placing one over Harry’s thigh to get the angle right, and guide his erection to the slick heat between your legs.

You’d feel that way, too, if you were married to a man like Harry and he didn’t want you.

Harry leans his head back on the couch, avoiding your eyes. He stares at the ceiling, the knuckles of the hand holding the phone pale and strained.

“Sorry. A lot on my mind,” he says, just as you sink down on him.

His chest tightens in a heavy breath. His free hand clutches your hip, his thighs tense beneath you, a vein in his neck practically pulsing. He’s a vision of self-restraint, and you revel in it, grinding down onto him and biting your lip hard enough to nearly break skin just to keep quiet.

“I get it,” she says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Darling, I need—”

“Promise me we’ll try harder.”

You lean forward as he stretches you, kissing the side of his damp neck while your fingers work on the buttons of his shirt, your tongue tracing the line of that vein. He shudders.

“I promise,” Harry says, his nails digging into your waist as you begin to rock in his lap, moaning against his skin. “I… I really need to go. Have to finish some documents. But text me when you land, okay?”

You don’t even register their goodbye. All you know is that Harry practically throws his phone onto the coffee table.

“Brat,” he mutters against your mouth as he pulls your hair, tugging off his shirt in one fluid motion. “Can’t believe the phone didn’t pick up the sound of this wet pussy.”

“Lucky you,” you say. “So Harry Castillo isn’t fucking his wife? What a shame.”

He tightens his grip around you and stands, pulling a gasp from your mouth as he slips out of you.

“You’re too old to be lifting like that,” you say, even as your thighs wrap around his hips. “Your physical therapist’s gonna be rich.”

“And you still want this old man?”

You nod, and Harry gives a smug little smile. Men are so easy to please.

He carries you through the hallway into the master bedroom. Your wide-eyed gaze meets his a moment before he sets you down on the enormous, messy bed. One glance to the side and you see the open door of his wife’s closet, purses and heels in view, just before Harry flips you onto your stomach and raises your hips.

You brace on your elbows, spine arching.

Two pillows rest at the head of the bed. One nightstand holds a book, a pair of glasses, and a man’s watch. The other has hand cream, a gold bracelet, a bottle of vitamins, and a pink hair clip.

It’s literally the most intimate part of a couple’s life, and this bedroom embodies that, exactly why you used to think, and agree, it was a line not to be crossed. But not for Harry, apparently, who climbs onto the bed behind you and slides into you again.

Your head drops forward, blocking your vision, fingers clutching the sheets as he sinks in fully.

Harry leans over your back, his fingers finding your pulsing clit, stroking in slow circles that make your whole body melt.

“Harry—”

“Come on my cock and I’ll fuck you.”

You writhe beneath him as his fingers move faster, smaller, tighter circles. You roll your hips forward and back in short, needy thrusts, just enough friction to push you toward the edge.

Your mouth dries, eyes squeezing shut as the tension coils in your belly. When Harry switches to horizontal strokes, rubbing directly across your clit, you come so hard it borders on painful, then dissolves into something warm and all-consuming, like being lowered into a hot bath.

“Just like that,” he whispers against your moans, slowing his movements so you can ride out every last wave. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

You nod, even though your ears are still buzzing. You nearly miss the weight of his body when he pulls back, but then one hand presses between your shoulder blades and the other grabs your hip, and he starts to thrust.

It’s almost too much. You’re still sensitive, your clit sparking with each slap of his balls, but it’s so good. You hear his grunts, low and rough, and you spread your knees wider, gripping the sheets. Your eyes land on his wife’s nightstand at the same moment Harry says,

“This what you wanted? Climbing on top of me while I was on the phone? Almost making me lose it?”

You nod. Harry pulls your left leg, then your right, laying you flat. He lies on top of you, keeping your legs tight between his, and thrusts again.

“Say it out loud.”

He kisses your neck, brushing your hair away. Your skin tingles.

“For a second, I wanted her to hear,” you admit, grateful you’re not facing him.

Harry breathes against your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted her to know that what she wants…” You can’t finish before he speeds up, and you have to grit your teeth. With your legs squeezed together, every thrust hits deeper. “You’re giving it to me. And you’re so, so hard for me…”

There. You said it. This time, you break the rule about not talking about the others. And you can’t regret it, not when Harry wraps a hand around your throat, bites your shoulder, and fucks you, the slap of skin clashing with the wet sounds of his cock inside you, again and again, until he growls a curse.

He pulls out and flips you onto your back. Harry climbs over you, stroking himself, eyes roving over your body—your breasts, the space between your thighs. You touch yourself too, unable not to, watching his face tighten as he gets close.

And when he comes, it’s on your belly, whispering your name as the hot ropes of cum cover your skin.

“Open your legs,” he says, voice hoarse and skin sweaty. You fold your knees and spread your thighs. “You’re already close again… Look how you’re throbbing.”

This time it’s the tip of his cock that presses against your swollen clit, massaging it, smearing his cum across your skin as he strokes. His softening head glides over you in slow, steady movements. With his free hand, Harry uses his fingers to open you wider, and when he finds the exact spot again, he presses.

Your next orgasm isn’t as explosive as the first, but just as overwhelming. When it hits, you can’t take anymore. You clamp your legs shut and push his hand away.

He gets it. He lies down beside you, pulls you into his arms, and holds you while you catch your breath.

As your senses return, you notice the only light in the room is coming from the open closet. The bedroom is softly decorated, the sheets far too luxurious to have been chosen by a man, even one like Harry Castillo.

“Why did we have sex in here?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“You must have ten guest rooms in this penthouse. Why this one?”

He stays silent, stroking your back.

“Because doing something wrong turns you on?” you ask, turning to look at him. Harry meets your eyes, saying nothing, and his hand goes still on your ribs. “I get it. I think I got wetter when I realized where you brought me.”

Before he can reply, you ask,

“Will you think of me when you’re here with her?”

“I already do,” he says. “The difference is now I’ll have memories. Not just imagination.”

You lean in to kiss him, and Harry welcomes it.

Even so, the two of you sleep in the guest bedroom, because you don’t want to use her pillow or wrap yourself in the same sheets she does.

Harry takes you to the end of the hallway, into a room that seems like it’s never been used, even though the sheets smell like fabric softener.

The bed is bigger than yours, and after a quick shower, the two of you tangle up together, naked, beneath the covers. It’s the first time you’re actually about to fall asleep with him, and he behaves exactly as you expected: he wraps himself around you, throws a leg over yours, and presses you tightly to his body. You’re surrounded by Harry—in your skin, in your sweat, in the sheets, in the house, in the scent that wraps around you.

And just like that, sleep comes easy.

Maybe it’s the unfamiliar space, or the furnace that is Harry’s body, or the emotional chaos, but you wake up in the middle of the night.

He’s completely asleep, his legs trapping yours, and you try to fall back asleep for a few more minutes, but it doesn’t work. Slowly, you untangle yourself from his body and tiptoe out of the room to get your phone, which you’d left in your bag on the coffee table.

You sit on the couch to check for any unread messages, but the moment makes you feel exposed. The champagne bottle and flutes still sitting there give you a headache. You lower the brightness on your phone and go back to the guest room.

Harry hasn’t moved.

There’s a small loveseat by the window, and you curl up there, turning your phone screen back on. The first unread message is from your boyfriend, sent about an hour ago. He’s thanking you for taking care of him. Says you should’ve stayed at his place so he could wake you up with breakfast.

You deserve it for looking after me, he writes and you let out a humorless laugh, because you definitely don’t deserve anything.

There’s a message from your mom, a photo of her, and a few from your friends who saw your picture with Harry on Forbes’s Instagram. You click the link, and it takes you to the post.

Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo Construction & Co., and his executive assistant, is the caption.

You both look good. You make a striking image.

Harry’s sleepy voice pulls your attention back.

“Can’t sleep?”

He’s rubbing his eyes, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

“Think it’s just the unfamiliar bed. I can’t fall back asleep.”

“That really all it is?”

You chew on your bottom lip, hugging your knees and resting your chin on them after leaving your phone aside. Even though you’re completely naked, you don’t feel uncomfortable around Harry, which is saying something.

“What now?” you ask instead, feeling sorry for him, seeing as he just woke up and is being struck with this emotional turbulence. “Are we something?”

“That was the proposal.”

“We’re gonna have to get really good at lying. You know that, right? At some point, ‘I need to stay late at the office’ won’t cut it anymore.” A headache pulses at your temples. You laugh. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“When I started working at the office, I was obsessed with you. I practically drooled when you walked by, watched all your interviews, melted whenever you talked to me. And then you got married, so I made it a point to find someone, or anyone, to date, just to get you out of my system.”

Harry looks at you in a way you don’t like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “I’m not some virgin girl doing this because I’m in love. You fuck me well, and I like it. That’s all.”

Harry gets out of bed and grabs a pillow. He walks over to you and, without a word, places it on the floor in front of the chair. Then he kneels, and you fall silent at the sight of Harry Castillo on his knees before you, his hair tousled from sleep.

He lifts your left ankle, holding your leg halfway out to kiss from your ankle to your knee, taking his time. The moonlight from outside casts a soft glow over his profile.

You watch, heart pounding.

“I remember your first day at work,” Harry murmurs, sleep-rough voice breaking the silence as he parts his lips to kiss the inside of your thigh. Your stomach twists with nerves and anticipation. “You were wearing a white dress. Your hair was tied up. And you widened your eyes at everyone who came near, like a damn deer.”

Your own eyes are probably wide now as he rests your right leg on his shoulder, stretching your left again to repeat the same trail of kisses. You grip the edge of the seat.

He remembers what you wore your first day, four years ago.

“You came into my office,” he continues, and lifts your left leg to join the other on his shoulders, his face now nestled between your thighs as he places open-mouthed kisses along your skin. “Asked if I needed help with anything specific, and when I told you to sit beside me so I could show you how to open my encrypted report, you tripped over the edge of the rug. In that exact moment, I wanted you.”

He says the last words right before he opens his mouth over your pussy, the heat of his breath making you arch into the chair and clutch his hair.

He looks up at you, mouth still busy, and God… if you could capture a single moment in a photo, it would be this.

You slide your legs off his shoulders just to grab his face and pull him up so you can kiss him. Harry kisses back eagerly, and there’s nothing tender about the way he licks into your mouth. There’s nothing tender about the way he breaks the kiss either just to place your legs back over his shoulders and bury his face between them again. One hand presses down on your lower belly to keep you in place as his mouth seals around your clit and starts to suck.

You hold his face with both hands, pressing him harder against you, watching him, watching the way his cock hardens just from tasting you.

“So good,” you whisper, your fingers on his jaw. “You have no idea how good it feels to have Harry Castillo on his knees for me.”

He doesn’t pull away, but you swear, if he could, he’d be smiling.

What he does instead is lower his mouth until his tongue is inside you. Your eyes flutter closed. Moans echo in the room, along with the wet sounds of his mouth, and you lose yourself in all of it, until his thumb slides inside you. But just as quickly, it leaves, and instead, glides down.

You open your eyes with a jolt just in time to see Harry sucking your clit while his thumb starts circling your other entrance.

It’s different. Strange. Not unpleasant.

“You’ve done this before?” he asks, likely meaning anal.

You shake your head.

“Well, look at that,” Harry says, overly pleased, rubbing in slow circles. “So, in a way, you’re still a virgin. Can I?”

There are very few things you wouldn’t give Harry if he asked.

“Just the finger. Just one. Slowly.”

“Always, baby.”

And he goes slowly.

He waits until you’re melting under his tongue, licking his thumb before returning it to your tight rim and gently pushing in the tip. It doesn’t hurt—not with just the tip—but it’s unlike anything you’ve done, something you never even tried with your boyfriend, even though he asked.

“Relax for me, sweetheart,” Harry whispers. “Breathe. Let me in.”

You don’t know how much time passes before your breathing calms and something in you releases. You feel safer.

Harry plunges his tongue into your pussy and brings his other thumb to your clit, and you’re surrounded by him in every possible way when, slowly, he slips his lubricated thumb into your ass, pulling a deep moan from your chest. The build-up of sensitivity throughout the night, paired with the newness of it all, crashes into you, and you come in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers in both places.

He doesn’t stop, even when you try to push him away and close your legs. Harry keeps sucking your clit harder, and you shake beneath him, overstimulated. He brings you to the edge again with his mouth and hands, and just as you’re about to fall, he stops and tells you to ride him.

You do, on the floor of the guest room. Apparently, you two have a thing for sex on the floor, because it’s rawer, messier, heavier with tension. You kiss the whole time, grabbing at whatever part of him you can reach, and the two of you come together.

Harry, inside you.

You, wrapped around him.

Hardly a word between you.

The next morning, Harry drives you home in his car, without a driver.

You’re wearing one of his T-shirts over your dress, your hair still wet and your face free of makeup, and you probably look ridiculous. A charitable act from the CEO of CCC.

The good news is that the street is empty. It’s still nine a.m. on a Sunday, so there are fewer witnesses to your disastrous state. A few brave souls pass by in running clothes, others look like they rolled out of bed five seconds ago, forced outside by the physiological needs of the small dogs following on their leashes.

Harry parks in front of your building and turns off the engine.

“Too cliché if I thank you for the night?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m not going to thank you for the orgasms, because yes, I think that’s cliché, but” you raise your index finger, watching the smug smile take over his face. “solid performance for a senior citizen. Forbes would love to know about the five orgasms.”

“Six,” he corrects, ignoring the comment about the ‘senior citizen.’ “Two this morning. One in bed and one in the shower.”

Oh, right.

“Six,” you agree. “High performance, Mr. Castillo.”

“Glad you approve,” he says. “I suppose I can’t kiss you here.”

You shake your head.

“Not here.” You exchange one last look, entirely charged. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” Harry says, and you force yourself to open the passenger door. You place one foot out of the car, but before you can get out, Harry places his palm on the back of your neck and makes you look at him.

“Thank you for tonight and for accepting my proposal.”

You turn just enough to place a kiss on Harry’s wrist and get out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

When you turn toward your building’s entrance, you find another gaze on you.

That gaze runs over you from head to toe, taking in the clothes from the night before, the wet hair, the bare face, and then shifts to Harry’s Mercedes.

A freezing terror takes hold of your entire body, paralyzing you where you stand.

And then your boyfriend’s cold eyes meet yours.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal fanfiction #god if karma really exists i’m fucked #mine

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lokissweater · 9 months ago

Text

little mouse

{toge inumaki x f!reader}

summary: toge inumaki, the barista at your local campus coffee shop, is the cutest man to ever cross your life— the both of you clicking fast and becoming the best of friends as the years flew by together… but you were in love. uncertain of crossing that line between friendship and lovers as you focused mainly on trying to see if he even liked you back. but as for toge? he was focused on trying not to burden you for the rest of your life because of his inability to speak, wanting you and only you, but juggling and tormented over his labored silent existence, hurting you in the process.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, college!au, FLUUUFFFF SO MUCH, pet names, TOGE LOVES YOU BROOO, angst!!! but with comfort!!, happy ending, SMUTTTT, p in v sex, fingering, creampie, doggy hehe, mentions of alcohol and drinking, sorority party, toge is a barista ouuu, cursing, best friends to lovers trope, reader and toge argue, all characters are aged up.

word count: 15.2k

authors note: YEEEOOOOWWWWW this fic was originally NOOTTTT supposed to be 15k but i’ve said it once and i’ll say it again I CAN NEVA STOP YAPPING MY GOD??? i hope you guys love this one as much as i do though it is SOOOOOO CUTEEE man :(( thank you SO SO MUCH for your love and support as ALWAYS, AND I LOVE YOUUUU AHHH MWAH MWAH HAVE A GOOD DAY OKAY <333

anyone that was a regular at the shop knew toge inumaki didn’t really ever speak.

and it was something you found out on your first day of college, running to the nearest coffee shop at eight-thirty in the fucking morning looking for something to snack on and wake you up before lecture, choosing to go to the one just around the corner from campus through a recommendation of a friend— but not knowing at all that you were about to run into the cutest man to ever plague your god damn existence, as well as your bestest friend in the entire world.

toge was the main barista and cashier at the shop, his mixology skill incomparable as no one else on the floor could replicate it successfully without errors the way he did— ringing customers up while simultaneously throwing coffee bases and syrups in a blender, topping each corresponding one with whipped cream on various orders before sliding it over to the pick up counter, all without even breaking a sweat through the times that you’ve shamefully watched him work from your little table before or after classes.

the first time you met him, you thought he was just having a bad day… and that he also hated you.

you had politely told him your order while at the same time ogling his handsome face— a small and simple sweet vanilla cold brew drink with a little blueberry scone on the side— when toge didn’t even spare you a glance and just tapped in your order on the screen, turning the tablet over to showcase the total before moving to the back to get started on your drink, not a single word leaving his scarf covered mouth as you silently paid and got a table.

it’s not like you were expecting anything out of it, but you hoped you would at least catch the color of his eyes before you had to leave.

and it went on like that for a total of four days— you saying the exact same order but just switching up the little pastry depending on your mood (it only consisting of your usual three— blueberry scone, cake pop, and cheese danish), toge’s eyes never leaving the register or drinks he made as you waited, and him sliding over your order in record time as he got started on attending the next customer.

on the fifth day, toge finally looked up.

the way he took your order didn’t change, but when it came to placing it over the pick up counter where you stood, your eyes widened when you noticed he was already looking at you, a grin on his face as he personally handed you your drink instead of sliding it over.

his eyes were purple.

and you just about fucking screamed, your days of hopelessly coming in to try and ridiculously take longer peeks at his face whenever you could finally paying off in that moment— and not expecting whatsoever to see the sides of his mouth marked with tattooed snake eyes either.

that day was also the day you noticed toge knew sign language.

most of the time toge took orders quickly without a word and punched in requests, but from time to time when a customer had a question about a menu item or what the passcode to the bathroom was, he always had a little whiteboard next to him with a black marker to scribble out what he needed to say— regulars already knowing how he communicated and not batting a single strange eye.

but on that day, a new customer came in that you didn’t recognize to be a regular, signing to one of the confused employees at the cash register until the employee turned around and tapped toge on the shoulder, pointing and saying words you couldn’t really hear before he quickly nodded and put down the blender he was holding, going over to sign.

you were mesmerized by it, the way his hands and fingers came together and away from each other to form different words and sentences completely unknown to those who didn’t understand the language, something that was beautiful to you and made you want to actually learn so you could potentially have the liberty to talk to him some time in the future if you could.

the next time you came into the shop early in the morning, toge was at the register. and upon seeing you walk in, he smoothly looked down and started typing away already on the screen, seemingly not listening and leaving you standing there confused.

“um—” you stammered. “can i…”

you trailed off as you watched him pick up his whiteboard and uncap the marker, scribbling.

‘i remembered your order.’

you froze, your heart doing enormous leaps considering this was the first time toge actually spoke to you apart from getting your order down and smiling at you.

“oh! really?” you laughed nervously. “…do i come in here too often then?”

he gave you a friendly grin and shook his head, erasing what he had before writing again.

‘do you want a blueberry scone, cake pop, or cheese danish?’

your eyes bulged. “you know that too?!”

he laughed, the sound making your hands clammy as you giggled along with him shyly.

“i’ll do a cake pop today!” you smiled. “i’m running a little late and that’s— easy to eat.. you know—”

he gave you a thumbs up and nodded, signaling with his head for you to wait by the pick up counter as he scribbled another few words, turning the whiteboard around.

‘i’ll see you tomorrow :)’

your cheeks flushed pink.

“y—yeah!” you spoke gingerly. “i’ll see you toge.”

the next few times after that toge would absolutely beam whenever you came into the shop, having already scribbled down your three choices of your usual pastries before having it ready for you at the pick up counter once you chose, even every now and then asking you a simple thing or two about your classes and major from the register as you sat by your table, him propping his little whiteboard up for you to see.

and ever since you saw that toge knew sign language, you wanted to know too, your desire to communicate with him more efficiently a silly priority on your mind as you signed up for entry level sign language courses at your college, trying to learn as much as you possibly could so it’d be easier for him not always having to step back and write.

“wait wait!” you put your hands out one slow morning upon arriving at the shop, toge stopping mid tap on the screen just as he was about to input your order, eyeing you.

your fingers shook a little as you slowly signed your order and choice of pastry for the day, trying to remember and grasp what you practiced repeatedly the night before, hoping your efforts would successfully come across and that you didn’t look like a fucking idiot.

but his focused eyes followed your movements, carefully watching you sign with pinched brows until you eventually finished— a slow pearly white smile spreading across is face as his gaze flickered to yours before writing on his whiteboard, turning it.

‘you know sign language?’

“barely!” you sputtered. “i um.. i started taking classes a couple of months ago but i’m not very good… did you— get it though? what i said?”

he quickly nodded.

‘it was a little choppy but good! good job y/n :)’

you breathed out a sigh of relief, a hand over your hammering chest as you swallowed.

“oh thank god.” you breathed. “i was worried i looked stupid or was accidentally telling you something weird.”

he laughed and waved you off, a slight tint to his cheeks as he wrote.

‘how’s learning it overall?’

“hard as fuck.” you mumbled, but peering up at him with a smile. “i’m trying though! i really love the language and i love learning it… it’s just hard because my professor kind of sucks and teaches it too fast.”

he hummed, moving around in the back while preparing your order before coming around through the little swinging door and over to your usual table, you standing dumbfounded at the register still as he stood there with your pastry and his whiteboard.

toge pointed to your seat.

“oh!” you gasped, walking over and taking a seat, smiling gratefully once he placed your coffee and cheese danish down for you, but stiffening once he scooched the chair out across from you and sat, your cheeks ablaze again.

“you wanna—” you looked at him with furrowed brows. “you wanna sit with me?”

he laughed a little and nodded.

“but the…” you pointed to the cash register.

he uncapped his marker and wrote, turning the board over.

‘it’s a slow day. if someone comes in i’ll just go.’

“oh— okay!” you breathed out nervously, wringing your fingers together as you kept them on your lap.

your thoughts were speeding across every corner of your mind, not knowing exactly why toge chose to sit with you right now but hanging on to the moment anyways, you anxiously trying to come up with things to say to get to know him a little better.

“i like your um..” you pointed to the corners of your mouth. “—your tattoos. did they hurt?”

he smiled and wrote.

‘thanks :) and not really, my throat hurts more than the tattooing itself hehe.’

your eyes snapped up to his.

“your throat?” you asked softly. “is it okay?”

‘oh it’s fine!’ he wrote. ‘well no but it just hurts a lot when i talk so i just don’t.’

you hummed in understanding, the missing puzzle as to why exactly toge never spoke out loud to anyone in the first place finally clicking into place.

“i’m sorry toge…” you expressed sweetly. “have you tried— well i assume you have but… like getting it checked out? or maybe honey with lemon or—”

he turned his board around.

‘yeah :P nothing really works. L for me.’

you giggled, and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth in a smile.

‘can you show me what else you know in sign language?’

“ohhh this is it.” you swallowed. “you’re about to laugh in my face and think i’m stupid.”

he laughed and gave you a look.

‘you’re silly. just show me.’

you huffed before timidly showing him very basic simple phrases that you managed to pick up from class out of the millions that were shown— short choppy kiddy words that didn’t even serve to get by in a quick conversation, but enough for simple one worded responses.

“oh! and i like this one the most!—” you put the bases of your palms together and rubbed a little.

toge let out a squeaky cute laugh as he watched you before quickly picking up his marker and writing.

‘cheese? your favorite thing to sign is cheese?’

“yeah!—” you giggled shyly. “it’s funnn! and i never fuck it up.”

he nodded with a gleam in his eye.

‘i could teach you sign language if you want.’

you froze, eyes wide as you looked at him.

“seriously?” you quickly leaned forward. “are— are you sure? you definitely don’t have to at all toge… i don’t want to burden you or anything.”

his eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head.

‘not burden at all.’ he wrote. ‘i’m a lazy fart i don’t do much besides this so it’s fine.’

you giggled and nodded excitedly, a hopeful shine in your eyes as you looked at him.

“o—okay!” you agreed. “i’d like that a lot… thank you toge!”

he was so nice.

and just as he was about to write something else, a customer came through the doors and up to the cash register, toge quickly scribbling something down before standing and showing you, walking backwards.

‘i’ll talk to you later little mouse :)’

you laughed loudly, a hand flying over your mouth as you did.

that nickname stuck.

“bye toge!” you responded kindly, gathering your things before heading out for the day with your coffee and pastry.

unfortunately for you, midterm season came and knocked the absolute shit out of you for a week, you unable to go back to the coffee shop to see toge until it was all fucking over, your heart heavy over the fact that you literally failed your sign language test, but giddy and excited nonetheless to finally see him after a while and go back to your usual happy routine.

and as for toge, he was left utterly confused.

was he too forward? did you think it was weird when he called you little mouse? did you think he was weird?

was it something he did? why had you stopped coming into the shop after going in continuously for like weeks at this point?

and he had just gotten the courage to look you in the eye too.

toge literally had your order ready every single day with your three pastries warmed up and toasted if need be, your sweet vanilla cold brew drink ready to go the moment you walked through those doors at any given point and time… but you just didn’t come. him leaning on the register counter bored out of his mind and dejected over the disappearance of the pretty nice girl that always came in and talked to him at his work, ending up always drinking the coffee he made for you silently and munching on the three pastries you chose between when it was time to close.

but when you finally came in, early in the morning like you always did and looking forward to seeing him again— toge was hunched over the counter with his chin propped up on his hand like he had been for the past week, you unknowing of that as you walked over with a smile.

“hi toge!”

he shot up, eyes wide with his palms flat on the counter.

“y/n!—”

he spoke.

toge spoke and he immediately cowered over in a fit of painful sounding coughs that racked through his body, his mouth shoved into his elbow as he quickly pushed through the doors and walked to the back, leaving you there wide eyed and completely fucking shocked.

he said your name.

“toge..?” you called softly, timidly as you leaned over the counter to try and catch a look at him from inside the employee break room, still hearing faint coughing. “hey— are you okay?”

he returned to the floor chugging back a bottle of cough syrup like nothing before tossing it into the nearest bin and swallowing, snatching his marker to write on the mini whiteboard, holding it up.

‘where the fuck have you been?’

you looked at him with an apologetic little face, your eyes soft.

“i’m sorryyy!” you whined. “i’m so sorry it was midterm week for me and i was grinding so hard and i just didn’t have time to come in… it was torture.”

you guiltily bit your lip. “…are you mad at me?”

he shook his head slowly, his shoulders visibly relaxing at the confirmation that it wasn’t anything he did that could’ve potentially put you off.

‘not at all mouse :P.’ he wrote before reaching to the side and sliding over your already made coffee and three pastries, lined up.

and surprise crossed your face.

“you had it ready?” you gasped. “toge! thank you!”

you quickly opened your book bag and he placed a hand over your arm, stopping you and shaking his head ‘no.’

“no?” you asked softly. “what do you mean? i’m just gonna pay.”

toge only shook his head again with a small smile, nudging his head over for you to sit at your usual table.

your shoulders slumped. “now what would you do if i just burst out crying right now.”

he laughed loudly and let go of your arm to write, leaving a burning fuzzy feeling on your skin in return.

‘cry? why?’

“because you’re so nice!” you whined. “please let me pay. i already feel bad not coming in for a week… especially after you offered to teach me sign language.”

‘go sit down mouse. i’ll sit with you in a little bit.’

you begrudgingly stood in place before nodding and taking your drink with your bag of pastries, walking over to the side and plopping down on a seat.

toge had a bit of a rush in and couldn’t join you for nearly an hour, him constantly shooting you apologetic looks and you frantically waving him off and reassuring him that it was okay, you astronomically thankful that you didn’t have class that day until later in the evening.

but when the rush was eventually over, toge dropped down on the seat across from yours with a big tired sigh and his whiteboard, head down.

you gently poked his arm then, and he looked up.

“is your throat okay?” you asked, face serious. “and you?”

he nodded, giving you a warm smile before grabbing his marker.

‘it happens sometimes, i just slipped up. L for me again.’

you smiled sadly and retracted your hand from across the table to settle back over your lap.

“i like your voice… if that makes you feel any better.” you spoke shyly, looking down at your fingers.

toge bit the inside of his cheek and smiled cheekily.

‘thanks mouse… but i know something that’ll make me feel even better hehe.’

“what?” you asked curiously.

he wrote.

‘give me your number before you disappear on me again you little rat.’

“hey!” you whined. “i thought i was a mouse..”

he chuckled cutely and nudged your foot gently from underneath the table, erasing and writing again.

‘i’m just kidding. we need to set up those sign language lessons soon though :D.’

and at the reminder of that you groaned, body slumping over the table as toge eyed you confusedly.

“you’re gonna laugh. or be mad. or disappointed. or all three..” you mumbled, voice slightly muffled.

he poked your head repeatedly and you lifted it, chin resting lazily on the table as he looked at you expectantly.

“i failed my sign language midterm.”

toge snorted but quickly slapped a hand over his mouth, and you whined again before shoving your face back down as he quickly shook you by the shoulders, trying to get you to look up again.

“no no no i’m a disgrace i’m a failure i studied so fucking hard for nothing it’s over i’m not cut out—”

he kept shaking and delicately pinching you before you finally looked up again.

“what.” you mumbled, eyes dragging to his propped up whiteboard.

‘i’m sorry i laughed… but don’t worry you’ll pass the next one. you’ll be okay.’

“and how do you know.” you grumbled.

‘because now you have delicious me, duh :P’

you giggled softly and lifted yourself from the table, leaning back against your chair.

he gave you a warm knowing smile before writing again.

‘cheer up mouse… i promise i’ll help you.’

a slow cutesy grin spread across your face, one that made him swallow hard as you looked at him through your lashes.

“thank you toge… do you— do you work tomorrow?”

his gaze flickered up in thought before he shook his head, eyes landing back on yours.

“maybe we could start… tomorrow? if you’re free? and if— if it’s okay of course!” you stammered nervously, gnawing at your bottom lip as you waited for his response.

his cheeks fluttered pink a little before quickly nodding.

“okay!” you breathed excitedly. “great! we could do it here? or—”

he frantically shook his head no and uncapped his marker.

‘my dickhead manager will pull me to work if i’m here on my day off.’

you laughed and nodded. “okay not here then.. where? we can try my place but i already know my parents are gonna be annoying about bringing a guy over so..”

he smiled and looked down to write.

‘we can do my apartment mouse. i live alone.’

your eyes widened. “you have your own place? really?”

he slowly nodded.

“that’s so cool toge! oh my goodness i can’t wait to see it now!”

you bounced enthusiastically in your seat and he chuckled, perplexed as to why you would ever be excited to see something like that, but choosing not to question it.

‘it’s kind of small, and i mainly just sleep and be lazy if i’m not working or streaming.’

you tilted your head. “streaming..?”

he pursed his lips and looked down again to scribble, an embarrassed undertone to his face before propping the whiteboard up.

‘i play games and stream to earn extra money on the side like a little loser.’

you giggled, your eyebrows slightly furrowing before relaxing. “why would that make you a little loser toge? you’re making money while doing something you like… i think that’s really fun!”

an eager attractive grin ran across his face before quickly writing again.

‘i’m glad you think so :) but give me your number neow.’

“oh that’s right!” you beamed, taking his offered whiteboard and marker before quickly writing down your number with a heart in the corner, passing it back.

“just text me whenever and we can set a time for tomorrow okay?”

he nodded, his eyes trained to the heart you drew.

for the rest of his shift, toge spent it bouncing around between your table and back to the cash register to take orders and make drinks, seemingly finishing each beverage ten times fucking faster than usual just so he could come over and talk to you before you had to leave again for your evening class.

but you didn’t want to leave whatsoever, and you even juggled the possibility of skipping class to stay longer with toge, but the next class happened to be sign language, and you didn’t want to fail another fucking midterm by not showing up and missing material.

you threw your trash away before grabbing your book bag and slinging it over your shoulder once it was time, you slowly and timidly trying to get toge’s attention as you walked to the exit.

your shy raised hand caught his eye in between him blending and pouring drinks, toge quickly putting everything down and reaching for the whiteboard from the register, erasing whatever he had from a previous customer to write and flipping it over with a silly smile.

‘bye mouse!’ it read. ‘i’ll see you tomorrow! :P.’

and that was nearly two and a half years ago, the heart you drew in the corner of his whiteboard still there to this day as he answered questions, responded, or scribbled directions in any given situation with it no matter if it was in or outside of work— always wanting to have a little part of you with him wherever he went.

toge also kept his promise and taught you sign language, you trying so so fucking hard every waking day you spent with him at his cute little studio apartment— learning phrases and properly constructing it into sentences that actually made sense as you both sat sprawled on the floor for hours on end, him patient and kind as he watched you shakily sign and accept his gentle corrections with an open mind.

but although your sentences were continuously choppy and a little off at that point in time, they were definitely in way better condition than when you tried to study and learn it on your own… and toge was unsurprisingly a really good teacher— ten times more helpful than your literal freaking licensed professor whom you had started with, as toge would actually take the time to write and explain each concept in the best way he possibly could for you to understand.

now you were comfortable enough with it to respond in very simple sentences and phrases, but stronger at understanding it whenever toge signed to you, a plus when he clumsily forgot his whiteboard somewhere or when he just didn’t want to use it.

and ever since that first day you went over to his place to learn and study, you literally never went a day without going back again, your cute routine with him being going to his apartment every second of the day to hang out with him or do the things that you needed to do— some that could easily be done in your own space and home and room, but you refusing to for the sole purpose of wanting to be with toge all of the time, him feeling the exact same way and going as far as to giving you a copy of the key to his apartment.

(toge :D): MOUSE

your phone buzzed repeatedly just as you were walking up the steps to toge’s floor, you nearly dropping it over the uncontrollable buzz.

(toge :D): LITTLE MOUSE

(you): YES <3

(toge :D): ouuu a heart?? i didn’t know we were married :P

you let out a giggle and quickly typed a response, your face hot.

(you): mmm i don’t know my ring finger is quite literally bare right now :/ maybe next time!

(toge :D): YOOOOO

(toge :D): it’s because it’s gonna be under your pillow

(toge :D): like from the tooth fairy

(toge :D): a big shiny cock

(toge :D): I MEAN ROCK

(toge :D): ROCK I MEANT ROCK SORRY

you burst out laughing as you readjusted your book bag on your shoulder and turned the corner, nearing his apartment number.

(toge :D): …please still come over

(toge :D): oh wait that’s why i texted you! :P

(toge :D:) WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU

(toge :D): YOU’RE LATE MOUSE

(you): LMFAAOOO

(you): IM COMMINGGGG i’m literally down the hall sir

(you): but now that you yelled at me HMMMM i don’t feel like going today <//3

(toge :D): NO

(toge :D): i’m sorry i’m on my knees

(toge :D): i’m begging

(toge :D): i even brought you a blueberry scone from work

(toge :D): and i’ll buy you whatever you want

(toge :D): FUCK COME OVER NOOOWWWWW

(you): SAY PLEASE AND ADDRESS ME CORRECTLY

(toge :D): PLEEEAASSEEE MOUUSEE

you bit your lip in attempts at suppressing your giddy smile, it not really fucking working as you arrived at his door, pulling your keys out from your bag and shuffling through them to find his— one that had a tiny onigiri design on it.

(you): coming!! <33

(toge :D): so you’re saying we’re married again :P

the door clicked open upon you twisting the key in, stepping inside before closing it behind you while juggling your textbooks and locking it, toge seated on his little gaming chair when he swiveled around and waved at you with a big smile, standing.

“toge!” you gasped exhaustedly, stepping over to him. “you have got to help me please my god—”

he grabbed the textbooks from your arms and walked over to his desk, setting them down before turning back around and giving you a curious look.

‘what’s wrong?’ he signed.

“everything! everything is wrong sign language two is not for the weak oh my goodness gracious—”

you flopped down with your back flat on his bed, eyes shut in agony as he watched you amusedly.

“my professor’s teaching us grammar now and it just gets harder! i don’t know where to properly put anything or— or sign anything.”

he giggled softly and you peeked an eye open, looking at him.

‘i’ll help you mouse.’ he signed, stretching a hand out and you taking it, letting him pull you up to sit as you lazily did so.

“but i ask you too much.” you pouted. “and i feel bad every time i do, especially when you’re playing.”

he snorted, going over to his little dining table and pulling out a chair, lifting it over to his desk gaming set up area and placing it down before ushering you over with his hand.

“nuh uh.” you shook your head.

toge gave you a half lidded look and sat on the dining chair, him always saving his big comfy gaming chair for you whenever you sat with him at his desk since the first time you came over— his eyes expectant.

you deeply sighed and stood, trudging over to his gaming chair before plopping yourself down.

“you don’t have to toge… it’s okay.” you spoke gently. “you’ve been teaching me for like— two years already. my new year’s resolution was to stop bothering you about it and let you live.”

he slid his little whiteboard over and erased what he previously had, uncapping his marker and writing.

he showed you.

‘i’ll always help you and you know that :( and it doesn’t bother me you rat, i do it because i want to.’

or because he’s in love with you. either or.

you giggled and lifted your hand, your index finger erasing over the word ‘rat.’ “—it’s mouusee toge. it’s like you get off on abusing and hurting your bestest mestest friend.”

he laughed boyishly and put down his whiteboard, sliding over one of your textbooks from across the table to him and flipping through several pages, reading to try and see exactly where you were at by the sticky notes you left behind in the margins.

“don’t you have to stream today though?” you asked timidly. “like right now?”

he simply shrugged, turning a page as he reached over to write again on his board.

‘i can stream later tonight—’

he quickly turned it around again to add something just as you had finished reading, him flipping it back over.

‘—with you asleep on my bed. because you’re sleeping over. and that’s FINAL.’

you laughed loudly while leaning forward, your cheeks brewing up a little flush at the request even though you’ve slept over at his place plenty of times before— the thought of him actively wanting you to making your heart bounce around erratically in your chest.

“fuck i don’t know…” you feigned concern. “i’m not sure if i can toge i’m sorry.”

he slumped, eyes so sad that it made you almost sick to your stomach as you struggled to commit to the small bit.

‘why not?’ he signed.

“because i’m missing something.” you pouted.

‘missing?’ he signed again. ‘missing what?’

you snickered.

“my ring!” you extended your hand to him and wiggled your little fingers, you poking the tip of your tongue out to the side cutely. “the one you promised me over text.”

toge breathed out a laugh and nearly dropped dead at your cute expression, him mimicking you and sticking his tattooed tongue out before picking up his whiteboard from his lap to write.

‘i told you the tooth fairy has it :D you have to be patient little mouse.’

you giggled and put your arm down, giving him a stern silly look.

“kayyy thennn!” you dragged, sitting up in your chair and looking over your textbook. “i’ll be expecting my big shiny rock under my pillow in the morning sir.”

he saluted you and you grinned, the rest of the time being spent with toge trying to teach you as best as he could with you hopelessly following along, feeling like the dumbest bitch alive and embarrassed whenever you got something wrong.

but toge never minded, not one single bit— even when you made the same grammar mistake literally three times in a row and him correcting you each freaking time the same exact way, no sign of annoyance or frustration on his face as he worked with you.

and that’s one of the biggest reasons as to why you loved toge so much. since the moment you met him all he wanted to do was just help you, regardless of the fact if you were a stranger or not as he generously always put the things he needed to do aside for you— making sure you were always okay and getting the things you needed no matter how many times you told him he didn’t need to worry, you feeling special and appreciated whenever you were with him no matter what.

you hoped to god he felt the same… and you hoped you weren’t being straight delusional when you noticed the way he looked at you a little longer than he should have at times, or when you read too much into the casual little pecks on your head from him, or when you had told him how much you loved just studying on the floor beside him while he streamed but made a joke that sometimes you couldn’t see because it was so dark in his apartment, toge literally the next day buying you a little flower lily lamp to set and prop up right next to you so you could comfortably study, him laughing and wiping your tears when you ridiculously cried over his consideration.

so did that mean he loved you too?

“toge…” you murmured in the midst of him fixing a signage error of the word ‘before’ with his fingers.

he pointed to your hands so you could take note of the alteration he made, waiting for you to carry on then.

you smiled softly in gratitude before continuing.

“have you ever—” you pursed your lips. “have you ever um… well— actually nevermind—”

he blinked before slowly lifting his hands.

‘have i ever what?’ toge signed, and you quickly shook your head.

“nevermind! it’s okay.”

he gently nudged your foot with his, beckoning you to tell him as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

fuck.

okay if he kisses your head right now then you’ll tell him.

“i forgot toge.” you lied. “that’s why i said nevermind… oopsie!”

he laughed and leaned forward, pecking your forehead before reaching a hand up to ruffle up your hair.

fuck!

no you take it back you can’t do it you can’t—

‘silly.’ he signed, turning his attention back to your textbook and flipping a page.

he wondered what it was, but figured it would come back to you eventually and you’d tell him soon after.

by the end of the day, it was like there was an actual fucking light at the end of the tunnel for you and your sign language two class— you going from being over a thousand percent sure that you were about to pathetically fail the entire course, to having a shiny little sliver of hope because of toge’s ability to get anything through your big head and make you understand, feeling eternally grateful for him in many ways than one.

and you wanted him, so fucking bad, ever since you saw him at the coffee shop, that you thought in that moment while toge set up his bed for you to sleep in while you sat on his desk chair, dressed in his big white t-shirt and pajama pants, that if you just— maayybee tested the waters and crossed the line a little bit without it being too drastic, that you’d get your answer.

but did you want to know? what if he didn’t love you back? what the fuck were you supposed to do then?

cry and wither away, that’s what. you don’t think you’ve ever loved someone as much as you loved toge.

you hear the familiar squeaks of his black marker streaking against his little whiteboard, the sound pulling you from your thoughts and you looked up.

‘you’re so spacey today pretty. are you still worried about your class? :(‘

pretty.

“oh!” you stood. “no toge i feel a lot better about it actually because of you… thank you.”

he grinned, nodding before walking and leaning over his pc to set up his streaming session, mouse clicking away.

“toge—”

he looked over at you with his gorgeous purple eyes and you froze, cheeks heating up as your wobbly lips struggled to come together and fucking speak.

“nevermind nevermind—”

his eyes narrowed, snatching his whiteboard and quickly writing.

‘you did this earlier today too. tell me what’s wrong.’

“no.”

‘no?’ he signed. ‘tell me y/n.’

“no! not my name!” you dived dramatically on his comfy blanket filled bed and groaned. “you only call me by my name when you’re mad and i don’t like it.”

he sat next to you on the edge of the bed and pulled on your shoulder slightly, you fully turning around on your back and looking at him anxiously.

toge wished he could continuously beg you and ask you what was wrong so you’d just tell him— him at times sick of constantly having to pause and make you wait so he could get his point across, a painful fact that never left his mind and made him feel like the biggest burden in your life.

that’s why he never wanted to cross that line you both always seemed to lean over without meaning to. the line that’s kept you both on this limbo of half best friends and half more as he sometimes hugged you a lot longer or snuck in a couple of self indulgent cheek and hand kisses to your skin… but that’s as far as he’d really let himself get. toge didn’t want to permanently have you drag him along in your life no matter how much he wanted to be in it as something way more.

you deserved noise, you deserved loud love, you deserved someone who could actually speak to you— things he mourned over that he could never give you.

and he knew this. he’s known from the moment you walked into the coffee shop the very first time even though you swore up and down that he noticed you later, you unaware that he actually saw you right off the fucking bat on the first day and couldn’t bring himself to look you in the eye— knowing you were going to be the biggest heartbreak of his life and ruin him if he so managed as to let you in when you kept coming back.

but toge was selfish, and he couldn’t help himself.

so he tried to compromise.

there’s nothing wrong with being just friends… right? a casual conversation between two people while he was at work? to then bid goodbye and say hello to every now and then?

except a quick conversation with you turned into ones that lasted almost his entire shift sometimes, and then casual meet ups turned into sleepovers at his apartment when he offered to teach you sign language, and then little hugs of farewell and hello’s turned into him kissing you practically fucking everywhere that wasn’t your mouth with the tightest embraces, him completely going against what he swore he wasn’t going to do and damning himself for life.

and even more so when you had joked about wanting a ring that one day, him actually going out the next day and buying you matching ones even though he didn’t even know if he was strong enough to actually give yours to you.

but toge was still freaking selfish.

because as you looked at him now, your gorgeous face anxious and thought-filled about things he wished you would tell him without worry, the outline and shape of your plush soft lips burning his pupils in such a way that it felt like a privilege, your body in his clothes—

made him want to speak the three worded phrase he was only allowed to say in his sleepy dreams if he was lucky.

“what toge?” you spoke softly, reaching a hand up to delicately card through the front pieces of his pale blonde hair, soft and silky as the outline of his tattooed snake eyes made you a little fuzzy.

he slowly shook his head, a far off look in his eye as he leaned over you, his face close and strained that your eyebrows pinched a little at his expression.

your hand proceeded to gently smooth down from his hair to the side of his cheek, cupping it and caressing over it with your thumb so lovingly that he nearly broke his oath.

if you said that you loved him… he wondered if he would crack. if you confessed and told him that you felt the same way, he juggled the possibility of ruining his own life by giving in and letting you take on the burden of his existence just to have you like he’s always wanted—

“i love you.” you told him.

toge’s big wide afraid eyes stared back at you as you smiled sheepishly, his breath caught in his throat.

“i—” you hesitated, playing with the hem of his shirt. “i really love you. like in the way where i want you to like— kiss me and stuff in your free time…”

he huffed a shocked breath, his face still just alarmed and strained and you started to believe that maybe you actually were delusional and misinterpreted things, his lack of anything making you second guess.

“i’m sorry.” you blurted. “i’m sorry i thought—”

and toge was still selfish as he let his lips fall down and crash against yours, moving so feverishly and hungrily that you couldn’t keep up as he dug his arms underneath you and around before pulling you up flush against his body, wanting you as close to him as humanely fucking possible incase he never got to do this again with you, the possibility horrifyingly still there.

“does this mean—” you spoke in between kisses, breathless. “does this mean you love me too—”

toge broke apart momentarily and quickly nodded, eyes ditzy and clouded as he panted against your lips, drunkenly lowering his head and linking his wet lips with yours again as he sloppily kissed you, laying you back down while you wrung your arms around his neck, you giddy and absolutely fucking enamored with him and that he was finally yours.

except he technically wasn’t… yet…

even when three full weeks had passed.

you still visited toge at work in the coffee shop in the mornings or the afternoon like you always did, ordering the same thing and going in to chat as he wrote his responses on his whiteboard— except now whenever rush hour would conclude, toge would greedily sneak in kisses with you at your table or hold the back of your hand to his cheek as you talked about your classes and your plans for the weekend, his conflicted mind putting his oath on the back burner for now as he tried to relish in the love he’s been wanting for so long.

and you were a little confused as to why toge hadn’t taken the initiative that night and asked you to be his girlfriend, but you didn’t complain, you too caught up in the moment when he would make out with you at his apartment in between study or streaming breaks with his hands literally all over you like a man starved, groping and squeezing at anything he could but never going over that last jump to do something intimate with you, your lovesick mind too in it to care at the moment.

that was the next compromise he made.

if you both just— just stayed this way. no official title no matter how much it pained him just so that he could continue doing these lovely lovely things with you whenever you both wanted, his mind thinking that since you both weren’t technically together that he wasn’t burdening you for life just yet, wanting to keep it this way for as long as he possibly could because toge didn’t fucking know what he was going to do when the time came for making it official.

well yes— he did know. but what he wanted to do and what he should do were two completely different things.

“togeee!” you bounded into the shop one morning, thankful that it was empty as you quickly leaned over the counter and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, him smiling wide with a flush to his face in response.

‘hi mouse :) <3’ he wrote on his whiteboard. ‘have you had something to eat yet?’

“i’m good im good! wait i haven’t ate but im good!” you spoke excitedly. “i come with newwsss. really fun news!”

he hummed and nodded, motioning for you to continue as he moved around in the back to get and warm up a breakfast sandwich for you.

“one of my friends from sign language told me she’s throwing a party at her sorority house and invited meee!” you beamed, hearing a little oven ping and then following him to your usual table so the both of you could sit.

toge gently slid your sandwich over upon scooting his chair up, warm and yummy as it sat pretty on a little pastel green plate and him signing ‘eat please’ as you grinned.

“and i know you told me once that you’ve never been to a college party, so i was wondering if you wanted to maybe.. come with me?”

he smiled softly.

‘when?’ toge signed.

“tomorrow night!” you responded, taking a bite out of your breakfast sandwich.

he nodded, thinking a little in his head before sliding his whiteboard over to write.

‘of course ill go mouse but it might be better without me.’

you faltered, swallowing. “without you? why?”

he erased and wrote again.

‘because i can’t talk. your friends might think it’s a little odd.’

“no they won’t.” you countered. “and that’s totally okay, toge. just bring your whiteboard.”

he snorted, shaking his head.

‘i’m not bringing my whiteboard silly that’s even worse.’

“but you’ll be with me.” you reasoned. “and i don’t really talk to anyone at school either besides her so it’s literally just you and i hanging out.”

you wiggled your brows. “and drinkinggg ehh?”

he laughed and eventually nodded, reaching across the table and taking your hands in his as he agreed to go, caressing his fingers over your wrists.

the familiar scent of coffee beans and vanilla— a scent you’ve come to know for almost three years now wafted and swirled around through your nose comfortingly, it permanently reminding you of toge and the time that you’ve spent with him.

he let go of your wrists to write.

‘how was sign language yesterday? are you still good?’

you swallowed the bite you were chewing on and held back a grimace.

“oh i’m doing horrendously again… but it’s all good! ignorance is bliss and i’m choosing hardcore ignorance right now.”

toge’s jaw dropped before he laughed in disbelief and picked up his marker.

‘you’re sleeping over at my place again so i can help you no exceptions sorry about it :p’

you giggled and nodded— saluting him, a mannerism you picked up on from him as he smiled brightly.

“but i do know this!” you exclaimed excitedly as you pressed the bases of your palms together and rubbed, signing the word ‘cheese’— your favorite.

toge laughed cutely and signed the same word back, unable to do much else as the doors chimed to the shop then and a group of students came in, toge’s chair scraping against the floor as he stood before giving you a quick kiss and a ruffle to your hair, his whiteboard in hand as he started making his way to the back.

‘i love you.’ he signed and you bit your bottom lip in a smile, your heart swelling obnoxiously as you watched him shuffle on and tap a few things into the register, nodding along to the groups order as you soon after gathered your things for your afternoon class.

and that night after toge taught you a little more sign language and helped you work on the things you were struggling with, you fell asleep rather earlier than usual on his bed— him reaching for one of his fluffy blankets and draping it over your sleeping gorgeous self and staring, slowly leaning down and pressing the softest kiss ever to your little warm cheek— his chest twisting and contorting with the desire to just fucking give in and stop his stupid ridiculous suffering, to just be selfish one last time and ask you to be his.

and maybe he could.

maybe toge could allow himself this one tiny thing— the most important pretty thing of all, he felt.

just once.

“toge?” you murmured sleepily, eyes pinching a little as you lazily reached out for him.

but what if you grew tired of him? of the silence?

he delicately took your outstretched hand and hummed in question.

“come sleep.” you mumbled. “with me.”

his eyes softened, the corners of his mouth curving as he carefully tapped his index finger against your cheek repeatedly, you straining your eyes open.

‘look under your pillow.’ he signed.

your groggy eyes narrowed in confusion, barely making out what he was signing in the dark but catching key words.

“under my pillow?”

he nodded, pointing.

you breathed in and propped yourself up on your elbow, lifting the pillow you were laying on and suddenly snapping the fuck awake.

a ring.

you shot up, sitting up fully as you looked at him.

he stood and reached over for his whiteboard and marker, uncapping it and writing for a moment before flipping it around and showing you.

‘i got us matching bestest mestest friends but also in love at the same time rings :]’

you picked it up, a dainty thin silver banned ring with a milky white heart in the middle, iridescent as it glowed against the moonlight streaming through his open window.

“toge—” you breathed out. “you actually… you actually got me a ring?”

he wrote, a sly little grin on his face.

‘the tooth fairy did mouse.’

you giggled then, a vibrant pink glow to your cheeks and still a little shocked as he took the jewelry piece from you and gently grabbed your hand, sliding it over your ring finger smoothly, his ring finger already having his shiny silver band on.

he put your hand down and grabbed his whiteboard again.

‘that ring is me promising to help you and love you and kiss you until i die.’ he wrote. ‘okay?’

you quickly nodded, absolutely cheesed as you threw your arms around his neck and pulled toge in— feeling so so happy and fresh and loved, like everything was officially falling into place after nearly three years of semi crossing lines and stolen glances and unanswered questions about what exactly you both were for the longest.

your pretty pretty face had toge in a daze as you looked at him like he carried the world on his shoulders, his mouth slowly coming closer and closer to yours before softly pressing against them— slow and tender as you tugged him down to you by his shirt until he climbed in and was in between your thighs.

each kiss exchange was sensual and a mouthful as you helped toge tug his shirt off over his head, your palms running over his bare skinned chest and back as he deepened his kisses, your hands quickly pulling your shirt off and his eyes bulging at the sight of your puffy tits snug and pretty in your bra.

you were desperate for him and didn’t even have to think twice about something like this as you reached and tugged a little at his jeans, signaling him to take them the fuck off—

‘baby.’ he signed shakily, not even sure why he was asking since he doesn’t think at this point he could stop, but needing to check in with you first. ‘are you sure?’

“fuck yeah i’m sure.” you whispered quickly and unzipped his pants, toge smiling big as he kicked his pants and everything else off, carefully helping you do the same until you were bare and vulnerable in front of him.

toge moved to place a hand on your thigh and you squeaked, suddenly bashful as you shyly covered your arms over your chest and squeezed your thighs together.

he leaned down and placed gentle soft kisses on your cheeks, patting a comforting hand over your head.

‘it’s okay mouse. you’re okay.’ he signed.

you nodded, comfort washing over you as you slowly let your thighs spread and your arms reveal you, his spit catching in his throat at the sight of your gorgeous fucking body beneath him, his dick embarrassingly already leaking a little bit of cum as you watched him pump it a few times.

‘you’re beautiful.’ he signed, and you blushed.

he drooled some spit over his fingers and slid it gently in between your folds, your bottom lip coming in between your teeth as you tried to hold back your moans, his digits prepping you while slipping through your hole deeming it fucking hard as he was completely lost in it, unaware of the way he was riling you up and already building up that familiar sensation in the pit of your tummy.

“t—toge—” your pussy clenched at the way he was fucking you with his fingers, keeping your thighs apart with his other arm as he was completely drowned in the gushy sticky sounds of your hole.

“you’re gonna make me cum and i—” you panted, cute whines slipping from your lips as he looked up at you. “—i wanna cum when you’re inside—”

his cock spasmed and a drop of cum drooped out at your yummy plea, his breathing trembling as he quickly nodded and squeezed your thigh endearingly, slowly slipping his fingers out and stuffing them into his mouth to suck your juices as he pumped his cock while lining it up with your hole.

toge sunk in his dick then, the both of you groaning at the way he filled you up so fucking nice and stretched you, your pussy literally grabbing his cock and sucking him inside easily as you gripped his shoulders tight.

“mmm!—” you whimpered, toge now slowly pumping his cock inside of you as he leaned over and propped himself up by his arms, hips tenderly and deliciously rolling in as he panted and softly whined in your ear.

you were so god damn tight, his throat literally closing at the lock you had around him as he fucked you slow and breathless, one of his hands coming down to grip your waist to try and keep himself grounded and from snapping his hips into yours brutally— him wanting to make love to you and not do that just yet.

toge ducked his head down and licked over a perky tit, your breath hitching and subconsciously spreading your legs wider as he closed his lips around your nipple— suckling and laying a flat tattooed tongue over it as you moaned.

“faster—” pant! “faster please baby—”

with a mouthful of your tit he snapped his hips up, you choking as he started going a lot quicker than you anticipated as your hand flew to your mouth to keep your moans in, your tits bouncing with every fuck.

“oh my god oh my god—”

toge suddenly pulled out and threw you over, tummy to the bed as he hauled your ass up and lined himself at your entrance again, wasting no time in pushing in and screwing you in the same pace he had before.

but this new position was an absolute delicacy as you drooled over his sheets at the way he rammed his cock, the recoil of your ass sending a shiver up his spine and roughly gripping your hips and ass in anyway he could, you screaming and whining into his pillow as a series of slaps to your ass cheeks from him echoed through his little studio.

toge was about to dump the biggest fucking load in you that it was embarrassing.

you reached a hand behind you and he quickly grabbed it, his thumb running over your skin soothingly as he pistoned roughly into your cunt, him groaning and whimpering over the squelching and leaking of your hole as he felt his dick harden— his cum on the brink of release.

“fuck fuck fuck—” you hiccuped into his pillow. “baby i’m gonna cum i’m gonna cum hah!—”

he gripped your hand harder and leaned down over you, rutting into your pussy as he heaved and pressed his lips up against your ear, choking out the word ‘cum’ so softly that it bypassed the confines of his situation, your eyes squeezing shut as the hardest fucking orgasm you had ever had in your life hit you like brick.

you felt toge’s hips snap up and still as his hot milky cum spilled through your walls with a grunt, gooey and slimy as it filled you up and left you squirming at the weight of it.

his breath fanned against your hair as he tried to calm it, his hand moving soothingly up and down your back as you weakly tried to gain back some consciousness, the both of you sweaty and spent with his softening dick sliding out slowly.

toge carefully nudged you back over and kissed you tenderly, his hands traveling from your back over to your tummy and smoothly caressing every part of you down to the sides of your thighs, eyes swelling in utter worship over you as he leaned back to look at you.

‘i love you baby.’ he signed, and you beamed.

and just as toge had finally decided to ask you to be his girlfriend then, to officially let go of the fears he had and let himself have you— there in your arms as you peppered sweet cute kisses all over his face and over his tattooed markings on the corners of his mouth, pulling him further in to rest and sleep?

toge had a horrendous day the following morning that threw it all away.

horrendous.

it started in the morning when he left your sleeping figure quietly with a kiss to your head for his shift at work that day, excited and in a never ending state of bliss from the night before as he drove to the shop.

except he had forgotten his whiteboard at home.

toge had realized when he was already fucking halfway into the drive, a full fledged twenty five minute one that he didn’t have time to go back and repeat as he pulled up to the parking lot— cursing himself for being such a dumbass and wondering how the fuck he was gonna answer specific questions from customers, especially since he was the only one really working today.

he figured he should be fine… right? usually the people that come in already know what to get and they just read it out to him.

but there’s always a few every single day without fail that ask questions toge needed his whiteboard for. and you didn’t have class that day— so the means of you coming down there were for nothing, at least not until the party later that night.

and he didn’t want to ask anything of you…

but he really needed it.

(toge :D): hi pretty mouseee i know you’re asleep i’m sorry but is there anyway you could come to the shop when you wake up and drop off my whiteboard please? i left it on the desk like a stupid fucking idiot EL OH EL

“inumaki.”

toge froze on his walk to open the shop and looked up from his phone, eyes blowing wide.

there his manager stood, who was also the owner of the coffee shop itself, a stern look on his face with crossed arms as they both stood in front of a shattered door and windows, shards of glass twinkling on the floor.

“did you lock up last night?”

toge nodded, eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the ground.

“everything?”

he went to nod again, but stopped.

he did… he did truly he did—

…oh.

he forgot to lock up and cash in the register.

toge quickly stepped over the glass and swung open the shattered door and over to the front counter, sure enough finding the register wide open and battered with not a single fucking penny left inside.

he groaned, his hands shooting up and digging the bases of his palms into his eyes as he leaned back, lips in a thin line at how utterly fucking stupid he was for forgetting to lock up the register and take in the money— the number one thing he was always supposed to do.

“what happened?” his manager asked, hands out. “have you been not locking it up?”

toge scrambled for his phone and pulled it from his back pocket, the thought of his job literally on the line because of this sending him for a fucking ride.

‘i always lock it up, honestly.’ he typed and showed his phone. ‘but i stupidly forgot last night and i can’t express enough to you how sorry i am.’

his manager sighed deeply and dropped his hands, looking over at the open register.

“you’ve consistently been one of my best.” he spoke. “but a mistake like this isn’t something small like forgetting to properly close and wipe down everything or put up the chairs.”

toge nodded understandingly, arms tightly crossed over his chest as he shamefully looked to the side, feeling like the biggest pathetic loser for doing something like this that could’ve been entirely avoided if he just did his damn job correctly.

“it’s alright.” his manager reached and patted a heavy hand to his shoulder. “it happens. it’s just unfortunate that we got broken into right when it did.”

toge looked at him.

“we can’t open today because there’s glass everywhere… so if you can stay and call up the insurance for the shop—” he pointed to the wall, their number amongst others typed and labeled. “—and file an insurance claim in any way you can for me that’d be great. i’m gonna go down to the police station and report.”

toge quickly nodded, typing again on his phone before showing him.

‘okay sounds good. i’m really really sorry and this won’t happen again.’

his manager waved him off with a smile. “don’t sweat, inumaki. i’m pretty sure i did this too when i was working except it was my works safe and not the register…”

softly chuckling, toge nodded once more and gave his manager a tiny wave as he patted his shoulder again before stepping around the glass, leaving.

regardless of being lucky enough to have such an understanding boss, toge still felt like complete and utter shit as he stood behind the counter slumped over after, on hold with the insurance company for thirty minutes now as he stared at the broken shards and the register.

you had gotten toge’s text the minute you woke up and quickly got up to get ready, not even bothering to change into anything different as you left with his pajamas on you and his little whiteboard, hopping into your car and speeding off knowing how much he needed it for work sometimes.

and when you pulled into the shops parking lot, confusedly already noticing scattered glass on the concrete walking up, you froze in front of the coffee shop upon seeing the windows and doors completely shattered— toge propping his forehead up with his palm on the counter solemnly.

“toge?”

he looked up.

“what happened?”

his shoulders dropped in relief and he slowly came around the counter, opening his arms a little and pulling you in as he buried his face into your hair, sighing.

you hugged him back. “are you okay? did this happen right now?”

he shook his head and stepped back, taking the whiteboard from you.

‘someone broke into the shop last night. but i forgot to lock up the register and cash in the money so they stole that too.’

“oh my god!” you gasped, hands flying over your mouth. “fuucckkkk was your manager mad? don’t tell me he fired you—”

toge erased and wrote before flipping the board over.

‘no just disappointed. but i still feel like such a fucking moron for forgetting and i hate that i did.’

“toge..” you sighed sadly, running your hands over his upper arms. “it’s okay you’re human baby. these things happen so don’t feel like that please..”

he nodded a little before ducking down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

you smiled and looked around.

“seeing the shop like this is nuts.”

he hummed in agreement.

toge stuck around for a little while, you next to him behind the counter still waiting on hold with the insurance company, feeling awfully bad for keeping you here when he knew you wanted to go shopping for a dress for the party, but him stupidly forgetting again that he couldn’t speak— too caught up in trying to make it up to his manager for his fuck up to think about how exactly he was going to talk to the insurance company on the other line, you demanding to help him.

sometime down the line when the insurance claim was filed, toge’s manager told him that if he wanted to open up the shop for the day he could, and to just sweep up the glass a little from the ground and fix up the place a little so it didn’t look like they just got robbed.

and because toge was still in his self dreaded state of guilt and shame over what happened, he immediately agreed to, trying to make up for his mistake and see if he could double the shop’s earnings for today.

“i could stay toge let me stay.” you pushed, but he only shook his head and sent you off to do the things he knew you needed to do with a pat on the head and a kiss on the cheek, telling you he’d see you at his place to get ready for the party.

but maybe toge was better off telling his manager a bit fat no and going home with you, because it was like everybody that came into the shop following that had eaten a big bag of dicks and salvaged the biggest fucking attitudes out of it to spit back in his face.

no one was understanding him. no one. not a single soul. even when he used his whiteboard to explain everything that certain customers needed, for some reason the extra effort of them having to just read putting them off and yelling and making toge’s shift a living hell.

and it’s not like he’s never managed shifts on his own either— never having an issue and still putting in and preparing orders efficiently like he was supposed to, but he figured the debacle from this morning was setting him off since he couldn’t do anything right at the moment, the attitude he was getting from literally every single fucking customer leaving him wishing he at least had one more person on the floor with him.

but toge was still blaming himself.

why couldn’t anyone understand him? why couldn’t he just speak? his life would be so much easier if he could… and you would’ve been his a long time ago.

so as toge sat there tiredly after work with his eyes closed on a stool next to you in his bathroom, you applying the finishing touches to your hair and makeup— you could practically feel toge’s exhaustion, frustration, and sadness seeping into your skin and insides over the shift he told you he had, your eyebrows pinching anxiously.

“we don’t have to go baby…” you murmured, looking down and playing with the rings on your fingers. “i would much rather stay here with you so you can relax for a little…”

he slowly peeled his eyes open, the sight of you standing there in front of him— so fucking beautiful in your dress and heels and dolled up in the way that you were, made his cheeks buzz pink as he slumped forward and mushed his cheek up against your tummy, wrapping his arms around you and shaking his head.

“are you sure?” you asked gently, running your fingers over his soft hair. “i don’t mind what we do toge… as long as with you i’m okay.”

his heart jumped as he looked up and gave you a cute smile, nodding.

you’d decided to meet in the middle and just go home early so toge could have enough rest for his shift tomorrow, him driving you both to the sorority house and parking a bit down the street amongst dozens of other cars, a little nervous and apprehensive and wondering what he was gonna do if any of your friends came up to talk to him— but the desire to make you happy and accompany you to something that you were so excited for far, far greater.

the night went smoothly for the most part, you in no time at all spotting your friend that initially invited you through the crowd along with some of your other friends that you had no idea were coming in the first place, introducing toge to each one and him giving a small smile and wave in response as he interlaced your fingers and gladly let you lead him to wherever you wanted through the dark and blue lit house, taking sips occasionally of the tequila orange liquor mix from his red solo cup and funnily from yours too— since you had gotten a different punch like flavor that he liked better.

“y/n? i didn’t know you were coming!”

your head snapped to the voice just as you were talking to toge, your eyes widening and a huge smile spreading across your face.

“oh hey! i didn’t know you were either!” you quickly turned to toge. “he’s in my sign language class the one i told you about that teaches us how to cuss—”

your friend laughed, “you talk about me y/n? interestinggg.”

toge quirked a brow.

“not like that—” you slapped his shoulder. “i talk about you so i can build up the stamina to rat you out.”

he gasped dramatically. “says the one who bothered me last class to teach her how to sign the word cunt.”

“no i didn’t— wait actually i did.”

your friend laughed again but diverted his attention momentarily to someone pulling on his arm a bit.

toge nudged you gently and you turned.

‘i’m gonna go get a drink mouse.’ he signed.

“okay!” you nodded. “i’ll wait for you here.”

he nodded, kissing your head before leaving— the kitchen not too far from where you both were originally at as he walked and threw away the drink he had initially and scanned the counter, looking for the fruity punch one you got before spotting it and picking one up from the rows of others, the smell of alcohol filling his nostrils.

“hey sorry to bother, which flavor is that?”

toge froze and looked over, a girl standing there and pointing at his cup.

oh shit.

toge pointed to his cup.

“yeah, which flavor is that one? i’ve tried the others but not that one yet.”

oh fuck.

why couldn’t he just talk?

the girl quirked a brow at his silence, and just when she was about to say something else, someone came through the kitchen.

“i think that one’s tutti frutti but i could be wrong.”

she turned to the other person and nodded, giving toge an awkward look before walking around him to get a cup for herself.

toge covered his eyes with a hand in complete fucking mortifying embarrassment, cheeks warm as he leaned against the kitchen sink in the lowest low he had ever lowed.

or so he thought.

because the sound of your loud pretty laughter had him slowly looking up and taking his hand away, you conversing so— so openly and freely with your friend from sign language triggering a hint of jealousy and bitterness in his chest. bitter as to why he was cursed to deal with something like this, bitter over the loser that was blatantly obviously flirting with you… but jealous of him that he was able to open his mouth and speak to you in whatever words and phrases he wanted, syllables flying out without any sort of pain or blood as a paying price like he had to.

that’s what you needed… that’s what you should have. not him.

not his inevitable silence and whiteboards and constant pauses, his lack of being able to tell you how much he loved you and how much you meant to him whenever, wherever… without being tied down to a marker or a phone.

his mixup from this morning, his customers not understanding him, everybody else not understanding him, has led him to believe that someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t carry the burden of even trying to.

toge knew from the very first time you came into the coffee shop that you were going to unknowingly break his heart if he let you in because of his situation… and fuck did he let you in.

and now he had to break yours so you could find and be with what you deserved.

toge walked over to you then, head down with his jaw tight and mind fogged over as you doubled over in laughter over something your friend said.

“wait—” you gasped. “wait toge he just told me that—”

“is he your boyfriend?” you friend asked, pointing to him.

well, toge still hadn’t really asked you… but he gave you a promise ring, and you were both wearing them tonight so—

your eyes snapped to toge, who was shaking his head no.

…no?

your brows furrowed.

“oh! i thought you guys were together, my bad.”

toge twitched over the way your friend sounded relieved, but you didn’t notice a thing, still looking at him with the most gutting look that made him want to scream.

“yeah.. my bad too.” you mumbled, your friend not catching it as he then got pulled by the shoulder to a different crowd, him calling over that he would come find you later on in the night.

“no?” you repeated to him.

‘come with me outside.’ he signed before slowly walking and leading you back to the kitchen and through the backyard doors, the chilling cold night air a refreshing break from the stuffiness inside.

“if this is a joke it’s not that funny toge.” you mumbled, hugging yourself as you closed the door behind you.

he looked at you sadly.

‘you shouldn’t be with me mouse.’ he signed.

“what?” you breathed out. “what are you talking about?”

‘i can’t give you what you need.’

“what i need?”

he nodded. ‘it won’t work. you and me.’

“toge—” your chest picked up speed, tears prickling a bit at your eyes. “you’re telling me all of this yet no answers— why won’t we work.”

‘you should be with someone that can talk to you and tell you that they love you and say anything without all of this baggage—’

“wait wait slow down i can’t—” you put your hands out. “you’re signing too fast i can’t understand you—”

you couldn’t understand him.

and toge realized that the reasoning he had would be something that you would counter and fight for, and something he would more than one hundred percent give in to you winning just so he could have you again.

he needed to make you hate him so it would be easier for you to move on.

toge dropped his arms, a defeated look on his face as he shoved a hand in his pocket for his phone, typing out a message to you.

you received it on the other end, your phone illuminating your face as you opened it.

(toge :D): i realized after we confessed that this isn’t what i want anymore and im sorry

your jaw dropped, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him.

“what the fuck do you mean.”

his thumbs shook as he typed, his heart pulling and screaming at the muscles and nerves tied to them for him to stop.

(toge :D): we’re better off as just friends. i’m really sorry that i realized after the fact. you deserve someone better anyways and i just don’t think it’s with me.

you let out a sob that ripped him to shreds, hand coming over your mouth in disbelief as you stared at the blurry screen in your grasp.

he realized this after the fact? after messing around with you for almost three years? after confessing to you and saying he loves you? after being intimate?

you felt fucking used.

“you’re realizing this now?” you shook your head. “toge— you realize we’ve been flirting like this for as long as we’ve known each other and all of a sudden you’re pulling back? after you got your fucking fill? after kissing me and telling me that you love me, and— and after—”

you ran an exasperated trembling hand through your hair. “toge we had sex and you’re telling me this isn’t what you want?”

god this is everything he wants.

but toge bit his tongue, him strained all over with a locked painful jaw as you yelled at him, his eyes glossy over how much he was hurting you as he stiffly nodded.

you stepped closer, jabbing a finger to his chest. “look at me in the eyes right now and tell me if our entire fucking friendship before leading up to our bullshit confessions was all a lie. tell me right now if this—” you held your hand up, the promise ring he gave you shimmering under the fairy lights of the backyard. “—was a lie when you promised me that you would always help me and love me.”

toge breathed in and out shakily, swallowing thickly as he slowly nodded, his entire body in absolute detriment.

holy fucking shit.

how long had you been this stupid for you to not realize the kind of person he actually was?

but— but it didn’t make any sense. this wasn’t toge. this wasn’t toge at all you didn’t know who the fuck you were yelling at right now because toge would never do this to you.

“do you know why i’m learning sign language in the first place?”

toge blinked back tears, shaking his head no.

“i started taking sign language for you, asshole!” you sobbed. “when i was stupidly crushing on you at the shop before we talked for the first time, i noticed you knew sign language and i signed up for you so it’d be easier for you to communicate with me without always having to use your whiteboard.”

he felt a pang to his heart, harshly wiping his eyes.

“but even then i don’t fucking care toge! you could have absolutely nothing to talk to me with and i’d still love you and do anything for you because that’s how much i’m in love you!”

you sobbed as your shoulders shook violently, hands covering your eyes.

“glad to know the feelings not mutual.”

oh he takes it back.

he takes it all back.

toge reached for your hands and you pushed him away.

“you’re so full of shit toge.” you sniffled. “if this is what you want then fine. take this fucking—”

you slipped the ring off from your finger and threw it at him, the feeling of it thudding against his chest and clinking to the ground beneath his feet close enough to a damn bullet.

he shook his head frantically, picking up your ring and following you up the steps of the porch, grabbing your hand and pulling you back, but you only shaking it off and trudging on forward.

“mouse—” he spoke. “please stop—”

the sound of his rare voice made you freeze in place, unmoving and feeling guilt pool in your stomach at the sound of him reeling over and coughing violently as a result.

he spoke to you… but his dreaded words from earlier still lingered in your mind, betrayal etched into your chest like a tattoo.

“don’t call me that.” you mumbled over your shoulder, swinging the door open to the kitchen and slamming it shut.

toge heard nothing from you for four weeks.

even through all of the calls and texts he sent you, he started to conclude that you actually blocked his number the moment you left him that night, unable to see his actual explanation through the masses of messages he sent you and still continued to even after confirming the thought that you had blocked him.

he couldn’t believe himself. he couldn’t believe he actually hurt you and drove you away like that.

and toge had never felt so much self hatred, missing you like fucking crazy throughout those weeks— it reminding him of that one time when you first started getting to know each other where you disappeared for a week, except far far worse now that you had both built so much together over the years.

his life felt empty now that you weren’t in it.

and funnily enough, his job— something he had gotten before you, now solely reminding him of you as he tried to work without throwing something over the random flashbacks he’d have of that night, blending and serving drinks and sliding them over the pickup counter all meaningless if you weren’t there at your usual table to give him a cheeky smile and sign the word ‘cheese’ to make him laugh on the other side.

his little mouse.

and toge silently cried almost every night at his desk, him clutching your ring.

you were basically the same way as him, if not fucking lower as you were the one that was practically presumably dumped and used, you unable to sleep for hours on end in your bed and your parents wondering what the hell happened between the two of you as they tried to console your tears through your restless nights, you half in denial that this was your reality and toge was out of your life.

after some time, you realized that you had left nearly half of your things in toge’s apartment, it settling into your mind how much time you actually spent with him and not at your own house as you constantly found yourself needing things but couldn’t have them because they were over there— one of those things unfortunately being your freaking sign language textbook.

there was absolutely no way you could get it, and you opted to borrowing your friends for the longest time… but by the time you reached the beginning of the fifth week without toge, you started feeling really bad for continuously bothering your friend for her book when you could just suck it up and get yours.

so you made your jumbled mind up and reached for your phone one day after your morning class, going to toge’s contact number and unblocking him before texting.

(you): hi. sorry to bother but i left some things in your apartment that i need. i was wondering if i could come by today to get them.

toge nearly jumped out of his skin at your pretty name flashing across his phone while he was lazily and depressingly laying in bed, scrambling to type back not even a minute later.

(toge): yes of course

(toge): i’m home right now if you want to come

(toge): and you’re never a bother

you pursed your lips, a lump building in your throat.

(you): okay. i’ll be there in a few minutes.

toge flung his scattered clothing inside his closet or literally anywhere that was out of eyesight, trying to turn his rut of a room back to how it looked like when you were always here, shaking out a big garbage bag and throwing all of his trash in there (along with all of the cake pop, cheese danish, and blueberry scone wrappers…), opening the blinds and straightening out his sheets.

you pulled into his apartment complex parking lot and parked not too long after, your hands drenched in sweat and your body rigid as you came up to his floor and over to his apartment number, knocking even though you had the key.

you almost turned back to leave once you heard his padded footsteps, but decided against is as he was already opening the door.

and my god, seeing him hurt a lot more than you thought it would.

his eyes were soft as they looked at you, and red like yours, him quickly stepping to the side to let you in and you doing so with your head down, not saying a single word.

“i think—” you shakily spoke, eyes already watering as he closed his door with a click. “i think i’m just gonna get my sign language textbook for now i’ll come back some other time for the rest—”

you felt a little tug at your hand, and you turned, his shoulders slumping at your teary eyes, stray droplets slipping down your cheeks already.

‘please don’t cry.’ he signed. ‘i’m so sorry for everything.’

you snorted, shaking your head as you reached behind you to get your textbook.

“sorry for stringing me along and using every part of me until you were bored? sure.”

he frantically shook his head no, panic rising in his chest as he watched you step around him and head for the door.

he couldn’t let you leave.

because he had a feeling if he did, he actually would never see you again.

toge quickly grabbed your wrist and tugged you back around.

“what toge—”

‘stay for a bit.’ he shakily signed. ‘please just stay and let me explain.’

you followed his signage, and your eyes narrowed. “explain what? there’s nothing to explain—”

toge swiped his phone from his bed and opened it, going to your contact to type out a message.

you hesitantly pulled yours out and waited, your phone vibrating against your hand once he sent it over.

(toge): i lied about absolutely everything i said that night. i don’t think any of those things at all. i’ve wanted you so fucking bad from the start y/n, i’ve been ready to be with you i don’t think for a second we’re better off as friends i want more with you always and for the rest of my life.

what?

he sent another message.

(toge): i said what i said because throughout our friendship i told myself like a fucking idiot that i couldn’t let you all the way in because i can’t talk. i kept thinking that you needed someone who you can talk to you whenever you want without having to always step back and read or write like you have to with me. i didn’t want you to carry that baggage and deal with me and i just felt like a burden, and i love you so fucking much that i wanted better for you.

you sniffled and wiped your cheeks, you rubbing away lonesome tears that landed on your phone screen.

(toge): but i’m selfish baby i’ve BEEN selfish. i said those horrible things to you so it’d be easier for you to move on and im so sorry. none of them are true. i don’t want you to move on from me. i didn’t use you i could never and that night we had sex was the most meaningful experience of my life. i love you more than anything in my life, and im gonna be selfish again and please ask you to come back to me. you’re my best friend and more, and i still believe that you need someone better and that can give you more than i can, but i just can’t let you go man i’ve been physically sick for four weeks without you.

you cried still and he typed again.

(toge): i’m selfish and i’m in love with you mouse. i’m sorry.

“toge!” you cried and chucked your phone to his bed, flinging your arms around his neck and pulling him in a tight embrace— the weight completely lifting off both of your shoulders at the feeling of your bodies pressed against each others like a perfect little key in a lock, toge hugging you back so so fucking tight with his face in your neck that he practically squeezed the air out of your lungs entirely.

“i love you.” he spoke, his words incredibly powerful in your ear even though it couldn’t have been more than a mere whisper, the sound and depth of his voice ringing through your head and one you wanted to remember forever and ever, feeling so incredibly loved over the fact that he’d use his voice for you even when it hurt him so much.

but he really didn’t need to. you just wanted him.

and you’ve never been so happy to hear someone tell you that they lied.

toge pulled back a bit and turned his head to the side, stuffing his mouth into the crook of his elbow and coughing.

you pressed your cheek against his once he was done, kissing it a few times beforehand and him closing his eyes at the feeling of your lips on his skin after so long.

“you okay?” you murmured softly, and he nodded.

“i love you too, toge.” you tightened your arms around his neck. “please don’t ever think that you’re a burden or giving me baggage to carry. i’ve never ever felt that way and neither should you.”

you stepped back and cupped his cheeks.

“i need you, baby. i don’t need anything or anyone else but you. someone that has the ability to talk can’t give me even ten percent of what you’ve been giving me. i’m happy with you. the happiest i’ve ever been is when i’m with you… okay?”

toge grinned, huge and shiny as he nodded and leaned forward and captured your lips in a kiss— the both of you utterly deprived as your mouths smacked and moved in haste, his hands running and squeezing over your body with labored breathing between the two of you.

he pulled apart for a second and you stopped.

“what baby?” you breathed, watching as he raised his arms.

‘please be my girlfriend mouse.’ he signed. ‘or i’ll die.’

you giggled cutely and a blush rose on both of your sore cheeks from smiling so much, you happily nodding and roughly pulling him back in to continue.

and how lucky was toge to have such a sweet little mouse that cared for him this much? for someone who couldn’t even speak? who had the greatest level of patience and not once ever complained about the burden she had to carry?

you learned sign language for him. solely for him. the reasons he was thinking about how he’d be baggage to you, was amazingly the total opposite on your end, as you didn’t want to be baggage to him when it came down to communication with you— as if something like that were ever even possible.

and you learned sign language for him— a totally beautiful and different and complex language that was iterated through the feeling of arms and body, to be read across with purposeful moving hands and symbols and diligent fingers— somehow looking even more beautiful when it was you that was doing it.

silence was toge’s greatest form of love… one that you received with open arms and acceptance without a twinge of judgement in your heart, and one that toge only ever wanted you to receive.

you.

his little mouse.

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

@cupcaketeddybehr @soobiary @roachfun @waterfal-ling @saebaey @reneinii @luvvmae @cake-with-the-cream @pixie-dix @2ukika @cramelmacchiao @hy3phiren @fushigurioo @wil10wthetree @jameinfrau @pancakeszs @drftnzume @k0z3me @k4zivy @dindjarins1ut @starrnai @tinyray-lovesfood @iloveoldermenn @dazqa @applepi25 @aria-chikage @blu3-l0v3r @rose-tlnted-kalopsia

if you asked to be on my taglist but i missed you please let me know!! and also let me know if i accidentally tagged you but you didn’t ask GAHAHA LOVE YOUU

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