#how to clean pool tile

[tobiosbbyghorl]

sweat it out | psh 🔞

Pairing: Frat Gym Rat Boy!Park Sunghoon × Sunshine Pilates Girl!Reader

-What starts as a workout quickly spirals into teasing touches, dirty whispers, and a steamy, semi-public hookup in the showers where he wrecks you like it’s leg day. Sunghoon shows you exactly why you should never skip gym day with him again.

You had no idea why you agreed to this.

Your gym-rat boyfriend, Park Sunghoon—sleeveless tank top stretched tight across his chest, backwards cap shading his sharp eyes, and gray sweats hanging dangerously low, just barely covering the outline of his thick, hard cock—was strutting around the gym like he owned the place. And honestly, he kind of did. This was his kingdom. The frat boys high-fived him like a god. Trainers stopped mid-conversation to nod respectfully. Even the protein shake girl at the counter gave you a weirdly respectful nod when you said you were with him. Like you were special just by association.

You? You were a Pilates girl. Sunshine and soft, graceful and delicate. You did your precise stretches and controlled breathing while he crushed deadlifts and bench presses like it was nothing.

So why exactly were you here?

At first, Sunghoon didn’t notice your attention straying.

He went through his usual sets: curls, presses, rows—his muscles flexing and bulging under tight fabric, veins pulsing with every controlled movement. He grunted and exhaled, focused and intense.

You pretended to be interested in the machine next to him, but really, your eyes kept flickering to the way his biceps rolled when he lifted. The sharp cut of his delts. The thick, veiny forearms that looked like they could snap a steel bar.

You bit your lip and swallowed hard. You weren’t used to feeling like this. Normally, your Pilates classes left you feeling strong but serene. Here, you were hot, bothered, your panties soaked from just watching him work.

When he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and turned, you almost dropped your water bottle.

He caught you mid-stare and cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh?” He teased, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face. “You been staring at these all workout?”

He flexed one bicep, making the muscle bulge impressively.

“Shut up,” you said, cheeks burning.

“Mm-hmm.” He walked over, towering over you. “Can’t blame you. I’m kinda ridiculous.”

Your breath hitched as he stood right behind you and whispered in your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“You’re so distracted, babe,” he murmured. “Can’t even focus on your damn workout.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe a little.”

His hands slid down to your waist, strong and sure, fingers pressing firmly as he adjusted your posture.

“Chest up,” he ordered, voice low and rough. His hands cupped your ribs, pushing you to arch your back properly. “Core tight.”

You tried to steady your breathing, but the heat pooling between your legs made it impossible.

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Getting wet for me with all these assholes around, huh?”

You gasped softly, surprised at how dirty his tone made you feel.

“Shh,” he said, pressing a finger to your lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re like this.”

⸻

By now, you were shaking. Not from the workout, but from the way his hands lingered, fingers trailing from your hips down to the curve of your ass.

His breath was hot on your neck. You could feel his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

“Come on, princess,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you start making a scene.”

The moment the shower door clicked shut behind you, Sunghoon’s lips were already on yours—urgent, hungry, possessive. The air inside the gym’s shower stalls was thick with steam, but his presence alone burned hotter than any heat setting.

He pushed you against the cool, tiled wall with his body pressed tight, kissing you like he hadn’t seen you in days when it had barely been hours. His hands were everywhere—fisting your damp top, sliding down to your ass, squeezing rough and greedy.

And then, you heard it.

The water running in the stall next to yours. Someone else was still in here.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. “Someone’s still—”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Sunghoon’s voice was low, almost a growl against your ear. “Let them hear how good I fuck you.”

Your eyes widened, but your body answered first—pulsing, already so wet from earlier that you were certain the slick between your thighs wasn’t just from the steam.

“You were eye-fucking me all damn workout,” he whispered as he tugged your sports bra up, exposing your tits to the hot water and his mouth. “Looking at my arms like you wanted to ride them.”

He dropped to his knees.

Just like that. Right there on the slick tile, lifting your leg over his shoulder and diving in.

His tongue was ravenous. You slapped a hand to the wall for balance, the other tangling in his soaked hair as he devoured your pussy like it was his post-workout protein.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—”

“You love this, don’t you?” he mumbled between licks. “My face buried in this perfect cunt. Letting me eat you with someone right next door.”

He spit on your clit and slurped it back in, sucking harshly while his fingers pumped into you—fast, unrelenting. Your thighs trembled over his shoulder.

“You gonna cum for me already, sweetheart?” he teased. “Haven’t even gotten to the main course.”

But you were too far gone to answer.

You came with a stifled cry, choking it back as your legs shook, back arching against the tile. Sunghoon licked you through it, slow and messy, like he had nowhere else to be.

“You’re shaking already, sunshine. Didn’t even stretch yet.” His tongue curled around your clit, fast and rough, before he pulled back and stood.

Now it was his turn.

“Get on your knees,” he said, voice full of heat.

You dropped, water hitting your back, and reached for the waistband of his soaked gray sweats.

When you pulled them down, his cock sprang free—thick, veiny, hard and flushed. You licked your lips without thinking.

“You’re so fucking big,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “I can’t believe you fit inside me.”

He hissed at your touch, leaning back against the tile.

“Show me that pretty mouth, princess.”

You obeyed instantly, sliding your tongue over the tip, gathering his precum, before taking him deep into your throat. He groaned low, hand tangling in your wet hair as he pushed deeper.

“Fuck—that mouth. You were made for this.”

Your nose pressed against his abs as you swallowed him down, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin. He watched you hungrily.

“Messy little thing,” he muttered, pulling back slightly only to thrust again into your mouth. “Look at you—taking this fat cock like a good girl.”

After a few minutes of steady, wet slurping sounds and his low groans, you pulled off with a gasp, saliva and precum stretching from your lips to his cock.

“Please,” you whined. “I want you inside me.”

He hauled you up in one swift move and spun you around, bending you over slightly so the water poured over your back.

You felt the blunt head of his cock tease your entrance.

“Still so tight,” he murmured, rubbing himself through your folds. “Every time I fuck you, it’s like the first time. Like your pussy was made for me.”

He slid in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open until your walls clenched around him desperately.

“F-fuck, Sunghoon—it’s so deep—”

He groaned at the way you whimpered under him. “You feel that, baby? That stretch? This cock splitting you open?”

He snapped his hips once, hard and deep. Your moan echoed through the tile, and just as it did, the next stall’s shower shut off.

You stilled, wide-eyed, but Sunghoon only grinned against your neck.

“Let them hear you,” he growled. “Let them hear how good your sweet little pussy sounds when I’m inside you.”

He began pounding into you relentlessly, skin slapping wet against skin, fingers digging into your hips.

Then—without warning—he grabbed your arm, pulling you upright. One hand slid around your neck and tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch and your cunt clench.

You whimpered under his hold, completely at his mercy.

“This okay?” he whispered in your ear, still thrusting into you from behind.

“Y-yes,” you breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

He spat on your shoulder, let it drip down your chest, then fucked you harder.

“Fucking flexible little thing,” he growled, reaching down to lift your leg—stretching it over his arm as he changed the angle and hit deeper. “You do all that Pilates just so I can ruin this pretty body, huh?”

You were trembling, on the edge, sobbing his name.

“Can’t even think, can you?” he teased. “Just drooling for cock.”

He spun you again, slamming you back into the tile and hoisting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He drove into you with renewed force, water spraying behind him, muscles flexing, face tight with restraint.

Your lips crashed together again, spit and moans and breath mixing like fire.

“I’m so close,” you sobbed.

“Cum on this cock, baby. Fucking soak me.”

You shattered with a cry, clenching around him as your orgasm ripped through you.

“Gonna cum inside this sweet pussy,” he growled. “Gonna fill you so full you’ll drip down your thighs for the rest of the day.”

Sunghoon’s pace stuttered as he buried himself one last time, groaning deep in your neck as he filled you up with hot, thick spurts.

The world was spinning.

Water poured over your twitching body, and Sunghoon held you through the aftershocks, forehead resting on yours.

⸻

He set you down gently, brushing your soaked hair from your face, eyes soft.

“Still think I’m just a dumb gym rat?” he teased, breathless.

You grinned, body sore in the best way. “A dumb gym rat who ruined my legs for Pilates tomorrow.”

He kissed you sweetly. “Guess I’ll just have to carry you to class.”

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee e @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona-huh

tobiosbbyhorl - 2025

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, bucky lowkey manhandling you, possessiveness, angst, voyeurism (things happening in an elevator)

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: yay to chapter 3! i hope this series has been good so far, please drop a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed it! lots of love for you guys and please stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The bathroom was cloaked in steam and rose-scented humidity, mirrors fogged around the edges as you tapped at your comms device.

“I swear to god, Lena, if he tells me to ‘stay close’ one more time—”

Yelena’s voice crackled to life, “Let me guess. He held your hand crossing the lobby? Put floaties on you for the pool?”

You snorted, pacing barefoot across the heated marble tiles. “He’s infuriating, it’s like he needs to babysit me. He is either hovering or micromanaging, like I haven’t survived six ops without him breathing down my neck.”

A beat of silence, then the wry twist of a smirk in Yelena’s voice. “Maybe he just wants to make sure you come back. Preferably with all limbs attached, preferably…you know, clothed.”

You stopped, frowning at your reflection through the fogged glass. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said, far too innocently. “And if you ask me, the hovering means he cares, you know in his emotionally constipated way.”

Before you could argue, another voice broke through—deeper, rumbling, warm and a thick russian accent.

“Barnes just caring for you, little starfish.”

You blinked. “I—I don’t need him to.”

“Nyet,” Alexei replied. “But maybe you want him to.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Heat surged up your neck as you quickly muted the comm, the silence that followed thick with everything you didn’t want to think about.

You stared at yourself for a moment longer, then reached for the dress.

It was a crimson red, Yelena had picked it out for you, it was the kind of red that made men pray and women curse.The silk clung like a second skin, liquid and shining, wrapping around your hips and hugging the swell of your thighs with lethal precision. 

The neckline dipped recklessly low, teasing the curve of your breasts with every breath you took. The straps were thin and delicate, threatening to fall if you so much as tilted the wrong way.

And paired with the stilettos that Ava had convinced you would complete the look, you looked like temptation incarnate. Every inch of you was deliberate. Calculated and weaponised.

The bathroom door creaked open.

He was standing by the window, half-turned away, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

You stopped.

The brunette was in a tailored button-down, the dark fabric clinging to his chest and shoulders like sin, sleeves rolled up just far enough to bare his forearm—thick and corded with muscle, veins rising beneath the skin in clean, practiced lines. 

The shirt was tucked into black slacks that fit just a little too well, the cut precise, hugging his hips and thighs like they were custom-made for the mission of destroying your focus.

His hair was pushed back, strands falling just slightly out of place. The low golden light brushed along the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the dusting of stubble. 

He looked carved from something old. Dangerous.

Then he turned and saw you.

The shift in his face was subtle, but devastating.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, like he was trying to memorise every curve, every exposed inch. They dropped to the hem of your dress, crawled back up to the neckline, and then higher, locking on your face with such intensity you swore you almost forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. His jaw ticked and his hands flexed once at his sides.

For a long, aching beat, you both just stared at each other.

He was looking at you like he hated you. God, he was looking at you like he wanted to fuck you against the nearest surface.

“You ready?” he asked, finally, his voice hoarse, rougher than it had been a moment ago.

You nodded, trying not to let your gaze linger too long on the way his shirt clung to his chest.

His eyes dipped again, just for a second. They lingered at your chest, flicked down your legs, then snapped back to your mouth.

Your lips curled. “Try not to pop a vein.”

His brow lifted, unimpressed, but there was a glint there. Dark. Hungry. He stepped closer, brushing past you as he reached for the door.

“Try not to get killed tonight, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth, probably to tell him to go to hell, but Ava’s voice broke in over comms before you could.

“ I heard Raskovic’s men will be there, armed and probably wired. Keep it clean guys.”

Your eyes didn’t leave Bucky’s.

“Got it. Thanks, Ava,” you replied, voice tight.

He held the door open, you walked through it, letting your shoulder brush his chest on the way out.

You didn’t look back.

But you felt the weight of his eyes burning into your spine the whole way down the hallway.

The walk down to the resort’s private club took less than five minutes, but it felt like descending into another world.

The air shifted as you passed through velvet-draped corridors and followed the curve of marble staircases carved into the side of the estate. 

Dim lighting bathed the stone in soft amber, each step echoing faintly beneath your heels as Bucky walked beside you in silence, his shoulder brushing yours every few paces, intentional or not, you couldn’t tell.

Nestled on the lower level, built directly into the cliffside, the club revealed itself behind a pair of mirrored double doors and arched golden trim. It wasn’t flashy, not in the way lesser venues tried to be. 

No, this place oozed old money, the kind of place where every detail whispered power instead of shouting it. Champagne-colored lighting glinted softly off crystal decanters and dark velvet walls. 

The scent of pine, aged whiskey, and something spiced, cigar smoke, maybe hung in the air. It was gorgeous, and every part of it screamed exclusive.

When you and Bucky stepped inside, you didn’t need to announce yourselves, the staff knew exactly who you were supposed to be.

“Mr and Mrs Barnes,” the host greeted smoothly, his smile polished, professional. “Welcome. We hope your honeymoon’s been memorable.”

You gave him a small, practiced smile, nothing showy. Just enough to charm. Bucky offered a silent nod, hands clasped casually behind his back like he hadn’t just spent the ride down brooding beside you in silence.

The host turned with a gesture, leading you into the heart of the space. Your heels tapped rhythmically against polished black stone, Bucky’s gait slow and deliberate at your side.

“(y/n)!” a voice called, light and champagne-bubbly over the music.

Layna drifted toward you, graceful as ever, her gown a wash of shimmery gold that hugged her figure like liquid wealth. Her smile was broad and curated, her cheeks perfectly blushed, every inch of her styled for the spotlight.

“You look incredible,” she said brightly, looping her arm through yours with practiced familiarity.

Behind her trailed Fred, tall and composed, eyes flicking toward Bucky with a respectful nod.

“James,” he said, reaching for a handshake. “The gentlemen’s lounge is just through the terrace. Cigars, vintage reserves, poker tables. Worth a visit.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted to you, a silent question in the glance. You smiled, letting your fingers trail lightly along his sleeve, not for show, but a subtle signal, something reassuring in its intimacy.

“Go on,” you said, keeping your voice low and playful. “I’ll grab a drink with Layna.”

His jaw tightened at that, not out of disapproval but out of something else. Reluctance, a hint of hesitation. He nodded once.

“Call me if you need anything.”

This time, you didn’t roll your eyes. You just let the smirk tug at your lips. “Always do, babe”

As Bucky followed Fred across the room toward the terrace lounge, you and Layna made your way to the bar. It was tucked beneath a curved alcove of smoked glass and carved wood, with backlit shelves of rare liquors glowing like gemstones. 

You slid onto a plush velvet stool, legs crossing with ease, letting the hem of your dress slip up just an inch more.

You ordered something sharp, whiskey, no ice, and answered Layna’s questions with a perfect blend of giggles and detachment.

The honeymoon’s been “magical.” The views? “Incredible.” James? “Everything I wanted and then some.”

Every word was laced with just enough breathiness to be believable, every glance down at your glass is calculated to seem casual. And yet, underneath it all, your eyes kept scanning the room. 

“I’ll be right back,” Layna said at last, giving your arm a light squeeze. “Forgot my shawl upstairs.”

You gave her a soft nod, swirling your drink.

And that was when you felt it.

The shift in the air. A quiet tension, like silk brushing against bare skin. You sensed him before you saw him, the press of someone standing just a little too close behind you, his gaze dragging across the bare skin of your shoulders like heat.

“Excuse me,” a voice said—low, smooth, perfectly cultured. “Are you alone?”

You turned slowly.

He looked like the kind of man sculptors tried to capture and never quite got right. Tall, lean, and dressed in a dark charcoal suit tailored to sin, the open collar of his black shirt revealed just enough to tease a hidden tattoo. 

His features were sharp, aristocratic, eyes like polished silver, mouth curled into a smirk that didn’t quite meet the eyes. Clean-shaven. Too clean. Handsome in the kind of way that made your instincts flare with warning.

“Depends,” you replied, your lips curling. “Who’s asking?”

“Andrei,” he said, offering a hand. “A friend, if you want one.”

His palm was warm when you slide your fingers into his. Confident. Controlled. The grip of someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t fumble.

“(y/n),” you said smoothly, watching him. “You always open with lines that outdated?”

He chuckled. “Only when they work.”

You were about to volley something back when your earpiece buzzed softly.

John’s voice filtered in, low and clipped. “Did a background check. Name’s Andrei Petrov. Raskovic’s right hand. He’s the guy you need to get chummy with.”

And then, rougher, unmistakable—Bucky, “I’m coming.”

A pause. Then Yelena’s voice, calm and curt. “She’s got this, Barnes. Stay with Fred. Raskovic might show anytime, we need your eyes on the floor.”

And finally, Fred’s voice, somewhere distant: “Come on! Shots?”

Then silence.

Andrei leaned closer, voice brushing against the shell of your ear like smoke. “So... what’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?”

You tilted your head, sipping your drink. “Celebrating. First week of marriage.”

He hummed low. “To a man who lets you out of his sight? Foolish.”

You smiled slow, dragging your gaze across his jawline. “Maybe I’m the dangerous one.”

His laugh was rich, almost charming— the kind of laugh meant to distract. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated. Not long. Just enough.

Your eyes flicked to the terrace, but Bucky hadn’t reappeared.

“Why not?”

You let Andrei take your hand.

The dance floor was bathed in shadows and refracted light, the music heavy and primal, pulsing through your chest. Andrei pulled you close—his hand settling just low enough on your back to test the boundary. 

His steps were fluid, confident. Like he knew how to lead people, how to make them follow. You let your body follow his rhythm, eyes half-lidded, breath controlled.

“Your husband...” he murmured against your ear, “does he know what you’re doing right now?”

“He trusts me,” you replied, cool and unbothered. “He knows I can handle myself.”

Andrei’s hand slid lower. Over the curve of your ass. Testing. Tasting your reaction.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in closer.

“Does your boss trust you this much?”

His eyes flickered—a crack in the mask, just for a moment. Intrigued. Interested.

And then—

A guard appeared beside him. His expression was sharp. Words in russian, fast and clipped, and you understood every word.

Andrei’s smile vanished.

“Босс хочет тебя. Перестань возиться со шлюхой.” “The boss wants you. Stop fucking around with that whore.”

Just like that, Andrei dropped your hand and stepped back.

His tone changed instantly. “Until next time. Don’t wander too far.”

And then he was gone.

You exhaled, pulse still unsteady, breath coming slow and tight.

But Bucky was nowhere in sight.

The club noise faded as you moved deeper into the resort halls, heels echoing against polished stone. The cold quiet wrapped around you like static, but your heart hadn’t settled—not even close.

Andrei’s touch still lingered on your skin, ghosting along the curve of your back like smoke that wouldn’t lift.

You hadn’t gotten much before he was yanked away. But it had been something. Worth it in your books.

You pressed the elevator button with more force than necessary, jaw tight. The whiskey still buzzed faintly through your veins, but it was nothing compared to the slow-burning heat in your chest. 

You weren’t sure if it was frustration or adrenaline.

There has been nothing from Bucky, no ping on the comms, no backup, no rough voice in your ear telling you to abort.

He’d stayed with Fred, stayed with the boys. He hadn’t come.

The elevator doors slid open.

You stepped inside, lips pursed, stabbing the button for your floor. The doors began to slide shut—

—and a gloved hand shot through the gap, forcing them open.

Bucky stepped inside like a storm on two legs.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

Not at first. But you felt it.

The tension rolled off of him in waves. His jaw was clenched, his breath sharp. Hands curled into fists at his sides like he was holding something back. 

“For fuck’s sake, (y/n),” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “Why the hell would you do that?”

You blinked, adrenaline still pumping. “Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His eyes cut to you, sharp and furious. “Dancing with him. Letting his hands all over you. You knew who he was—”

“I was trying to get information,” you shot back, stepping toward him. “It was working—”

His voice dropped. “And your plan was what? Fuck it out of him?”

The air crackled.

You stared at him, breath catching. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snarled. He stepped into your space, the force of him pinning you without even touching. “You think you’re subtle? You think I didn’t see the way he was looking at you? The way you let him—”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snapped. “That was the mission. That’s what we’re here for.”

“That’s not what that was,” he hissed. “And you fucking know it.”

The elevator kept climbing, but the floor might as well have dropped out from beneath you. The space shrank, every breath shallow, every movement taut.

And then—he snapped.

Bucky surged forward and grabbed you, spinning you and slamming your back against the mirrored wall with a thud that rattled the glass. Before you could curse him out, his mouth was on yours.

He kissed you like he’d waited all fucking night for permission—like he couldn’t hold it back another second. His tongue slid into your mouth, hot and demanding, his teeth grazing your lip just enough to sting. You moaned into him, hands flying to his chest, gripping his shirt as you arched against him.

One of his hands tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you gasp. The other slid down, over your ass, up under the hem of your dress, fingers digging into the bare curve of your thigh as he shoved your leg up and wrapped it around his waist.

You ground against him, breathless, desperate, needing more.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and solid and right where you needed it.

You rocked against him.

“Every fucking time you argue with me,” he growled against your mouth, “all I want to do is pin you like this and shut you up.”

“Then shut me up,” you gasped, nails raking down his chest.

He did.

His mouth crushed yours again, more brutal this time. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, then slid lower, down your jaw, down your neck, biting at the soft space beneath your ear. You shuddered, fingers gripping his shoulders as his hands roamed.

He cupped your breast through the silk, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled beneath the fabric. You cried out, hips rolling shamelessly against the bulge straining against his zipper.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath ragged. “This dress—this fucking dress—”

His hand slipped beneath the fabric, fingers trailing over your bare skin, tracing the dip of your spine, the swell of your hip.

You felt him. Hard. Hot. Pressed tight against you.

You wanted to tear the rest of your dress off. You wanted to let him fuck you here, against the glass, in this box hurtling up the side of a mountain.

But then, he froze. Just like that.

Bucky tore himself away, staggering back like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“I can’t,” he rasped, eyes wide, chest heaving.

You stared at him.

Your dress was rumpled, your lip swollen, your thighs still trembling. “What?”

“I can’t,” he said again, softer. He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back until his spine hit the wall. He looked fucking wrecked. Wild eyes. Flushed skin. Hands shaking.

“This isn’t real,” he murmured, eyes locked somewhere between your legs and your face. “None of this is. And if we let it feel real—”

His voice cracked.

You stepped forward, barely breathing. “Too late.”

The elevator dinged.

The doors opened, and the cold air hit you like a slap.

You pushed past him, jaw clenched, dress twisted high on your thighs. He reached for your wrist—but you pulled away.

“(y/n)—”

“I need air,” he muttered, staring past you like he was already somewhere else.

You stopped, just for a second. Just long enough to turn your head.

“Then breathe,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to wait while you figure it out.”

And then you left.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t stop until the door to your suite slammed shut behind you, the echo vibrating through your bones.

You were a mess.

Frustrated, horny, and god, you were pissed, still aching where his hands had been, still tasting him on your tongue.

And so, so done pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Somewhere deeper in the resort, past security checkpoints and beyond velvet ropes no guest ever saw, the world shifted.

No more music, laughter or lights warm enough to be inviting.

Only polished stone, muted shadows, and the quiet hiss of air systems pushing filtered silence through the walls.

The lounge in the VIP wing wasn’t for entertainment, inside, two men stood beneath the dim amber glow of a hanging chandelier.

Cigar smoke laced the air, curling upward in thin spirals that twisted and vanished into the high, vaulted ceiling.

Everything smelled expensive, aged tobacco, rare liquor, gun oil faintly buried in the leather.

Andrei leaned against the wall, casual in appearance but sharp-eyed, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a half-lit cigar, thumb flicking it slowly as his gaze stayed fixed on the mirrored panel across the room.

The panel looked like a decorative installation, with smoked glass inset into the wall, but it wasn’t. Behind it, a discreet camera feed displayed the club below in crisp, colourless detail.

The dance floor was mostly cleared now, the lights dimmed, only a few couples left swaying to the after-midnight tempo.

But Andrei wasn’t watching them. He was watching the absence.

“They’re good,” he said finally, voice rough and quiet. “Too good.”

Across from him, Raskovic moved with glacial ease, pouring vodka into a cut-crystal glass, the sound of the liquid unnervingly loud in the silence.

His hands were thick, callused, the kind of hands that had held power and destroyed it. Gold rings gleamed on every finger, the diamonds embedded in his pinky catching the overhead light.

He didn’t look at Andrei when he responded.

“You’re suspicious.”

Andrei took a long drag from the cigar. Exhaled slowly through his nose. “I’ve seen agents wear tighter covers. Pretend harder. But there’s something off. Their body language—”

“You think they’re not married?” Raskovic interrupted, still without looking.

“I think they’re not who they say they are.”

Now the Russian did look at him.

He turned, slowly, the crystal glass raised to his lips as his eyes locked onto Andrei’s. He sipped before setting the drink down with precision on the lacquered bar.

A pause stretched out between them like the moment between a trigger pull and the echo.

“Find out more,” he said at last, the words soft. Measured.

Then, in a voice like gravel dragged through ice, he added,

“Если они лгут, я прикажу заживо сдеру с них кожу." “I will have them skinned alive if they are liars.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

The threat sat between them like a loaded weapon. Final and absolute.

Andrei nodded once, solemnly, then turned back to the feed. His eyes lingered on the last image before the camera cut, the red dress disappearing into the elevator, followed seconds later by a man in a black button-down who didn’t look like he was thinking clearly anymore.

Above them, somewhere in the dark belly of the resort, two agents had just crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.

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[strwbyoons]

DIRTY CASH

STARRING ... HAEGEUM AU!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... when survival means keeping your head down, you make the mistake of looking up.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slowburn. enemies2lovers. gang!au implied crime. explicit language. cigarette use. alcohol use. mild physical intimidation. reader is stubborn but out of her depth. yoongi is even worse. ft jk.

playlist : dirty cash (stevie v). haegeum (agust d). blood on the dancefloor (michael jackson). god's gonna cut you down (johnny cash). blackout days (phantomgram). you should see me in a crown (billie eilish). castle (halsey). buried in water (dead man's bones). dirty harry (gorillaz).

you try your best to live check by check. you spend your days shopping for necessities at the local market, work a quick closing shift at the drycleaner's, catch the minibus home, unpack your tiny plastic bag's worth of groceries, and then have dinner—which usually consists of a cheap pack of ramyun and whatever fizzy drink was left over at the convenience store.

your nights, much less excitingly, are spent cleaning the bath house beneath your apartment.

you work alone. the bath house is old, and grimy. the kind of place people come to when they have nowhere better to go.

the walls are stained with years of steam and sweat, the grout between the tiles permanently darkened no matter how hard you scrub, and the air is heavy with the scent of damp towels and something chemical. likely whatever cheap cleaner your boss seoyun buys in bulk.

your job is simple. mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty out the lockers. take out the trash. repeat.

you don’t think much while you work. you can’t afford to. thinking makes the nights feel longer, makes the silence settle too deep in your bones. so you move on autopilot, dragging the mop in slow, steady strokes, watching dirty water pool in the grout before it’s wiped away. you crouch down, scrubbing at a stubborn stain near the edge of the bath, fingernails scraping against the tile.

someone left behind a half-empty cigarette pack in one of the lockers. someone else forgot a wet towel, balled up and sour-smelling.

you throw it all away.

by the time you finish, your hands smell like bleach, your back aches, and your clothes cling to your skin, damp from the lingering heat. it’s late. the city outside hums with a different kind of life—motorcycles revving, laughter echoing down the alleys, glass breaking somewhere in the distance.

you lock up, head upstairs, and try not to think about doing it all again tomorrow.

seoyun herself is nice enough. you only really see her once a week, when she hands you a wad of cash and thanks you for your work. maybe every now and then when she comes in late, bringing in someone else before disappearing into her office.

at some point, you start recognizing a few of the faces. not regulars, not in the way normal bath houses have them. these men don’t come to soak in the water or unwind after a long day. they slip in at odd hours, always in pairs or small groups, always looking over their shoulders before they disappear down the hall.

you offered a wave once, just to be polite. the man had barely looked at you, but seoyun had. she pulled you aside after your shift, voice low and cold, asking if you had a death wish.

“you work here. you don’t see anyone, you don’t speak to anyone, and no one speaks to you.”

the next payday, your envelope was lighter than usual.

you learned your lesson. keep your head down. do your job. don’t ask questions.

it’s easy enough, you tell yourself. you’re not curious. you don’t care what seoyun does behind that office door or who these men are. you just need the cash, and as long as you mind your business, you’ll keep getting it.

so you mop the floors. scrub the tiles. empty the lockers. take out the trash. you get paid, and you go home, just to do it all over again.

you’re not stupid. you know what kind of city you live in. the type of people that roam the streets.

this isn’t the kind of place where people walk home alone at night without looking over their shoulder. it isn’t the kind of place where the police show up when they’re called, either.

you hear things—stories whispered between neighbors, rumors passed down the halls of your apartment building. who got jumped. who went missing. whose body got fished out of the river last week.

this city is not kind. it never has been.

so no, you don’t ask questions. you don’t stare too long at the men who slip in and out of the bathhouse, their faces half-hidden beneath hoods and cigarette smoke. you don’t wonder why seoyun has a new car every few months or why she doesn’t seem the least bit bothered when some of her guests leave blood in the water. you just clean up after them.

but there’s one.

you noticed him because he was different. because unlike the others, he walked in alone. no pair, no group, no low murmured conversation at the door. just him, stepping inside like he belongs there.

seoyun is with him, though. she holds the door open, says something you can’t hear, tilts her head just slightly in his direction.

you should’ve looked away, should’ve gone back to your mopping without a second thought. but for whatever reason, you linger just long enough to catch a glimpse of him.

he’s wearing a shirt you’re almost sure you’ve seen at the dry cleaner’s before, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. he’s not big, not particularly imposing, but there’s something about the way he moves—calculated, slow, precise—that makes your stomach tighten. a warning you don’t quite understand.

for a brief, split second, you make eye contact. no more than a flicker. but it’s enough.

you don’t know what you see in his eyes, but your grip tightens around the mop handle. you drop your gaze, focus on the streak of dirty water smeared across the tile, and pretend you never looked at all.

seoyun disappears into her office. the door shuts behind them, and you keep mopping. keep your head down.

but you see him again. and again.

at first, it’s easy to pretend it’s nothing. just another man passing through, another face you shouldn’t recognize. but he comes in more than the others, often enough that you start expecting him. never at the same time, never on a schedule, but always the same way. alone, with that quiet, deliberate ease.

it makes your skin itch.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s the way he looks without looking, like he sees everything without needing to turn his head. maybe it’s the way seoyun lets him through without a word, without a second glance, whatever business he has clearly above questioning.

whatever it is, you don’t like it.

so you start adjusting. changing your rhythm. shifting the way you clean, where you are, when you’re there.

if you know you have to mop the floors, you do it earlier, long before he might show up. if you have to take out the trash, you drag the bags out back before the bath house even closes. if you hear the front door creak open, you find somewhere else to be. out of sight, out of the way.

it’s not fear, you tell yourself. it’s just caution. just common sense.

you don’t need to be in the same space as him. you don’t need to see whatever it is he does here. and most of all, you don’t need to risk catching his eye again. one glance was already too much.

you manage to avoid him for a while. weeks, maybe. long enough that you start to think your paths won't cross again.

but then, one night, on his way out, he drops something.

you don’t notice at first, too focused on wiping down the front desk. but when the door swings shut behind him, there it is; a pack of cigarettes, scuffed at the edges, half-full.

you hesitate. you could leave it. pretend you never saw. but something about it gnaws at you, a sharp little itch between your ribs. before you can think twice, you grab it and push through the door.

he hasn’t gone far. just a few steps down the alley, hands back in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. he doesn’t turn when you call out, doesn’t even flinch, but when you catch up, he slows.

you hold out the pack. “you dropped this.”

he looks down at your outstretched hand, then at you. for a second, there's nothing. just the distant hum of the city, the faint burn of smoke in the air.

then, he exhales, shaking his head. “keep it.”

his voice is low, edged with something unreadable. before you can respond, he turns, disappearing around the corner without another word.

you stand there a moment longer, fingers tightening around the pack. then, without really knowing why, you slip it into your pocket and head back inside.

the market is crowded, voices overlapping in a steady hum, the scent of fried food and fresh produce thick in the air. you shift your basket to your other hand, adjusting the phone against your ear.

“so you’re still working there?” jungkook’s voice crackles slightly, the distance stretching the signal thin.

you glance at the vegetables in front of you, turning a tomato over in your hand. too soft. you put it back.

“yeah,” you answer. “still working there.”

he exhales, something caught between a sigh and a laugh. “you always sound like you’re about to quit.”

you don’t respond. instead, you reach for an onion, give it a quick squeeze. firm enough. it goes into your basket.

“you could come here,” jungkook continues. “i could help you out, just until you find something better.”

you switch your phone to the other ear, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “i can’t.”

“why not?”

you don’t have a real answer for that. not one that makes sense. instead, you look down at your basket—onion, one carrot, a single potato. it’s not much. maybe enough for something warm, something that doesn’t come from a packet.

your old plastic bag is tucked under your arm, creased and thin from too many uses. you’ve had it so long the logo is starting to fade, the once-bright letters cracked and peeling.

“i just can’t,” you say finally, adding a head of cabbage to the basket.

jungkook makes a noise, something skeptical, but he doesn’t push. “at least tell me you’re eating properly.”

you pick up another tomato, hesitate, then set it back down. “of course.”

“liar.”

a faint smile tugs at your lips. you don’t bother denying it.

you move to the next stall, phone still pressed to your ear, fingers grazing over vegetables you know you can’t afford in bulk.

“what about your place?” jungkook asks. “your landlord still giving you shit?”

you shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “haven’t seen him in weeks.”

which isn’t necessarily a good thing. rent is still due whether he comes knocking or not.

jungkook hums, unconvinced. you can hear movement on his end, the faint clink of a glass against a table. probably at home, probably somewhere clean and warm, not in a market where the floor is damp and the air is thick with the scent of too many bodies packed close together.

“you sure you don’t need—”

“don’t.”

you hear him sigh. it’s an old conversation, one you’ve had too many times before. he offers. you refuse.

you balance your phone between your shoulder and cheek, reaching for your plastic bag.

“just let me know if that changes,” jungkook says, softer this time. “i mean it.”

you nod, even though he still can’t see you. “i know.”

a pause. “are you safe?”

the question catches you off guard. your fingers tighten around the bag’s handles. “yeah,” you say. “i’m safe.”

you can almost hear him frowning through the phone.

“promise?”

you swallow. glance around the market, the crowded stalls, the hunched shoulders and hurried steps. somewhere, not too far, a siren wails, cutting through the noise.

“promise,” you lie.

you tip the vegetables into your bag, careful not to let the thin plastic stretch too much under their weight. the handles are already weak, the edges fraying where they’ve been knotted and unknotted too many times. one day, it’s going to give out completely.

you push the thought away and pull out your cash.

the vendor barely looks at you as they take the money, dropping your change into your palm with a muttered thanks. you count it quickly, thumb running over the rough edges of the bills. enough for a hotteok.

you glance toward the food stalls, the scent of frying batter thick in the cool air.

“you’re still there, right?” jungkook’s voice pulls you back, staticky in your ear.

“yeah,” you murmur, tucking the remaining cash into your pocket. you step away from the produce stall, weaving through the crowd toward the vendor with the griddle. “just paying.”

jungkook sighs, something slow and drawn out. “you should eat something real.”

“this is real.”

“not when it’s the only thing you’ve had all day.”

you don’t answer that.

the woman at the stall barely glances up as you approach, pressing the hotteok down against the griddle with a flat spatula. the smell is warm, familiar, syrupy-sweet as the sugar caramelizes inside the dough.

“how much?” you ask, already fishing out the bills.

the woman holds up fingers instead of speaking, and you nod, slipping the exact amount onto the counter. she hands you the pastry wrapped in thin wax paper, still hot from the griddle, grease soaking through at the edges.

you step to the side, balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you blow gently on the pastry, trying not to burn your tongue.

“still there?” jungkook asks again, voice softer now.

you swallow down a too-hot bite, sugar sticking to your teeth.

“yeah,” you say. “still here.”

"what about the dry cleaner’s?" jungkook asks, his voice steady but distant over the static.

you chew the inside of your cheek, shifting your bag higher onto your arm as you step away from the food stall. the sun is setting, smearing long shadows across the pavement, tinting everything in dusky orange.

the market’s thinning out now, the hum of conversation dulling as vendors start packing up for the night.

“just finished a shift,” you say, licking sugar from your thumb. “gonna have to pick up extra, though. the ajumma that owns it is sick, and her nephew’s out of town.”

jungkook tuts under his breath. “so you’re overworking again.”

“just for a little while.”

“uh-huh. and how long is ‘a little while’?”

you exhale through your nose, not in the mood to argue. you can already hear the frustration creeping into his voice, the familiar weight of it pressing against your chest.

“until she gets better,” you say, glancing up at the sky. the last bits of sunlight are bleeding out over the buildings, the neon signs flickering on one by one. the bath house won’t be busy yet, but it will be soon.

you shift the hotteok to your other hand, biting off another piece, chewing slow. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you know he’s not done.

“you need to take care of yourself,” he says finally, quieter this time.

you don’t have an answer for that, so you don’t give one. just swallow, adjust your grip on your bag, and start heading home.

you finish the hotteok as you walk, tearing off the last piece with your teeth, the caramelized sugar still too hot where it sticks to the roof of your mouth. you lick the grease from your fingers and ball up the wax paper, tossing it into an overflowing trash can on the way.

the usual minibus sits at the curb up ahead, its headlights dim, the driver smoking lazily by the door. you heard it changed hands recently, some back-alley deal that put it under serpent property.

you don’t get on.

even if you had the fare, you wouldn’t. too many rumors. too many things happening to people who ask the wrong questions, take the wrong ride, end up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

instead, you keep walking, already feeling the ache building in the arches of your feet. it’s going to be a long way home.

“you’re quiet,” jungkook says, voice a little fuzzier now, muffled by the wind cutting through the street.

“just tired.”

he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push.

you reach into your pocket, fingers brushing against crumpled bills, old receipts, and then—thin cardboard, edges worn soft from the way you’ve been fidgeting with it.

you pull out the cigarette pack. his cigarette pack.

your other hand dips into your jacket for the lighter you bought on a whim, despite knowing better. you don’t have cigarette money. hell, you barely have grocery money. but you bought the damn lighter anyway.

you shake out a cigarette, tuck it between your lips, flick the lighter once, twice, until the flame catches.

jungkook must hear it through the phone.

“really?”

you take a slow drag, smoke curling out into the cool air, the faint burn of it settling low in your chest.

“i thought you quit.”

you exhale, watching the smoke dissipate. “yeah,” you murmur. “me too.”

the cigarette tastes cheap, bitter on the inhale, but you smoke it anyway. jungkook doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens to the sound of your breath through the phone, the occasional rustle of fabric as you switch hands, tuck the lighter back into your pocket.

you walk past shuttered storefronts, metal grates pulled down tight, neon signs flickering in and out of focus. the bathhouse isn’t far, but your apartment sits just a little higher, up the cracked concrete steps, past the flickering hallway light that never gets fixed.

“when’s your next day off?” jungkook asks, breaking the silence.

you let out a quiet laugh, short and humorless. “what’s a day off?”

“you know that’s not normal, right?”

“maybe not for you.”

you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “it’s not normal for anyone.”

you don’t argue. what’s the point? this is just how things are. rent doesn’t wait. groceries don’t pay for themselves. you work until you can’t, and then you work some more.

you take another drag, eyes drifting toward the minibus as it idles at the curb. the driver’s still there, flicking ash onto the pavement, his expression unreadable in the low light.

“you sure you’re safe?” jungkook asks again, quieter this time.

you exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air.

“yeah,” you say, lying through your teeth. “i’m sure.”

the bus doors hiss open. a man steps off, shoulders broad, head tilted slightly downward, dark hair shadowing his face.

you recognize him before you even see his eyes, and you keep walking.

jungkook says something, but the words don’t register, drowned out by the steady click, click, click of boots against pavement behind you.

you don’t speed up. don’t look back.

you just keep moving, cigarette burning down between your fingers, pulse steady, breath even.

long way home, you remind yourself.

you keep your head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. the boots behind you are steady, unhurried.

long way home, long way home.

you don’t see the man until it’s too late.

broad shoulders, thick arms, the scent of something sharp and metallic clinging to his clothes. you shove past him too fast, too rough, and his shoulder knocks hard against yours.

your phone slips from your grip, clattering against the pavement.

shit.

you don’t stop.

the cigarette falls from your fingers, embers sparking against the sidewalk. you shove your hands into your pockets, chin tucked low, legs moving before you can think twice.

keep walking. don’t look back.

“hey!” the man calls, voice gruff, irritated.

you don’t stop. don’t slow down. your phone is still on the ground, screen facing up, jungkook’s voice faint through the speaker.

you don’t go back for it. you just keep walking, faster this time.

your feet move before your brain catches up.

the moment you hear the heavy thud of boots against pavement—too fast, too deliberate—you break into a run.

the city blurs around you, neon lights streaking past, the scent of fried food and car exhaust thick in the air. your breath comes fast, uneven. the plastic bag swings against your thigh, the vegetables inside bouncing against each other.

you hear him gaining.

shit. shit. shit.

you take a sharp turn into an alley, hoping to lose him in the maze of side streets, but as soon as you round the corner, you stop.

another man stands at the other end.

not the same one. taller, thinner, but the stance is the same. relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides, but there's something calculated about it. like he's waiting.

you turn back, but it’s too late.

the first man is there now, closing the distance. not alone anymore.

dark shapes slip out from the shadows, one after another, a slow, deliberate circle forming around you. all dressed the same—dark clothes, quiet movements, faces mostly obscured by the dim light.

trapped.

your heart slams against your ribs. the plastic bag in your grip crinkles under the pressure of your fingers.

“don’t—” your voice is barely steady, your throat too tight, words tumbling out before you can think. “i don’t have anything. if it’s money, i don’t—”

a low chuckle.

“not about money,” one of them says, voice smooth, almost amused.

your stomach twists. you take a step back. your heel scrapes against the pavement, and suddenly it’s real.

you are surrounded, and there is nowhere to go.

the air is thick, pressing down on your chest.

your fingers tighten around the plastic bag, knuckles aching. the vegetables inside shift with every shaky breath you take. useless. not a weapon, not an escape. just something you were stupid enough to care about bringing home.

one of the men steps closer.

you take a step back.

another chuckle, low and lazy. someone mutters something under their breath. someone else shifts their weight, slow and deliberate. they’re in no hurry. it isn’t a question of if, just when.

then, the faint scratch of a lighter. the soft drag of a breath. a flicker of orange glow.

you don’t have to turn to know.

he’s there.

leaning against the mouth of the alley, one foot crossed over the other, cigarette dangling from his lips like he has nowhere better to be. his hands stay in his pockets.

he exhales, smoke curling through the air, eyes flicking over the scene in front of him.

"this really necessary?"

his voice is quiet, but the way the group stiffens tells you everything you need to know.

your pulse slams against your throat, and you don’t dare move.

silence stretches, thick and suffocating. the men don’t move, but you feel the shift, the way their postures tense just slightly. not fear, exactly. not yet. but hesitation.

the cigarette between his lips burns slow, smoke curling lazily into the night air. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even glance your way. just stands there, hands in his pockets, his weight still leaned easy against the brick wall like he’s got all the time in the world.

“didn’t realize we had an audience,” one of the men says, voice clipped.

he doesn’t react. just takes another slow drag, then exhales. “didn’t realize you needed a whole group to handle one person,” he says, just as even, just as slow.

someone shifts beside you. you feel it more than you see it. your fingers tighten around the plastic bag again.

one of them—the first one, the one you bumped into—lets out a short laugh, but there’s something forced in it now, something thin.

“this your business?”

he tilts his head slightly, finally flicking his eyes toward the man who spoke. "not really.” a pause. then, cool, measured, “but you know how it is.”

another beat of silence. you don’t breathe. then, just as easily as they appeared, the tension snaps.

someone clicks their tongue. another mutters something under their breath. then, one by one, they step back, peeling away from the circle, slipping back into the shadows of the alley.

the first man lingers the longest, staring him down, something unreadable in his gaze. but eventually, even he turns, and their footsteps fade.

you don’t move. don’t exhale. can't do anything but stand there.

until finally, “you can breathe now.”

your eyes snap to him.

he’s looking at you this time, head tilted slightly, cigarette still perched between his fingers, gaze unreadable.

you swallow, the plastic bag crinkling in your grip.

he doesn’t say anything else. just flicks the cigarette to the ground, snuffs it out with the toe of his shoe, and turns, like it never happened at all.

you know it’s stupid.

you know it the second your mouth opens, before the word even makes it past your lips. “hey.”

he pauses.

just barely, just for a fraction of a second. then he turns his head, the dim light catching on the sharp cut of his features.

your heart is still racing, pulse thick in your throat. your fingers ache from gripping the plastic bag too tight. you swallow. shift your weight.

“your name,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “what is it?”

his expression doesn’t change, but something in the air does. the weight of it presses down on you, heavy and final.

he exhales, barely audible. “i know where you live.” your breath catches, but his gaze doesn’t waver. "stop being stupid.”

his words are clipped, sharp enough to cut, then he turns. and this time, he doesn’t pause. he just walks away.

you stand there, stomach twisting, mind spinning, watching until his figure disappears into the dark.

long way home. long way home.

you force your feet to move.

you get home later than usual, and as a consequence, you have to skip dinner in order to be somewhat on time for your shift at the bath house.

not that it matters. you weren’t all that hungry anyway.

your apartment is the same as always—too small, too cold, too quiet. the overhead light flickers when you switch it on, the bulb probably on its last leg, but you don’t have time to care. you drop the plastic bag onto the counter, the vegetables inside rolling lazily to one side. they’ll have to wait.

you change quickly, stripping off the clothes you spent the day in, replacing them with something less suffocating. your uniform is just an old t-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that have already been worn thin from too many washes, but they’re good enough for the work you do.

you check the time.

definitely too late to eat.

barely enough time to make it downstairs.

you exhale, shoving your sore feet into your shoes, grab your keys, and step back into the dimly lit hallway.

the building is silent. a few doors down, someone has their TV on, the low drone of news reports seeping through the thin walls. the stairwell smells faintly of cigarette smoke and damp concrete.

you take the stairs two at a time, moving fast, not letting your mind linger too long on what happened earlier.

the bath house is waiting. the floors need mopping. the tiles need scrubbing. the lockers need emptying.

same as always.

and if your hands shake a little as you reach for the keys, if your pulse stutters at the sound of footsteps in the alley beside the building, if the cigarette pack in your pocket feels heavier than it should, well.

that’s nobody’s problem but yours.

seoyun is waiting at the entrance when you arrive, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering lazily between two fingers. the sight is unusual enough to make your steps falter. she’s never here when you start your shift—never at the front, never waiting.

but tonight, she is. and she’s smiling.

too wide, too friendly. the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“there she is,” she says, pushing off the doorframe with an easy stretch. the cigarette dangles from her lips as she gestures for you to come in. “was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you just step inside, brushing past her. the scent of smoke clings to the warm, humid air, mixing with the ever-present tang of chlorine and damp towels.

seoyun flicks ash onto the ground, watching you with something unreadable in her expression.

“long day?” she asks, too casual.

you don’t like this. don’t like the way she’s looking at you, don’t like the way her tone is just a little too light, too knowing.

your fingers tighten around your keys as you shove them into your pocket.

“same as always,” you say.

seoyun hums, dragging another slow pull from her cigarette. “right,” she says, exhaling. the smoke curls up toward the ceiling, lazy and slow. “same as always.”

something in your stomach knots.

you force your feet to move, heading toward the supply closet, keeping your face blank, your steps steady. behind you, seoyun chuckles under her breath, amused.

you don’t ask what’s so funny. you don’t want to know. you’ve barely made it three steps when seoyun calls after you.

“oh—someone left something in the back,” she says, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. “be a doll and grab it for me, would you?”

you pause, turning slightly. “what is it?”

seoyun waves a hand, already distracted. “just a bag. nothing heavy.”

her tone is airy, but something about the way she says it makes your skin itch. still, you nod. “sure.”

you turn back toward the hallway, but curiosity gnaws at you, the weight of the day pressing in, making you reckless. before you can stop yourself, the question slips out.

“who are you waiting for?”

seoyun doesn’t even blink. “investor.”

it comes so easily, so smoothly, that you almost believe it.

almost.

but then she shifts, adjusting the hem of her blouse, smoothing it down with practiced ease, and that’s when you know. she’s lying.

you don’t push. you just nod, keep your head down, and make your way to the back.

the hallway stretches long and dim, the overhead bulbs buzzing faintly. you reach the back door, fingers brushing against the cool metal handle. it’s unlocked, cracked open just enough to let the night seep in. you push the door open.

the duffel bag sits just outside, slumped against the frame. black, unmarked, zipper pulled shut.

you crouch down, fingers curling around the straps. the material is rough beneath your skin, edges worn from too much use. then,you lift.

too heavy.

your breath catches. too heavy.

your mind moves too fast, filling in blanks you don’t want to see. you’ve taken out the trash before. you’ve carried bags that sagged in the middle, that smelled of iron, that weren’t meant to be opened. you know what heavy means.

your grip falters. the bag slips, nearly dragging from your hands before you catch it. your pulse stutters, cold fear lacing through your ribs.

don’t ask. don’t look.

you inhale slow, steady, force your hands to hold firm. it’s just a bag. just a bag...

with effort, you lift it fully, shifting the weight onto your shoulder, muscles burning under the strain. you swallow hard and step back inside.

you barely make it two steps inside before you hear voices at the front. he’s here. you know it before you see him. the weight of the duffel bag is still solid on your shoulder, but now it feels secondary, something you can barely focus on amisdt the slow churn in your stomach.

you step back into the hallway, adjusting the strap, keeping your head down, hoping—stupidly—that you can slip past unnoticed.

of course, no such luck.

“ah, perfect timing.” seoyun. her voice rings out, light, too amused.

you glance up. and there he is.

leaning against the counter, that same easy posture, hands in his pockets, his gaze flicking up just enough to acknowledge you before shifting away again.

seoyun gestures between you both, as though presenting something far funnier than it is. “you’ve probably seen each other before,” she says, feigning innocence. “our little night shift worker here is very good at keeping her head down, but i’m sure you’ve noticed her around.”

your stomach twists.

oh, you’ve noticed each other.

you keep your expression blank, fingers tightening around the duffel strap. 

he says nothing. doesn’t react, doesn’t acknowledge seoyun’s prodding. just exhales, gaze unreadable, and flicks his eyes back toward her instead.

which would be a relief, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. all that effort. weeks spent avoiding him at work, shifting your schedule, moving quietly enough to never share space with him longer than necessary.

and now this.

“lucky you,” seoyun muses, still grinning, watching the whole thing unfold with far too much enjoyment.

lucky. yeah, you don’t feel very lucky. 

you shift the weight of the bag on your shoulder. “where do you want this?” you ask, voice clipped, pointedly ignoring everything else.

seoyun waves a hand, dismissive. “just put it in my office.”

you nod, turn on your heel, and leave. as you move past him, you swear you feel his eyes flick toward you. brief, unreadable, nothing at all.

but you don’t check to be sure.

the night drags.

you mop, same as always. push the handle forward, pull it back, watch the water smear across the tiles before it settles into the grout.

the meeting—or whatever it was—is over. seoyun left not long after, a lazy wave and a hum on her lips, disappearing back into her office.

he didn’t. he’s still here.

you don’t know when you noticed. a few minutes ago, maybe more. but the weight of his stare is impossible to ignore now, sitting heavy at the nape of your neck, settling deep in your ribs.

you keep mopping. push forward, pull back. the wet slosh of the mop head against tile fills the silence.

then, “are you dumb, suicidal, or both?”

you stop. the words land low, devoid of real curiosity. as though he’s already decided the answer and is just waiting to see if you’ll admit it.

slowly, you straighten. the mop handle stays gripped in your hands, and you turn.

he’s leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. the picture of ease, like he belongs here. like he’s got all the time in the world.

but his eyes, his eyes aren’t lazy. they’re sharp. settled on you in a way that makes your pulse jump, makes you suddenly aware of every single choice you’ve made tonight.

the duffel bag. the alley. the cigarette pack.

you swallow. shift your grip. “excuse me?”

he tilts his head, considering. “which is it?”

you blink. “what the hell are you talking about?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “if you’re dumb, suicidal, or both.”

your fingers tighten around the mop handle. something slow claws its way up your throat. you are tired. you are sore. you are done.

and this man—who you have gone out of your way to avoid, who you didn’t ask to get involved with, who you didn’t ask anything from—is standing here asking you that? your jaw ticks.

“neither,” you say.

his brows lift slightly, the barest flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “funny,” he murmurs, low, amused. “that’s not what it looks like.”

you click your tongue, annoyed, and turn back to the mop. push forward, pull back.

if he wants to talk, let him talk. you don’t owe him anything—not a response, not an explanation, not a damn thing.

but he doesn’t stop. “why’d you walk home?”

your grip tightens. you don’t answer. 

“you heard about the minibus, didn’t you?” he continues, voice even, too casual for the words coming out of his mouth. “knew it wasn’t safe, so you avoided it. smart enough for that.”

your jaw locks. 

“but not smart enough to notice when a bunch of guys are clocking you from a mile away.”

the mop sloshes against the tile, bristles scraping rough. your shoulders ache from tension, from exhaustion, from everything.

“is your situational awareness always that bad, or were you just in the mood to die tonight?”

you suck in a breath, sharp and slow, force your pulse to steady.

he exhales, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. mocking now, biting. “seriously. you have the survival instinct of an infant.”

push forward. pull back.

your knuckles are white against the mop handle, fingers aching. you are tired. you are hungry. you are angry. but most of all, you are not doing this. so you keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, and you mop.

because if you stop, if you look at him, if you give him what he wants, you’re not sure what will come out.

the mop barely moves before he does.

one step. that’s all it takes. one step forward, one hand reaching out, fingers catching under your chin before you can pull away.

your breath stalls.

his grip isn’t hard, but it’s firm, unyielding, enough to tip your face up, enough to make you meet his gaze. you don’t want to, but he leaves you no choice.

his eyes are steady, dark, unreadable. up close, the lines of his face are sharper—tired, calculating, not a single ounce of softness in them.

“one day,” he murmurs, voice low, deliberate, “you’re gonna end up just another body on the news.”

the words settle, cold and final, crawling under your skin. you don’t flinch, don’t look away. don’t give him the reaction he’s waiting for.

you don’t give him anything.

his thumb lingers against your jaw for half a second longer. then, he lets go.

the absence of his touch is immediate, leaving behind nothing but the dull, lingering pressure where his fingers had been. he steps back, like he was never there at all.

you swallow down the lump in your throat, force your fingers to unclench from the mop handle, force your feet to stay planted even when every single instinct tells you to run. but you don’t.

you stay, and you go back to mopping.

he’s still there when you leave.

you don’t know why. don’t want to know.

but when seoyun hands you your pay—wad of cash thicker than usual, edges crisp, heavier in your palm—he’s lingering by the counter, hands in his pockets, watching.

you don’t ask about the extra. seoyun doesn’t explain it. she just smiles, too sweet, too amused, blowing out a slow curl of smoke before slipping a glance toward him. “get home safe,” she says, voice teasing, a joke only she understands.

you don’t respond. just tuck the cash into your pocket, nod stiffly, and turn for the door.

he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say anything. but as you step out into the night, the weight of his gaze follows.

by the time you make it upstairs, you’re ridiculously hungry.

the kind of hunger that makes your stomach feel hollow, makes your limbs feel heavier than they should. you kick off your shoes at the door, not even bothering to turn on the overhead light, just moving on autopilot.

the plastic bag sits where you left it, slumped on the counter, vegetables still inside. you should cook something. throw something together, make use of what little you have.

but your feet ache. your back aches. your head aches. so instead, you reach inside and pull out the carrot.

it’s pathetic, really. sitting at the counter, dim glow from the streetlights filtering through the window, gnawing at a raw carrot like some starved animal.

you don’t care.

it’s food. it’s easy. it’s something.

the fridge hums as you open it, cold air curling around your skin. inside, not much. half a carton of eggs. a leftover rice container you don’t remember putting there. a can of something pushed all the way to the back.

and beer.

you hate beer.

but you need something.

you grab the half-drunk can, lukewarm now—you’d unplugged your fridge a while ago to save on electricity—condensation long gone. the tab is already pulled, so you just bring it to your lips, tipping back a shallow gulp.

it’s just as bad as you remember. bitter, stale. something that settles uncomfortably in your stomach.

you drink anyway.

the beer is awful. the carrot is dry. neither do much to fix the ache in your stomach, but you keep going anyway—small bites, slow sips, filling the silence with something, anything.

your thoughts drift, sluggish from exhaustion.

you need a new phone.

it’s the first thing that comes to mind, the most obvious. jungkook probably lost his mind when you didn’t call back. you should’ve gone back for it, but you didn’t, and now it’s gone. broken, lying face down in the street with a cracked screen and your last conversation still open.

you sigh, tapping a fingernail against the beer can. you need groceries, too. real ones. something you can actually cook with instead of whatever scraps you manage to buy in passing.

you need sleep. a real night’s sleep. one where you don’t wake up to the sound of footsteps in the hall, to the distant whine of sirens, to the feeling that you’re being watched even when you know there’s no one there.

you need a lot of things.

but mostly, you need out.

out of this routine, out of this job, out of this place.

you take another sip, let the bitterness sit on your tongue, let the thought settle.

then you shake it off.

yoongi leans against the counter, cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching as seoyun flips through a neat stack of bills.

“she’s gonna be a problem,” he says, voice even.

seoyun doesn’t look up. “she’s an employee.”

“she’s a liability.”

that makes her laugh. short, amused. “you’re dramatic.”

yoongi exhales smoke, watching the way it curls through the air before disappearing. “she’s in the middle of shit she doesn’t even realize.”

seoyun hums, fingers running over the crisp edges of the cash before tucking it into the register. “not everyone’s as paranoid as you, you know.”

yoongi doesn’t react. just taps ash from his cigarette, watching as it scatters across the counter. “she’s going to be a problem,” he repeats.

seoyun finally glances up, tilting her head in that lazy way of hers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “and what?” she muses. “it’s not like you to get distracted.”

yoongi raises a brow. nothing about this is distraction. this is inconvenience. this is an unnecessary loose end in a situation that doesn’t need one.

“nothing’s stopping this deal from pulling through,” he says, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray. the embers smolder before dying out completely. “not even a baby deer insistnent on running in front of freight trucks.”

seoyun snorts. “colorful.”

“accurate.”

her nails tap against the counter once, twice. “is the deal really that important?”

yoongi doesn’t answer immediately. just levels her with a look, slow and pointed, exhaling as he settles back against the counter.

seoyun watches him, eyes sharp. then she hums. “guess it is.”

seoyun props her elbow on the counter, chin resting against her palm as she watches him, expression unreadable.

“you really think the fangs are gonna accept your offer?”

yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “they need to.”

seoyun hums again, not quite agreement, not quite doubt. just considering. she’s always been good at that. watching, waiting, choosing the side that makes the most sense for her.

“big gamble,” she muses.

yoongi doesn’t react. just watches as she straightens, smoothing down the hem of her blouse, adjusting the cash register like she’s closing shop for the night, and not discussing the kind of business that could get them both killed.

“you’ll have the crows on your back,” she says, tilting her head slightly, watching for his reaction. “for as long as it’s convenient, anyway.”

yoongi exhales, slow. “i know.”

seoyun’s lips curl at the edges, just slightly. “then let’s hope convenience lasts.”

she taps her fingers once against the counter, then turns, already moving toward the back. already done with this conversation.

yoongi stays where he is for a moment longer, watching the cash register, the stack of bills, the empty space she left behind. 

then, finally, he pushes off the counter and heads for the door.

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie @yooniivrse

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)

In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.

Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior

[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

"Damn it!"

The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.

"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."

You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.

"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"

"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"

"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows. 

"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.

"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.

"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette. 

You swallow. 

Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves. 

"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago. 

"No." 

That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.

Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.

Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?

You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess. 

Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick. 

"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."

"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"

You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture. 

"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"

"H-huh? What for?"

You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity. 

"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."

You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.

"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.

"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"

"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly. 

The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery. 

The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.

Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details. 

"Wakasugi has been taken."

A chaotic murmur ensues. 

"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."

Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh. 

If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family. 

"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching. 

"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds. 

"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.

"What did you say?" 

Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.

"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."

"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.

There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job." 

He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.

"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.

"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."

The tall yakuza smirks mockingly. 

"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."

Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.

"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him. 

Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.

"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.

"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."

No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.

He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats. 

He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects. 

"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.

If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.

"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."

The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes." 

Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already. 

The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant. 

"Where's everyone?"

"They ran away."

"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.

"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."

He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.

"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.

"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"

"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."

He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.

"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"

Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's. 

"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"

"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out. 

But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin. 

You grimace a little at the mental image. 

The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.

You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips. 

"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.

"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."

He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.

"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.

So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."

"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.  

Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie

[snail-day]

Sooooooooo.. apparently during the late 1800s to early 1900s, women who experienced anxiety attacks or emotional distress were often brought by their husbands to physicians. These doctors would frequently diagnose them with female hysteria(of course now it's a discredited medical condition 🙃). One of the most common "treatments" for this was pelvic massage aka clitoral stimulation which was believed to relieve the symptoms.💀😭

I was thinking of a scenario where the reader is married to an older, wealthy nobleman probably an arrangement forced upon her by her family in exchange for titles and riches, since it was common at the time. She suffers from undiagnosed anxiety, leading her husband to take her to the most renowned physician of the era: Dr. Suguru Geto! He then applies the so called “therapeutic” method to relieve her hysterical episodes 👀.

Sooooo what do you think?

so fun fact thats actually how we got the vibrator!!

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Toy use, Medical Malpractice, Humiliation, Overstim, Dubcon, MDNI

Ohhhhh doctor Suguru would tie you to a medical examination chair, feet in the stirrups, the leather straps snug around your wrists and thighs, not too tight, just enough to keep you still for treatment. A buzzing vibrator pressed right against your swollen little clit, humming like a bumblebee, while he watches you twitch and squirm, those pretty little tears streaming down your cheeks.

“There we go,” he hums, tilting his head with that gentle smile. “Told you, didn’t I? You're just overstimulated. All that emotional buildup... classic case of hysteria. But don’t worry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Because you’re his favorite patient. You always respond so well to his methods. He tests the new devices on you first, only you, cooing little praises while your legs tremble in their restraints.

“Would you rather be in the next room?” he asks so sweetly, brushing the sweaty strands of hair from your face. “They use needles in there. Ice baths. Terrible bedside manners. But here? With me? All you have to do is come for me. Again and again.”

A whine escapes your throat, clenching onto nothing. Nails digging into the leather straps.

“Just a few more,” he murmurs, watching the slick drip down your thighs onto the cold sterile tile floor. “You’re doing so well. You want to get better, don’t you?”

The poor floor getting all messy and slick from your needy little cunt, causing a chuckle to leave his throat.

“Tsk, such a silly thing. But that’s alright. We’ll just have you clean it up with your tongue, and then I’ll give you something nice.”

Unbuckling you with care, catching you as you slump against him, boneless and dazed. You can’t even stand without his help, which of course makes him smile all the more. He walks you, right where the mess pools across the cold tile, and eases you down gently to your knees. Doesn't want his pretty little girl getting bruises.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, crouching beside you, hands firm on your hips. “Just like that. Palms flat. Mouth open.”

You blink slowly up at him, lashes damp, lips parting in sleepy obedience. Before leaning down. You actually do it, you start to lick. Slow little strokes over the tile, soft tongue dragging through your own mess all sweet and salty as he strokes your back with warm, approving hands.

“That’s it, angel. We have to clean up after ourselves, don’t we?” His voice is so soft. So pleased. “Good hygiene is part of recovery.”

You’re still licking when you feel him shift beside you, his palm curling around your jaw to tilt your head up. His other hand is stroking himself lazily, and the moment he catches your gaze, he hums low in his throat.

Your tongue is still out. Waiting.

He taps the flushed head of his throbbing cock against it, once, twice, almost fond.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he says, voice syrupy with affection. “So, so good. You don’t need medicine. You just need me.”

Suguru just hates to see his favorite patient so unwell. So he just takes extra precaution with treatment, you understand don't you?

[yohanisnothere]

Elite dinner with Dante—except with him teasing you under the table

Synopsis: You and Dante are invited to an extravagant dinner hosted by a high-ranking noble who owes the both of you big for saving his ass from a demon attack in his private estate.

Pairings: Dante x F! Reader

Warning: NSFW, SMUTTT

Content warning: Public/semi-public sexual acts (under the table during a formal dinner), explicit descriptions of sexual intercourse (bathroom sex, mirror play), vulgar language and lewd dialogue, dom/sub dynamics (light restraint, dirty talk, hair pulling)

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It starts with his hand resting on your thigh. Just casual. Harmless. Then it slides higher, fingers slipping beneath the slit of your elegant dress. He leans in close, voice barely a whisper by your ear.

"You know I hate these things... but you're making it a lot more interesting."

You gasp softly when his fingers brush the edge of your panties. He chuckles low, thumb rubbing slow circles over the damp fabric. It’s soaked already, heat pooling as his teasing grows bolder. He drags the material aside, slipping two fingers in deep without warning.

Your back straightens instantly, but Dante masks it by pretending to refill your wine. His fingers curl just right inside you, stroking your walls with sinful precision. He’s grinning, like this is all a game. The tablecloth hides your trembling thighs, your hands clenched in your lap, trying not to let anyone hear the slick sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy.

He grazes your clit with his thumb, smirking when your breath catches. The pressure makes your clit throb wildly, aching for more. It’s too much and not enough.

"You’re dripping," he murmurs, voice thick with lust. "You want me that bad in front of all these people?"

You can barely nod.

Then, he pulls his fingers out slow, dragging your slick across your inner thigh just to tease, then he licks his fingers clean with a hum of approval. Still keeping his cool, Dante stands up.

"Excuse me," he says casually to the table. "I think I tore something in my jacket. Gonna need her help with it."

Everyone barely looks up. You follow him, heart hammering.

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The door to the bathroom shuts and clicks locked. You barely have time to catch your breath before Dante spins you around and yanks your hips toward the sink. He presses your front against the cool marble, his body crowding yours from behind.

“That needy little pussy’s been crying for me all night,” he growls by your ear, grabbing your chin to make you look up.

The mirror reflects your flushed face, your dress bunched around your waist, and Dante towering behind you, his eyes full of fire.

You smirk, trying to tease. “Who said I wanted you to do anything about it?”

But your voice betrays you. It's breathless. Desperate. A shaky little whimper escapes when his fingers trace down your folds again, and he chuckles.

“Yeah? Then why are you dripping down your thighs like a girl in heat?”

You bite your lip, watching in the mirror as he lowers his zipper, freeing his thick cock, already flushed, leaking, slick with your mess from earlier. He rubs the tip through your folds, letting your slick coat him.

“Dante,” you whisper, your hips pushing back instinctively, needing more friction.

“Say it louder.” He slaps the head of his cock against your clit, making you gasp out loud.

“Fuck—Dante, please. I need you.”

That’s all he needs.

He sinks into you from behind in one slow, delicious thrust, filling you so deep you feel the pressure bloom in your belly. The stretch makes your mouth fall open, a filthy moan spilling from your lips and echoing against the tiled walls.

The mirror reflects the moment perfectly—your back arched, your lips parted, your eyes fluttering, and Dante, grinning like the devil himself.

“Look at that face,” he growls, snapping his hips hard. “Look at how you melt for me.”

You do. And it drives you crazy.

Your breasts bounce with every thrust, your cunt clenching wet and tight around him. The sound of skin slapping against skin is filthy, mixed with the wet squelch of your slick and the ragged moans tearing from your throat.

“God, you’re so deep,” you whimper, bracing yourself on the sink, your knees buckling. “You feel so fucking good..I can’t... I’m gonna...”

“Yeah? Gonna cum already, baby?” Dante’s voice is rough, breath hot against your neck as he drives into you harder. “You love being bent over for me, stuffed full while you watch yourself get ruined.”

He grabs your hair, tugging your head up so your eyes stay locked on the mirror. “Watch me break you open.”

You sob out a moan, high and trembling as your orgasm crashes over you. Your walls clamp down, squeezing him so tight he growls through his teeth, struggling to hold himself back.

“Oh fuck—Dante—!”

Your legs shake violently, your release soaking both your thighs and his cock. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing out every wave of pleasure until your moans dissolve into helpless whimpers.

Then his thrusts stutter, growls turning guttural. “Gonna fill this sweet little pussy, fuck, I’m gonna make you drip for the rest of the damn night.”

He slams into you one last time, holding himself deep as he cums hard, thick ropes of heat spilling into your trembling cunt. You both watch it in the mirror, his teeth gritted, your expression dazed and wrecked.

You gasp, voice hoarse. “That... was not helping you with your clothes.”

He laughs, still catching his breath. “Pretty sure I fixed something.”

He slips out slow, and you both groan at the feeling, his cum already dripping from your swollen folds. He grins at the sight and grabs a hand towel to clean you up, all while kissing the back of your neck.

“You think we can sneak out early?” he asks, zipping up.

You blink at him in the mirror. “You really want them to see me limp out after that?”

He smirks, leaning in for one last kiss.

“Hell yeah.”

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Here is it guys. My one and only dilf.

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎⠀ 04⠀‌⸻ angel tears / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: controlling behaviour, toxic!rafe, misogyny, psychological abuse, mentions of pregnancy, maternity, anxiety.

Motherhood was supposed to be a dream, a promise of purpose and love. Y/N had seen it in the movies she watched alone, in the glossy magazines she flipped through while Rafe was at work. Mothers cradling babies, their faces radiant, their lives complete. But for her, the thought of a child, Rafe’s child, twisted her stomach into knots. She wasn’t sure why, not entirely. She loved Rafe, didn’t she? His rare smiles, the way he called her his angel when he was pleased, the way he’d pull her close and make her feel like she was his whole world. But beneath that love was a shadow, a quiet fear that whispered she wasn’t safe, that a child would tie her to him in ways she couldn’t escape.

So she did the unthinkable to prevent it.

She never told Rafe. How could she?

A wife admitting she didn’t want his child, that part of her feared what he might become as a father, would shatter the fragile balance of their marriage. He’d be furious. So every time they had sex, she would slip away afterward, her bare feet padding across the marble floor to the polished bathroom. She’d lock the door, turn on the shower, and wash Rafe away from her, as if she could erase the possibility of a child. Rafe noticed her rushing off, her cheeks flushed with something he mistook for shame or obsession.

“Your little cleaning habit,” he’d tease, chuckling as he rolled over in bed, oblivious to the secret she guarded in that sterile, gleaming bathroom.

So when the pregnancy test showed two pink lines, her world tilted.

She sat on the bathroom floor, the tile cold against her thighs, her hands shaking so violently the stick clattered into the sink. Panic clawed at her throat, her breath hitching as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, pale, wide-eyed, like she’d seen a ghost.

She was pregnant.

Rafe’s child was growing inside her. She waited for him in the living room, her hands twisted in her lap, her heart pounding so loud she thought it might burst. When he came home, his tie loosened, his hair slightly mussed, she blurted it out, her voice trembling. “Rafe, I’m… I’m pregnant.”

His face lit up. He crossed the room in two strides, scooping her into his arms, his laugh warm against her ear.

“My girl,” he murmured, kissing her deeply, his hands cradling her face like she was something precious. “We’re gonna be a family.”

He spun her gently, his excitement a stark contrast to the dread pooling in her stomach, then kissed her forehead before grabbing his briefcase and heading to work, promising to celebrate later. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with her thoughts and a bitter taste in her mouth, like bile she couldn’t swallow.

She tried to distract herself, to drown out the anxiety that gnawed at her. She baked, her hands kneading dough with a fervour that bordered on desperation, filling the kitchen with the scent of lavender shortbread. She dusted the already spotless mantel, anything to keep her mind from spiralling. It’s okay, she told herself, pacing the mansion’s endless halls. Rafe would change with a child. He’d be softer, kinder, the father she’d dreamed of in her girlhood fantasies.

That night, Rafe came home late, the front door slamming with a force that echoed through the mansion. She was in the kitchen, setting out dinner: herb-roasted chicken and baked potatoes fresh from the oven, their warmth a feeble shield against the chill in her chest. She heard his footsteps, heavy, and when he appeared in the doorway, her heart sank. His pupils were wide, dilated, a glassy sheen that told her he was coked out again. His tie was gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his jaw was tight, his energy unpredictable. She forced a smile, her hands trembling as she served him, nodding along as he ranted about his business partners, his voice sharp with irritation.

“Of course, baby,” she said softly as she set a plate before him. “They’re wrong.”

She kept her eyes down, her movements careful, as if navigating a minefield. She wanted to keep him calm, to avoid the storm she could sense brewing in his silence.

But her hands betrayed her.

As she reached to serve him a baked potato, her fingers shook, the tongs slipping. The potato tumbled, knocking over his glass of red wine, the liquid splashing across the table and onto his lap. She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Oh, Rafe, I’m so sorry—” she started, but before she could finish, his hand shot out, grabbing her face with a force that made her wince.

His fingers dug into her cheeks, squeezing hard enough to bruise, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened, fear flooding her as she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, her breath catching in her throat. Rafe’s face was a mask of rage, his dilated pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes.

“You’re so useless,” he hissed. “How do you expect to take care of a child when you can’t even serve fucking food?”

The words hit harder than his grip.

Useless.

The accusation burned, echoing every doubt she’d buried, every fear that she wasn’t enough... not for Rafe, not for a child. Tears spilled down her cheeks, her sobs choking her as she tried to speak, to apologize, to make it right.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” she stammered, her voice breaking, but Rafe’s grip tightened, silencing her.

“You think you can be a mother like this?” he continued, his breath hot against her face. “Clumsy, stupid girl, always screwing things up. You’ll ruin that kid before it’s even born.”

She sobbed harder, her body trembling under his hold, her heart fracturing with every syllable.

He released her abruptly, shoving her back so she stumbled against the table, the edge biting into her hip.

“Clean this up,” he snapped, wiping his hands on a napkin as if touching her had dirtied them. He turned away, dismissing her, his attention already back on his phone as if she were nothing.

She knelt to mop up the wine, her movements frantic, desperate to erase the evidence of her failure. The kitchen was silent except for her stifled sobs. She was useless.

As she scrubbed the floor, her mind replayed his words. All she could feel was the cold tile beneath her knees, the bitter taste of her fear, and the crushing certainty that Rafe wouldn’t change.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[borathae]

↳ Index [Day 18 - Male Self-Fuck]

Pairing: Good Boy!Jungkook x whipped Domme!Reader

Genre: established relationship!AU, hinted polyamory!AU, hinted Magic!AU

Kinks: there is no greater sub than Kook, holy fuck he is THE sub, he is so deep in subspace, sex in a private spa, foreplay & petting in a whirlpool, then sex in the lounge area, wet!Kook with the biggest puppy eyes, nipple play, whiney!Kook, pleading!Kook, droopy!Kook, devoted!Kook, justttt him being so subbyyy listennn, finger sucking, drool, he kisses her feet, slight thigh riding?, use of lube, male masturbation, male self fucking, male anal, anal fingering, double penetration of his hole with his own dick and her fingers, subby boy tears, praise, good boy kink, loving aftercare, Yoongi makes a non-sexual appearance

Wordcount: 4.7k

a/n: you actually wanted this to happen in the bedroom, but i saw too late that you added a location jfjadfj i hope you forgive me for changing the location, but i just needed to write something about ruining wet hot tub! kook, like, fuck, these puppy eyes ngngnng anyways i’ll be dry heaving now if you need me 🤎

“You know what I’ve been wondering for a while?” 

“What?”

“How it would feel to fuck myself.”

You glance at the side of his face. You and Jungkook are currently relaxing in the indoor pool of the estate. Yoongi built it inspired by Roman baths. The walls and the pool are tiled with small blue tiles, broken up by intricate and colourful detailing. There are statues situated along the walls, beside the big arched windows and the arched doorway. There is even a second floor and a small tiled balcony from which one might jump into the water if one desires to do so. The ceiling is tiled as well, showcasing golden suns against blue skies. Taehyung did most of the tiling when it was built, so he and Yoongi told you. You added your own little touch as well, by filling the room with tropical plants perfect for the humid conditions. The waters are heated by magic-powered generators, carrying many healing minerals and filling the room with a comfortable steam. 

When the months get colder again, you and the others often find yourselves relaxing in the warm water. Entirely naked of course because there won’t be any other people disturbing you. 

Well, except for maybe right now. Jungkook is sitting on the underwater bench of the whirlpool section of the bathhouse. You sit in his lap, chest pressed against his’ and chin resting on his shoulder. He has one hand on your lower back and the other on your butt. You weren’t always on his lap, but decided to hide away when a cleaning staff came to wipe some of the windows down. They have left by now, but you never left Jungkook’s lap, currently lifting your head to look into his eyes. 

“What did you just say?”

“I said I’m wondering how it would feel to fuck myself.”

“Why are you thinking about that?” 

“Because first of all, you’re warm and you smell nice and you’re sitting on me. That naturally makes me horny.”

You chuckle because he is silly. 

“Second of all, I’m sitting directly over a jet and the bubbles feel nice on my hole.”

You don’t chuckle anymore because he is hot and that turns you on a little. 

“And third of all, I was forced to my luck because last night, I got a video on my timeline about a guy putting his own dick up his ass and I can’t get the image out of my head.”

“Okay first of all, what kind of timelines do you have?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that Taehyung reblogs the horniest stuff sometimes.”

“Touché”, you say and chuckle, “but still.” You pinch his nipples playfully, making him whimper and give you puppy eyes. “That’s so random to think about.”

“Why is it random? Please don’t take your hands away.”

You stop in your task of pulling your fingers away from his nipples, rolling your eyes fondly. 

“You should get your nipples checked. It’s insane how much you like getting them touched”, you tease him, rubbing and pinching his nipples playfully. 

Jungkook’s eyes just go a little droopy and submissive and so perfectly pleading. He looks so much better now with his wet hair and wet skin and wet puppy look. 

“Is not my fault that you…I…hng, ___”, he wanted to talk normally, but ends up whimpering and dropping his head against your chest, fingers squeezing your softness. 

You chuckle fondly, giving his nipples an especially good pinch. He mewls and rolls his hips up, naturally moving you on his lap this way. 

“Mhm, you’re cute”, you say and take the pleasure away. 

“Please”, Jungkook begs, looking up at you with big, round puppy eyes. 

You however, simply give him a smile and bury your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp slowly. You press yourself a little closer, allowing your breasts to rub against his nipples. They are so fucking swollen and erect. He is so delicious. 

“So I’ve been in the belief that we’re enjoying a calm, romantic spa day while in reality you’ve been thinking about sticking your own dick up your own ass the entire time?”

“Not the entire time. Just once you sat down on me and the water started going up my butt”, he is having a small lisp. He always talks like this when you have him droopy and submissive. 

You chuckle softly and trace his lips with your pointer finger. He parts them, moaning sweetly as he chases your touch. Gosh, his eyes. They’re prettiest when he uses them to look at you like the good submissive sweetheart he is. 

“You’re such a delight, Jeon Jungkook. Keep being like this and I might need to eat you whole.”

“If you do, please drag it out.”

You laugh. Jungkook mewls and falls even deeper into subspace. He takes your fingers into his mouth, sucking on them eagerly. His puppy eyes never break their connection with you, hazy and glassy. His mouth and tongue are warm, soft and so wet. You curse under your breath, rolling your hips back and forth on his muscular thigh.

This was once harmless teasing and flirting, but long stopped being that. You are so turned on. Everything inside you screams at you to make him your well-fucked boy. 

With your eyes drinking up the perfect view (one must know that his lips look so pouty and puffy wrapped around a bunch of fingers and that the inner corners of his brows are lifted in a needy beg), you talk to him. 

“What if you get to try?”

He mewls, eyes clouding over in confusion. 

“What if I get someone to bring us lube and you get to fuck yourself?”

He slips off your fingers, sighing out a needy, “what?”

“You heard me. I’ll call someone to get lube and then you’ll fuck yourself. Right here, in this bathhouse, in the lounge.”

In the walls, nestled between pillars and an arch, Yoongi made built-in-lounges. They are also tiled, but are covered in soft towels and pillows. Warm ceiling lights, tangling from the arches, illuminate each of the eight lounge areas. They are big enough to house two people comfortably and three if the people are not opposed to cuddling.

“And you?”

“I’ll watch and help.”

Jungkook gulps, opening his mouth afterwards. He nods his head. 

“Please”, he whimpers. 

“I can’t hear you”, you tease him, knowing that he gets crazy for it. 

“Please Mistress”, he begs louder, widening his eyes cutely. 

 “Mhm that’s better”, you praise and give his nipples a little pinch, just enough to make him moan. 

Nothing more however. Just one pinch to scramble his brain. Then you already climb off of him and get out of the water, using his shoulder to support yourself on. You even have the audacity to step over him, forcing him to be face to face with your warmed up, wet pussy. 

Jungkook sobs softly, chasing you with parted lips and glassy eyes. He tilts his head back as far as possible, snapping for you helplessly but you never allow him a taste. The only thing which hits his lips, is the water dripping off of you. He has to give up, dropping his head against the edge of the pool.

“Oh my god”, you get to listen to him mewl, smiling to yourself. This was a first to him. You can tell from how ruined he sounds. You don’t let it tempt you, walking to your towel to dry yourself off enough that you can use your phone. You text Yoongi then turn to Jungkook. 

He turned in the whirlpool, clearly kneeling on the tiled bench and gazing up at you. His hands are folded, resting against the edge. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nobody ever did that to me.”

“Well, there is a first for everything.”

“Are you an angel? Or a demon? Were you sent to ruin me?”

You laugh, patting your chest dry, “what are you saying, silly?”

“You make me feel things I’ve never felt before. I’m with you and I feel droopy. You, you talk to me and I get dizzy. You do stuff like this and I want to be nothing but yours. What are you?”

You close the distance and squat down. Jungkook moans, eyes glued to your pussy which you so confidently present to him. He drools just from the view of you. Honestly and literally drools. 

You take his chin between your fingers and tilts his head up, whipping the spit from his mouth. 

“I’m simply me, silly”, you coo and pull him into a kiss. 

Jungkook moans, chasing you by lifting his bum from his heels and hooking his fingers behind your neck. He wants to tongue kiss you, but you don’t let him, pulling back and leaving him craving more.

“Please”, he whispers, eyes glued to your lips. 

“Mhm”, you hum and wipe his mouth. You don’t give in. You deny him more by standing up. 

Jungkook touches your ankles, he grips them downright, looking up at you with sad puppy eyes. 

“Please.”

“Let go of me, Kook.”

“Please, one more kiss please.”

You squat down. Jungkook moans, practically crawling out of the pool to get his kiss. Like this, his butt is presented to the entire room and he has one knee already outside, digging into the floor. His hands are supporting his weight as well, muscles of his arms tensing. Look at him, like a wet little puppy begging for breath after escaping the sea. Except that the breath he craves is your kiss. He moans again when you cradle his face, eyelids lowering and head leaning into your hands. 

You would have kissed him, you really would have, if Yoongi hadn’t interrupted you by clearing his throat loudly. You turn your head away from Jungkook. The latter needs a moment longer before he manages to do the same. 

“You know what? I wanted to ask questions but I think it’s best I just give you the fucking lube and leave”, Yoongi says, showing you the bottle of lube. Judging by the glimmer in his eyes, the first thing he saw when he entered the spa was Jungkook’s exposed ass. He doesn’t let it show however, looking at you nonchalantly. 

You stand up, ignoring the agonised whimper Jungkook lets out. You also ignore how he instantly hugs your legs and tries to get your attention by kissing your lower stomach over and over again. Yoongi studies him for a moment, then looks at your tits before landing on your face. He cocks his brow up. 

“What?” you challenge him. 

“Did you use magic on him?”

“No. Why?”

“Cause he is under a spell.”

“He gets like this when I’m being good to him.”

Yoongi scoffs in amusement and hands you the lube. You grin, accepting it. Jungkook mewls and tries to bury his face in your pussy. You wobble because of it, twisting his hair in warning. Yoongi merely hums and talks nonchalantly.

“Just tell me afterwards. I see you two are well occupied”, he says and steals a chaste kiss, “try not to accidentally get him pregnant or something”, he jokes, turning his back to you to leave. 

“Don’t worry, he’ll get himself pregnant. I’m just watching.”

Yoongi lingers in the doorway, looking over his shoulder in confusion. He gives up soon with a shake of his head. 

“I’ll just ask later”, he murmurs and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. 

You snicker. You knew that asking him for the favour would be the right decision. He is so funny without even trying and he didn’t ask any prying questions. It’s perfect because you really want to get back to Jungkook. 

Speaking of Jungkook, he has now resorted to kissing your feet in an attempt to warm your heart. Not that he needs to work for that. Your heart has been beating solely for him ever since he dropped his sinful confession. 

“Look up at me, sweetie”, you order him. 

Jungkook obeys. He is kneeling, folded hands on his lap and eyes so perfectly submissive. His hair and skin are still dripping water, his nipples are swollen and casting shadows, his cock is hard as well and it is wet, so wet. His groomed pubes are wet as well, glimmering in the lights because of the droplets of water reflecting the beams. 

You cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, eyes becoming droopy and happy. 

“Has anyone ever told you that your naked body is so fucking perfect?”

Jungkook moans softly, squirming needily. 

You trace his lips, his philtrum and the slope of his nose before ending your touch by outlining his perfect brows. 

“It is. Literally perfect. Just like your face”, you say softly, dragging an emotional mewl from his lips. 

He puts his hands on your calves as a silent beg for more.

“My perfect Jungkook”, you whisper, bending down to kiss his forehead. 

He whimpers shakily and as you straighten up to look at his face, you watch tears roll down his cheeks. You know that they are of happy nature, that your praise brought him into a subspace of good feelings and happiness. So you wipe them away without worry. 

“Are you happy?” 

“Yes, so happy”, he gets out, leaning into your touch.

“Stand up and get comfortable on the bed.”

Jungkook manages to obey your order after you helped him to his feet. You follow him, watching patiently as he gets comfortable. He decides to lie down on his back, propping his feet up and resting his head back into the pillows. Neither you nor he cares that he soaks the fabrics with water. You have more pressing matters to attend to. 

You climb on the lounge as well, staying on your knees and running your hands down the inside of his thighs. Jungkook sighs, parting his legs further and looking up at you as if you could claim him entirely. Such a strong, muscular man and yet right now, he looks small and weak and ready to be taken. 

You give him a smile, “you’re seriously the most perfect man, my Kookie. Are you excited?”

“Yes”, he gets out, nodding his head. 

You lean down, pressing your hips into him and touching his hair. You claim his lips in a kiss. Jungkook moans, arching his back and grasping you tightly. His legs lock around your hips, his fingers dimple your flesh from desperation. This is everything he wanted and it feels as if you just sunk yourself into him. He curls his toes the very same, tightening his walls just like he would with you inside him and feeds you a submissive whimper like he always does when you reshape him to fit you. 

He also gasps the very same when you break the kiss. You smile, stubbing his nose with your own. 

“You have to let go of me if you wanna do what you wanna do.”

“I’m sorry I…” he drops his legs, mewling softly. 

“Good boy, such a good boy”, you praise him and move back. You sit down on the edge of the lounge, eyes glued to him. 

All you have to give him is a nod of your head and Jungkook knows what to do. He picks up the lube bottle and opens it, covering his hand with a good amount. He drops it by his side and picks up his cock, rubbing the lube all over his balls and shaft. 

He instantly moans, arching his back. It feels so good and feels even better because he knows that you are watching him. 

“There we go, such a good boy”, you praise, sending his nerves into overdrive. 

You are watching him. Holy fuck. Jungkook begins to feel impatient from need. Normally he would work himself up, drag it out, go slow. But he can’t anymore. You have him enchanted and running on nothing but the desire to feel good. He begins to try, bending his cock to one side in an attempt to guide his tip to his hole. He struggles. It pinches and burns. 

“Does it hurt?” 

“A little.”

“Try to breathe, sweetie. I’m right here.”

Jungkook takes a shaky breath and tries again. It burns a little, but doesn’t hurt. He manages to bend his cock enough that he can grace his rim with it. It feels so good that he lets go in shock, closing his legs instinctively. 

Afterwards he just kind of lays there, panting and staring at the ceiling. There are lots of thoughts in his mind right now. Ecstatic thoughts as much as doubtful thoughts. He can’t decide to which he wants to listen. 

Suddenly a pair of warm, tender hands part his legs for him and his mind goes quiet. He shifts his eyes to you, whimpering your name. You speak to him like an angel, glowing just as much and smiling so beautifully. Oh, Jungkook is so safe right now. 

“Don’t be nervous. I’m right here. Tell me what’s bothering you right now.” 

“It, it’s difficult to bend. It hurts in a, a weird way.”

“I see. Well if you asked me, I think your cock’s a little too hard to move how you need him to. Why don’t you tell me something boring?”

“I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“Why not?” you chuckle 

“Because I’m with you”, he says and spills tears. 

“Gosh you”, you coo, wiping them away, “fine, then I’ll help you. What’s twenty times three?”

“Uh, sixty?”

“Correct. What a good boy. What’s ten time five minus eight?”

“Wait. Uhm…uh…fourty..two?”

“Correct again. Now a more difficult one. What’s sixteen times twelve?”

“Oh god, I don’t know. I can’t do maths”, he whines.

“Try. For me.”

“Uhm..uuuh, something with hundred? hundred and ninety sex? I, I meant six.”

You chuckle, “you’re adorable, but incorrect. It’s a hundred and ninety two.”

Jungkook huffs out air in frustration. 

“Good news though. Your cock is soft enough to bend it.”

Jungkook looks down with parted lips. You chuckle and kiss his knee, resting your cheek on it afterwards. You smile at him with so much love in your eyes.

“You really hate maths, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do”, he chuckles breathily, squirming. 

“You cutie”, you snicker and kiss his inner thigh. You sit back afterwards. “Go ahead then. Try for me.”

Jungkook obeys gladly. He takes his cock and twists it so his tip was facing his hole. He moans, dropping his head in the pillows. 

“That was easy. Did that feel good right now?”

“Yes, so good”, he whimpers, pushing himself farther. He connects his tip with his rim, rubbing it up and down. He arches off the lounge, letting out a desperate moan. 

“Fuck, that’s hot”, you rasp, sliding your own hand between your legs, “how does that feel for you?”

“Like, ah, like I’m, ah, I’m fucking and getting fucked at the same time, ah”, he gets out, and mewls, “I wanna stick it in, oh god.”

“Then do. I’m not stopping you.”

“___”, Jungkook moans, obeying you. He never did something like this before so it is a surprise that he manages to nail it with the first try. It is really obvious however that it is his first time once he actually managed to push himself past his tight rim and the sensations set in. 

The noise Jungkook makes is sacrilegious, the face he makes will be burned into your memories forever. The view of it is the most ruining part of all. His tight, flushed rim so snuck around his own shaft. He is both being penetrated and doing the penetration.

“Holy fuck. How does it feel?” you croak. 

Jungkook gives you a moan. No words, just sounds. He can’t talk. He couldn’t. It feels too good. His hole gets stretched and stuffed while at the same time, his cock gets squeezed by tight walls. He didn’t think that it would feel that good, but it does.

“It’s so sexy to look at. Holy fuck, Kook. Try to move it, okay?”

Jungkook obeys with a whimper, wailing up the moment he moves his cock inside him. He instantly hardens, cock bopping out on its own and flopping against his stomach. 

“No”, he sobs, “no, fuck. No please.”

“Fuck, did it feel that good?”

“Yes. Please more please.”

“Holy fuck Kook”, you growl, “go on, stuff your balls inside.”

“Oh god”, he croaks and obeys with shaking fingers. He pulls them down to his hole and applies pressure. He should struggle, it should be difficult to do, but it isn’t. His big, heavy balls slip into his hole easily. First the right then the left. His skin stretches and burns a little.

Jungkook sobs, toes curling on the towel. You curse, picking up speed between your legs. 

“That’s it, baby. How does it feel?” 

“I can’t”, he sobs, writhing helplessly. 

“Not a fan?”

“No. Fan. Feels so good. Oh god, so good.”

“Fuck Kook, you’re so fucking sexy. Holy fuck.”

Jungkook sobs because it is all that he can do and begins to move his balls inside him. He flinches with each movement, reaching up with his other hand to twist his own hair in disbelief. Because his balls are so big, his hole gets stretched so wide. In return, his balls get squeezed so hard because of how tight he still is. Jungkook is on a constant wave of warm pleasure and blissful pain. The intense stretching of his hole feels so warm, the squeeze of his balls so painful. Jungkook is in his own masochistic heaven, crying hot tears as he works himself dangerously close to an orgasm. 

“This is insane, Kook. Fucking insane”, your voice is distorted in hunger and lust, spurring him on to push himself past his own limits. “Put your cock inside too. Try it for me.”

Jungkook scrambles to fulfill your wish. The pain on his balls was enough to force his cock to soften and it is an easy task for him to bend it to its position. He doesn’t know if he can take more. His balls are so big inside his poor hole, but he has to try. For you. You told him to. Jungkook pushes himself past his own limits with little care of going slow. 

He manages to get out one sound and then his mouth falls open to let out silent screams. 

“Holy. Fuck.” judging by how ruined you sound, the view of it must be incredibly hot. “Kook. Holy fuck. Look at you taking all of yourself.” 

“___”, he sobs, eagerly working to thrust his cock and balls into his own hole. He won’t last long. It feels too good. The tears don’t stop. He can barely even breathe through his nose at this point from how snotty he is. He lulls your name again, drooling down his own cheeks because he unlearned how to swallow. 

“Holy fuck Kook, I’m going insane”, you moan, feeling dizzy. You didn’t believe him at first when he told you about a guy doing it to himself. You were so wrong. It is possible and Jungkook looks so good taking it that you might never get over this view. 

You scoot closer, touching his inner thigh with your unoccupied hand. Jungkook flinches into the touch, trying so hard to look at you through his tears. You have a crazy look on your face. It’s so hot to him that he sobs again and spills precum into his own ass. It smears all over his walls and balls, forcing electric pleasure through his veins. He is marking himself with his own spill. Jungkook hates that he can’t stop crying, but it’s the only way to handle what he is doing to himself. 

“Can I feel it? Please?” 

He doesn’t quite understand what you are insinuating but he still nods his head. You could do anything to him when he’s in such a state. He feels safe because he knows that you would never go too far. 

“Fuck. Thank you”, you croak and slip your hand between his legs. You pick up some of the lube and by the time Jungkook finally realises what you are planning to do, it is already too late. You push two of your fingers into his already stuffed hole, joining his cock and balls. The stretch burns and forces his body to convulse. But what truly ruins him is how you wiggle your fingers inside him to get a good feel. 

“Kook, you-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before he silences you with his orgasm. It started with his eyes rolling back to the point you fear for them to get stuck, then continued with his body tensing up and his legs closing around your body accidentally. Then it hits him. Deep and punishing it shakes him. His cock is instantly hard, bopping out of his own ass to spill the rest of his cum all over your hand and himself. He spilled enough inside him however that it sticks to your fingers and his walls as well, forcing his throbbing balls to rub all over his prostate. You help with that as well. pressing them against the sensitive spot so he can cum with every single spot of his body. 

“Mistress!!” he screams, making noises of utter bodily ruin afterwards. 

“Good boy, oh god Kook”, you moan, orgasming from the sight of him. It feels so good to share this state with him. “Cum for me. Good boy, such a good boy.”

You might fear for his tear ducts from how much he cries and sobs and wails. And he takes it so well. So fucking well that it is difficult not to continue ruining him after his high dies down. 

“Please no more please”, he begs you, gripping your wrist desperately. You know that he had enough. 

“Fuck, you good boy”, you praise, pulling out groggily. 

“Oh god, oh god”, Jungkook chants between his ragged breaths, trying with shaking fingers to pull his balls out. His hole is so tight from his orgasm that he struggles at first. 

So you help him, rubbing his rim gently and kissing his knee, “good boy, relax. You’re almost there.”

Jungkook shudders. The struggle looks painful.

“Try to squeeze them out, baby. Like you would when you’re douching. Squeeze and pull, baby.” 

He tries again. You watch in delight how his tight rim begins bulging as it loses its battle against his balls. 

“There we go. I can see them, baby. Just keep breathing and squeezing.”

First the left then the right. He flinches and mewls with each one, dropping his legs open once it is finally done. His balls, stretched and squeezed to their limits, hang between his legs ruined. His hole is so gaped, spilling his own cum. 

You instantly claim the emptiness between his legs, kissing a hungry path up his body. He tastes sweaty and feels hot. You purr and moan as you enjoy his body post orgasm, nibbling on his neck especially hungrily. 

Jungkook soaks up your affection with a dizzy head and little whimpers each time he breathes out. 

“What a good boy, holy fuck”, you rasp, kissing his ear. 

Jungkook reaches up to hold your wrists. You instantly take his hands to pin them above his head, lowering yourself to your elbows. Like this, your breasts melt with his chest and he gets to feel your middle against his sensitive middle. 

“How are you feeling? How was it?”

“A lot”, he gets out, voice still frail from the intense pleasure he was on. 

“Yes? You looked and sounded like it was. Fuck, I can’t believe you actually did that. You’re such a good boy.”

“Oh god”, Jungkook croaks and sobs softly, rolling his head to the side. 

“Hey sweetie”, you gasp, cupping his cheek to make him look at you. You wipe his tears. “What’s wrong? Are you sub dropping?”

He shakes his head, “just can’t stop crying. It felt so good.”

“Yes?”

He nods his head and forces a smile to his lips. They are shaking, but his smile is honest. You retort it, soothing him by caressing his cheekbone.

“Well, that’s good to hear then”, you whisper, “my good boy. Now we can officially say that I’ve got you pregnant with your own children.”

“Don’t say that, oh my god”, he whines and giggles.

You chuckle, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He chases the affection, still giggling.

“You’re adorable. Gosh Kookie, my sweetie you.”

“___”, he gets out and hugs you, giggling into your chest and kicking his feet. There is nothing better than riding on warm, happy afterglow with you.

[dysphxriaii]

kintsugi

xavier rafayel sylus zayne caleb

cw; self harm, razor blades, hurt comfort, angst, fluffy ending, reader/mc is slightly hinted at being chubby (body dysmorphia + negative body image), self-isolation (reader/mc), dddne (proceed with caution).

authors note: this is a mere work of fiction and i do not condone or am encouraging people to inflict bodily harm upon themselves. if the contents in this ff will trigger you in any sort of way, please do not read it!! as a person that is/was going through similar situations shown in this ff, i want to raise awareness and help support others in need.

this rough patch in our lives will soon pass <3

ps: the sh in this ff is very vague and up for interpretation. there is no exact place mentioned for where the sh is taking place on the body, nor where the scars are. i tried to make everything very vague so it's easier for everyone to relate to. it is HINTED!!! at that reader/mc in this ff is slightly “chubby” and/or has body dysmorphia. this can be interpreted however you like :)

also, in this ff the boys haven’t had any major sexual intimacy with reader/mc due to the scars, it's explained further in the fic.

xavier: 2.2k wrds

stress ridden, you frantically fled through the hallways of the hunter’s association, your mind in shambles.

there was a rapid influx of wanderers flooding into Linkon, thus causing mass chaos among the citizens.

this led to more and more being added onto your plate, more missions, which led to more paperwork, more unorganized files, ect, ect.

and most importantly, as the days went on your mental health slowly deteriorated. eyes constantly wandering to that tucked away box within your cabinet that would give you temporary relief.

it wasn't until a particular day until you caved into your cravings, your desire to feel the rush of blood, the rush of adrenaline, your little secret, your little safe haven.

the feeling you ravaged at like a man starved, the place you resided as the blade cut through the awfully abused skin, the sensation of the bathroom’s cool hard-tiles contrasted the pounding of your head.

the feeling of shame after. the feeling while cleaning up. the feeling of shame as you stood under the shower head and blood pooled.

the stinging sensation as the water trickled down your skin, the signs of your voluntary abuse was permanently etched onto your skin.

the hot tears that pooled down your face as you looked at your own reflection. the image of your body frightened you no matter what anyone told you. the newfound scars only heightened your insecurities.

and since that box was opened the cycle would repeat, over and over again.

rot, repent, repeat.

over and over again.

when will it be over?

the next day at work was the same, wanderers were relentless and your coworkers were restless.

“new missions”

“new paperwork”

“new deadlines”

when will this stop?

it was truly suffocating, and painful. the talking of your subordinates that filled the room, half assed conversations on your end, all while the fabric pulled and tugged on your raw skin.

a battle where a wanderer ripped your uniform, the scars barely visible but it was enough to put you on edge for the rest of the day.

walking back to the dreary office building that was filled with a vast amount of high tech, you hurriedly maneuvered past people, avoiding conversation at all costs.

your little plan was going well until you saw him.

the person you considered your lover, the one that always knew how you were feeling solely based upon observational skills was standing right infront of you.

you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. it was so obvious with your demeanor that something was off with you the entire week.

your phone has been shut off for days on end. sometimes, if someone sent you a somewhat important message, you’d send them a quick thumbs up to show that you're acknowledging their presence.

xavier’s gentle voice called out for you as you hurriedly scurried away from his gaze, exiting the building in the same fashion you entered it.

it wasn’t until you got home you had realized a good 75% of your belongings had been left behind at the office building.

you shuddered at the thought of willingly walking into that horrid building again, not on your one day off.

your phone was left at the building, but it wasn’t like you had much use for it anymore.

you fled into the bathroom before freshening up, replacing the haphazardly placed bandages over your fresh wound.

the bathroom was dark. you didn’t want to see any of it, you didn’t want to see yourself.

the thought of doing more damage crossed your mind, before you quickly dropped the thought, and the box. shame slowly creeped up your shoulder, reminding you of the feeling of cleaning up after yourself, and basking in the sadness of your own mistakes.

finishing up bandaging your wound, you simply put the box of your tools on the bathroom counter, before moving back into your disarranged room.

clothes were askew on the floor, the lighting was dark, the windows only opened enough to see what was in front of you.

moving under the bed covers, you began to close your eyes, basking in the silence.

however, that silence was quickly broken after a series of knocks cascaded at your door.

you tried to ignore it, but loud knocking every 2 minutes was a horrendous sound to sleep too.

groggily getting up from your bed, you exited the room and made your way to the door.

you slightly cracked open the door to see xavier in all his glory standing there.

his soft blue eyed gaze landed directly on your face, his eyes held a warmth that was hidden for you soley. your bag from work was hung over his shoulder, all of your belongings resided within the bag.

a sense of adoration fluttered in your heart as you looked at him, his face slightly flushed due to the weather, his serene complexion that contrasted the pink dusting his cheeks.

it wasn't until a few moments after xavier basked in your presence he spoke.

“have you been okay? you left in a rush today, and your phone has been off” xavier’s voice came out hesitant as he asked you, his brows furrowing as he attempted at asking without sounding too brash.

“no i've been fine, thanks for getting my stuff xavi” you rushed out the words before hastily grabbing the bag that xavier had extended out to you.

you attempted to shut the door before xavier’s hand grabbed a hold of the door.

“can i..stay? just for a bit i promise. just want to make sure your okay” xavier spoke to you softly as his eyes raked over your figure, your eyebags had become darker as the days went on, the skin around your eyes looked slightly irritated as if you had been rubbing it.

you looked at him blankly before nodding and walking away from the door.

“sorry its a little messy in here, just haven’t had enough time to clean up, you know?” your attempt at enthusiasm didn’t go well, your voice slightly shaking as you spoke.

you were uncovered, the bandages covering up your fresh wounds did little to hide the rest of the scars you had accumulated over the years.

you felt xavier’s gaze on your skin. hurriedly you began to make your way back into your own bedroom before saying,

“i'll be right back—just stay put for a while. I need to get changed” your voice came out more harshly then you had intended, your shaky hand lifting to open the door before closing it shut.

xavier’s eyes widened in shock, a pang of sadness reverberated throughout his heart as he saw the marks upon your skin. what had been going on that you didn’t want to tell him?

fumbling through your dressers, you immediately found something that covered up the scars on your body, your mind was in a haze, your body moving on autopilot as you changed.

when you exited the bedroom, xavier was nowhere to be seen, that was until you saw the bathroom light shining, the light from underneath the door casting a glow onto the living room floor.

you began to move onto the couch, pulling one of the many blankets that littered the couch over yourself.

a slow click resounded throughout the room as xavier exited your bathroom, the atmosphere was tense and dreary as he sat next to you on the couch.

xavier called out your name before speaking,

“have i done anything wrong? recently?” xavier’s question rang out in your ears as your eyes blankly met his.

“no xavi you didn’t do anything, i've just been a bit busy lately” your voice sounded hesitant, as if you were lying. your eyes avoided his gaze as you began to look away to another part of the room.

you knew xavier well, he craved your presence, a few days without you and he was better off dead. it had been a week before the two of you had sat down and had a conversation, a week since you simply sat in each other's company.

well enough time had passed for you to fall into your bad habits again.

“i went into the bathroom, i saw everything, the gauze, the razors, your scars. how long were you planning to let this go on for?” xavier’s voice stated this gently, with a firm undertone to it.

xavier’s body moved closer to yours, his body heat burned your skin. but you still felt yourself subconsciously moving closer to him, his comforting scent filling your nose, making you feel more at ease.

“xavier, it's really not a big deal. it's just skin, it will eventually heal.” you responded with a half-assed lie. with every mark you made on your body, a scar always remained.

your insecurities just grew and grew as the days went on. you began to question if you really deserved xavier, he was handsome and strong willed. while here you were, a person with a fragile heart that shattered at every moment and every situation.

“it's a big deal to me. i don’t want to see you like this, you don’t have to suffer alone.” xavier responded sincerely, he cupped your face, moving your gaze back to his eyes. his eyes were gentle as he held your face with care, as if you were fragile porcelain that would break at any given moment.

hot tears pooled down your cheeks as you heard his words. the sincerity in his voice, the soft touches, everything warmed your heart.

xavier’s thumbs wiped away your tears before he leaned in close to your face, before giving a soft kiss on your cheek, where the tears once resided.

everything made sense to him now, why you always turned down his advances, your nights together that always ended at a few kisses down your neck, it all made sense.

“my star, don’t feel forced to do anything. i’m sorry i didn’t notice this this sooner” xavier’s arms wrapped around you as his neck craned down to your shoulder

“xavi it's okay, it’s not your fault, don’t blame yourself for my mistake” you responded to him, your voice coming out nasally due to the tears prior.

the word mistake rang through xavier’s ears. his head bolted up from your shoulder to look you in the eyes once more.

“no—it's not a mistake, these scars just make you more beautiful. there is nothing wrong with them. as long as if it's you i’m with, no marks will define who you are to me” xavier said sincerely, beginning to move his face closer to yours

“may i?” xavier inquired, his gaze flickering from your eyes down to your lips

you nodded, before melting into the kiss. it was different from the ones you usually shared, it was soft and gentle. xavier’s hand made its way through your hair, gently brushing his hands through it as the kiss slightly deepened.

your lips disconnected as xavier’s mouth left soft kisses down your body, whispering praises onto your skin each time his lips disconnected.

his lips hovered over the area where your scarred skin was, lifting the fabric of your clothing and pressing his lips on the scars, a glint of adoration filled his features as he basked in the sensation of your skin.

“perfect, my perfect pretty girl.” xavier’s lips left a warm sensation over your scarred skin, it was like the pain and shame went away in an instant. it felt as if a weight was lifted from your shoulders as he whispered multiple praises against the area.

xavier’s negative thoughts were soothed when you didn’t jerk away from him, your hands simply ran through his hair as you looked down at him with the same admiration he had given you.

he eventually stopped, resting his head on your lap, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as his eyes looked up at you.

your hands ran through his lightly colored hair, playing with the strands as xavier began to leave kisses along your stomach.

“xavi stop that tickles!” your giggles echoed throughout the dimly lit living room, as xavier simply just smiled at you.

he eventually stopped, getting up from his lying position, freeing your lower body from his torment of kisses.

when he returned to his sitting position, he was suddenly shoved back onto the couch. his back was pressed against the cushiony material as your lips crashed onto his. a sudden abrupt movement that caused his eyes to widen, and his cheeks to flush even more.

as you pulled away from the kiss, his normally pale complexion was a rosey shade of pink, his ears were also shaded a dark red.

xavier pulled you down onto him, suddenly crashing into his arms. he left an array of kisses on the top of your head, and your face.

“don’t leave me again please. nothing physical will make me want to separate from you. i just want it to be you, your most authentic self is all i want.” xavier’s words were said softly as he whispered them into your ear, leaving a few soft kisses along your neck before pulling you into another soft kiss.

the rest of the afternoon was filled with love, and acceptance as you stayed in xavier’s soft embrace, his hands tracing along the scars, his body enveloping you in his sweet, secure, embrace.

[octaneink]

Easy Love

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader tries a new scent, Will definitely notices. Warnings: None! Notes: Not an ask, just a random idea I thought would be cute ☺️☺️☺️

You'd been meaning to reorganise the junk drawer all week.

It was a task that nags at you every time you fish for a pen and come up with nothing but dried-out pens and a handful of foreign coins. Today, the mess had reached critical mass when you'd been searching for the spare key to your place and instead unearthed three dead AA batteries and what might have been a receipt from 2019.

So at 2 PM on Sunday, with golden afternoon light pooling across the kitchen tiles, you'd upended the entire drawer onto the counter. The contents formed a sad little monument to domestic chaos: twisted phone chargers, a single cufflink, half a dozen IKEA Allen wrenches, and at least three pens that definitely didn't work.

Will had watched this from his throne in the living room armchair, one eyebrow arched over the top of his novel. "Spring cleaning?" he'd asked, already knowing the answer.

"It's making me itchy just looking at it," you'd grumbled, aggressively untangling a knot of cables. "How do we even accumulate this much crap?”

That was an hour ago.

Now you're kneeling on the kitchen floor, elbow-deep under the sink, fingers brushing against the cold pipe as you search for the trash bags you could have sworn you bought last week. The cabinet smells faintly of lemon cleaner and something metallic, and you're fairly certain your jumper is collecting dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds.

"Will," you call, voice slightly muffled by the cabinet, "did you move the—"

The only response is the soft whisper of a page turning. You twist to see him through the doorway, still curled in the armchair with his book propped against his knees. Afternoon light gilds the curve of his shoulders, catching in his hair where it's fallen across his forehead. His thumb moves absently along the edge of the page, but his eyes never leave the text.

"Will?" You try again, louder this time, knocking your knuckles against the cabinet door for emphasis.

"Hm?" It's the kind of distracted noise people make when they're only physically present, their mind still wrapped around a plot twist or character's fate.

You give up with a huff, the cabinet door swinging shut with a hollow thud as you rock back on your heels. The floor had left angry red impressions on your knees, and your shoulders ached from being hunched in that cramped space for so long. When you finally straighten up, your spine cracks in three distinct places—the kind of satisfying pops that make you feel both ancient and temporarily relieved. The clock above the stove reads 3:07—if you leave now, you can make it before everything closes at 4.

"I'm running to the shop before it closes," you announce, brushing dust from your clothes. "Need to grab milk anyway. I'll pick you up a snack for work tomorrow—want anything specific? Those protein bars you like, or should I see if they have more of those weird spicy nuts?"

Will makes a noncommittal noise, but you’re already heading for the hallway, stripping off your dust-streaked jumper as you go.

In the bedroom, you tug on a fresh top and pause, eyeing the little glass bottle on your dresser. The perfume was a gift from a friend last month—“It’s so you,” they’d insisted—but you’d barely used it. Today feels as good a time to use it for the first time. You spritz it on, the scent blooming: vanilla, bright and sweet at first, then something deeper, spicier, like amber melting into skin.

You give your wrist an absentminded sniff. Nice. Maybe your friend was right, it does suit you. Leaving your bedroom, you walk to the door and grab your tote from the hook, digging through its depths for your keys. They jangle somewhere near the bottom, buried under crumpled receipts and a pack of gum.

That’s when you notice it.

The silence.

No rustling pages. No absent tap of Will’s fingers against the armrest. Just the weight of someone’s gaze, like a touch between your shoulder blades.

You turn.

Will hasn’t moved from his chair, but his book lies forgotten in his lap, spine bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes lock onto yours, then drop—slow, deliberate—to the curve of your neck. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Going out?” Will asks again, his voice gravel-dipped. It’s not really a question. There’s an edge to it, a tension that makes your pulse skip. You finally fish out your keys with a triumphant jingle. "Yes, Sherlock," you say, shooting him an amused look over your shoulder. "Like I said five minutes ago when you were too busy with your book to listen."

His abandoned novel lies splayed on the armrest like a wounded bird, pages crumpled under his restless fingers. The sight gives you pause, Will never treats books this way. “Want anything else?”

His answer comes in movement rather than words. He rises with sudden purpose, the book tumbling to the rug as he crosses the space between you in three long strides. Before you can react, he's shrugging into his coat with uncharacteristic haste, the wool collar sitting askew, his hair mussed from where he'd raked an impatient hand through it.

"I'm coming with you," he says, his voice low and rough around the edges.

You blink. "Since when do you volunteer for grocery runs?" The tease in your voice falters as he steps closer, shrinking the hallway with his presence. The heat of him radiates through the scant space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back as he reaches past you for the door. His touch lingers just a beat too long, sending an unexpected shiver up your spine.

The intensity in his storm-grey eyes betrays his usual calm—something restless simmers beneath the surface. You notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he holds the door open, the taut line of his forearm muscles as he gestures you through.

Outside, the evening is crisp, the streetlamps casting honeyed pools of light on the pavement. Will walks closer than usual, his shoulder bumping yours whenever you round a corner. You catch him staring again, his gaze snagging on your throat, your wrists, and the pulse point behind your ear. When the wind tosses your hair, he inhales sharply, as if stealing a secret.

“You’re quiet today,” you say, half-turning to face him.

He stops short, his eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, you think he might say something—do something—his breath warm against your cheek. But then he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just thinking,” he says, the words rough, like they’ve been dragged through gravel.

What’s got into him?

The shop's sign buzzes louder as you approach, flickering in the gathering dusk. Will lingers by the door just long enough to hold it open for you, his arm brushing yours as you pass through. The warmth of his body lingers where he touched you, even as he falls into step beside you.

You grab a plastic basket from the stack near the entrance, its handle creaking in your grip. Will reaches for the same one too, his fingers briefly overlapping yours before you both pull away. There's a charged moment where neither of you move—just stand there in the harsh light, baskets in hand, breathing the same air.

You tug one free, its grip creaking under your fingers. Behind you, Will shifts closer than necessary—his chest nearly grazing your shoulder—as if drawn by some magnetic pull. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his hand twitch forward, fingertips skimming the air just above yours before curling into a fist.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, bleaching the linoleum into a sterile white. You can feel the heat of him against your back, smell the faint cedar of his shampoo mixed with something sharper, almost feral.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat, pivoting toward the dairy aisle, "Milk first."

The aisles are narrow enough that Will has to walk behind you, his presence a constant warmth at your back. When you stop to examine expiration dates on the milk cartons, he crowds closer than necessary, reaching past you to grab one. His chest brushes against your shoulder, solid and warm.

"Got it," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at your temple. The milk carton drops into your basket with a dull thud, but neither of you move away immediately.

At the coffee display, the rich, roasted scent wraps around you both as you survey the options. You reach for your usual blend at the same moment Will does, his hand covering yours completely. His skin is warm, his fingers slightly rough against yours. Instead of pulling away, his thumb strokes once—slow, deliberate—across your inner wrist where your pulse jumps.

"Sorry," he says, though his voice is anything but apologetic. His eyes drop to your mouth for a heartbeat too long before he finally steps back, leaving your skin tingling where he touched you.

You swallow hard, focusing on the coffee labels with sudden intensity. "S'alright," you manage, dropping a bag into your basket with slightly unsteady hands. When you glance up, Will's watching you with that same dark intensity, his fingers flexing at his sides like he's resisting the urge to reach for you again.

The moment stretches, thick with something unspoken, until Will clears his throat and reaches past you for the sugar. His arm brushes against yours, his chest nearly pressing into your shoulder as he leans in. His breath ghosts warm over the shell of your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Forgot we were out of this," he says, voice pitched low just for you. The words vibrate through you, and you're suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between you.

At the checkout, the cashier—an old woman with a knowing smirk—watches with undisguised interest as Will crowds into your space while you unload the basket. His fingers keep brushing yours as you both reach for items, each accidental (or not-so-accidental) touch sending little electric jolts up your arms.

When your hand trembles slightly while handing over cash, Will's fingers cover yours again, ostensibly to help but really just another excuse to touch. "I've got it." he says, his deep voice resonating in your chest as he stands close enough that you can smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with something uniquely Will.

The cashier arches an eyebrow as she hands back your change, her eyes flicking between you two with amusement. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse hammering in your throat, as Will's hand finds the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.

Outside, the cool evening air does little to calm your racing heart, especially when Will's fingers slide down to tangle briefly with yours before he seems to think better of it and shoves his hands in his pockets instead. The charged silence between you is louder than any words could be.

The walk home stretches taut between you, the grocery bag’s handles digging into Will’s palm as he walks just a half-step too close. His sleeve brushes your arm with every other stride—cotton whispering against cotton—and each incidental contact lingers like a brand. The city sounds fade into background static: a distant ambulance siren, the click-clack of a dog’s nails on pavement, the hum of a faulty neon sign above a shuttered laundromat. All of it feels muffled, drowned out by the rhythm of Will’s restless energy.

When you pass beneath a flickering streetlamp, its sickly yellow light catches the sheen of sweat at his temples. His gaze flicks to your neck again, lingering on the damp tendril of hair clinging to your skin. You watch his throat work as he swallows, the sharp line of his jaw flexing like he’s biting back words.

“You’re being weirdly intense today,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. The gesture aims for lightness, but your voice betrays you—it comes out breathier than intended, almost a challenge.

Will’s laugh is a rough scrape of sound. “Am I?” He shifts the grocery bag to his other hand, plastic crinkling like cellophane fire. His free arm swings briefly toward yours, fingers grazing your knuckles before he shoves both hands into his coat pockets. The fleeting touch leaves your skin buzzing.

You slow your pace, studying him. Moonlight bleeds through the clouds, silvering the tension in his shoulders, the way his collar sits crooked against his throat. There’s something feral in his profile—the dilated pupils, the slight flare of his nostrils as the wind shifts—that makes your stomach swoop. For a heartbeat, you think he might press you against the graffiti-tagged brick wall to your left, his body caging yours in the shadows.

But he keeps walking.

Three more steps, then he stops dead. You nearly collide with him, catching yourself on his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve jumps at your touch.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, head bowed, breathing audibly through his nose. The grocery bag hangs forgotten at his side, a litre of milk threatening to slip free. When he finally speaks, his voice is ground glass. “You should’ve worn a jacket.”

You blink. “It’s not that cold.”

A beat. Then his coat hits your shoulders before you can protest, his hands linger at your collarbones, adjusting the lapels with unnecessary focus. His thumbs brush the hollow of your throat, once, twice, before he steps back.

“Better,” he mutters, already striding ahead like he can outpace whatever’s clawing at his ribs.

You hurry to catch up, the coat sleeves swallowing your hands whole. Up close, you notice what you missed before—the tremor in his left hand, the way his pulse thunders visibly at his neck. When he catches you staring, he angles his body away, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

The remaining blocks pass in a fever dream. Every rustle of fabric, every shared glance, every time his shoulder bumps yours feels amplified. By the time your building comes into view, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, though neither of you will admit it.

At the front door, Will fumbles the keys twice before managing the lock. His hand covers yours on the doorknob, pressing down hard enough to feel the ridges bite into your palm.

“After you,” he says, but doesn’t move aside—just crowds you through the doorway, his chest grazing your back, his breath hot on your nape.

You tell yourself it’s relief that makes your knees weak when he finally retreats to the kitchen, the grocery bag abandoned on the counter. But as you hang up his coat, you press your shoulder to hide the wide grin on your face.

Dinner unfolds in a series of fractured moments. Will stands at the counter, chopping carrots, each thwack echoing off the tiled walls. You sit at the kitchen table, sorting through the junk drawer’s survivors: paperclips glinting like insect legs and rubber bands coiled tight as nerves.

The air smells of ginger and soy sauce. Every time you glance up, his eyes snap back to the cutting board, shoulders rigid. He’s wearing that grey Henley with the stretched collar, the one that exposes the hollow of his throat when he leans forward. You notice sweat dampening the fabric between his shoulder blades.

“You’re hovering,” you say, louder than intended.

He doesn’t answer. Just sets down the knife with exaggerated care and reaches for the kettle. You track his movements—the flex of his forearms as he fills it, the way his thumb rubs compulsively over the handle’s curve. Steam rises as he pours boiling water into two mugs.

The tea appears at your elbow without warning, Earl Grey swirling amber in your favourite mug he’d bought for you last winter. His pinky grazes yours as he withdraws, a spark of contact that lingers.

“Movie tonight?” he asks, leaning back against the sink. His arms cross over his chest, biceps straining the sleeves. Will leans back against the sink, the edge of the counter biting into his hip, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The sleeves of his Henley strain against his biceps, fabric pulling taut where his muscles flex unconsciously. A droplet of water slides down his wrist, tracing the ropy veins of his forearm before disappearing under his rolled cuff. You track its path, hypnotised by the way it catches the flickering kitchen light, until his throat bobs with a hard swallow.

He clears his throat. The sound is sandpaper-rough, startlingly loud in the cramped kitchen. You drag your gaze upward, past the smudge of flour on his collarbone and the damp hair curling at his nape, to find him watching you through his lashes. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, casting sickly shadows under his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looks almost feral—jaw clenched, nostrils flared, the pulse at his temple throbbing visibly. Then he blinks, and the illusion shatters.

“Sure. Your pick.”

He nods but makes no move to leave the kitchen. His gaze burns a hole through the back of your head as you resume sorting. Rubber bands snap into a jar. Paperclips clink like loose change. The silence stretches, taut and humming, until—

“Casablanca”, he says abruptly.

You blink. “Since when do you like old movies?”

“Since never.” He pushes off the counter, mug abandoned. “But you do.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile as the steam still curling from your tea.

The couch has never felt this small.

Will’s usual sprawl—all loose limbs and careless angles—has been replaced by a coiled tension that makes the cushions dip dangerously toward him. His left arm rests along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the heat of him bleeds through your thin jumper anyway. On screen, a spaceship disintegrates in silence. Neither of you registered the title when he queued it up, too busy pretending not to track each other’s movements.

His fingers find your hair first.

It starts as a graze—the rough pad of his thumb brushing the nape of your neck as he tucks a stray strand behind your ear. You stiffen, but he doesn’t retreat. Instead, he twirls the lock around his index finger, the motion hypnotically slow. His breathing hitches, audible even over the movie’s sudden explosion of gunfire.

“Will?” you whisper, turning your head just enough to see his profile.

He freezes. Moonlight from the half-open blinds stripes his face, sharpening the hunger in his expression before he can school it into something neutral. His thumb presses harder against your neck, a silent plea for you to stay still.

Then he sniffs.

A slow, deliberate inhale, his nose dragging along your temple. His breath fans hot over your skin, uneven and shallow, as if he’s been running. You feel the flutter of his eyelashes against your cheekbone when he blinks.

“You smell different,” he rasps, lips grazing the shell of your ear. The words vibrate through you, low and frayed at the edges.

Your heart stutters. “I—what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your hair, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind your ear with a low groan that makes your thighs clench. His free hand grips the couch cushion, fabric tearing under his fingernails.

“Your perfume,” he mutters, voice thick. “It’s… new.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a gasp. “Since when do you notice my perfume?”

His teeth graze your earlobe—a split-second scrape that might’ve been accidental. “Since it’s this one.” The hand in your hair tightens, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. His other palm lands heavy on your knee, fingers digging into the denim. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t—vanilla? Amber?” You’re babbling, hyperaware of his thumb tracing circles on your inner thigh. “Why?”

Will huffs a laugh against your skin, his arms tightening around you. “Been driving me fucking mental all day.” His voice rumbles through your chest where you’re pressed together, warm and honey-thick with confession.

Heat floods your cheeks. “You—” You twist to face him, but he catches your chin, calloused fingers tilting your head up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and gleaming, the blue-grey irises gone stormy at the edges.

“Yeah,” he admits, unashamed. “Full stalker mode. Followed you around the shop like a starving dog.” His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, daring you to scold him. “Pathetic, really. Nearly growled at that old lady for smirking at us.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Guilty.” He nuzzles your jaw, scruff catching on delicate skin as his earlier intensity melts into something softer, sweeter. “Should’ve warned me. That perfume’s a biological weapon.” His nose trails down your neck, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff that sends you into giggles.

“Oh, please,” you snort, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re just dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Will nips your earlobe, gentle this time. “You leaned over the milk cartons. Practically waved your neck under my nose.” His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs. “Sabotage.”

“I was checking expiration dates!”

“Cruel.” He kisses the offended pout off your lips, slow and lingering. He groans, flopping back against the cushions and dragging you with him in a tangle of limbs. “Going to have words with your friend,” he grumbles, even as his hands settle possessively at your waist. “Gifting chemical warfare disguised as perfume. Criminal negligence.”

“Hey!” You pinch his side, laughing as he jerks away with a yelp. “She has excellent taste!”

“Taste?” Will rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. “That stuff’s lethal. Bet she’s cackling in her evil lair right now.” He tugs your wrist to his nose, breathing deep with a mock-agonised sigh. “Probably spiked it with pheromones.”

You prop yourself up on his chest, smirking down at his ridiculous pout. “Jealous she found my signature scent first?”

“Devastated.” His hands slide up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. For once, there’s no humour in his stormy gaze—just raw, disarming honesty. “Should’ve been me.”

The kiss starts soft, a barely-there press of lips that quickly deepens when your fingers find his hair. Somewhere in the apartment, the forgotten movie’s credits music swells dramatically. Will breaks away first, forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“For the record,” he murmurs, nose bumping yours, “you’re banned from wearing that to Ikea. Or libraries. Or—”

The protest dies in his throat as you kiss him—really kiss him—your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. His lips part instinctively, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating between you as he tilts his head to deepen the angle. There’s nothing tentative about it now: his hands slide up your back, anchoring you against him with a possessiveness that steals your breath.

He tastes like Earl Grey and the dark chocolate bar he’d pocketed at the shop—bitter-sweet, addictive. His stubble scrapes your cheek as he breathes you in, but neither of you care enough to pull away. When your teeth graze his bottom lip, he lets out a ragged groan, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Christ,” he mutters against your mouth, the word more prayer than curse. His thumb brushes the hinge of your jaw, coaxing you to open for him again, and you do—gladly—melding together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. The couch creaks as he shifts, pressing you into the cushions until there’s no space left between hips, between heartbeats.

Before you can protest, his arms lock around your waist like steel bands, dragging you sideways into his lap. His legs loop over yours, pinning you to the couch in a tangle of limbs. A shudder runs through him as he buries his face in the junction of your neck, nose pressed to your pulse point.

“Will—?”

He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin. Slowly, you relax into the vice of his embrace. Your fingers card through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He lets out a sound, half groan, half sigh, and nuzzles deeper into your neck. The tension bleeds from his shoulders incrementally, his death grip on your waist softening to something almost reverent.

“You’re clingy tonight,” you murmur, smoothing the rumpled hair at his temple.

“M’not,” he mumbles into your collarbone, though his legs immediately tangle with yours, pinning you to the couch. His nose nudges the hollow of your throat, inhaling deeply, as if memorising the scent. “S’your fault. Drugged me.”

You snort, fingertips tracing idle patterns down his spine. “Dramatic to the end.”

He hums, noncommittal, his lips brushing your pulse point. The credits still roll, bathing the room in shifting blue light, but Will’s breathing already slows—deep, even pulls of air that stir the neckline of your shirt. His grip loosens incrementally, heavy limbs going lax as sleep claims him.

You don’t dare move. Not when his lashes flutter against your skin, not when his fingers twitch against your hip in some dream. The weight of him is solid and warm, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath your palm.

“Will?” you whisper.

A soft snore answers, his exhale warming the hollow of your throat. You stretch carefully, fingertips grazing the crumpled throw blanket at the foot of the couch. The fabric whispers as you drag it upward, dust motes swirling gold in the TV’s dying light.

He stirs when the blanket settles—a grumpy murmur vibrating against your collarbone. His arms tighten reflexively, legs cinching around yours like living rope. “Nuh,” he slurs, half-asleep, protest muffled in your skin.

“Octopus”, you accuse under your breath, laughter softening the word.

His only reply is to nuzzle deeper, lips brushing your pulse in unconscious affection. You let your hand drift back to his hair, carding through the messy strands. His sigh is a quiet surrender, breath evening out as he sinks deeper into dreams.

The credits fade to black. In the sudden dark, his heartbeat becomes your compass—steady thuds beneath your palm, syncing with yours until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. His legs stay stubbornly tangled with yours, a human anchor keeping you grounded.

Sleep comes slowly, tethered to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His breaths paint the silence—a soft whistle in his nose, the faint tick of a swallowed snore. You press a kiss to the damp hair at his temple, lingering just long enough to memorise the warmth of his skin. Your eyelids grow heavy, the last thing you feel is the weight of his arm across your waist, anchoring you to this moment—to him—as the world dissolves into the slow, heavy pull of sleep.

[yanderenightmare]

geto angst please, just being a pouty wreck

Geto Suguru

TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, yandere, Geto using the word monkey, reader has no cursed energy

part one

gn reader - fem labels (housewife, concubine)

You slink out of bed when you hear his heavy footsteps approach the locked door. The same book you’ve read about seven times flaps to a close without you bothering to leave any bookmark between the pages. You’ve already read it once since he left in the morning, and you know you’ll just start anew tomorrow, like today and the day before – until he deems it necessary to give you a new one. Not like you would ask.

As usual, he has blood on his face, but you’ve yet to learn not to cringe at the sight. You try your best to avoid wondering whether they had deserved it or not. And then you try your best to convince yourself that they did, but you know better. Suguru isn’t a good man.

You never wonder if it’s his. 

You know it’s not.

He wraps long, tired limbs around your smaller body and tugs you close with a deep sigh, his chin resting atop your head. 

He’s heavier than usual, you think, as he hugs you for a moment too long, until his large hands drop from your back down to your waist, greedily pulling you close enough to make you lose footing and feel the hard bulge hiding beneath the layers to his yukata brazenly press against you.

You lean off-balance against him while he aims to keep you close enough to grind against, sensing his aggression despite his silence. Your heart flares in fear of it, and you almost forget yourself before you swallow it down. 

You’ve learned to cater to him. 

“Come~” You say softly instead, holding his sides while looking up at him with a smile. “You’ll feel better after a shower.”

He’s always pouty after a long day, and you’ve learned it’s better not to ask. And if you did, you know the answer would be the same as any other day – he’s been swallowing curses, and now he feels sick.

He lets you guide him towards the bath, somewhat begrudgingly yet halfway convinced by your small hand holding his. 

You slip the straps to your nightie off your shoulders and let the flimsy article fall softly to the floor in a pool around your bare feet, yet he makes no effort to copy your moves – standing there as though in wait for you to come and help him.

And you do. Undoing the knots to his attire under his slim, watchful eyes.

He sits down with a thud on the cold slab when he’s naked, promptly pulling you into his lap – his tongue already flat against your collar while his manhood eagerly jumps between you. 

“Wait-” You stop him and he halts, his black eyes snapping up to look at you as though you’ve interrupted him in doing something very important. 

You stiffen for a moment – your heart rifting with the burn like before, until once again managing to shake it off just the same. You offer him a smile and a tiny nervous laugh. 

“Let’s get clean first, okay?”

He only wordlessly sighs in response before leaning back against the cold tiles behind him. And you raise yourself enough to turn the water on.

It’s cold at first, and you gasp with a flinch – nipples hardening. 

He doesn’t move – eyes closed, feeling the drops patter against his face, taking the blood stains with them while wetting his hair, making it go slick against his neck and shoulders. He sighs again when the water turns warm – this time in relief.

But still with a heavy head.

He focuses on the doughy fat of your hips and how plush your thighs are on top of him, how you make no attempt at getting away anymore.

Some part of him wants to tell you that being a housewife is too good a task for a monkey like you, but the way your hands start smoothly rubbing soap into his hair, with nails soothingly messaging his scalp, elicits a groan instead.

You’ve become too sweet for him to justify making you cry anymore…

And that’s problematic.

You were a monkey, meant as nothing but a concubine – a pleasure pet he could use to ease the burdens of his day, but for a while now… you’ve become not just an object of lust but, instead… something precious to him.

It’s all so confusing… 

You rinse the soap from his long locks and begin doing your own. But a larger hand overlaps yours when you reach for the shampoo bottle.

You look at him through the droplets. 

“Let me.” He says firmly, the first words he’s said all day.

You think about telling him how he shouldn’t burden himself with you, but in the end, don’t fight him on it.

His big hands, capable of so much damage, so much death, caress your head and hair – making your breath short. You try and retain your shivering, but there isn’t much use. You swallow thickly, feeling his digits rub your roots, and bow your head. Soap gets in your eyes, but they’re already stinging with fearful tears, so it isn’t much more of a bother.

He lifts your head after rinsing, an easy hand under your chin. There’s only a hairpin’s length from your lips to his. He knows he should kill you to stay true to his beliefs, but he also can’t make sense of what good your death would do – so in order to give you a different practical purpose other than being the one he selfishly loves, he asks instead, “Can I fuck you now?”

You don’t know what to make of his tone. It isn't like him. Whether he’s being cruelly sarcastic or serious, you couldn’t tell. But found it just the same… It didn’t really matter. Your answer wouldn't be any different either way.

“Of course, Geto-sama. I’m sorry for having made you wait.” You apologize – as if you could make him do anything he didn’t want to. “Do you want me to turn around?”

That’s an awful question, he thinks – looking at your pretty face and those reddened eyes that can’t bear to look back at him for too long without blinking away.

“Like this is fine.”

♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[lovesick-desires]

ASCENDANCY

YANDERE!AMBESSA MEDARDA X ROYALTY!READER — CHAPTER ONE

⇢ NEXT CHAPTER (COMING SOON)

ABSTRACT: As the monarch of a small country in Runeterra, your country is subject to an attack by Noxus. The deal that The Noxus General, Ambessa, proposes to save your kingdom is one you never could have suspected... CONTENT WARNINGS: dark themes, yandere behavior, war, mass death, violence, murder, death, sensual touching, mentions of corpses, dubious marriage, coercion, intimidation TAGS: gender neutral reader, probably ooc Ambessa (first time writing her), this is mostly an intro chapter (N)SFW?: slightly NSFW WORD COUNT: 1.5k+ AMBESSA’S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: possessive, sadistic

Unnecessary bloodshed.

That's all this really was.

You gazed out from the balcony of your castle, your battle armor dented and smeared with the essences of war: blood, sweat, and dirt. Your skin was bruised, lacerated, and covered in grime. You fought your hardest to protect your people, yet you failed. You realized that as you stared out at the kingdom you fought so hard for littered with the corpses of your people, all slaughtered like cattle.

"I have failed you." You whispered softly to the bodies below, knowing they will never hear your words. Your fingers grasped the ledge of the railing, feeling the legacy of your people die in your heart. You gazed upon your kingdom's flag, now seeming withered with faded colors.

You knew what was waiting for you, but the failure you felt seemed worse than any death that could take you from this planet. The crushing feeling of annihilation your people faced by the Noxian forces. Noxus was notorious for their prodigious armed forces: why did you think you could take them on when they threatened your people? It was foolish, really; it was just a whimsical pipedream that pulverized your kingdom.

At least, you knew some of your people were safe: the ones you got to evacuate in the midst of chaos. That put your mind at ease, even just a little bit.

You looked down at the corpses once more: men, women, and others all slaughtered for little purpose. But, as you gripped the hilt of your sword, you knew you couldn't go down without fighting like hell. These people gave everything for what once was a powerful kingdom, and you knew you would too.

"...And I will not fail you again."

You swiftly exited the balcony, hearing the combat downstairs in the main hall. They were definitely trying to get to you, and you were going to raise hell. Pulling your sword from its sheath, you race downstairs, your heart pounding in your ears and saliva pooling in your mouth. Adrenaline ran through you as you joined your other soldiers, putting the visor down of your helmet that displayed the family badge, one you wore with honor.

You fought like hell, helping your men fight against the Noxian forces. You had taken down a couple Noxians yet they kept coming. You were outnumbered and outpowered by a significant degree. Nonetheless, you kept fighting, straining your exhausted body beyond its limits.

An axe blade attached to a chain flew across your vision, knocking the visor of your helmet clean off. The now desecrated metal fell to the ground with a loud clinking noise before it skidded across the cold, bloodstained tile floor. Your hand flew up to feel the now lacerated bridge of your nose, the sanguine blood dribbling down your armored fingers.

"Interesting..." A velvety, yet commanding voice declared as the Noxus soldiers stood at attention, their weapons at their sides. Your gaze flickered over to the origin of the voice only to see Ambessa Medarda, the Noxus General striding towards you. "A monarch who actually fights and doesn't hide like a coward." She continued, causing you to instinctively take a step back with how close she was getting. You held your sword tightly as her muscular form drew near, cornering you against a pillar of the main hall as she loomed over you.

Your gaze flickered around to see that you were the only one left standing, your soldiers fallen at the feet of the Noxian fleet.

It was all up to you now.

With a loud cry, you swung your sword down at the Noxian warlord, refusing to go down without a fight. You could see an inkling of a smirk dance across Ambessa's lips as she blocked your swing with her armored forearm, the sheer impact sending a jolt of vibration through every atom in your arms. You tried to retract your blade but Ambessa struck a solid blow to your gut, making you crumble and drop your weapon. The steel clattering against the cold tile floor elicited a scoff from Ambessa.

As you looked up at the intricate, painted ceiling of your castle, you realized if you didn't get up here, it would be over. Just like that, you'd be wiped from this Earth like nothing more than a speck of dirt. Gathering the remaining strength you had left, you swiped your armored foot under hers, knocking her to the ground with a resounding grunt. The warlord's umber eyes flared wide as you snatched your sword from the floor, plunging its tip downward toward her with deadly intent.

A loud clank followed by a shattering noise assaulted your eardrums as you felt knocked back to the floor, your sword now shattered into a plethora of pieces that surround you. Through your blurred vision and ringing ears, you could see Ambessa rewrapping her arm in the ribbon of runes that decorated it, as those must have protected her from the blow.

"Impressive, little one." Ambessa proclaimed with a slight tease in her tone.

As you tried to get up, Ambessa became to approach you once again, her footsteps swaggering yet intimidating. The clanking of her armors rang in your ears, feeling like it was piercing your eardrums. Her footsteps stopped right before you as she dropped the metal mits that held her chain axes, letting them crash to the ground.

"I have fought many foes: older than you, stronger than you, wiser than you... Better than you." Ambessa declared, her searing gaze meeting your subconscious one. "Yet, you got me under your feet. Not many have ever been able to accomplish such a feat." The matriarch of war continued before placing a strong hand on your jaw, pulling it up. She seemed to be trying to get a better look at you as your vision slowly focused, the vertigo fazing away as your face was mere inches from her. The matriarch of war's lips curled into a crooked smile with a glint in her eyes that was indiscernible yet seemingly troublesome.

"I have a proposal for you, young one. One that can save your kingdom from utter obliteration." The warlord proposed, offering her calloused hand to you. You snapped out of your confusion as your gaze met hers.

"What... proposal?" You spoke cautiously yet not taking her hand. To this, Ambessa's smile pulled a little more at the corners of her lips.

"Marry me and your kingdom will be safe and protected from my forces." Her words drove horror in your heart like a spear. You could see the bloodlust behind her smile, the glint of conquest in her eyes. This was no proposal: it was a leash in the shape of a ring. You were wrong: there was a fate worse than death.

You swallowed hard, trying to mask the tremble in your hands. Around you, the main hall fell silent, holding its breath. One wrong word and your people would burn.

"How can I trust you? You and your forces have invaded and massacred my soldiers." You proclaimed, shakily going to stand as pain radiated down your left leg, making you wince as your legs tremble.

She stepped closer, her heels echoing on the marble flooring like the ticking of a clock. Her guards didn’t move. They didn’t need to. Power clung to her like a second layer of armor.

"You misunderstand me," she said softly, almost kindly. "Trust is not required: only obedience. I offer you mercy. Refuse, and your kingdom will be reduced to ash and screams."

A drop of sweat rolled down your temple. Your heart pounded like a war drum. Streaks of blood and dead bodies littered the floors. You were out of time and out of soldiers.

"Make your choice, monarch," Ambessa rasped, nodding to her hand. "Will you die a martyr and let your people burn or live to see your people thrive with the help of my forces?" She continued, her gaze glinting with conquest and the raging fire of countless wars.

Your gaze shifted to her outstretched hand. You didn't want all your people to die because you didn't want to take on the burden. You thought of all the children who laughed in the schoolyard, you thought of all the lovely couples strolling about with some now permanently separated by a wall of death, and you thought of them all perishing just because you wanted to be brave. You'd take death over this in an instant if your people weren't involved, and Ambessa probably knew that. You heard horror stories of how relentless she was: conquest after conquest, she raged on like an unrelenting storm.

With a shaky hand, you clasp the warlords in order give her a firm yet reluctant handshake, sealing your fate in her bloody, calloused hand.

Your people needed a hero, and you weren't going to fail them again.

"As long as my people stay safe, I will agree to your terms." You relented, trying to fill your voice with authority. Ambessa smirked softly before firmly grasping your hand back, shaking it firmly.

"Wise choice, little one."

SONG OF THE FIC: THE WOLF — SIAMES

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[ggukvnly]

Silent Walls║Chapter 1

The late afternoon sun dipped low behind the skyline of Seoul, spilling warm golden light across the pavement and casting long shadows from the apartment buildings lined up in organized, glassy perfection. Your taxi pulled up to a quiet, modern complex in the heart of Mapo District — a place buzzing with life but tucked far enough from the chaos to feel like its own little world.

You pressed your forehead lightly to the window as the car rolled to a stop, staring at the new place you were about to call home. Four floors, neat balconies, minimalist design. A small garden wrapped around the front, where a few azaleas still bloomed despite the approaching shift of seasons.

You exhaled a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Here we are, miss," the driver said, hopping out to help you unload.

"Thank you," you replied, voice a little breathy as nerves and excitement tangled in your chest.

The crisp city air greeted you with the scent of freshly baked pastries from the café across the street, mixed with autumn's fading warmth. As you glanced up at the windows, a thrill ran down your spine. This wasn't just a new city. It wasn't just a job.

It was your new life.

Stepping inside, you took a slow turn around your new apartment. It was small but bright, a neat rectangle of clean white walls and warm wood floors. The kitchen sat to one side, compact but inviting — a window above the sink that caught the last golden light, where you imagined placing pots of fresh herbs someday. A tiny dining nook stood by the living room window, just enough for a small table and two chairs.

The bathroom was simple but clean, with soft cream tiles that made it feel warm instead of cold. And your bedroom — the smallest room — had a cozy window seat where you pictured yourself curled up with a book on rainy days.

You pressed your palm to the cool wood of the kitchen counter, feeling a sudden rush of comfort.

Busan had been your home for twenty-five years. The sea breeze that ruffled your hair, your mother's laugh in the kitchen as you baked together, the streets you walked every day — all memories now packed away, folded gently into your heart as you stepped into this fresh space.

Your phone buzzed softly.

Mom <3: Are you there? Did you eat?

You smiled, fingers sliding to your bag to reply.

You: Just moved in! The apartment's cozy. I'll eat soon, don't worry 💗

Mom <3: We're proud of you. Busan already feels a little emptier without you.

You blinked back a smile and let the warmth of her words settle around you.

⸻

You opened the first box — kitchenware, neatly wrapped in newspaper. You set out a few plates and a ceramic bowl your mother had given you, already imagining the smell of baking bread filling this space one day. Cooking was your passion, a language you and your mom spoke fluently together, a string tying you back to those quiet afternoons in your childhood home.

Next, you turned to your art supplies. A smaller box held your leather-bound journal, its cover worn soft from years of handling. You slid it gently onto the windowsill, where the light pooled, feeling a quiet pride swell in your chest.

Reaching deeper, your fingers brushed a small photo frame. You lifted it, blinking softly at the image inside — you and Jae, caught in a casual moment beneath a streetlamp, his smile easy, your laughter frozen in time. You remembered how those months had felt — gentle, kind, uncomplicated.

No heavy feelings. Just a simple, quiet memory.

You set the frame next to your journal, letting that piece of your past settle into this new chapter.

In another box, you found a small plush toy — a soft, threadbare bear your grandmother had given you years ago. You traced its worn stitches with your finger and set it carefully on your bed. A small comfort, a reminder of love stretching across the miles.

Hours passed without you noticing.

Night slipped quietly in while you unpacked the last of your essentials.

Finally, you stepped into the bathroom and let the warm water wash over you, shaking off the day's exhaustion. Standing before the mirror, you looked yourself over — your dark hair pulled back, soft eyes, a gentle determination shining in your reflection. You weren't a model or a star, but you were beautiful in your own way. And for the first time in a long while, you felt ready.

Back in your room, you slipped into a soft sweater and jeans. You unwrapped a small box your mom had sent — cookies and a note reminding you to eat well. The familiar sweetness was grounding, a small piece of home wrapped in every bite.

You finished your skincare, the routine soothing in its simplicity. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you gazed out the window at the city lights blinking softly in the dark.

Your things weren't fully unpacked. You still had a couple of boxes waiting for the moving service to deliver, but the essentials were in place. You had two days before your first day at Ethereal — a fresh start, a new life.

Now, you thought about greeting the neighbors. It would be polite to introduce yourself soon, but the night had already deepened around the city. Tomorrow would be better — you'd meet them then.

⸻

You took a deep breath, nervously adjusting the plastic container in your hands — homemade Busan-style eomuk-tang your mother had lovingly packed and shipped ahead, just so you'd have something warm to share. It was a small gesture of courtesy — greeting neighbors on your first day — but the hour had grown too late yesterday. Now, with sunlight pouring softly over the corridor and a clean, breezy Sunday mood hanging in the air, it felt just right.

You walked to the door on your right, the one with a tiny potted cactus sitting beside the shoe rack. With one more deep breath, you knocked.

The door opened moments later, revealing a woman with shoulder-length black hair curled at the ends, eyes shaped like half-moons, and a warm, curious smile. She wore a loose graphic t-shirt tucked into wide-leg jeans and held a half-eaten popsicle in one hand.

"Hi!" she blinked. "You must be the new neighbor."

You nodded, smiling. "Yeah! I just moved in yesterday. I brought this—some eomuk-tang. It's a Busan thing, kind of a peace offering."

"Ooh," her eyes widened. "I love Busan food. Thank you! Come in, come in."

You stepped inside. Her apartment felt like a mirror version of yours but somehow already lived-in. A record player spun quietly in the corner, mismatched cushions littered the couch, and sunlight streaked across stacks of design magazines on the table.

"I'm Nari, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, Nari. I'm Y/N."

"So what brings you to this crazy city?" she asked, handing you a bottle of peach soda from her fridge and plopping onto the couch.

You shrugged, grinning. "Got a job offer at a fashion company—Ethereal. I start Monday."

Nari's eyes lit up like she'd just heard you say you were secretly royalty. "No way. Shut up. I work there too!"

"Seriously?"

"Yep. I'm a senior designer."

"No way." You laughed, already feeling the ice melt between you.

"Welcome to the circus," she grinned. "Ethereal's chaotic but creative as hell. It's one of the fastest-growing indie fashion labels in Seoul — edgy, clean lines, but full of personality. You'll fit right in."

You exchanged numbers in between sips of soda, and somehow, the conversation just... flowed.

Nari, it turned out, had been living in Seoul for nearly seven years. Originally from Jeju, she'd moved here after college and had been at Ethereal for almost three years. You were surprised to learn that she wasn't much older — maybe just by a year or two — and yet she had the relaxed confidence of someone who knew the city like the back of her hand.

She told you which coffee shop had the best honeycomb lattes, which convenience store carried the good ramen, and how to avoid the morning rush on the metro. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this at ease with someone so quickly.

You paused between the laughs, setting your soda down on her coffee table. "So... what about the neighbor on the other side? 

Nari's eyes lit up with unmistakable mischief.

"Oh, him?"

⸻

After parting ways with Nari — cheeks sore from laughing and warmth blooming from the unexpected bond — you remembered one last neighborly duty.

As you stepped toward the next door, her words played back in your head:

"Oh, him?"

She had smirked, already unwrapping a chocolate bar. "Jeon Jungkook. He's a hot meal package."

You choked on your drink. "What?"

Architect. Does his own thing. Some crazy high-end firm downtown. Dead serious. Ridiculously hot. Like, bad-boy architect from a drama kind of hot. But..." she leaned in with a smirk, "he's kind of mysterious. Doesn't talk much. He moved in about seven months ago. I tried making small talk once, but he keeps it polite and distant."

You'd both laughed then, but now... now that laugh was starting to dry out in your throat.

Because here you were.

In front of the very door Nari had pointed at with that teasing look in her eyes.

With a container of warm Busan-style eomuk-tang in your hands and a polite smile you were trying to hold in place.

You knocked.

Once. Twice.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

And the world. Just. Tilted.

You'd seen attractive people before — Seoul was full of them.

But this man? 

Holy shit!

He was on a whole different plane of existence.

He stood tall, body built like a secret weapon. Broad shoulders that narrowed down to a trim, sculpted waist. His black t-shirt clung to every inch of him like it wanted to be there — stretched tight across his chest and abs, outlining muscle so sharp it looked unreal. Those abs? Rock-solid and defined beneath the fabric, like they'd been carved, not grown. Every breath he took made the shirt shift slightly, teasing the strength underneath.

His arms were a masterpiece of power and ink — veins tracing over taut skin, the muscle lean and purposeful. Not bulky, but strong in the way that made you wonder what it would feel like to be held. Tattoos curled around his arms in black and gray, an entire story etched into him in silence. The kind of art you'd want to trace with your fingertips — slowly.

His skin glowed with that signature honey-gold tone, smooth and warm, making everything he wore look expensive. His hair was a mess of dark waves, tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed — and somehow looked better for it. Effortless. Infuriating. Perfect.

And then there was his face — and God, his face. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, cheekbones high and clean, lips full and plush, naturally parted just enough to make your mind go places it shouldn't. His nose was strong, perfectly sculpted — a little rough around the edges, just like him.

But his eyes. His eyes were a whole other danger. Deep, dark, heavy-lidded. 

They didn't just see you. They searched you. Quiet. Intense. Unreadable.

Jeon Jungkook wasn't just hot. He was devastating. The kind of beautiful that made your lungs forget how to work, and your brain forget every reason why you shouldn't be staring.

You forgot how to breathe.

This was not fair.

You'd come here to say hi, not to be annihilated by a jawline.

Still — somehow — you held up the container in your shaking hands and forced out a smile. "Hi. Um. Sorry to bother you. I just moved in next door and thought I'd say hello. I brought this—eomuk-tang. It's, um, a Busan thing."

His gaze didn't waver. He looked at the container, then back at you. His face stayed unreadable, as if he were running some internal calculation. Then, wordlessly, he reached out and took it from your hands.

"...Thanks," he said. Deep voice. Monotone. No warmth. Just... that low, husky register that hit somewhere behind your ribs.

You cleared your throat, suddenly all too aware of your own heartbeat.

"I'm Y/N. By the way."

He nodded once. "Jungkook."

Short. Cool. No follow-up. No "Nice to meet you," no "Welcome to the building." Just his name — a full stop in one word.

You awkwardly smiled. "Okay. Well... enjoy the soup. I'll, uh, let you get back to it."

He nodded again.

And just like that, he stepped back.

The door shut gently.

And you were left standing in the hallway, holding absolutely nothing except the haunting image of the most attractive man you'd ever seen.

You didn't even like black t-shirts.

But now you understood why Nari looked like she was always seconds away from sin when she talked about him.

Holy hell.

You exhaled slowly, turned back toward your apartment, and whispered to yourself:

"...Yeah. She wasn't kidding."

⸻

Jungkook rarely let himself unravel, but tonight was different. It was Saturday. No work the next day. No commitments. Just the chasm of memories he could no longer escape.

The music in the club was deafening, the bass thudding like a heartbeat on overdrive. People moved like shadows around him, laughing, drinking, flirting. And there he was—half-drunk, half-numb, all broken.

Taehyung had noticed the signs first, nudging Jimin with a knowing glance. Jungkook's hand hadn't left his glass since they got here. Drink after drink, like he was trying to drown something so deeply buried, even the alcohol would hesitate to touch it.

"You okay, man?" Taehyung leaned in, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Jungkook barely registered the touch. His eyes were distant, jaw clenched. "Yeah. Just needed this."

He didn't say why. He never did. But they knew.

Her laugh.

That laugh.

It rang in his ears like a ghost, soft and bright, nestled somewhere in the sheets of his memory. She was lying on her stomach, chin resting on her folded arms, bare shoulders peeking out from the duvet. Sunlight had painted her skin gold, and her eyes sparkled when she looked at him.

"So... five years from now, where do you see us?" she asked, playfully.

Jungkook chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Here. Same bed. Same sunlight. Just... more wrinkles maybe."

She giggled. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips—slow and tender. "And maybe a dog?" he added against her mouth. "You love dogs."

She kissed him like every second without him had been unbearable, like she was trying to pour every unspoken word into the space between their lips. He responded just as fiercely, his hands gentle but firm, anchoring her to him like she was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of the world. When she finally pulled back, breathless, her forehead resting against his, she whispered it like a vow.

"I love you so much, Kook. I can't even picture my life without you in it."

His eyes stayed on hers, unwavering, honest. He brought her hand up and kissed her knuckles, slow — one by one, like they were sacred.

"You mean more to me than anything. You're the love of my life."

Then he kissed her again — deeper, fiercer. Like she was a promise he'd never dare to break.

But that moment shattered like glass behind his eyes.

Back in the club, his throat burned—not from the liquor, but from the ache that swelled with that memory. He gripped the rim of his glass tighter, knuckles white.

More shots. More silence. More distance.

⸻

Taehyung and Jimin had to practically drag him back home. He didn't argue. He didn't speak. His eyes were hollow.

"Dude, sleep it off," Jimin muttered, helping him to his bed. "It's Sunday tomorrow. You'll be fine."

Jungkook didn't respond. He just stared at the ceiling, replaying the past over and over until his vision blurred and sleep dragged him under.

 Jungkook's POV

The sunlight slicing through the curtains wasn't gentle. It was harsh—too damn sharp—driving straight through my skull like a blade. I groaned, dragging the pillow over my face, but it didn't help. My head was splitting open.

"Damn it," I muttered, voice hoarse. I hated this. The weakness. The vulnerability. I never let myself fall this far unless something inside me had already cracked.

At least it was Sunday.

If it were Monday, I wouldn't have touched a single drop. I had rules. Boundaries. Last night crossed them.

I sat up, scrubbing a hand over my face, then through my hair. Everything ached. I forced my legs over the edge of the bed and pushed myself up, dragging my feet toward the bathroom.

Cold water. I needed cold water.

I splashed it over my face, again and again, until I could open my eyes without wincing. My reflection looked like shit—eyes heavy, jaw tense, expression blank.

I changed into my gym gear by noon. Black tank. Joggers. Didn't matter that my body felt like concrete—I needed to move. To train. That discipline ran deeper than the ache.

Always did.

The gym was quieter than usual. A few familiar faces. No one I cared to acknowledge. I didn't come here for that. I came to forget.

Every rep burned. Every second on the treadmill felt like punishment. I wanted it to hurt. Needed it. My muscles screamed, lungs tightened, sweat poured—but I didn't stop.

I couldn't stop.

Push harder. Breathe. Don't think. Forget.

When I finally walked out into the apartment , my body was wrecked—but my mind... quieter. Not better. Just silent. And silence was all I could ask for lately. I stripped the soaked clothes off and hit the shower. Let the water scald. Let it sting. Maybe it would burn the rest of her out of me.

It didn't.

It never did.

I got out, towel-dried just enough, and pulled on a black T-shirt & grey sweatpants .

And then—

Knock. Knock.

Once. Twice.

The lock clicked, and I opened it.

Standing there was a woman—probably the new neighbor the building manager had mentioned earlier. 

She froze the moment she saw me. That brief hesitation—eyes quickly scanning me up and down—was hardly unusual. Women did that all the time. I knew I was attractive; it wasn't something I ever denied. They noticed, they watched, they tried to get my attention. It happened constantly. So her reaction wasn't surprising.

Her hair was dark, falling softly around her face. She wore a simple, neat sweater—nothing flashy, but it suited her.

In that moment, I registered that she was attractive. Pretty, even. Maybe more so than most. But it was just a glance. Nothing more.

"Hi. Um. Sorry to bother you. I just moved in next door and thought I'd say hello. I brought this—eomuk-tang. It's, um, a Busan thing."

I took the container from her hands.

"...Thanks," I said, my voice low and flat.

She cleared her throat, clearly nervous.

"I'm Y/N. By the way."

I nodded once.

"Jungkook."

Short. Direct. No extra words.

She gave a small, awkward smile.

"Okay. Well... enjoy the soup. I'll, uh, let you get back to it."

I stepped back, closing the door gently behind her.

She left quietly, and I stood there for a moment before turning away.

I placed it on the kitchen counter.

My phone buzzed. Jimin.

You alive, man?

Another one popped up. Taehyung.

Come out. We're not taking no for an answer.

I stared at the screen for a second before typing back.

Fine.

The three of us ended up at the bowling alley down by the river. Our usual spot when things got too loud in our heads. Laughed more than I expected to. Let myself breathe a little. Not enough. But a little.

Later, a quiet restaurant. Taehyung wouldn't shut up about the waiter's hair. Jimin kept trying to steal my fries.

It felt normal. Almost.

Almost.

When I got home, it was late. Everything was still dark. Showered. Took my time with it. Let the heat work through the muscle tension.

Slipped into a clean shirt, padded barefoot into the kitchen. 

The container was still there. Untouched.

Forgotten.

Leaned back against the counter and stared at it for a second.

She looked nervous. Earlier, at the door. Not in a bad way — more like... caught off guard.

Eyes had flicked over me, like she hadn't meant to.

Not unusual.

That part never is.

Women always look. Always try. I'm used to it. Used to the attention.

She was attractive, though. No doubt about that.  Pretty eyes. Long hair — dark, soft-looking. Clothes casual but clean.

She didn't try too hard. Didn't need to.

I sighed, pulled the lid off the container, and stared at the steam. Work tomorrow. Big client pitch. Should sleep.

But my brain wasn't letting me.

Sometimes, when the noise dies down and everything goes still, I hear them again.

Jimin's quiet voice, careful like he's afraid I'll break. Taehyung's not-so-subtle sighs, full of words he's tired of repeating. They never say it directly anymore, but I know. They're worried. They've been worried. Told me I should try. Let someone new in. That maybe, just maybe, it'd help loosen the grip she still has on me. I listened. Once. Met someone. Tried to let them past the wall.

It didn't work.

It felt like pretending to breathe underwater—foreign, wrong. She wasn't her. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't force the pull that never came. So I stopped trying. They still hope. But I know better. 

Slid down into the barstool by the counter, chopsticks in hand. Might as well eat. Didn't want to waste it.

The soup was... warm. Savory.

Tasted like effort.

Didn't know what that meant exactly. But it tasted like effort.

[amomentsescape]

I love your writing! Could I possibly get a Slasher X reader. One of the Reader ending up in the hospital for whatever reason. It could be over sickness or getting injured/hunt.

Slashers React to Reader Ending Up in the Hospital

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Warnings: Mentions of injury, illness, and killings

A/N: Thank you so much! Some of the Slashers were written outside of the hospital setting since I don't think all of them would be comfortable stepping out into public. I hope you still enjoy though!

Freddy Krueger

Freddy decided to pay you a visit in the real world when he hadn't heard from you in a few days

It wasn't like you to not say anything, and he was starting to get worried

But when he checked into your bedroom and found you nowhere in sight, he quite literally freaked out

(He may have visited some of your friends that night and threatened them to find out where you were)

When he finally found you in the hospital, he was even more worried

You could barely talk and your eyes were horribly bloodshot

It was only when you began coughing did he realize what was going on

"I haven't been able to close my eyes for more than 20 minutes without coughing" you hoarsely whispered to him

Despite wanting to take you back home with him, he knew better

He wasn't exactly a doctor, and he cared more about you getting better than you visiting him

So he let you be

He did help you with falling asleep though

And he visited you every night until you got better

He killed a couple nurses that he stated weren't taking care of you well enough though

Michael Myers

Yeah, he's pissed

He comes home, and you're not there?

Livid

Mostly at the idea that something happened to you, but he won't admit that the idea of you leaving him may have crossed his mind a couple times

But when he finds a note stating you were going to get yourself checked out at the hospital, he immediately heads out without a second thought

You have no idea how, but he sneaks in without anyone noticing him?

He immediately rips the blanket off of you and scans your body, trying to pinpoint what is wrong

It's only when he sees your bandaged leg that he meets your eyes

"I was trying to clean your knife, and it slipped..." you said like a kid about to be scolded

He shook his head at you and then lifted you into his arms, carrying you out of the room

While walking out, you happen to notice several dead bodies laying on the ground, blood pooling around them

Ah, so that's how he got in

Jason Voorhees

It was after the 5th night of not being able to breathe fully that you gave in, deciding to go to the hospital

You told Jason it would be super quick, but after a few hours, you still hadn't returned

Instead of just waiting a little longer like a normal person, Jason assumed that something terrible had happened and decided to make a public appearance

(Something he doesn't do often)

He headed into town and located the nearest hospital

Luckily, it was late by now, and the hospital wasn't quite as busy as normal

When he stepped inside, he just slammed down a piece of paper with your name on it, the front desk worker frantically typing in the computer

With how Jason looked and the size of his machete in tow, nobody even bothered to question him

When he was finally pointed to your room, he immediately picked you up and walked back out with you

After finding your doctor and making them give him your prescriptions, he was off to take you back home with him

He wouldn't dare spend even a single night without you

Thomas Hewitt

With the amount of meat hooks, knives, and scrapped bones around, it was a surprise you hadn't gotten into an accident sooner

You were a pretty clumsy person in general, so when you stumbled over a little dip in the tile floor of the kitchen, you instinctively reached your hand out to stop yourself

You managed to not hit the ground, but you sacrificed the palm of your hand in the process

A large butcher's knife was sitting on the counter, and it had sliced right into your skin

Thomas was rushing to your side in a hurry, frantically smooshing towels onto your wound to stop the bleeding

Despite his protests, you insisted on going to get looked at in the hospital

You were certain your hand was going to need stitches

While you were out, he just sat on the couch the whole time, staring at the wall

You promised to be back later, and so he trusted you

But there was no way he was going to be productive with you gone

Once were finally back, Thomas was quick to give you princess treatment

He makes you lay in bed while he brings you food, treats, and cuddles

He'll be watching you like a hawk for the weeks to come, that's for sure

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba was quite literally hanging onto your ankles as you tried to make your way through the door

He was blubbering like crazy

But this stomach flu you've been dealing with was making you miserable

You needed some type of medicine to sort yourself out, although Bubba disagreed

You told him you'd be back soon before giving one last shake and running out the door, leaving Bubba whining after you

He was yelling at basically everything and everyone, frantically storming around the house until you came back

He knew he wouldn't be able to go with you, but he hated you going anywhere by yourself

He was only calm again when you walked back through the door a couple hours later, some weird looking pills in hand

He'd be all over you after that, refusing to even let you go to the bathroom by yourself

And unfortunately for him, this attachment to you resulted in him waking up with the same stomach pains you had just a day later

At least you still had some medicine left, right?

Brahms Heelshire

So there's no way in hell Brahms would ever let you go to the hospital

When you accidentally tripped on the stairs, knocking yourself unconscious during the fall, Brahms was going through a mental breakdown

He didn't know how to help you

And despite all the shaking and slaps he could muster, nothing would wake you up

He finally gave up and decided to call 911

When the ambulance showed up, they were met with a grisly surprise

One of the medics was immediately killed upon entry, and the other was held at knife point, forced to call back and say everything was fine

Brahms then forced them to help you, watching their every move

It was only once your eyes fluttered open that his body relaxed

He quickly disposed of the other medic, immediately tending to you

But don't worry, Brahms would deal with the bodies and the ambulance later

He did it for you after all

Norman Bates

It was actually Norman's idea for you to go to the hospital in the first place

It wasn't like you to be dealing with a cold for this long, and he was beginning to get worried

He happily drove you there, patiently sitting in the waiting room as the doctor took you back to check you out

With a couple prescriptions (and a hefty payment) later, you were back at home with him, relaxing in bed

Norman made sure you always had some tea to drink and soup to eat throughout the night

He even ran the bath for you in hopes of opening your sinuses

He just seems like a normal, doting partner

But if the medicine doesn't seem to help soon, Norman supposes he may need to pay the doctor another visit...

Just to talk things over, of course

Billy Loomis

It's just a little cut, why do you need to go to the hospital?

You shouldn't have been playing with his knife in general

He told you it was dangerous

But he can take care of you himself, he's sure of it

But when he finds you gone just a few minutes later, he immediately becomes tense

Great

With a loud sigh and a few curse words later, Billy is out the door and driving after you

When he makes it to the hospital, he just storms inside

He ignores all the calls from staff to "come back" and to "not go in there"

He finds you talking with the doctor, a look of shock on your face

(You're not exactly sure how he knew which room you were in)

"Are we done here?" Billy grumbles

"You shouldn't be back here"

Billy rolls his eyes at the doctor

"Does it look like I give a shit?"

And with that he, grabs your hand and walks you out, being mindful of your bandaged arm

You're still not sure how you haven't received a bill from the hospital yet

In fact, you haven't heard back from the doctor at all in the past few days

Huh, weird

Stu Macher

Nothing about Stu is calm... ever

So the moment he realizes you aren't home at your normal time, he flips

Probably tries to call and text you numerous times

He even calls Billy who's like "how am I supposed to know??"

When you finally send a text back saying that you went to the doctor's, he quickly responds back saying he's coming to get you

He storms into the hospital like he owns the place, immediately asking the staff where you were

If any of them refuse, he gives them a wicked smile that makes them all uncomfortable

They give in quickly

Stu suddenly barges into your room asking "what's wrong" and "who hurt you?"

You almost laugh at his worry since all that happened was you falling due to being clumsy

He just sighs and shakes his head

"You should have called me"

Once you're all ready to go, he just walks out with you with your arm wrapped in his

He says goodbye to all the staff like nothing ever happened, but they all look a bit fearful

Eric Draven

After fighting with the flu for a good week, Eric decides he should take you to get checked out

Despite your protests, he insists he needs to take you and stay with you (just to make sure they hear you out and give you what you need)

Eric wouldn't hurt or threaten any of the hospital staff, but his presence alone is enough to make them feel intimidated

You're practically in and out within just 20 minutes

"That wasn't so bad, right?" he teased

You just give him a little shove

He pretty much dotes on you for the time being until you get better

Unlike most of the Slashers, Eric has no issues with you going to the occasional doctor's visit

He cares a great deal about your health and always wants what's best for you

[sheerfreesia007]

Heat Rising

Pairing: Changbin x Reader

Word count: 2,454

Content warnings: Fluff, kissing, suggestive

Summary: After a late-night gym session leaves you sore and breathless, you suggest to Changbin winding down together in the new hot tub—only for him to be completely undone by your surprise bikini. Between teasing touches, deep massages, and tender words, the steam rising around you is nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.

A/N: Divider was created by @saradika-graphics, thank you for sharing your dividers with tumblr!

SKZ Taglist: @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @inlovewithstraykids, @channiesrightasscheek, @kaiyaba

@bookswillfindyouaway, @m-325

Part One: Pool Games

The gentle hum of the overhead lights and the soft clang of weights hitting against each other became the background music to your workout session. You were running on one of the treadmills in the gym while listening to your playlist and while you tried to focus on your run  your eyes kept darting over to Changbin who was lifting dumbbells over by the mirrors. The way his body was so controlled as he effortlessly lifted the weights in his set made your body heat with desire for him. The way his muscles flexed and bulged in motion made your heart race with want. He was just the perfect specimen of man to watch as he did something he truly loved.

The gym was quiet this late in the evening—mostly cleared out, the air cooler, Changbin had asked you to join him after being cooped up in the studio all day producing and you had gladly agreed since you hadn’t had time to get in a good workout lately knowing that he’d work you until you were sore. And you had been correct as you felt your muscles growing fatigued as you finished up the last of your run. Your eyes darted over to Changbin once more and saw him beginning to clean the weights, you slowly lowered your speed on the treadmill before doing a cool down walk. When you finished you cleaned off the treadmill just as Changbin walked over to you with a soft smug smile on his face.

”You good?” He asked as he handed you your water bottle and you nodded at him while taking the towel you brought with you and wiped some sweat off your forehead.

”Yeah I’m good. Knew you were gonna wear me out.” You said to him while grinning widely at him. He scoffed softly at you before shaking his head in disagreement.

”Nah, you crushed it tonight. Even I was struggling to keep up with you.” He said easily as he smiled softly at you. “You feel it though?” He asked worriedly and you smiled at his concern before resting a hand on his shoulder.

”A little. The gym just built a hot tub in the pool area, I was thinking of trying it out to see if it’d help ease some of the ache. Wanna join me?” You explain to him before asking hopefully with a wide grin and an eyebrow wiggle thrown his way. Changbin’s face heated with a soft blush before he nodded his head at your question. When you squealed delightedly and bounced on your toes with excitement he couldn’t help but chuckle at you. “I’ll meet you in there!” You told him before racing off towards the locker room leaving Changbin to stare after you with a look of slight awe on his face.

When you finally walked out into the pool area you gasped softly at how well the new addition to the gym seemed to fit in. The new pool area had only opened about a month ago and you’d been dying to try it out ever since you got the flyer in the mail. The tiled floor had a pretty color mosaic design to it while the pool glowed with soft underwater lights that would change colors if you pressed a button on the wall. 

But what really caught your attention was the trio of hot tubs in the corner of the room. Changbin was already over there examining the dials and buttons before he began setting up an ideal temperature and jet pressure program for the two of you. You grinned to yourself and padded over to his side while hiking up the towel that you had wrapped around your body. Ever since the pool day with Changbin and the boys a year ago you and Changbin have been exploring the more romantic side of your relationship. And it was such a sweet, soft transition for the two of you, your friendship was still there but it was more enhanced now that you were both free to express your affection and love for each other freely without any worries.

Tonight though you had a surprise for Changbin, one that you had a feeling that he would really enjoy. You had recently gone shopping for a new bathing suit since the one you had worn a year ago had become frayed at the edges of the straps that criss crossed over your body. The bathing suit you had chosen was slightly different than the last one, it was a softer pastel pink colored bandeau bikini that had a large golden circle in the middle of the top and the bottom part of the bikini riding high on your hips showing off a lot of your legs whenever you wore it. You loved the bikini, it made you feel gorgeous and you were eager to see Changbin’s reaction to it.

When Changbin was done setting the right program for the hot tub he turned his head to look at you and you noticed his eyes quickly widening as they traced along your bare shoulders before darting around the room and leaning in towards.

”Yeobo, there are other people here at the gym.” He whispered softly to you and you nodded your head in agreement with his words as your eyebrow furrowed with confusion.

”Yeah I know Bin. What about it?” You asked, still confused as you tried to make sense of what he was so worried about.

”Are you naked under there?” He asked in a whisper loud enough for only you to hear as his eyes darted around the empty pool area behind you. You grinned wickedly as you realized why he was so nervous and you decided to have a little fun.

”You mean under my towel?” You asked as you kept it clutched tightly to your chest while widening your eyes at him. Changbin turned his eyes back to you and nodded his head quickly. You smirked sultrily at him before quickly opening your towel causing Changbin to lunge towards you in a panic before his eyes landed on your pretty bikini. You laughed brightly and happily as he groaned softly at your teasing while realizing that you were in fact wearing a bikini.

”You’re killing me Yeobo.” He groaned as he lifted a hand to run tiredly down his face. You laughed as you laid your towel over the edge of the hot tub and then climbed in. When you stood in the middle of the hot tub you turned to look back at Changbin and saw him staring at you frozen in place, a sinful smirk slipped onto your face.

”You alright?” You asked him knowingly and Changbin’s head snapped up to stare at you before his eyes raced up and down your form once more. Your eyes widened when you heard the soft whispered curse word slip out of his mouth.

”Just give me a second to survive this.” He mumbled and you burst out in laughter once more before you slipped into the water taking a seat on one of the benches in the hot tub. From your spot you watched as Changbin blinked rapidly before shaking his head and then scrambled to climb into the hot tub with you. 

When he was finally in the water he lowered himself fully into the water letting it come up to his shoulders before sliding easily through the water to be closer to you. You shivered when you felt his hands find your waist and effortlessly move you to straddle his waist as he sat on the bench. You settled yourself over him with your knees on either side of his hips and shivered once more as you felt his hands slide up your thighs kneading the muscle there easing the ache and strain. The feeling of his warm, wide palms gliding over your skin slowly, kneading into the muscles that had taken a beating during your workout cause you to sigh out softly in relief. “Let me help you Yeobo, let me work out the stress.” He said softly to you as he looked up at you adoringly from his spot underneath you.

As his hands travel down to your calves you whimper softly and Changbin focuses his eyes on you. Your head falls back on your neck and another whimper slips from your mouth as his fingers dig into your calf muscles. “Right here?” He asks softly in a whisper and you whimper again in response.

”Mhm.” You hummed as your hands that were gripping the edge of the hot tub slip onto his shoulder and grip tightly. “Hurts, but in a good way.” You tell him and he nods his head before completely working the kinks and tightness out of your claves. When he’s satisfied with how boneless you seem to grow his hands trail back up your body to your hips where his fingers play with the strap of your bikini bottoms snapping it back against your skin under the water. You chuckle softly as your head tilts to see him staring at your bikini top in slight awe.

”When did you get this one?” He asked as he lifted his head to stare up at you. You smile softly at him and lean down pressing a quick kiss to his mouth as you relax in his lap and his hands slide around your hips to cup your ass keeping you steady on his lap.

”Bought it about two weeks ago to replace the strappy one that was falling apart. Wanted to surprise you with it tonight.” You told him softly as your arms slipped further onto his shoulders and you pressed closer to his chest. 

“Oh so you had ulterior motives tonight huh?” He asked with a smug teasing smirk on his face. 

“No, no. Don’t get it twisted.” You scolded him softly as you shifted closer. “I needed the workout tonight with you. Haven’t been able to get a good one in lately and you’re the perfect workout partner. But I saw an opportunity.” You told him softly as your fingers danced across the backs of his shoulders. He grinned widely at your words loving that you appreciated his workout tenacity.

”I love how hard you worked today. Love that you can always keep up with me.” He said softly as his hands gripped your ass tightly in his palms. “You didn’t stop for a second. Even when I could see you were growing tired.” He commended you as he looked up at you prasingly while you exhaled shakily feeling his tight grip on you causing your eyelids to flutter shut in pleasure.

”Couldn’t stop.” You murmured to him before grinning wickedly at him. “You were watching.”

”You didn’t even notice how I almost dropped a dumbbell on my foot as I watched you do squats.” He pouted at you and you chuckled softly at him as your fingers carded into the back of his hair that was starting to curl up from the heat and water of the hot tub.

”Oh I saw it, Binnie. But it was just motivation to keep going.” You teased him gently and he smirked up at you.

”You always look good when you workout.” He says honestly and you preen at his words. “But this bikini?” He says, sounding reverent as one of his fingers dips under the hem of your bikini bottom making you gasp loudly. “This isn’t fair.” He grumbles quietly to you and you grin at him.

”You act like you don’t always call me beautiful.” You say with a soft grin aimed at him and he pouts up at you.

”Because you are.” He whines softly and you melt against him knowing that it’s the truth for him. His hands come up to cup your face and keep you gazing into his earnest eyes as he speaks up once more. “In the gym, in this hot tub, in pajamas, with your hair all messy in the morning. Doesn’t matter. You’re absolutely beautiful to me.” He vows softly to you and you feel your heart melt into a puddle of goo in your chest.

Leaning down you kiss him slow and warm, like the steam curling around the both of you. His hands moved again, this time slipping up your back to hold you close. Your skin slid against his, slick from the water and he pulled back just enough to press kisses along your collarbone then lower to the top of your bikini sitting right over the curves of your breasts. You whimpered softly as he began to suck kisses into your skin while your fingers twisted in his hair trying to keep him close as his hands splayed against your back keeping you pressed to his hungry mouth. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, his touch steady, grounding. Not rushed. Just present. Worshipful.

”You always know how to make me feel good Bin.” You sigh out to him softly as the steam curls higher and higher in the air around the two of you. He lifts from your chest and smiles widely before pulling back slightly as his eyes take in your relaxed figure above him.

”Your turn after this. You’re not hogging all the massage time.” He tells you cheekily and you grin down at him before your hands slip down his broad chest to his waist underneath the water causing him to shiver.

”Fair’s fair.” You husk out to him and he groans softly.

The two of you spent the rest of the evening tangled together in the heat, alternating between deep muscle work and featherlight kisses. Every knot you worked out of him earned you a soft moan, every brush of your hand under the water a reward in itself. 

The steam eventually began to dissipate, but the warmth lingered between the two of you, in your muscles, in your chest, in the shared wordless looks exchanged between kisses. And when you finally stepped out of the hot tub; dripping, flushed and relaxed to your bones; Changbin pulled you in for one last kiss beneath the gentle hum of the pool lights.

”I’m putting in a request right now.” He hummed against your lips as a smile broke out on his mouth.

”For what?” You asked curiously.

”This hot tub. You. That bikini. Repeat. Weekly.” He said cheekily and your eyes widened at his teasing bold words before you grinned widely at him.

”Any time, hot stuff.” You said sultrily before sauntering away from him towards the locker room to go get changed. Changbin grinned in response before whistling lowly to himself as he followed you happily.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。by expensive tiles and elite gym pools | gojo satoru

wc: 935

summary: you visit gojo during one of his training sessions for his upcoming swim meet.

contains: written with f!reader in mind but no pronouns stated, only gendered term is ‘boyfriend’ pertaining to gojo, swimmer!satoru, non-curse au

a/n: wrote this as a lil surprise blurb bday gift for @kedsandtubesocks (but it got longer than expected... oops) i know how much you love your sports aus erika!! also inspired by some swim!satoru thoughts i had a few days ago!

You hear a splash! the moment you enter the doors of the gym pool.

The lanes are empty save for one, vast crystal blue shimmering as it reflects the light passing through the glass ceiling. You don't know much about pool construction, but the tiles here look clean, with each edge perfectly cut to fit seamlessly into the other; the markings of luxury, expensive but simple enough not to distract—

—which is what you shouldn't be doing walking into this exclusive gym pool reserved only for the best of the best, the elite. Top tier professionals.

Ones like your gold-winning pro-swimmer boyfriend, Gojo Satoru.

He's approaching the end of his lap when you settle into a squat in front of the lane he’s on, towel hanging off your shoulders as you cross your arms over your knees, wiggling your toes as you wait. The moment he breaks through the surface, you can't hide the smile on your face.

You haven’t seen him in days. 

Everything about him feels like he was made for this—how the ripples make way to accommodate his breathing, the dips and curves of muscle on his shoulders, flexing; how his fingers glide his goggles atop his head without resistance, smoothly. Even with his hair held back by the elastic, the few wet clumps that fall out still frame his face so perfectly. 

It's unbelievable how your boyfriend can look so much like the water he swims in—brilliant and white like glimmers of reflected light, and clean blue, striking, always glistening the moment your eyes catch his. 

Sometimes, looking at him feels a lot like drowning.

"How did I do?" he smirks, squinting into what would have been a suave wink, if not for a drop of water causing an involuntary eye-twitch. 

He already knows the answer, but you indulge him anyway, "Good, as always."

"Just good?" he pouts.

There's a droplet of water hanging by his lips, desperately clinging as it trembles while he breathes. You know he knows you're looking by the way he runs his tongue over it, taunting. 

You narrow your gaze and shrug, teasing, "Maybe you missed something."

He swims closer to the ledge you're squatting by, palms pressing on tile to hoist himself up. You try not to fixate on the way his triceps flex as they hold him up, but he lives for this kind of attention from you—he’d do anything to keep you looking at him the way you do. 

Half of his left leg remains submerged when he settles himself on the edge of the pool, the other one bent as he tilts his head in mock wonder, “Did I?”

It's your turn to pout now as he pretends not to know what you’re after, and you're about to say something on it until—

"S'toru!"

—you scream, pulled off-balance with your heart nearly dropping to your stomach at the fear of being dragged into the water. Except you aren't, because with a simple tug at the towel around your neck, he's managed to tip you over to fall into his lap, steadying you against his very wet and very broad chest instead.  

You smack his shoulders, mouth agape and eyes wide as you push back to look at him. He looks pleased with himself, almost laughing even as his arms settle on your hips, grabbing the flesh and squeezing.

"Mean," you scrunch your nose, and he chuckles.

"Excuse me," he holds you closer, "who hurt my feelings first?"

You roll your eyes fondly, sliding your hands to clasp at the back of his neck, "Okay, big baby."

"Do you want your kiss or not?"

You glare at him, lips pursed tight, "As if you don't—"

So he does—kiss you, lips soft and a little damp. You can taste the chlorine from the hours he's already spent here prior to you coming, but it's comforting, a taste entirely too familiar that you sometimes find yourself looking for it during the long stretches he’s on break. 

He kisses you because you're right, something was missing, and it's always this same thing.

You smile against his lips before breaking away, heart gleaming like pool water. The moment is tender, soft, touched by the magic of being together amidst expensive tiles and elite gym pools.

But you should have known better than to trust your pro-swimmer boyfriend, Gojo Satoru—full-time athlete, and part-time the most insufferable person you’ve ever met.

Because with the way his arm has been wrapping itself inch-by-inch around your waist, he's managed to shift his body back to face the pool, only to dump the both of you back in the water, together.

"Satoru!"

He laughs, voice carrying throughout the gym. You grumble about still having your slippers on and he dives under to get it off you, throwing it to the side when he emerges. 

"Race me!" he ducks to the other lane, sliding his goggles back on before shooting you a thumbs up.

And you’d think this silly of him, really, because this is your back-to-back-to-back gold-winning pro-swimmer boyfriend asking you, a survival swimmer at best, to race him—but you can tell this is his cover for you. 

You’d get in trouble if anyone caught you here in the first place. His schedule's been tight lately, locked down with the need to focus for his upcoming swim meet. Being focused meant no distractions, and you being the worst of them all meant less time spent with you, too. 

Still, he'd insisted that you come today, so.

You can't technically be a distraction if you're going to 'train' with him anyway, right?

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