#like there is a spark but there is not THAT spark

[innorality]

clark is in kryptonian heat

part 1 here :p cuz I promise if u don't read it you won't understand a THING

clark kent feels weird, today.

like, really weird.

this morning when he woke up, he felt like he was having a heat stroke. his skin was buzzing and uncharacteristically warm, but he just brushed it off thinking it was his kryptonian body acting up again.

well, he wasn't wrong.

at work, everything felt worse. he felt intensely disoriented, his head buzzing and spinning endlessly. he had trouble controlling his strength, accidentally shattering his coffee mug or even unwilling snapping his keyboard in half.

but everything got worse when he sensed you.

not saw, sensed.

it was unusual, truly. he spotted your body heat among others, could only focus on your voice, and damn, since when does your skirt hug your butt like that? he quickly shook his head to escape those nasty thoughts but, in vain. it was like his entire body—the codex itself—was forcing him to focus on you. every thought in his head were of you, you, you.

but that was before you interacted with him, before you even laid your eyes on him.

when you did, everything spiked.

as soon as he saw those pretty eyes bore into his, he felt the heat in his chest spread out throughout his entire body. he shifted uncomfortably because of the raging boner he had and licked his lips in what seemed to be dehydration.

and his mind recognized it, recognized you—the groove of your walk, the sound your thighs rubbing together with each step, the familiar beating of your heart, and if he listened close enough, he could even hear the sound of your pussy lips–

"hey, clark," you waved at him and he stopped breathing, clenching his jaw tightly to conceal the ungodly sound that was currently clawing at his lips, ready to escape.

you noticed something was wrong with your beloved, and set a hand on his chest. his usually rock solid skin felt softer and incredibly warmer. when you moved to the right, you could feel his larger heart beating atleast ten times faster than if usually would.

"what's wron..." you trailed off when he grabbed your hand—tightly—and gave you a crooked smile as his eyebrows bent and pinched together. "p-please, dear, go away b-before i–" another spark of heat, "j-just go." and with that, he let you go, disappearing into the men's bathroom and leaving you there, confused and concerned.

it was only hours later, in the evening, that you saw clark again.

you were simply getting up to reheat your food before something—someone—crashed through your living room wall, knocking you down with it.

a strong hand wrapped around your head before you could knock it on the ground and before you knew it, a very familiar pair of lips came locking onto yours, kissing you deeply into his palm.

he pulled away to give you a moment to breath as he dipped down into you neck, licking and sucking. "c-clark what has... what has gotten into you?" you barely manage to breath, the dust and smoke of the broken wall was making it hard to inhale (and see clark at all), aswell as the weight of his body on yours.

"i don't- I dunno, I..." he kept licking your skin like a dog, your taste giving him some kind of sexual gratification. "all day I've been... my body felt so... so freakin' warm and just– I felt like all I needed was you... I couldn't even focus on anything i kept..." he was curiously out of breath, like the effort of simply speaking to you while holding back the urge to fuck your brains out was too much for him.

"...I kept smelling you and- and hearing you... and– jesus, I just.. want you so bad, darlin'.." he licked his way back up to your lips, nibbling on your bottom one softly. "clark," you finally managed to say, the dust settling. "tell me what you need." your hair ran up his back and into his hair, scratching his scalp which nearly made his eyes roll back.

"you. I need you, c-can I have you? please?" and the way he's just asking makes you want to give him everything he could ever ask for.

so you do.

as soon as you let out a soft "yes," he became a totally different kryptonian.

and that's how you ended up with your back arching away from the dining table, shoulders pressed against the cold surface by clark himself to keep you from slipping away at each mean thrust of his hips.

it's been, what, 4 orgasms? neither of you knew and honestly, neither of you cared—matter of fact, you both stopped caring when he finished inside for the first time and it happened.

the hooks.

"i- I wanna..." he swallows sharply, "I wanna feel it again, d-dont you, sweet thing? i-it felt so good, right? right." the both of you nodded dumbly at eachother and he smiled, terrifyingly so.

clark kent looked feral. his eyes were as hectic as his hands, moving everywhere. he wanted to see you, to feel you, to give in to you. he was inside you and yet he wanted more. he wanted you to be his—more than you already were.

"stuffin' you full so that- oh, god, yes— so that you can carry my kids... so that everyone will know you're– m-mine... mine, mine." he squeezed your breast, his gaze zeroing onto the oddly shaped (thanks to his buds) bulge on your stomach before his hand followed, caressing his cock through your skin and twitching every time the buds were stimulated.

it felt perfect, truly. he felt like you were made for him. the gummy texture of your walls fit perfectly with his buds as each of them grazed the crevices of your rugae every time his hips bumped into yours.

"c-clark, I don't... I'm gonna— i- i cant-" he presses down onto the bulge which makes you scream, "y-yes you can, baby, please- one more, just one more- i– please, sweetie, gosh, I love you so much!" his speech quickly became incoherent—a sign of his impending orgasm.

another tell-tale sign is, of course, the hardening of his buds. they were so strong that they halted his movement, burying him deep inside you while hooking onto your ridges. "o-oh my god–" you gasped, feeling the vein on his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "t-too much– I'm- I'm too full, clark!" and he shakes his head, chuckling lowly.

"n-no you're not baby! i-i can see it! you still... you can still handle more..." he starts to look more and more pained with each word, his body aching for release. "p-please.. pleasepleaseplease–- take it, baby, take it... please, it hurts... y-you're gonna be good f'me right? gonna be good and take it?" fuck, it was intoxicating. everything was. his speech, his smell, the feeling of his alien dick literally hooking inside you to cum deep in your womb...

"please..." was all you could mutter, but he understood. his body understood.

his release was cataclysmic. the buds settled slightly deeper into your crevices, allowing him to shoot into you with bullseye precision. "h-holy– oh my‐" he couldn't even speak. his breath came out in short pants and he looked up, as if begging some higher being to release him from this seemingly everlasting ache.

upon feeling his warm cum painting your insides, and hearing him mumble "g'nna make you a mommy... you're gonna look s-so pretty with my– hhnnng... my kid inside y-youu...", you orgasmed aswell. you walls clenched and rubbed against the now soft buds on his dick, pressing down onto his shaft which has his stomach clenching and caving, almost folding the kryptonian in half.

in the midst of it all, you swear you saw his eyes glow red for a moment, but he quickly blinked that away. his eyes flickered back to your face, and then back to you pelvis, before he threw his head back again with a groan.

"y-you're... shoot.." he's barely catching his breath, "you're not... full enough.." and he resumes his thrusting which makes you give up on looking at him, eyes lazily rolling back.

your entire body relaxed and went limp, allowing him to use you as he pleased.

"wanna make you a mommy... and you're not full enough."

you were right, after all.

those buds are, in fact, useful for breeding.

[homunculus-argument]

"Going somewhere alone and unarmed, on purpose. There's something just so... intimate about it, don't you think? Deliberately leaving yourself so, so vulnerable. It's almost erotic."

"Is there anything that I could do that would make you shut up, or at least stop saying weird shit, for like 15 minutes?"

[eyes spark with enthusiasm, raises finger and opens mouth to say something]

[interrupting] "That wouldn't get your rocks off?"

[lowers hand and closes mouth in defeat]

[arminsumi]

HIS BABYSITTER FANTASY COME TRUE!

𝖘𝖚𝖒.ㅤ★ Dilf!Gojo fantasizing about taking his babysitter's virginity 'till it becomes a reality and oops... now he's fucking you off the bed 'n taking this to the floor like a wrestler!

𝖜𝖈ㅤ★ 6.7k (beefy like his di-)

𝖈𝖜ㅤ★ strictly NO under 18s, smut, virginity loss, plot, fucking the babysitter trope, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms/creampies, cunnilingus, aftercare 🫶, age gap (Gojo in his 30s, reader in her 20s), solo masturbation, pet names (good girl, slut, etc.), breast play, subtle breeding kink, daddy kink, big d!ck Gojo, he um... fucks a pillow while you give him an innocent massage

"I've always liked older men. Boys my age just don't get me, you know? Neither do they know how to fuck me."

That was one of the first things you said to Gojo Satoru.

And he nearly had a heart attack. Choked on his drink so hard that he had to spit half of it back into the glass.

How could you say something like that with such an angelic voice? It didn't match up, your words were nasty but your face was innocent.

Wiping his mouth, Satoru tried to recompose himself.

"Is that so...?" is all that he could manage to reply with.

He tugged at his baby blue shirt's collar, unbuttoned one button 'cause he couldn't breathe. His blood was pumping. His heart was thumping.

"How old did you say you were again?" you asked softly.

"Thirty-two." he replied. "And way too old for you."

"Perfect." you smiled.

"Huh?"

Mmm... now what did his best friend say about you? "Oh Satoru, I know a babysitter that you and the kids will just adore. She's a real sweetheart."

A sweetheart... uh, yeah, well Suguru didn't warn him about the fact you had a thing for dads. Didn't warn him that you might be crazy. Touch-starved. A way too horny and provocative twenty-something year old virgin.

Maybe Suguru didn't even see this side of you... maybe it was just Satoru that you were throwing yourself at. Surely Suguru would have told him all about a heated affair that he had with a babysitter... right? Or was he the only daddy that you fantasized about fucking your pretty brains out?

Just the thought of that being true made his ego swell and his blood rush down to his heavy cock. He loved thinking about the obvious fact that you laid in bed touching your pussy to the thought of him.

He endured your flirting. Held his hands behind his back. Bit his tongue. Told himself that he can't make out with his hot babysitter on a random Sunday afternoon, as much as he wanted to, because that was diabolical.

You were sitting on the couch alone some nights, ensuring his kids were entertained and fed and happy, while he was at work. You watched their favorite cartoons until they felt drowsy and then you had to tuck 'em into bed and read three separate bed time stories for each of them because Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara all liked different stories.

It was exhausting, but such a joy to babysit such sweethearts.

After they fell asleep, you'd wander a lonely path back downstairs and look at the time — 8:45 PM — then yawn big and snuggle up on the couch and... wait. And wait. Anddd... wait.

Satoru would always come home late from work.

You'd hear the click of the front door and have an almost Pavlovian reaction. Oh, daddy's home.

You'd strain your ears to hear his footsteps as he walked down the hall, hear the satin hiss of his loosening tie, the sound sparking your over-active imagination. And, pushing a stressed-out sigh past his lips, Satoru would walk into the living room to see you looking drowsy and messy after a long day of taking care of his three kids.

And it's that messy sight of you which made something click in Satoru's mind. That's what really sold him on you. Sure, you were a crazy hot mess... but you had this undeniable motherly quality about you that just made him wonder.

What if he gave you his babies?

Shit. Sorry. Random Friday night thoughts. Forgive him. He's been working at a desk all day and now he's feelin' a bit woozy.

He looked at you, mumbled a sweet but gruff "Hey." and then took a seat right next to you on the TV-lit couch. He sat a respectable distance away from you at first... but then, uh, the next second you had already scooched over to his side until you two were almost pressing thigh against thigh.

Exhausted. Apprehensive at how close his flirty babysitter liked to sit next to him, while at the same time getting half-hard at the thought of tearing off your tiny clothes and showing you just how frustrated a tease like you makes him. Satoru sat and endured.

Underneath all that teenage-like sexual tension, he was feeling welcomed home by you. He almost forgot how nice it felt to have someone waiting up for him.

"So, how was work?" you asked.

He grumbled. He sighed. He was half-hard and full-frustrated. No one had asked him that question in a long time in such a caring voice that it actually tugged at his heartstrings a bit. Just a bit.

"It was... um, yeah... like any other day. Long and hard."

"Long and hard..." you nodded, trailing off and letting the innuendo fill the air.

He gave you a look.

"Exactly how long and hard?" you asked.

He couldn't believe that your stupid jokes like that made him chuckle. And what a sight his smile was; his dimples, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, making the slightest age lines appear on his pale face.

"Ah, finally I got a smile out of you."

"And that's the only one you're getting." he shook his head.

Satoru brought his big hand to massage his shoulder, letting out a tense groan from his thought.

Oh, the pitiful look that you gave him made him wanna crawl onto your lap and weep. He'd worked so hard all week with scarce breaks, and all he wanted was a sweet, soft woman to lay upon, to be loved by, to fuck stupid, to use like a good stress-relieving fleshlight — ya know? Just a nice way to wrap up a hard week.

"You..." you began, pressing one long decorated nail into his firm pecs, "... look like you're in desperate need of a massage."

"Ahah... no, no..."

He stuttered, smiled a big toothy smile that made you wanna bite him. God, he really looked like that old photo of himself right then — that one you stole, remember? His graduation photo. He just looked too hot and you had to have a memento of him for your memory box.

Shit. You were crazy.

Satoru had no fucking idea whether you were making a dirty suggestion or just genuinely offering him a massage.

Either way, the thought of your hands on him got the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Though the rational side of his brain was telling him to refuse your offer, the ghost of the crazed fuckboy that he used to be forced him to accept — like, fuck, what kind of idiot would you be if you refused a pretty girl to work her hands on you, Satoru? Don't put your past self to shame, he thought, you're only gonna get older one day and then that thing ain't even gonna sit up like a good boy without some treats... yeah... that's right... you're gonna be real fucking old one day, Satoru... think about it...

"You know what, actually...? Yeah, I'd love one... but you better be good." he said in a low rasp.

"Oh, don't worry — I'm the best." you grinned like a sweet little devil.

I'll fucking bet you are, cheeky slut, he thought.

He looked like he was holding back all his raw lust. Like if you said just one more thing like that then he would tear your clothes right off your slutty little body and fuck you until every thought flew out of your head except for thoughts of him.

****

Yeah, that martial artist discipline of his really came in handy once you started massaging his shoulders and back. If he hadn't been so strict on himself, he would have...

"Gosh, you're sooo tense, Mr. Gojo... relax."

... I need to fuck her brains out. That's the first thought that he had to push out of his head.

"... let me take the weight of your shoulders..." you nearly whispered, working your hands into his meaty muscle.

Ooh he slipped, he totally gave in.

"Mmm..." he let out a purring moan, feeling the pressure of your fingertips sink into his sore muscles. "That feels good... keep going."

You were trying to keep it cool and professional... er, as professional as you could with your hands exploring Gojo Satoru's muscular back.

Having the lights down low didn't help much. Everything was turning you on. Your clit was already buzzing and begging for attention from behind your thin panties.

This was babymaking atmosphere.

You were going insane, soaking your panties and twitching 'cause you've got a hot dad groaning under your touch.

"Y' can go a little harder..." he muttered in a rough voice.

"M'kay..."

"Mmm..." he let out that purring moan again, this time stretching it out.

Something was so erotic about giving him a massage, even though it wasn't supposed to be — uh, it really wasn't supposed to be, right? Right? It's not like you planned this out all night, not like you were scheming while watching cartoons and waiting for Gojo Satoru to come home.

Ah c'mon... he's an overworked man in need of a massage. Just listen to him, he's moaning like he's — oh, he's closing his eyes, too? He must be really feeling it. His breath is becoming choppy, too.

"Just a bit more..."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... just like that."

His mouth hung open in bliss. He squirmed a little. Shit... he could feel himself throbbing. Even slightest friction of his pants shifting along his painfully hard cock was already intense enough to make him clench his jaw.

You smirked, catching a delicious glimpse of the prominent outline of his bulging cock right before he instinctively covered it up with a pillow.

Damn, how does he keep such a monster hidden under such thin dress pants?

Sticking your tongue out in focus as you deliberately massage a spot on his back that makes him moan out the most, Satoru rolls his eyes back and dies a little orgasmic death.

"Yeah... th-that's it... right there... right there... you can go harder."

"Like this?"

"Yeahhh... good g- uhhh, th-that's good." he purred, holding back his tongue just in time because oops, he almost called you a good girl without even thinking.

Oh, that pillow coverage sure helped to keep his boner out of sight but then he had a new problem... the pleasurable friction of the pillow and the fact his stubborn hips liked to move on their own.

Without trying to make it obvious, he was getting off with the pillow, shifting it as inconspicuously as he could but he just couldn't get enough friction — shit, when was the last time that he was so horny he could even enjoy fucking a pillow? It was insane how hard he was, how much his cock oozed sticky precum, how every inch stood at attention asking politely to stretch out some good babysitter pussy.

He shut his pretty blue eyes when started feeling reaaally good. Like, god, he needed this more than he needed air. It was such a shit day at work, but now all the stress that he had built up throughout the day just melted away with each subtle thrust of his bulge into the pillow, and your soft hands digging into his muscular back.

I wanna fuck her so bad.

"Uhhh, fuckkkkkkk...!" he let out a broken moan.

You stopped massaging his back, eyes blown wide open, trying to hold back your shock and snickering. He had worked up a subtle sweat. His muscles were twitching. He was gasping. It was so obvious to you what had just happened.

"Mister?"

"Huh?" he blinked the stars out of his eyes, coming-to as if his orgasm knocked him out for a second.

"Are you okay...?"

He opened his eyes and... oh, there was a wet patch on his dress pants where he just came. Oops. A little massaging and pillow-fucking and he came all over his thigh? Well, that had never happened before. Guess his cock was just super sensitive after not having sex for so long — but you didn't hear that from me...

Satoru gulped. He abruptly stood up, acting as nervous as a bird, "Um, uh... it's late, isn't it? I've gotta drive you home..."

"Aw, okay." you frowned at him, wiggling your hips like you were expecting more.

And he looked at your wiggling hips, your slightly spread apart legs, and then he let a nasty thought pass his mind, and nearly caved and asked you if you wanted to...

****

God, you had your legs apart and he could smell your ovulation. No no, don't call him crazy. He could smell it.

And as he went upstairs to wipe the cum off his inner thighs and change into new pants, he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you must have been soaked. You must have had the prettiest pussy ever.

Oh, he threw his head back and groaned when he met you back downstairs because while he tried acting professional, now you were all worked up and in an outrageously flirty mood.

You were about to say something outrageous again but he stopped you dead on your tracks.

"Shut up, I don't want to hear it. Let's go." he said, grabbing his keys.

You saluted him playfully, "Yes, daddy."

He did a double take. "What?"

"Nothing." you smiled innocently.

His eyes caught yours, then he rubbed his cheek like he was stressed out.

It was really obvious why he liked you, but Satoru was aching to ask why on earth you like him so much.

Didn't you think he was an egotistical asshole? That's how his ex-wife described him, anyways.

*****

"So you're a Sagittarius, huh?" you ask, little voice dripping in sultriness and setting off alarm bells in the fuckboy side of his mind. "That's hot."

"Uh-huh."

He's driving you home. 60 mph. Switching lanes. Bright blue eyes blind-spotting to the left. Next they're side-eyeing you. Catching on your pretty baby angel face. Trying to keep it together, but his cock is starting to make a bulge in his pants again. Something you've discovered is that the poor man doesn't even change out of his suit most days; when he comes home he just faceplants into bed and falls asleep.

"A december baby?"

"Yup. December seventh." he replies curtly.

Relax, Satoru. It's just conversation. Just innocent, professional conversation with the babysitter who just witnessed you fucking a pillow and cumming in your pants.

After a steadying inhale, he politely returns the question, "What about you? When's your birthday?"

Satoru pays you a brief glance before bringing his gaze back to the speedometer. 50 mph.

Just that one question turns into a deep exploration of your psyche.

"... I just don't like guys my age... like, god, they don't even turn me on anymore."

You give a dramatic pause before looking at him with a nympho fire in your eyes.

"Hey, you're an old man — got any sage advice for me?"

"Hey, who you callin' an old man?"

"Sorryyy, I'm just being cheeky."

"I can tell."

"Sooo... what's your advice?"

Satoru furrows his brows. "For what?"

"For getting older guys to pay one small glance to a sweet girl like me?"

He tenses up and doesn't reply.

You're insane. Worse, you're even more insane than he was when he was your age.

His cock is throbbing against his inner thigh. Again. Precum. Everywhere. How dare you? He's in-between throttling you and stopping off on the side of the highway to bend you over his car's hood to show you he ain't no old man. What a cheek...

"This is your turnoff, isn't it?"

"... yeah."

You watch him flick on the turn signal. You catch his eyes just before he blind-spots again.

As he's pulling off the highway, you pull a dumb joke out of your brain, eager to get a response from him.

"It's my turnoff. But ya wanna know my turn-on?"

"..." he doesn't reply, just gives you a look, then tears his eyes off you and rubs his fingers over his mouth.

"C'mon." you encourage, "You're so uptight; let me humor you a little."

"I'm pretty sure I can guess your turn-on."

You tilt your head at him expectantly. He purses his lips. Drives down your street. Pulls into your driveway. Parks. Unbuckles his seatbelt with a tantalizing slowness that sparks your imagination — d'you wonder if he unbuckles his belt that slowly, too?

Satoru offers one lazy guess. "Older men?"

"Bingo!"

He stifles a smile, shakes his head, thinks you're crazy, and then opens his car door and steps out, leaving you to giggle and unbuckle your seatbelt alone.

He swerves 'round the hood of the car over to your side, and reappears at your window to open your door for you.

"Wow. Handsome and chivalrous? Why'd your wife let a gem like you go?"

"... that's not really any of your business."

"Aw, c'mon... I'm just dripping with curiosity."

He doesn't reply again, just walks you silently to your front door. His heart is beating faster as he eyes out the curve of your ass. That tight sundress shows just the faintest hint of a thong underneath.

Just a thin sundress? A tiny thong underneath? God you're so fuckable, he thinks. So, so fuckable. And the worst part is that you're one of the girls who knows you're hot. That's why you bounce around in front of men like him like you're a reckless bunny.

He's trying so hard to block out wild fantasies of ripping the fabric off your tight body and fucking you into a dumb, slutty mess.

Block it out, Satoru, block it out.

Finally, he replies to the question you posed earlier.

"I'm full of myself, apparently." he says bitterly.

"You're full of yourself?" you tilt your head, a light confusion glossing over your features.

He's so patient and fatherly to his kids; a jovial and wholesome man. I mean, he takes his kids to every place they wanna go, makes gingerbread houses with them in the festive season, plays pretend with them, sets up outdoor adventures in his backyard, gets dressed up in a ridiculous costume for Halloween and takes them out trick-or-treating every year without fail. For god's sake, he bought a hot pink set of baking cookware just because Nobara fancied herself a chef.

He gives his all to his kids, how could anyone think he's full of himself?

"... seems like your wife was wrong about you." you reply.

"Ex-wife. And nah, you'll probably agree with her if ya stick around me long enough — " he speaks self-deprecatingly of himself, but then you interrupt him.

"— mmm, if I stick around ya for to long... y'think I'll end up being full of you, too?"

He stutters. Blood rushes to his cock.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Satoru blinks at you in total disbelief. Again, an innocent face like you saying such outrageous shit is just insane to him.

"You've got a nasty conscience, you know that?"

"N'aw, don't mind me. I'm just having fun, being a little silly." you giggle, eyes all over him and his pretty, rideable face.

"Well, I wouldn't call flirting with older men being 'silly'..."

"And I wouldn't call pillow-fucking being 'professional'..."

Oh god. Oh my fucking god. He's breaking in two like a kitkat.

Satoru is rendered fucking silent. He's stunned. He's red.

"Goodnight." is all he replies with. And then he leaves. What the hell else is he supposed to say to that? You're crazy.

Now you got him all worked up and he doesn't know what to do. If younger Satoru knew that one day in his thirties he'd meet a slutty babysitter... oh, god. Younger Satoru would be pumping his fist in the air.

But he's gotta keep playing it cool, 'cause there's no way he can fuck his babysitter... there's NO way...

... so there he is that very night tucked in his black satin sheets, leaky cock in his fist and jaw slacked, face sweaty, fucking himself to supposedly real "I fucked my babysitter" erotica stories. No, he's not one for porn videos. He just wants to lay back and picture your pretty face with no disturbances. He just wants to lay wayyy back on his king-sized bed, fisting his cock with soft fwupfwupfwups while picturing his babysitter's pussy sitting pretty on him.

He groans at his dirty little fantasies as he slides his hand up and down his shaft, getting so lost in the idea of taking your virginity that he forgets all about the erotica story he's reading and jus' closes his eyes, head thunking back against the headboard in bliss and cock dripping like a leaky faucet, practically drooling all over his lower abdomen.

"Good girl; take it all, just like that..." he mutters.

He slides his thumb over his leaky tip and holds it over the hole, smearing precum everywhere as it oozes out, getting his cock wetter before going back to stroking it at a steady speed. His breath gets ragged as he lures his orgasm out.

He's never met a virgin as slutty as you before, that's for sure.

Shit, he really shouldn't be thinking about fucking his babysitter. He really shouldn't tease his cock to thoughts of taking your virginity. It shouldn't bring on his orgasm to picture you trapped underneath his heavy muscles, cumming all over his mature cock.

"... ugh!" he moans out, shifting down the headboard and curling his toes. "Fuck! Fuck... oh, shit, baby..."

Just like that, his jaw slacks in pleasure 'n his cock shoots out thick ribbons of cum and he's creaming all inside you — oh, sorry. That was just in his fantasies.

In reality, he's just cum all over his abs and chest. It shot up so high that it almost reached his neck.

He pants and looks down at the wasted seed that he coulda pumped inside you.

Groaning as he comes down from his high, Satoru lays with his long legs spread out on his bed for a while and curses himself for thinking of fucking his babysitter.

And then he starts weighing the pros and cons of actually doing it.

Yeah, he stares up at the ceiling after jerking off for like thirty minutes, cum splattered on his abs, thinking about how bad of an idea it would be to actually fuck his slutty babysitter.

No, Satoru. You can't. Absolutely no — no fucking the babysitter. Satoru? Bad boy. Don't do it. I know she's fuckable but you cannot fuck your —

****

— so like a week later, he's spreading your legs and crawling inbetween them.

He's placing rough kisses against your lips like he's almost angry about being this horny.

"Nn!" you whine, feeling his fingertips press against your clothed pussy, pushing against your entrance.

"Aw, you're soakin' your panties just from a little bit of kissing? Aren't you cute." he murmurs on your skin.

"Sh-shut up and fuck me... I can't take this teasing." you spit back, pulling him back into a rough kiss.

He chuckles into your mouth, tongue slithering over yours and tangling up with it for a few seconds before he pipes up;

"I'm just getting back at you for all the teasing I endured from your slutty ass."

Biting your lip. Pulling away. Letting out a purely erotic noise. Sliding his big hands down your sides and gripping you like you're his woman.

Oh now your breath gets caught in your throat.

"Let's get you nice and ready for me, hm?" he husks, lips dangerously close to your clothed pussy.

Oh now your heart rate spikes to an alarming rate. Fuck. You're actually doing it. You're actually gonna fuck an older guy.

He plants a rough kiss on top of your pussy, chin pressing against your buzzy clit.

"Mm...!" you press your lips together, trying to keep some sort of composure but you can't 'cause you've got Gojo Satoru between your legs — who the hell would be able to stay composed in your position?

Damn, it drives him crazy when your inner thighs graze the sides of his cheeks. You're ruffling up his hair. He's going down on you.

A moment later, he's pushing your panties aside and lapping at your pussy. Another moment later, he's curling his tongue up inside you.

"Oh my god th-that feels good..." you gasp, feeling his slippery tongue writhe inside.

"Mmm, I know it does."

He feels smug hearing this, pressing an open-mouthed smile against your pussy lips as he sticks his tongue as deep into you as he can possibly go, eyeing your blissed-out expressions. Sliding his tongue out, spitting on your pussy, rubbing sloppy frantic circles on your clit, Satoru's acting like a total show off.

It makes you hide your face between your palms.

"Ah-ah-ah... I want you to watch." he growls, "Don't you dare take your eyes off me, m'kay? That's a good girl."

Tip of his nose nudging your clit as he tongue-fucks you into hazy bliss, you're moaning like you never knew you could.

And he's just in heaven, 'cause he's got your juices dribbling down his chin and glossing his lips better than his favorite lip gloss — uh-huh.

"Mister! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck — nnn! G-gojooo!" you start mewling his name and he goes faster, trying to chase your orgasm out with full intent to leave you hanging.

Your breath is staggering, pussy pulsing with that edge of pleasure and oh, suddenly he's retracting his tongue from your weeping, spasming hole before you can cum all over his face.

Yep. He leaves you hanging.

"Wait — ! Nn, I was gonna c—"

"— y'know, princess" he interrupts, wiping your slick off his cheek with his fingers and licking it off right before your wide eyes, "I really think we're past the formalities; call me Satoru."

Half-dazed and ditzy on the pleasure of a missed orgasm, you watch as Satoru pulls away from you, his knees digging into the mattress and weighing it down.

Veiny hands find his belt and smoothly undo it, whipping off with a loud crack.

"O-oh?" you breathe excitedly.

He smirks, seeing how your eyes are glued to his bulge, "Aw, ya gonna perv on me while I strip for ya?" he teases, then clicks his tongue in regret when you reply with a lamb-like look, "Hahaha, don't get shy on me now. I'm just teasing."

Absolutely drooling over his physique as he strips his clothes off tantalizingly slowly, Satoru's been so composed up until now; as he unbuttons and unzips his long zipper, you notice how ragged his breathing actually is. Like he needs it bad. Like his cock is getting strangled by his clothes.

After hastily taking his pants off, Satoru quickly frees his eager cock from his boxer briefs.

And your eyes go wiiide.

"Oh."

Pale. Pink. Stiff. Leaky. Bit of an upper curve. Thick veins. What's that, like maybe a nine? No, no, there's no way. Actually, on second look, maybe?

"C'mere, let me have you." he rasps, one hand gripping his dummy big cock.

"That is not gonna fit inside me."

His ego swells. Ah, how many girls have said that to him in his life? And it never gets old.

"Nah, it'll fit."

You twitch excitedly, breath catching in your throat as Satoru comes closer to you and snuggles his slim waist between your legs which you just keep spreading wider and wider, so ready to take him even though you're nervous as hell.

"Ready to get ya cherry popped, cutie?" he asks.

He taps his cock against your entrance, coats it in your slippery juices, teases that hot tip in 'n out.

"Yeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhfuck! Holy shit! Um! Uh!"

"What is it?" he throws a smug smile your way.

He watches intently as your pouty lips move, "'Big, 's really fucking big...! Ooh, god! Nn! Nnn!"

"You're so cute." he arches over you, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

His head starts to spin as he slides inside you.

Fuck. He's actually doing it. Sure, he fucked that flight attendant once. Yeah, he had a couple flings. He was a nasty, sex-crazed fuckboy in his youth. And yet... nothing felt as nasty as this.

This is everything he ever fucking needed. This is the sweet and nasty girl that he's craved for all his life. The rest were too nasty, some too sweet, but you? A perfect slut.

Satoru's curving up into you and teasing your sweet spots with his tip like he's letting 'em know that soon they're gonna get bullied with his hard-hitting strokes.

And your pussy's happily getting stretched out, walls clinging to every inch he pushes in like she's so thankful that you finally gave her something besides your fingers or toys to clench around.

"Ah, fuck, that's tight."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, no, it's a good thing... just relax a little more, 'm gonna push it deeper, is that okay?"

"Yes, please... oh please, fuck, yes give me everything!"

He grins, "No need to ask twice." he murmurs, right before he's sinking another few of his inches into your struggling pussy.

Satoru just comes undone at the feeling of being inside you.

His big hands come to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a playful tongue poking out his mouth like he's just tempted to put his mouth on them.

So he does, y'know he's already lost enough self-restraint to the point where he's fucking his babysitter, so of course he's gonna give into his urge to suck on your breasts.

His hot, wet mouth envelopes your sensitive nipple, tongue flicking against it 'till he draws out cute whimpers from you.

He's pulling his mouth off, kissing the curve of your cleavage, groping a handful of your breasts, looking down at you like he knows damn well no boys your age are gonna fuck you as good as him — shit, scratch that, ain't fuckin' nobody in your whole life gonna fuck you as good as he will.

When your walls permit him to go deeper, Satoru stutters out like he's the virgin here, "F-f-fuck, there you go, baby, jus' take my cock like you're meant to, yeah?"

He moves his hips, relishing that sloppy sound of your pussy gushing around him — oh god you're bucking your hips to meet his hips 'n you're driving him crazy makin' him think for a split second about remarrying.

Like, he's going insane, he's actually going insane.

Hardly ten minutes later and he's fucking you into your first orgasm, loving how you can't even control how hard you cum on his cock. He's ruthlessly rubbing your clit throughout your orgasm, eager to make your eyes roll back completely. And it's making you freak the fuck out, 'cuz no one else has done this to you. No one has brought you to a real orgasm before.

And he can tell.

It makes him twitch and dive deeper into your sopping hole, eager to lure out as much juice as he can 'cause there's nothing he loves more than a creamy mess on his cock.

He's bending and pushing you into the positions he loves, thrusting at a steady pace that you can keep up with at first but sometimes he'll go harder, harder, harder until you're sobbing and wailing out so loudly that he needs to clamp a hand over your mouth.

He chuckles, "Quiet down, princess. You're gonna wake up my kids at this rate."

" 'm shorry!" you mumble into the palm of his hand, feeling his cock drill into your sweet spots and pressure your walls like crazy.

"No, no. Don't be sorry. It's cute. You're taking me so well," he praises, "Doing so so well for me, princess."

Those soft coos don't match his nasty strokes. He's railing you like he's trying to fuck every last bit of virginity out of your pussy, 'till it remembers the shape of his cock, 'till it clings to him, 'till it knows who's ya daddy.

Especially while prone-boning you. Damn, who forgot to give this guy the handbook on How to Fuck a Virgin? He's pounding into you and grunting like he's gone psycho... ohhhhehasn'thaddpussyinlikeayear. Okay. Makes sense.

"Ah, fuck — fuckin' look at me while I fuck you," he commands, sweaty cheek pressing against yours. Satoru grabs your jaw and makes you look at him, loving your lewd expressions. "Haha, such a fucked-out face... cute."

He thrusts faster into you, not even letting much of his cock in 'cause he knows form experience that virgin pussy just can't handle all of that. So he's easing out each time he accidentally dives in too deep.

And when he pounds up into you like that, it makes sense why the phrase "fucking your brains out" came about. His cock has got you in a crazy back arch, got you seeing stars. No thoughts. Just pussy spasms.

"Harder!! 'want it harder! Please! Fuck me harderrr!!" you plead, totally cockdrunk on Gojo Satoru.

"Are you sure 'bout that, sweetheart? 'Cause I don't think you can handle it..."

"Please!!" you beg.

"Aw... 'can't say no to that fuckable face, can i?" he throws your leg over his shoulder, repositioning himself, grinning, "Take a deep breath. You tell me if it's too much, m'kay? Y'can tap out at any time."

"Yeah, yeah! I know!!" you respond so eagerly it makes him giggle.

As instructed, you take a deep breath. But honestly, did it really prepare you for getting fucked this hard? Um, no.

"Fuck, fuck!! Nnn... god, fuck me! Yesyesyes, just like that please!!"

"Ah, shit, baby..."

"God, you're gonna — you're gonna break the bed, 'Toruuu!"

"I'm gonna break you first." he moans, pounding every last inch of his cock into your happy little pussy, gives your g-spot a beating that has your whole body on the brink of insanity.

"Ughhh... fuck!" you choke up, you hiccup, you sob and wail — and he has to kiss you quiet.

My god did you need this. You needed to indulge in this nastiness, 'cuz who the hell else is ever gonna give you the fucking of a lifetime? Uh, yeah, that's right...

"Yeah, keep enjoying my fucking cock. You know nobody else is gonna fuck you as good as this, little slut." he whispers into your ear, cheek sticky with sweat 'n pressing against yours.

What kind of man did his ex-wife think he was? Full of himself? Nah... he wasn't that full of himself. C'mon now...

"... fuck you look so good cumming on my cock like that. Aw, you shaking? Can't handle it? Am I just too good at fucking you, huh? Wanna cum again? Come on, use your words, you're a big girl. You wanna cum again, don't you? I know you want it. I know you love my cock, 'course you do... 'm fucking perfect, baby. 'N you're gonna take every perfect fucking inch of me."

Oh. Okay. Maybe he is full of himself.

Well, he's full of himself and now you're full of him, too.

Satoru isn't shy about pumping a thick, gooey cumload inside you. He isn't shy about frothing up his creampie during round two, either. And he isn't shy about flipping you into missionary and pushing your trembling legs back and sliding his cock in again.

"Can ya do one more for me, baby?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Aw, but you look exhausted..." he grins. "I wouldn't wanna break my favorite babysitter on accident."

"I'm okay, I swear! I can take it!" you start babbling.

Sweat is dripping off your bodies and soaking the bed. The room smells like sex. His muscles are pressing into you. He's diving into you like a swimmer and grunting and making a dent in the wall 'cause that headboard is banging into the wall just as hard as he's banging into you. Neither of you even notice the dent in the wall. You're just stuck together, connected in that one place, fucking like bunnies.

You palm at his abs, pressing flat against them and melting at the feeling of his mmmaturemusclestwitchingohgodbless, you're so gone after feeling his sweat gather on your hand and catching a glimpse of the bulge his cock makes inside you.

Satoru blanks when your small hand feels up his muscles. Now his thrusts got your lower tummy shuddering and you just wonder what he's thinking when his brows furrow together in such serious focus at your fertile pussy.

"Ohmygodohmygodyou'regonnafuckingbreakme!!" you squeal, fisting the pillow and nearly crying into it.

He giggles, slowing his thrusts to a pace your poor, abused pussy can handle better, "Sorry, doll, you jus' got me too excited when you touched me like that."

"Nn!!" you fist the sheets in your hand, realizing just how far he fucked you to the edge of the bed — the two of you were nearly falling off the bed until uh, oops, you were on the floor?

"Ahh-ahhh! Ah! AH! Wh-what kinda... wrestling move is this, Satoru! Fuck, go easy on me!! 'M gonna cum again!!"

He's too into it to bother getting the two of you back on the bed. Now he's just pinning you down on the plush carpeted floor, railing your tight cunt from behind like he owns it. He may as well, honestly.

"Oh yeah?" he grunts, "Cum again on my cock. Lemme see you work it out on my cock. C'mon, isn't this the cock you wanted so badly? Put on a show for me, baby."

"Ahh!!" you sluttily cry out, bouncing your hips up and down and working your pussy on just six of his nine inches.

"Fuuuck... look at that back arch... haha, you already runnin' outta stamina? Yeah, tell me about it. It's hard work fuckin' a big cock, isn't it? Okay, okay, spoiled princess..." he mutters, hearing your exhausted pleas, "Perk that ass up, lemme show you how it's done."

"But this position is so — AH!" you kick your legs as he slides deeper with each quick stroke.

His tip's prodding at a spot you don't even recognize; a sweet gummy spot that's like your off button. You can't keep your mouth shut and now you're getting so loud that he's gotta clamp a hand on your mouth again, pushing you into the carpeted floor and not stopping his hard-hitting thrusts for a looong few seconds, driving it deep.

He picks up his pace, balls slapping into your clit so loudly that he can't even complain about the loudness of your moans. That skin-slapping 'n squelching could wake up the neighborhood.

"Fuck," he grunts, "Ah, ah... stay right there, 'gonna make you a mama..."

You thrash your legs around, "Nn! Please!" you squeal, feeling his warm seed pour into you again without warning. Just that feeling makes you cum. Hard. Satoru's cock freaks out at the feeling of your pussy's milking contractions along his length, making his tender tip spurt out a little bit more cum against your cervix.

It's so bad. You really shouldn't love getting creampied by an older man this much, let alone your... uh, boss?

Worse. He shouldn't have such a big fucking smile on his sweaty face. He shouldn't be rolling his eyes back in satisfaction like that, like he finds it so funny that he actually did it.

"God, you sure loved milking me, huh?" he smiles wide, bangs soaked and sticking to his sweaty forehead.

"Nnn..." you nod, totally exhausted.

He watches you trying to catch your breath, gulping and gasping. He slides his softening cock out of your over-creampied pussy, earning a small whimper from you. Oh, you feel so empty now, it's crazy. Just how did he pack all of that cock inside you? He can't figure it out, either.

"You okay, sugarplum?" he asks sensitively, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Yahhh..." you weakly whimper back, wiggling your foot cutely, "Need t' cleanup... need help w-walking..."

All his creampies bubble out your pussy.

He stifles a laugh, feeling a bit guilty. Satoru presses a kiss to your back, peeling you off the floor and practically carrying you to the bathroom — floor and walls black tiles, every corner spelling 'rich boy' in bold letters.

Carefully and slowly, Satoru helps to clean you up, massaging your sore parts with his big hands, peppering your neck in the sweetest little kisses as if he didn't just rearrange your guts and ruin your pussy for other men.

"So... how's it feel, not being a virgin anymore?" he asks with a dirty big bad fuckboy smile.

You simply blush and smile shyly in response. It makes him laugh.

"Aw, are you all shy now, pookums? Shit, I think I fucked tha nasty outta you..."

You nuzzle him, looking about ready to sleep, and it just melts his heart.

"Mm, y'know... Suguru was right about you; you're a real sweetheart. I think I might just have 'ta keep you around for a long time."

ㅤ🍒 x 🐇 x 💗@𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖎

ㅤ𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

@screampied (I KNOW IT'S BEEN LIKE A YEAR SINCE I LAST MENTIONED THIS FIC SORRY LOL) 💗 @pickledballer 💗 @wakashudou 💗@miseryyouth-99 💗 @ilovelokism 💗 @yuji-baby 💗 @natsuw181 💗 @madamechrissy 💗@magical-girl-bunny 💗@arminswifee 💗 @msheds0519 💗@nariminsstuff 💗@strychnynegirl 💗@satorupi 💗 @lvstru 💗@buniibloom 💗@tojijibaby 💗@peach-olic 💗 @mandistromboli 💗 @bwunniibell 💗 @nezukochaaann 💗 @valentine4738 💗 @katthekat1234 💗 @aryanaaa 💗 @astxrismstar 💗 @delusionalandabnormal 💗 @shadykittyperfection 💗 @pettypinkprincessblog 💗 @chososgf04 💗 @eliengoddes 💗 @peachmangoe 💗 @dollyschii 💗 @palegardenrebel

[c-kiddo]

i wont lie i always just forget what i made previously so i forget i actually have made progress. like something has occurred

(2021/2022 vs 2025)

[gojoest]

by any means necessary — gojo satoru

satoru gets himself stung by a jellyfish on purpose as a last resort to make you piss on him

MDNI, f!reader, established relationship (you’re married), piss kink, satoru being a freak as always, male masturbation, not proofread, pls do not actually piss on a jellyfish sting that’s just a myth

you’re not sure how you fell for it, but the truth is — your husband played his cards far too well this time.

satoru has been acting a bit peculiarly lately, ever since he stumbled upon a rather unexpected story online — a fetish story about piss play.

it wasn’t something he was searching for intentionally; he was simply browsing random threads on reddit when he came across a confession from a husband describing a deeply personal and intimate experience involving his wife pissing on his cock during sex.

to say it didn’t do a number on him would be a lie. surely, he’s thought about this from time to time before, but this particular story unlocked something in him, a new fantasy. he started thinking about it more — having you piss on him or around him (or anywhere near him, to be honest), just the imagery of it made his cock twitch and leak. and surely, he was sneakily doing things to make it actually happen, be it even by finding different ways to test your boundaries and seeing how far he can go before you give in.

he began to pressure your bladder more during sex, on purpose — pushing his cock as deep as he can while pressing down on your lower abdomen. he was being a true menace, but unfortunately to him, you’d always make him stop or stubbornly hold it in — although you knew it was a matter of time before you make a mess all over him if he kept that up… it’s not exactly a child’s play to make a man of his size stop with your bare hands. your bladder has its limits too…

that’s not the only thing that’s changed though.

he’s always liked to follow you to the bathroom after sex and watch like a lovesick puppy while you pee, but lately he’s developed a new habit that’s turned into a ritual of sorts — he likes to crouch down beside you and rest his head on your knee while you do your thing. sometimes you catch him sniffing the scent of your stream, and you wonder if he’s hoping some of it would splash on his cheek (judging by the way he almost always tries to oh so subtly spread your legs).

“what do you think, baby”, he once told you, “would it be too crazy if i asked for a taste of your pee” — and you had to push his head away, because something in his tone and the crazed look in his eyes made it clear this wasn’t entirely a joke… you could definitely sense the intent behind it.

this fantasy was truly consuming satoru and truth be told, to him, it didn’t seem so out of reach… you’ve already shared everything, crossed so many lines and tasted each other’s bodily fluids. pre, slick, spit, cum, period blood — all of it and everything except that… and of course, satoru being satoru, he wasn’t going to stop there.

fortunately for him, your beach getaway had sparked the perfect idea to finally turn his desires into reality. the timing couldn’t have been better.

he once read that the best remedy for a jellyfish sting was to have someone pee on the affected area. maybe it was just a myth, but that little piece of information, whether right or wrong, was about to play a surprisingly crucial role in finally making you give in to him. because of course you’d run to your husband’s aid if he got stung by a jellyfish, right?

it was now or never.

you’re lounging on your deckchair and sipping on a drink when satoru leans over to press a soft kiss to your head before heading toward the sea for a quick swim to cool down.

but, three minutes in — he’s back. walking slowly, one hand held protectively over the inner of his thigh.

“shit—“ he mutters under his breath. “i think it stung me”

“what?” you sit up, a little concerned. what could possibly get to a man with a cursed technique like his?

“a jellyfish”

“a jellyfish? stung you?” — it’s hard to believe. even special grade curses have a hard time landing a blow on him, but some random jellyfish just happened to sting him so casually while he was barely out there for three minutes? odd. maybe he let his guard down — it’s vacation, after all, it is the normal thing to do. but then again, your husband is not a normal man, he’s gojo satoru and he only ever turns his CT off when he’s around you. only then. which makes this whole thing feel even more suspicious. very odd.

“yeah, and it hurts”, he hisses, voice pitched in discomfort. he’s clearly in pain — although you know satoru. part of you is aware he’s overreacting as he always does, your husband is dramatic over a stuffy nose if it means you’ll baby him for a few hours. but still, sometimes your own brain works against you, convincing you he really is fragile in some secret way, like maybe his skin that is untouched by the world thanks to his technique is just more sensitive to things like that.

little do you know, he’s acting.

the sting is real, of course — he didn’t fake that. but he did take a poor jellyfish and purposefully slap it against the inside of his thigh, conveniently close to somewhere far too delicate to be accidental; like his cock. and yes, it hurt a little, but on a normal day he wouldn’t even flinch.

“it really burns”, he whines again, voice breaking into a higher pitch.

“okay, big boy, let me check online and see what we can do, because i have no idea”

“i— ugh”, he clears his throat, schooling his face before he can crack a smile, because everything is going exactly to plan. “i actually know, i read it before — peeing on the sting can help”

you want to say that sounds absurd, but then it does ring a bell — you’re pretty sure you’ve heard it somewhere. “i’ll check though. sounds like one of those weird myths”

“no—” satoru yelps, cutting you off just a bit too quickly. “i read it in a magazine! national geographic!” he adds for credibility, lying without a blink and pairing it with his best expression of teary-eyed agony.

“okay, then pee on it”, you suggest flatly.

“i can’t do it myself”, he says instantly.

“…your cock is big enough — i’m sure you can aim”

“but i don’t feel like peeing”, he pouts, lower lip jutting. “can’t you do it for me?” he adds with puppy eyes.

“me!? you want me to pee on you!?”

“if you’re okay letting me suffer, then fine”, he sighs dramatically, lowering his gaze and even panting a little harder while prodding gingerly at the sting with two fingers.

he almost looks pitiful, and you know it’s that part of your brain working against you again — this situation stinks and you know it, but you fold anyway.

“…okay”, you finally mutter.

you both head to the nearest restroom — one of those awful portable ones that already feel like coffins for a single person, and now you’re crammed inside with your giant of a husband because you can’t exactly pee on him on the beach in front of everyone.

he slides his swimwear down and perches on the toilet lid, legs spread for you to aim at the sting. you remove your bottom too, trying not to think too hard about how ridiculous this all is.

“and now what? how do i even do this? where do i go? there’s literally no room for me” you complain.

satoru taps his lap and says “here” and then, without waiting, he guides you down until you’re straddling him, his big hands on your hips, gripping a little too hard (only natural, he’s been waiting for this moment way too long). “you’ll have to squat a little so you can aim”, he adds.

you cover your face with hands. “this is so embarrassing”

“…but i’m in pain”, he pouts again. “i’m suffering”, he keeps insisting — “you think i’d choose this?” — but his voice cracks just slightly at the end, although he covers it up with a sad sniff.

you huff, shifting your weight as you try to get into position while his hands are helpfully adjusting you, lingering a little too long on your thighs, and… not to mention how the tip of his cock bumps against your belly — he’s up.

“you’re way too hard for someone in agony”, you narrow your eyes and paw at his tip.

“i’m always hard around you”, he says. “this is considered the flaccid state of my penis ever since you came into my life. i have no control over it — you do. plus, your pussy is right in front of me, how do you expect me to stay calm?”

while it’s true — satoru is surely always horny around you — this was not the case right now; he was simply way too excited to finally have you piss on him and he could not believe his plan was actually working.

you snort, slapping his chest — “pervert” — you whisper before looking down, trying to position yourself properly and focus while blocking out the awkwardness of the situation. “stop staring, it makes me nervous”, you huff.

“you’ve peed countless of times in front of me. now’s not the time to shy away”

“in front of you, not on you”, you correct him. “this is… just weird”

after you make sure you’re positioned well enough, you close your eyes and count down internally — 3…2…1 — before you start to release it, your own urine falling in a stream on your husband, some of it running down between his thighs and even sprinkling on his cock in the process.

for all his convincing performance up to this point, satoru drops the act the second it starts.

“nghhhh” — you hear him, but it doesn’t exactly sound like a wince of pain, it sounds like a moan. a second later, a solid spray that comes in spurts hits you in the belly, which is when your eyes snap open and land on satoru — his mouth agape, eyes half-lidded, pupils slightly blown, he is pumping out his load with his fist as you piss on him. he was, in fact, sneakily stroking himself the entire time while your eyes were closed.

“…you—what the hell”, you gasp.

his gaze meets yours, quiet and breathy moans still seeping from his lips. “oh f-fuck”, he mutters, his body slightly jerking from the release. he wasn’t actually planning to get busted, he only wanted to sear this moment into his brain and jerk off to it later, but he clearly underestimated the experience and didn’t consider he’d cum this quick. it was worth it, though.

“you’re not in pain”, you squint at him. “you liked this”

he hesitates, but then grins. he’s absolutely guilty but also just as shameless. “more than i imagined, actually”, he laughs.

“imagined?” your mouth drops open. “don’t tell me you planned this… i knew something felt off the whole time, but i can’t believe you went this far”

“well” he shrugs, not even trying to deny it. “i’ve been wanting to try this for a while. but who knew it’d be so healing? i don’t feel the jellyfish sting anymore”

“you freak”

“kink haver”, he corrects you cheekily. “and for the record, i think we should do this more often. you have great aim”

you smack your hand against his chest, but you don’t move off his lap.

[5starluvr]

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who...

Link to the request

Headcanon I

Pairing: Older Boyfriend!Lee Know x Reader Genre: Soft domestic, gentle romance, lightly suggestive Warnings: Mild suggestive content, shy teasing, gentle intimacy, fluff

300 follower request

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who wakes you up quietly, brushing your hair back and whispering softly, “Did you sleep well? I wanted to see your smile first thing.”

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who insists on making breakfast for you both, carefully plating everything with a shy smile and stealing a kiss when you compliment him.

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who wears sweatpants and oversized hoodies at home, and you catch him nervously adjusting his sleeves when you stare because he’s secretly flattered.

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who comes up behind you while you’re practicing dance moves or stretching, wrapping his arms around your waist and murmuring, “You’re amazing… don’t forget that.”

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who gets a little bashful when you wear his clothes, but there’s a spark in his eyes when he mutters, “You look so good in that, it’s distracting.”

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who loves quiet nights in, sitting close on the couch with his arm around you, occasionally brushing his lips against your temple or neck with a gentle, teasing smile.

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who hums soft tunes while cooking or cleaning, and if you listen carefully, you’ll hear little, low whispers like, “Wish you were closer…”

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who leans in close in those calm moments, voice just above a whisper, teasing you lightly, “You’re making it really hard to stay composed, you know.”

Older boyfriend!Lee Know who loves watching you play with his cats—he’ll sit nearby, smiling softly as he sees you laughing when they climb on your lap, then teasing you with, “Careful, they might get jealous of how much attention you’re giving me too.”

[luludeluluramblings]

Oh my God, Oh my God. Who wrote this? - Part Thirteen

Neglected!Reader x Yandere!Batfam

You contemplate your morals and plot you plan. And, thus beings operation: Road Side Assistance.

Warnings: Yandere themes, GN!Reader, Pesudo-Incest (Reader does NOT see themselves as part of the family), Reader’s age is ambiguous, CRACK

Prologue - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve

Platonic Route

With Cass’s blessing, you knew what you had to do now.

You had to make their lives a horny hell.

First, you needed to confirm just which accounts were theirs. Now, you couldn’t just hack their systems or anything. They probably had firewalls or other shit that you couldn’t get past. Plus, you knew shit about hacking.

But, you could give them a little inspiration. See if art would imitate life.

Already, you were back in your room after talking to Cass. Scouring through the fanfiction site for another fic of Red Robin possibly fucking you in the Wayne tower office.

You couldn’t find anything though.

But, just as you were about to give up, that author that you had previously thought was Tim posted something as you refreshed the search page for the millionth time.

“Domestic AU? How the hell does that work?” Interesting concept. Still had the explicit tags. But, before you clicked on it. You checked the author’s page. Sorting by date rather than kudos.

Only for your eyebrows to raise.

Before, it was just piles and piles of mindless smut. You friend having sorted things by kudos only before.

But, now it seemed like there was more premise to his more recent works.

Clicking on the most recent one, you lightly slap your cheeks and prepare to power through.

Only to wind up a hot complex mess because, the fuck?!

Yes, it was hot. Yes, it was desperate. But, it was less desperate about sex and sounded like he was desperate for… you?

That Red Hood fic you had read took the cake for emotional longing, but this was like reading someone who was angry they couldn’t catch smoke with their hands yet still constantly trying.

It was definitely a domestic setting, not an office setting. But, there were details similar to earlier in the office. You steaming a shirt in an apartment. Red Robin apparently getting off patrol to see you. Him coming up behind you and peppering kissing against your neck. You’re back arching—

It was hot. Very hot.

But, the after effects. The detailed way he describes holding you and never wanting to stop touching your skin. The way he talks about wanting to hook his fingers into you and never let go. Him actually hooking his fingers inside you— Jesus, it definitely got you feeling some type of way.

You’d have to do some extra things to try to see if Tim posted again, but it was an odd feeling. One that made you turn in for the night early.

As you laid there, you thought about all the different things sparking in your gut. Wondering if there was something deeper in the way Tim, Jason and Dick possibly felt in regards to you.

For a moment you wondered if playing dirty or taking the teasing tormentor route was the appropriate thing to do. Did you really wanna play with them like that? Did you even truly know what you were getting into?

Ah, fuck it! Let’s put ‘em through hell!

Now, you have to play this strategic. You make sure to have Tim’s profile saved in a browser book mark. Following him on your official account would literally be giving yourself away that you’re on to him.

But, what you need to do next is confirm which accounts belong to Jason and Dick.

You seriously doubt the author of the Red Hood fic is Jason. Only because he wouldn’t really yearn that much, right? That was like reading a love letter. He wouldn’t publish something like that for the world to see. Even if part of you halfway melted into a puddle of emotions over it.

Then again there was a certain level of anonymity that was offered by posting under a pseudonym username.

And, there was the fic where Dick ends up bending you over his knee. That could not be Dick’s writing. Yes, the flintiness and charm was all there. But, Dick seemed to like people that could stand on their own.

At least, that’s what you gather from your observations of his dating history over the years. Barbara and that Kori woman were literally the poster women for boss bitches. Only using the word bitches felt mildly disrespectful.

Never mind, that though. You had a long day ahead. The sooner you figured out which fics Dick and Jason authored, the sooner you could torment them.

God, you were really about to try to sneak around a bunch of detectives. You technically had Cass as back up. But, she was mostly a neutral party. She had confirmed that no one knew that you knew their identities. And, Stephanie would technically be an ally. However you knew she was also a wild card.

You best bet was to keep acting like a dumbass and assume your every move was being watched.

First up for your plan, Jason.

Most of the fics involving you with Red Hood involved you being saved in some way. Actually. Almost all of the fic involving the boys did. You’re right to assume you’ve become a damsel in destress archetype for a lot of people.

But, there was something different about the one's involving Jason. And, it made you want to test your theory.

After running your errands of the day, and the sun beginning to set over Gotham. You were finally were ready to intact your plan.

Driving out of the city you made sure to have your blessed Porsche bought with your Bat dad's bat bucks hit the curb. Hard.

How silly of you. You silly little goose. Just rich bitch things.

Not enough to cause too much damage. You didn't want to have a tire blow out in Gotham.

As cute as the mugging met cute idea was, if no one showed up to save your ass you would be up shit creek without a paddle.

Okay, maybe you would try it sometime. There was an alleyway kiss that you wouldn't mind recreating, and the thought of Jason kicking someone's ass for your sake made you swoon just a little bit.

Who said that? Must have been the wind.

Anyway, that thought fades for a moment because you're true plan is about to unfold. Driving on the roads back to Wayne manor you make sure to hit that little pot hole. Full force.

Tire blown.

Time to call Brucie boy and see which vehicular inclined child he adopted will show up.

Taglist:

@ocean-mochi @cupid73 @vanessa-boo @ashtheweird @theall-seeingone @bbmgirll @nervousalpacalady @rovcarmen @rues-lovely-memoir @cgmajor @ruikeremi @themostdelusionalgirl @mazixxss @bellethesleepypotato @bad4amficideas @cruzerforce4256 @galaxypurplerose @wizzerreblogs @kkocho @d-aezy @frogwizard13 @badluckinfrench @farsketch @cruzerforce4256 @00hellohello00 @pigeonl0rd @hunter-hears-all @eyeless-kun @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain @awawage @minimari415 @hon3ydewcaram3l @caught-the-feels @calicocat-ina-tuxedo @darktrashpoetry @wisefuncherryblossom @shqyou @tvnile @eepywoman @dottoreos @unclearblur @neverano @misaki-kira8 @prorpy @hearts4mica @c4xcocoa @chiara-bell @oliviaewl @letsbedragonstogether @whoareyou3iamyu @cloudedthotz @h0neysiba @chessitune @thanablackwell @holderoflostmemories @allycat4458 @jjoppees @rtyuy1346 @yandereheros @ciatin @haruskrd @batgirliee @ilovecoffe0

A/N: Apologies if this seems dry. I was trying to get this out for y'all to thank everyone for the birthday wishes! I've gotten so many, thank y'all! I'm feeling so loved!

A/N: Y'all, please, feel free to send in ideas for Reader tormenting the boys. I have a few ideas, but I know y'all can be diabolical. I might be slowing down a bit this week. I have doc appointments and school starts next week. But, I'll try my darnedest!

[differenteagletragedy]

You meet Price, fall in love and marry pretty fast -- so fast that you don't end up meeting many of the people in his life until after the ring is already on your finger.

He introduces you to Kate when you stop by the base one afternoon, and she's lovely, and Kyle is a perfect gentleman when you meet him at an event. Johnny escorts you to your husband's office when you can't remember the way one evening, and he's a little intense, but fun.

And you feel a sense of relief that John has these people in his life. Strong, smart people, of course, but good people too. It feels good to know that these are the kinds of people he has looking out for him when he's gone from home.

Then you meet Simon. And it's ... different.

Because the man is, for lack of a better word, strange. He's bigger than even your bear of a husband, taller and broader both, and he just stares, unnervingly, with those big dark eyes. Not in a creepy way, he doesn't leer, nothing like that ... but it's the perceptiveness in his gaze that throws you off kilter.

And it's not like you can talk to him about it -- you try. Easy little jokes, bits of small talk whenever you're in his presence, but nothing takes. He's quiet and closed off.

He's a mystery. And you never could leave well enough alone.

"What's the deal with Simon?" you ask John every once in a while.

John adores you, thinks you hung the moon and to him, you outshine all the stars in the sky. But he's loyal to a fault, so he'll just chuckle when you ask, or make some soft little comment to change the subject.

"No stranger than the rest of us, just not as good at hiding it, love." "You think he's odd now, you should have met him 15 years ago." "'Least you haven't seen him with the mask, sweetheart."

But Simon does wear a mask, that much is obvious to you. It's not the skull one you've heard he wears in the field, but it's a mask all the same. Months go by with little interactions here and there, but you haven't seen so much as a smirk cross his scarred lips. There are signs of life, obviously, you can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes, but real life? Signs of actual living?

Not a one.

"Let me ask you something," John says one night in bed, a heavy arm draped around your waist. "Why do you care so much, sweetheart?"

"I don't," you answer defensively, and he laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back, before leaning in to kiss your shoulder.

You can feel the grin against your skin.

Your curiosity is one of the things that made John fall in love with you so fast. When he met you, you didn't write him off as an old broken soldier, instead taking your time to dig in deep and find all the good parts buried under the hard exterior. He'd never admit it to those friends of his you'd come to know -- only to you in soft whispers in the dark -- but you made him feel special. Like he was worth learning.

And now, seeing a similar spark of eagerness in learning about Simon, it's ... well, it's an interesting feeling. John took Simon under his wing years ago when they met as much younger men, and he's never quite let him go. He's always seen something special in him, and seeing you notice it too ...

He presses another kiss against your shoulder, and another, trailing them to the back of your neck. His hand finds your hip, pulling you back against him so you can feel his building arousal.

He doesn't quite know why, and you don't either, but things are just a little bit different that night. His calloused hands, usually so gentle with you, grip a little harder as he moves you, and when he slips inside your warmth, he doesn't take his time like he usually does.

There's an urgency there, but what it's born from, neither of you quite know.

It won't become clear until months from now, when Simon starts popping by more frequently -- for dinner sometimes, to help John with some project others.

That first time you see it, a small little upturn in the corners of Simon's mouth, paired with a little light in his eyes that warms up the darkness...

That's when you get an idea.

[count-on-mi]

Shark (Sana, Tzuyu)

The same outfit on Sana and Tzuyu showcased entirely different seductive charms. Their slender figures, proud busts, perky hips, and fair, delicate collarbones each took on a unique allure due to their distinct temperaments and appearances. Tzuyu’s pure face, paired with her sexy S-shaped figure, exuded a mature sensuality unique to a blossoming young woman with every gesture. Sana’s smile, accented by dimples on both cheeks, carried a flirtatious glint in her eyes, blending sweetness with an enchanting allure. For a moment, it was a true contest of spring orchids and autumn chrysanthemums, each shining in their own right, impossible to judge.

“Let’s go have a couple of drinks,” I said, rising and wrapping my arms around the waists of these two beauties, leading them to the mini bar at home. Though called a mini bar, its setup rivaled any outside establishment, stocked with a full array of liquors, complete with two private booths and a large sectional sofa that could seat thirty people.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked, opening the cabinet while the two sat at the bar counter.

“I’ll have that cocktail you made last time,” Sana said, gesturing with her fingers toward the rainbow cocktail from before.

“I’ll take brandy,” Tzuyu replied, a hint of shyness in her voice.

I deftly set to work preparing the drinks. “Coming right up.”

Soon, two glasses were placed on the counter, one for Tzuyu and one for Sana, who sipped them slowly. I poured myself a brandy and sat between them. Soft music played in the mini bar as the three of us formed a triangle around the round bar table’s sofa.

I found myself captivated, my gaze wandering over their bodies. Sana caught my stare, a knowing flicker in her eyes, and smiled playfully, asking, “Oppa, between me and Tzuyu, who looks better in this outfit?”

Tzuyu, hearing the topic, lifted her head, her bright eyes fixed on me, as if awaiting my verdict. I knew comparing them in the same outfit wouldn’t be easy, though it felt a bit trivial. Still, I devised a way to dodge the question for now.

“Both of you, stand up and walk a few steps in the dance floor in the middle. Let me see,” I said, pointing to the bar’s dance area.

Tzuyu and Sana exchanged a glance. As Twice members, each had their pride, unwilling to lose in this arena, their eyes sparking with competitive fire, ready for a showdown.

“Who goes first?” Sana turned to Tzuyu.

“Unnie, you go first,” Tzuyu replied humbly.

Sana stepped onto the dance floor first, moving to the rhythm of the soft music, her slender frame swaying as she walked with cat-like grace from one end to the other. Step by step, she embodied a coquettish beauty, pausing occasionally to strike provocative poses. Tzuyu, noticing my attention drawn to Sana’s elegant moves, frowned slightly, her nostrils flaring.

“Hmph,” Tzuyu huffed softly. I turned to see her step onto the dance floor. Sana stepped aside, watching quietly as Tzuyu mimicked her earlier moves, tossing her long black hair with her hand, letting it cascade in the air. Seeing Tzuyu begin to outshine her, Sana rejoined the dance floor, and the two moved back and forth in straight lines, striking sexy poses in unison, sometimes resting hands on each other’s shoulders for dual poses. Dressed in the same outfit, their synchronized movements gave off an almost twin-like vibe.

Watching Sana and Tzuyu’s special stage performance, my mind flashed to some of their ad photos. After a six-to-seven-minute show, they returned to their seats, their eyes once again on me, clearly awaiting my judgment!

I silently compared them. Tzuyu’s figure was slightly better than Sana’s, her hips more pert, but Sana’s deeper cleavage and fuller breasts drawing my gaze irresistibly. Coming from a business family, Sana knew how to play to her strengths, leaning forward naturally to reveal her deep cleavage, making my throat dry. Tzuyu, having been around me for some years, had learned to highlight her assets and downplay her weaknesses.

“Oppa, so who looks better in this?” Sana leaned in, grabbing my hand and pressing it firmly against her ample chest, holding it there while cooing, “Oppa, Oppa,” in an increasingly sultry tone. Seeing Sana’s bold move, Tzuyu refused to back down, climbing onto my lap, guiding my other hand around her slim waist, her firm buttocks grinding against my crotch.

“Oppa, who looks better?” Tzuyu asked, her bright eyes locking onto mine.

With one beauty in my arms and another offering her chest, the symphony of their voices felt like paradise.

“Both of you look stunning. Sana’s got that sweet, sexy vibe, while Tzuyu’s got a pure, sensual charm,” I finally managed after some thought.

“Tch,” they both pouted, realizing no further verdict would come from me, and called a truce.

I wrapped my right arm around Tzuyu’s hourglass waist, slowly exploring through her clothes, bending to kiss her alluring fair collarbone. “Tzuyu, you’re absolutely breathtaking!”

“Oppa!” Sana whined jealously from the side.

“Yes! Yes, yes! And our Sana too!” I withdrew my hand from her chest, pulling her into my other arm, seating her on my other leg, and showered kisses on her ears, behind them, her tender neck, and collarbone.

After a dozen or so kisses, I gazed at the two young women perched on my legs—equally stunning faces, seductive figures, and flawless, tender skin. The brief stage performance had left them slightly sweaty, their natural scents mingling with their perfumes, creating an intoxicating aroma.

In this small space on the sofa, the blend of their fragrances stirred a restless heat in my lower abdomen, igniting a forbidden desire.

After kissing Sana, I turned to kiss Tzuyu’s red lips and exposed chest, leaving her breathless. As Sana, dazed from my kisses, felt the attention shift, a flicker of jealousy sparked. She rose from my lap, climbed onto the round table ahead, and devised a plan.

Watching Sana guide my free hand into her mouth, gently sucking and licking, then trailing down her chest to slip under her skirt, I was shocked to find only a thong beneath. With her guidance, a slight tug allowed my fingers to slide into the delicate crease between her labia.

Sana tilted her head back, and as she directed, my fingers moved slowly within her, her sensitive vagina responding with lubricating fluids after dozens of strokes. Overwhelmed by pleasure, her moans grew incessant, deep and enticing, like praise and an aphrodisiac. My fingers slid in and out of her slick warmth, feeling the tight, hot walls, occasionally grazing her G-spot, causing her body to shudder, her juices dripping down my hand onto the table, forming a glistening puddle. I increased the pressure, using my middle and ring fingers to delve deeper, twisting to tease her sensitive spots, her moans escalating: “Ah… Oppa… so… good…”

Sana’s teasing ignited a fierce desire in me, my groin swelling painfully. Tzuyu, perched on my lap, felt my erection against her thigh and spurred by Sana’s lead, her competitive spirit flared. Skillfully, she unbuckled my belt, deftly freeing my engorged penis from my pants. Kneeling between my legs, she extended her pink tongue, delicately licking the tip as if savoring ice cream, then opened her mouth wide, engulfing the head, her tongue swirling around the ridge, occasionally sucking gently, sending waves of pleasure through me. Her head bobbed up and down, producing “slurp slurp” sounds, saliva dribbling from the corners of her mouth, trailing down my thigh in a shiny line.

“Oh… Tzuyu… so… good… deeper… yes… just like that… keep going,” I groaned, reveling in the warmth of her mouth while my fingers continued exploring Sana’s depths, the dual sensations nearly overwhelming me. Tzuyu’s oral skills, honed over years, were masterful—her tongue danced along the shaft, sometimes grazing with her teeth for a sharp thrill. Her throat enveloped me, a faint gag escaping, yet she pressed on, speeding up, her hands gently massaging my testicles, driving me wild. Her tongue circled the tip, coating my penis in saliva with “slurp” sounds. As I felt a spasm building, I growled, “Tzuyu… I’m going to…” and released into her mouth, thick semen flooding her throat. She swallowed eagerly, some spilling from her lips, dripping onto her chest, staining her dress, a sticky residue lingering in her cleavage.

“Tzuyu, stop!” I pulled my slick penis from her mouth, panting, “Let me finish with Sana first, then I’ll get to you.” Tzuyu obediently retreated to a single sofa, wiping the semen from her lips with a hint of pride, waiting patiently, her hands clutching her skirt, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Sana, witnessing this, ignited with rivalry, huffing softly, wiggling her hips to urge me on.

I turned to Sana, withdrawing my fingers from beneath her skirt, holding them up—coated in her thick, translucent juices, warm and fragrant. “Look how wet you are. Time to take care of you properly,” I said, pulling her off the table, flipping her to lean over it. I hiked her skirt to her waist, revealing a black band like a tempting hula hoop, her snowy, pert buttocks clad only in a purple thong, the thin strip barely containing her firm flesh, her deep gluteal cleft exuding allure. Slowly peeling it off, I exposed her drenched vagina, labia slightly parted, inner pink glistening with moisture, an silent invitation, juices trickling down.

Gripping my throbbing penis, I aligned it with her entrance, easing in slowly. Her soaked vagina welcomed me, the head enveloped by her warm, elastic walls, feeling like a hot mouth. One hand pressed her waist, fingers digging into her soft skin, the other clutching her buttock as I advanced, savoring every inch of her textured depths. Fully sheathed, I began thrusting, starting gently then accelerating, the “smack smack” of flesh echoing, her buttocks quivering with each impact. Sana’s moans shifted from low to piercing, her usual clear voice reduced to raw desire. With varied paces, she whimpered “Ah… mm…”; hitting her cervix, she shrieked, “Oppa… too deep… ah!”; at full depth, she roared, “Oh… harder…”

“Sana, how’s that?” I panted, sweat dripping from my forehead onto her smooth back, tracing her spine to her cleft, mingling with her fluids.

“O… Oppa, ahhh… faster… ah… uh… I… aahhh,” Sana’s response was fragmented, lost in ecstasy. Her body trembled with each thrust, her vagina overflowing, juices streaming down her thighs, soaking my pants with warm stickiness. I intensified, driving deeper each time, her body jerking, hands clawing the table, nails scarring the wood. “Sana, look how wet you are? You’ve soaked my pants.”

“Oppa, don’t say that about me!” Sana propped herself up, face flushed, tears in her eyes, hair a messy tangle. “Isn’t this your fault? Ahh… harder… uh… ahh… fuck your… Sana to death.” Her taunting fueled me, and I slammed into her buttocks, my penis plunging faster, “slurp slurp” sounds rising, juices frothing white, splattering us both. Her walls contracted, nearly immobilizing me, and I growled, “Oh… Sana… squeeze… your hips… legs… tighter… ohh… god… ah… so good.” Her legs clamped my waist, toes curling, hips lifting, her vaginal muscles pulsing around me.

“Ahhh… Oppa… oh… I… gonna… cum,” Sana’s voice quickened, legs shaking, hips spasming in peak pleasure.

“Ah… no… Sana… hold on,” I tried delaying her climax, but she couldn’t, peaking before me. Her body arched, vagina convulsing, a hot stream gushing out, soaking the floor in a wide puddle, the scent intense. She collapsed on the table, panting heavily, juices dribbling down her thighs, pooling beneath.

I turned to Tzuyu, pulling her into my arms, kissing her red lips. Her soft, warm lips tasted of brandy; I probed with my tongue, entwining with hers, sucking her tip, savoring her saliva, occasionally tugging her lower lip. My hands slid under her skirt, lifting it to reveal pink lace panties, outlining her perfect hips, the center damp with her scent. Fingertips brushing the edge, her body quivered. “Our little maknae has grown up, huh? I remember the frog sergeant days, and now you’re this tempting?” I teased.

“Oppa!” Tzuyu pouted, cheeks blushing, a shy glint in her eyes, lips parting with warm breath.

“Okay, no more teasing! Come, Tzuyu, on the table,” I lifted her onto the table beside the resting Sana. Hoisting her legs over my shoulders, I thrust into her tight vagina with force. She cried out, “Oppa, gently… it hurts… ah!” Tighter than Sana’s, her entrance resisted, walls virgin-like, but her juices soon eased me in, “squelch” sounds rising.

Having watched our earlier encounter, her vagina was wet but the sudden entry pained her, brows furrowing. Adjusting, I held her legs high, thrusting rapidly, pulling down her straps to free her round breasts, nipples pink and erect like cherries under the light. I massaged them, thumbing her nipples, her body jerking with a “Ah…” moan, nipples hardening further, areolas expanding. “Tzuyu, have they grown bigger?” I marveled, fingers sinking into her soft flesh, breasts deforming under my grip.

“Not because of Oppa… ah… rub… ahh… bigger?” she gasped, breasts bouncing with my rhythm, nipples reddening from friction.

“Yes! I made them grow! Let’s rub more to outdo Momo!” I laughed, kneading harder, breasts spilling between my fingers, nipples tugged, eliciting soft moans, warmth rising.

“Ah… I don’t… uh… want… ahh… that big!” Tzuyu protested coyly, but her moans betrayed her pleasure, her vagina clenching me tighter, walls teasing my shaft.

Sana joined, wrapping an arm around Tzuyu’s neck, kissing her lips and collarbone, tongue flicking her earlobe, her other hand caressing Tzuyu’s breast, pinching her nipple for a sharp thrill. “Tzuyu, your lips are so soft,” Sana rasped, kissing her, breath hot.

“Sana unnie, oh…” Tzuyu began, cut off by Sana’s kiss. Their passion deepened, tongues intertwining, saliva exchanging with “pop pop” sounds, dripping onto Tzuyu’s collarbone. Sana’s hand slid to Tzuyu’s crotch, rubbing her clit through her panties, intensifying Tzuyu’s tremors, her vagina gripping me tighter, juices flowing, soaking her underwear.

The battle moved to the sofa, Tzuyu kneeling, cupping her full breasts around my penis. Soft and elastic, her deep cleavage enveloped me warmly, flesh smooth. She pushed upward, tightening the grip, nipples brushing my tip, sending shivers. Slowly, rhythmically, she spat warm saliva into her cleavage, lubricating with “squelch” sounds, breasts jiggling, nipples hardening, areolas widening.

“Oppa… like it?” Tzuyu looked up, eyes teasing, voice sultry, hair framing her chest seductively. She sped up, squeezing harder, cleavage nearly swallowing me, tip glistening. Pausing, she licked the head, tongue circling the ridge, sucking the slit, then resumed, breasts syncing, nipples grazing my base, electric jolts surging. She parted them briefly, then clamped back, mimicking penetration, driving me wild, saliva and sweat mixing with “slurp slurp” sounds.

I grabbed her hair, pressing down; she complied, taking me in, mouth and breasts combining, doubling the ecstasy. Her tongue danced inside, breasts moving, fluids blending, nipples scraping me sharply.

“Ready for another round.” I withdrew from her cleavaget. “Sana, come lick me, get me ready.”

Sana knelt, gripping my base, tongue lapping the head, taking me in, cleaning residual semen with “slurp” sounds. Opening wide, she deep throated me, throat muscles contracting, “gargle gargle” rising, saliva dripping onto the sofa. After minutes, my penis was slick and rigid.

I pulled out, drew Tzuyu close, flipped her onto the sofa. Her head against the edge, legs over my shoulders, I re-entered her tight warmth. “Uh… Oppa… ahh… oh… so good… ahhh… harder…” she moaned, vagina clenching, walls teasing me.

“Tzuyu… you’re… incredible,” I praised, thrusting fiercely, hitting her cervix, her body arching, screaming, “Ahhh… Oppa… faster… ah… more…” Her head thrashed, hair wild, sweat dripping, breasts flattened against me.

“Uh” “Ah” we climaxed together, semen flooding her, juices mixing, soaking the sofa. Withdrawing, Sana seized my penis, licking while rubbing it against her nipple, indenting it red.

Lost in lust, Sana stroked me frantically, fingers deftly working my base, thumb pressing below the tip, waves of pleasure building.

“Oppa, I’m ready. Come?”

Erect again, Sana lay on another sofa, legs spread, one hand on her chest, the other rubbing her clit, beckoning. Her labia were wet and red, clit quivering, juices dripping.

“Come! Oppa, want more here?”

“Oh! Our Sana’s insatiable today?”

“Oppa! Hurry!” Sana parted her lips, revealing her pink depths, fluids seeping.

“Here I come!” I thrust my hips forward, driving my penis deep into Sana’s core. The fullness in her honey pot drew a long, drawn-out “uh” from her, her face glowing with satisfaction. Her moans rose and fell with my movements—sometimes soft and melodic, sometimes sharp and high-pitched, shifting between cries and roars, echoing through the room.

As I thrust, I reached to knead her breasts, my thumb rolling over her nipple. Her body trembled, honey spilling out continuously, streaming down her thighs and soaking the sofa. Her breasts deformed under my hands, nipples hardening from the stimulation, areolas expanding with an enticing red flush. I shifted her position, laying her on her side with one leg raised to shoulder height, entering from the side. The angle drove my penis deeper, hitting her cervix, and she cried out louder: “Ah… Oppa… too deep… ah…” Her voice carried a sob, her long hair clinging messily to her face, sweat trickling down her forehead. I gripped her buttock with one hand, nails digging deep into her soft flesh, leaving red marks, while the other hand pinched her nipple, tugging hard to blend sharp pain with intense pleasure. In my fierce thrusts, her inner walls contracted, numbing my penis, honey churning into white foam that splashed onto my abdomen and her buttocks, the “smack smack” of our impact resounding, our union so slick it nearly slipped out of control.

Sana soon climaxed again, her honey gushing like a spring and soaking the sofa. Her body arched sharply, her legs trembling as her inner walls convulsed, clenching my penis tightly. Her breaths came in ragged, husky gasps, laced with an enticing allure. She collapsed, her buttocks still quivering faintly, honey trickling slowly down her inner thighs, dripping onto the sofa to form a small, sticky puddle. I turned to Tzuyu, who had already crawled up from another long sofa. She braced herself with both hands, her hips slightly raised, and moved toward the bar, glancing back with a seductive look in her eyes. Her gaze was provocative, her long hair swaying gently with each step, the hem of her skirt lifting to reveal her pale thighs. She climbed onto the bar, propping herself with one hand while leaning to the side, fully exposing her exquisite form. Her breasts hung slightly due to the pose, nipples erect, and with her other hand, she beckoned me, her voice soft and alluring: “Oppa, come here?”

I approached and pressed her into a ninety-degree bend, her long legs lifted high, toes nearly touching the bar’s edge. I grabbed her breasts with both hands, kneading them firmly, my fingertips sinking into the soft flesh as her breasts spilled out between my fingers. Her nipples hardened further under the stimulation, glowing with a pink hue. My penis slid back into her warm, wet honey pot, her inner walls gripping me tightly, emitting “slurp” sounds as honey flowed from our union, dripping onto the bar and releasing a strong, intoxicating scent. Tzuyu moaned, “Ah… Oppa… so deep… harder…” Her voice trembled, her buttocks quivering with each of my thrusts. I picked up the pace, slamming against her hips, the crisp “smack smack” of our contact ringing out, her flesh turning a rosy red. Her body shook, honey streaming down her thighs, dripping onto the bar in a string of glistening droplets. I leaned down to bite her collarbone, leaving faint red marks, and her cries grew louder: “Ah… Oppa… I’m going to…” Her head thrashed side to side, hair disheveled, sweat sliding down her neck.

I flipped her over, laying her on her back with her legs resting on my shoulders, driving my penis even deeper to hit her most sensitive spot. She clutched the bar’s edge, nails digging into the wood and leaving shallow scratches. Her head whipped back and forth, her orgasmic cries filling the room with a lewd atmosphere: “Ah… Oppa… too deep… ah…” Her breasts swayed with the motion, nipples standing erect against the air, areolas expanding with excitement. Feeling myself nearing my limit, I thrust harder, my hips crashing against her buttocks with “smack smack” sounds, and ejaculated inside her. Thick semen mixed with her honey, flowing out from our union, drenching the bar and leaving a sticky stain. As she climaxed, her body convulsed, legs instinctively tightening around my waist, honey spraying onto my thighs.

After a brief rest, I pulled Sana over. She had regained some energy, her cheeks still flushed, and knelt willingly to give me oral. Her tongue danced skillfully over my penis, circling the ridge and sucking the remaining semen, producing “slurp” sounds as saliva dripped from the corners of her mouth, falling to the floor. Once I hardened again, I pushed her onto the bar, lifting one leg to its limit, her knee nearly touching her chest, and entered from the side. Her honey pot, hypersensitive after her climax, made her moan, “Oppa… slow… ah…” her voice breaking, but I didn’t stop, thrusting hard as my penis moved in and out of her slick walls, creating “slurp slurp” noises. Her hands gripped my arms, nails digging into my flesh and leaving red marks, honey flowing from our union, soaking her buttocks and inner thighs, dripping onto the bar.

Tzuyu joined in, kissing my lips, her tongue probing into my mouth to tangle with mine, her hands rubbing my chest, fingertips grazing my nipples with a tingling sensation. I thrust into Sana with one hand while fondling Tzuyu’s breasts with the other, kneading them as my thumb rolled over her nipple, eliciting soft moans from her. The three of us entwined, and Sana climaxed again, her honey pot contracting violently, numbing my penis as honey sprayed onto my hand. Her hoarse voice cried out, “Ah… Oppa… I… I’m going to…” I shifted to Tzuyu, pressing her down to ride me. She moved up and down eagerly, her honey pot enveloping me tightly, her inner folds rubbing against my penis. I spanked her, the handprint reddening her pale skin, and she moaned, “Ah… Oppa… so good…” Her breasts bounced before me, nipples erect, sweat trailing down her chest.

I had Sana lie on Tzuyu’s back, stacking the three of us together. I thrust into Sana from behind, hitting her deepest point, while reaching down to rub Tzuyu’s clitoris, my fingertips pressing her sensitive spot. Both women climaxed simultaneously, their moans filling the room as honey soaked my hand and the carpet. Unable to hold back, I ejaculated deep inside Sana, my semen shooting into her depths. She let out a loud cry and collapsed, exhausted, onto the sofa.

Sana and Tzuyu leaned in, each licking my ears and neck—Sana’s tongue gliding over my earlobe with a tingling sensation, Tzuyu’s lips gently nibbling my neck, leaving wet traces. I pulled them to the carpet, where Tzuyu lay prone, her hips raised high. I entered her from behind, thrusting deep, and she screamed, “Ah… Oppa… too deep…” Her voice quivered, her buttocks trembling under my impact. Sana knelt before her, letting Tzuyu lick her, her tongue deftly working Sana’s labia, sliding along the crevice with “slurp” sounds, honey dripping from her chin to the floor. As I thrust into Tzuyu, watching this scene aroused me further, her buttocks reddening with each hit. Sana’s moans drove me wild: “Ah… Tzuyu… so good…” I switched to Sana, sliding into her slick honey pot, and she shouted, “Oppa… fuck me to death…” Her walls gripped me tightly, honey foaming and splashing everywhere.

Every corner of the room bore our marks—the sofa, bar, and carpet reeked of honey and semen, the air thick with the scent of sex. Sana’s swollen honey pot, lips slightly turned out, begged for more as she braced herself on the carpet, hips raised, honey seeping from the crevice and dripping to the floor. Tzuyu’s breasts, reddened from my kneading, nipples erect, she knelt to clean my penis, her tongue licking every inch, sucking residual semen with “slurp” sounds. I ejaculated into them repeatedly, and they climaxed again and again, honey soaking the carpet, mingled with semen, leaving a sticky, dizzying stain.

Finally, I had Sana and Tzuyu kneel together, hands braced, buttocks open to me, their clits wet and red, exuding an enticing scent, lips slightly parted, honey seeping out. I stood behind them, alternating thrusts into their warm, wet interiors, “smack smack” sounds ringing out, honey foaming and splashing onto their buttocks and my thighs. They kissed, tongues entwining, saliva dripping from their mouths onto her collarbone with “pop pop” sounds. The sight drove me nearly mad—Sana’s honey pot tightened, her folds rubbing my penis, Tzuyu’s moans grew louder, her husky voice seductive, her walls seeming to suck me in. I finally ejaculated into Sana again, semen shooting deep inside, and she cried out, collapsing as honey flowed down her thighs, dripping to the floor. Tzuyu followed with her climax, honey spraying my thigh, her body trembling, breaths ragged. The three of us collapsed on the carpet, sweat and fluids mingling. The room filled with a heavy scent until, exhausted, we embraced and fell asleep at dawn.

[cressidagrey]

Dancing through Life

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Felicity and Ballet.

Warnings and Notes: Mention of an eating disorder. Also mention of very questionable parenting.

(Also, just because I don't update a series for 14 days, while posting something else doesn't mean that I suddenly hate Oscar or that I will never continue this. Sometimes I just don't have inspiration, and don't want to force any.)

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Felicity started ballet at three.

Not because she asked, but because it was expected.

A proper girl, her mother said, needed discipline. Poise. Grace. And ballet provided all three—wrapped in satin ribbons and pale tights, structured in barres and bruised toes.

Felicity still remembered the first time she stepped into the mirrored studio, how big it felt. How full of light. How magical.

She loved it instantly.

Not for the structure. Not for the discipline.

But for the way it felt to move.

She loved how her body could stretch like ribbon, how her feet could make music just by brushing the floor. She loved the silence between notes, the stories hidden in every movement. She loved how ballet let her feel things she didn’t have words for yet. 

But nobody noticed.

What they noticed was that she was good.

Too good.

That she never forgot the choreography. That her posture was flawless. That her pliés were textbook and her balance never wavered. That she was quiet, obedient, clean.

They praised her for her control, not her joy.

And so it began: her love for ballet turned into currency.

Every compliment came with conditions. Every correction chipped away at the softness inside her. Her teachers demanded more—straighter knees, flatter stomach, quieter landings. Her mother demanded thinner thighs, better marks, longer hours.

Perfection, always. Performance, always.

And still, Felicity danced.

Even when it hurt. Even when it stopped feeling safe. Even when her body started to disappear beneath her.

Her love for ballet didn’t fade—it got buried. Drowned beneath the weight of expectation. Of calorie counting. Of tight leotards and measuring tapes. Her eating disorder found a natural home in the mirror-lined studio. It lived in her reflection. It whispered through the barre exercises.

And when she turned thirteen, a teacher told her: “You’re technically perfect. But you don’t love it.”

She didn’t argue.

What would be the point?

She just smiled. Nodded. Curtsied at the end of class like always.

But Felicity did love it.

She always had.

It had just been taken from her—made into something brittle and sharp. 

By the time she was fourteen, she danced on autopilot. Still brilliant. Still respected. Still called “technically flawless.”

But the spark was gone, and everyone said the same thing:

“She doesn’t love it. She’s just good at it.”

That used to make her want to scream.

Because she did love it.

She just didn’t love what it had been turned into.

And then she met Oscar.

At fourteen, he didn’t know anything about turnout or fifth position. He didn’t care about pointe shoes or perfect pirouettes. But when she mentioned ballet in passing, he asked her what she liked about it—and actually listened.

She told him the truth.

That she loved the silence. The symmetry. The way movement could speak without language.

She expected him to laugh.

He didn’t.

Eventually, he even went to a class and tried it, because he wanted to understand why she loved it. 

And she grew to love it more and more, during these 4 years at Haileybury. 

When they moved in together in 2019, after graduation, after they got married in that City Hall in London, after her family cut her off and she sold of Hermes handbags to make ends meet, to pay for rent and tuition at Imperial College..she didn’t ask for much. She never had. But Oscar noticed the way she hovered outside the campus bulletin boards, staring at the flyers for open adult classes.

She never brought it up.

But somehow, every week, the money was there.

Fourteen pounds a week.

Always covered.

She’d protest. He’d wave her off. “You don’t need to explain,” he’d say. “I know what it means to you.”

And so she danced.

 Every Thursday evening, she went to the slightly dusty, oddly perfumed studio two bus stops away. The floors creaked, and the pianist never played anything recognizable, but it didn’t matter. It was hers.

Even when she was pregnant with Bee, she kept going. Modified the movements. Leaned into the balance work. 

She danced through midterms and essays. Through one cold London winter and another. Through a pregnancy that made her body feel strange and not quite hers—and still, she danced.

Then came a global pandemic and she took online courses and danced through her third trimester in the hallway of their rented flat. 

Then Bee was born, right in the mist of 2020, right in the midst of lockdowns and virus surges. And for a few months all she could think off was suriving the next few days. 

Finally, she had healed enough to take it up again, and Bee was alive and healthy and only the scar on her chest reminded them of what she had gone through in the first few weeks of her life. 

By 2021 Felicity brought her along in a sling some weeks. The studio  owner didn’t mind. “We’re hippies with alignment,” one teacher joked. “As long as your kid doesn’t cry during pliés, we’re good.”

She danced through the exhaustion. Through the nights Bee wouldn’t sleep. Through Oscar’s long haul of races. It was the one hour a week where she wasn’t mum or wife or student—just Felicity, in a faded leotard and slippers, moving to music that didn’t ask anything of her but honesty.

When they moved to Enstone, she found a place there. Tiny, unassuming…sometimes she even taught a class for toddlers there, between raising Bee and writing her dissertation. 

Even now, in the farmhouse in Woking, she had her own space, shared with Oscar’s home gym in one of the old outbuildings. 

Oscar asked what she wanted to do with the space. She hesitated. Then said, “Mirrors.”

He didn’t question it.

She laid down the marley flooring herself. Hung the barre. Relearned her body in silence.

The muscle memory was still there. So was the love.

This time, there was no audience. No teacher’s eye. No critique waiting at the end of every movement.

She didn’t chase perfection now—only presence. She danced in thick socks and soft cardigans. She twirled barefoot across the floor with Bee in her arms. She danced when the world felt too loud. When her brain wouldn’t settle. When love was too big to say out loud.

The mirror didn’t criticize anymore.

It bore witness.

Felicity still remembered the girl who used to count calories in arabesques and measure her worth in centimeters of waistline.

But that girl didn’t live here anymore.

Here, she danced because she could.

Because the body that once betrayed her had brought her a daughter.

Because control no longer ruled her—only choice.

And this, finally, was her choice.

Just her. Her breath. The music. The feeling.

***

Now, Bee danced too.

But not like her mother did. There were no expectations. No tape measures. Just a little girl with big feelings and shoes that flashed when she twirled. Felicity bought her leotards in every color Bee liked, let her pick the music, clapped at the end of every made-up routine.

Because Felicity knew what it was like to love something and have it taken from her.

And she would be damned if she ever let that happened to Bee.

So she danced with her daughter.

Sometimes clumsily. Sometimes with the grace of the girl she used to be.

She bought Bee tights that didn’t itch. 

Her dance shoes were soft leather, the kind that conformed like second skin. Felicity had taken her to get fitted, crouching beside her as Bee’s little foot was measured, watching her beam with pride when the box was handed to her with a soft drawstring bag and a sticker shaped like a crown.

Felicity tied her daughter’s hair back in a neat bun, her fingers gentle. No pulling. No pins that dug in. Bee liked pink clips shaped like butterflies. So that’s what she wore.

Bee was smiling. Bee was free.

And Felicity—Felicity was healing.

She didn’t bark counts like her old teachers had. She didn’t demand silence or stillness or control. Instead, she said things like, “Let’s try it again, but this time, pretend you’re a sunflower waking up,” or “How do you think a breeze would move across a stage?”

She let Bee choreograph her own steps. Let her fall out of turns and into laughter. Let her skip when the music called for stillness and leap when it called for grace.

She taught alignment, yes. Taught form, gently. But never at the expense of joy.

And when Bee looked up at her—cheeks flushed, arms lifted, heart wide open—Felicity felt something unspool inside her.

This was what it could have been.

Not drills. Not critique. Not standing in front of a mirror and trying to disappear into the shape someone else had designed for her.

But movement as magic. Dance as language. Body as wonder, not battlefield.

Sometimes, Bee danced in the kitchen while Felicity stirred dinner. Or in the garden, barefoot and wild. She leapt like a little deer, made up positions with her arms in the wrong place, laughed when she fell.

And Felicity let her.

Because the goal was never perfection. It was joy.

***

Sometimes, when the house was quiet—Bee finally asleep, her plush frog tucked beneath one arm, the baby monitor glowing soft on the counter—Felicity and Oscar would dance in the kitchen.

Not choreographed. Not graceful. Not anything that would’ve earned applause.

But real.

It usually started by accident. A song on the radio. A half-finished glass of wine. Oscar humming under his breath as he rinsed dishes, and Felicity swaying near the sink, her socked feet sliding lightly against the tiles.

Sometimes he’d catch her hand without a word. Just lift it, gently, and twirl her under his arm like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like they were still seventeen and invincible. Like nothing had ever hurt.

She’d laugh, always—quiet and surprised, like it was a secret just for them.

Oscar didn’t know the steps, not really. He wasn’t a dancer. He had learned because of her, for her, but it would never come as naturally to him as it did to her. But he loved her, and somehow that made him weightless.

He let her lead most nights. Let her place one hand on his chest, and guide the other to her waist. He let her show him how to sway and how to hold and how to follow the tempo written in the spaces between the beat.

They danced in pajamas, in mismatched socks, to whatever Spotify had decided their mood was. They danced in the low hum of the fridge and the clatter of the dishes and the leftover smell of dinner on the stove.

It wasn’t perfect.

That was the point.

Felicity would murmur corrections half-laughing—“That’s not a waltz, Oz, that’s just you rocking side to side,”—and Oscar would pretend to be offended, spin her off, pull her back in.

There were nights she’d rest her head against his shoulder, and they wouldn’t talk at all. Just breathe. Sway. Drift in the comfort of being held, in the silence that didn’t ask anything of her.

And there were nights where he’d say something like, “Did I ever tell you I think you’re magic when you dance?” and she’d roll her eyes, but blush anyway.

They danced through bills and burnout and the ache of growing older.

They danced through grief—the quiet kind, the heavy kind. The memory of NICU monitors and hospital lights. The phantom pain of years where her body had been her enemy. They danced through that too.

When he dipped her, she laughed so hard it echoed through the beams overhead. When he stepped on her toe, she pretended to faint dramatically.

Sometimes they danced with Bee between them, all clumsy limbs and squeals, held tight in their arms. Sometimes Felicity danced alone while Oscar watched, propped against the counter with a tea towel slung over one shoulder, the look in his eyes the kind that made her feel golden.

But mostly—mostly—they danced because they could.

Because the world was sharp outside, and life didn’t always wait for joy.

So they made space for it. Here, in the kitchen, beneath dim lights and moon shadow, they chose it. Again and again.

And Felicity, finally, was dancing for herself.

[gukcnt]

03 | BOUND BY VOWS ⭒ JJK

your world crumbles when you're forced into a marriage with jeon jungkook, a man whose commanding presence terrifies you, reminding you of your father's cruelty. Yet beneath his coldness, jungkook’s unexpected kindness stirs a spark of hope, making you question everything you fear. Your life together starts—an emotional journey of two hearts seeking comfort, healing and a chance at love.

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — arranged marriage au, forced marriage, marriage of convenience, age gap, reader is of age, forbidden love, forced proximity, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, rich ceo!jungkook, shy!reader, virgin!reader, poor!reader, obsession and possessive love, pining, slow burn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, lots of angst, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, protective!jungkook, possessive!jungkook, trauma and panic attack, several crying scenes, isolation, domestic drama, tension, hurt and comfort, jungkook's dog bam makes an appearance (their bonding is so cute ugh), healing, trust issues, mentions of past abuse, power imbalance, mild sexual feelings and desires, manipulation, guilt and self-hatred, quiet acts of kindness from jungkook, miscommunication, argument

wc — 12.3k

a/n — hope y'all enjoy this chapter! let me know your thoughts <3

series m. list | main m. list

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The heavy air pressed against your skin as you stirred awake on the hardwood floor, faint light seeped through the curtains, casting a glow across the room.

Your body ached with a throbbing pain on your shoulders and waist from curling into a tight ball on the cold floor through the night.

In a cramped position.

Your muscles protested as you shifted. your eyes swollen from the tears you'd shed until you fell asleep and your body felt heavy from the residue of your grief.

Your throat dry and raw from the sobs.

You lay still for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling in silence.

The events of the previous night flooded back—your confrontation with jungkook, the words you'd told him, each one laced with years of pent up fear and anger.

You'd called him a monster, accused him of buying you and said he was like your father.

The memory of your own voice, sharp and rude for the first time, sent a shiver through you. You'd never raised your voice to a man before.

Never dared to.

Growing up you'd learned to stay small, to stay quiet in order to avoid your fathers anger.

But with jungkook something had snapped and the words had come out, controlled by the terror of being trapped in a marriage you didn’t choose.

He hadn’t yelled back and hadn’t raised a hand like your father would have.

Instead he stood there, dark eyes unreadable, his cigarette burning between his fingers.

The image of him in the white shirt, faint scent of smoke clinging to him, lingered in your mind.

Unsettling you.

He hadn’t hit you and hadn’t even raised his voice but the fear of what he might do now gnawed at you.

What if he'd been holding back last night? his patience was just him pretending?

What if today he'd show the cruelty you'd always expected from men like him?

Your father has taught you to brace for the worst and jungkook with his intimidating presence seemed like the kind of man who could destroy you with a single word.

You pushed yourself up slowly, wincing as your muscles protested.

You stood, legs shaky and caught sight of yourself in the mirror—skin pale, eyes red rimmed and hair tangled in knots.

You looked fragile and on the verge of breaking.

The sight of you welled tears in your eyes again because it reminded you of your mother.

But you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. You had to be strong, you had to survive this for her.

After all, she was the only reason you were here, the only reason you hadn’t run.

The room felt too big, too empty and you felt out of place in jungkook's world.

This wasn’t your home—it was a prison that you paid for with your freedom.

What would jungkook do now? would he punish you?

Would he demand obedience like your father always had?

All your overthinking felt suffocating and you sank back onto the floor, your knees pulled to your chest, trying to ground yourself against your thoughts.

You remembered the way jungkook had looked at you, his eyes dark but not angry, his hands still.

It confused you.

Your father would have lashed out but jungkook had just stood there, letting you scream, letting you hate him.

Your stomach knotted with guilt.

You didn’t wanna feel guilt—you didn’t owe him anything.

He'd married you without your consent and had taken you from your life.

Yet the way he’d stayed calm and the way he hadn’t touched you caused you to doubt.

You pushed the thought away, refusing to acknowledge it.

Men like him didn’t change, they waited, they manipulated and then they struck.

You'd seen it your whole life.

You need to move, to do something but the thought of leaving the safety of this room or facing jeon jungkook made your heart race.

You stayed there frozen, mind hazy until the ache in your body forced you to stand again.

You couldn’t stay on the floor forever.

You had to face the day, face him and face the life you'd been forced into.

You had to step forward.

You slowly walked to the attached bathroom and it was really different than the one you were used to at home.

The glossy tiles and the modern things made it look like it belonged in a luxury hotel.

The space large and you felt small and out of place in here.

You shuffled inside closing the door, the thin dress you'd worn since the wedding clinging to your skin stiffly with sweat and tears.

You stood in front of the sink, turning on the faucet and splashed your face with water, the coldness making you gasp.

You did it again and again as if you could wash away the pain and the memory of last night.

To pull you back from the state of dizziness.

You stripped off your dress after that, letting it fall to the floor and kicked it aside, not wanting to look at it.

Your body felt exposed and vulnerable as you stood in your panties only.

You avoided the mirror now, not wanting to see the curves that had always made you self conscious.

You’d never felt comfortable in your body, not when it drew attention you didn’t want.

You stepped in the glass shower and turned the knob as warm water poured over you like rainfall.

You didn’t have access to this in your home, the water was always cold, so this felt foreign.

You stood under it, letting it cascade over your body, the warmth seeping into your sore body.

The water was a momentary comfort as you tilted your head back, letting it soak your hair.

The shampoo and conditioner on the shelf were expensive, you could recognize that just by looking at the bottles.

You poured a small amount of shampoo into your palm and worked it through your hair, the foam forming the scent sweet as you rinsed it slowly.

You used the conditioner next, its creamy texture smoothing your hair, making it feel softer than it had in years.

You stood under the water for a long time, longer than necessary, letting the shower drown out all your thoughts.

jungkook was powerful—his wealth, his presence—but he hadn’t hurt you.

Not yet.

He was playing a game, you told yourself.

He was waiting and when he would finally react, it would be worse than anything your father had done.

You turned off the shower.

Stepping out, you wrapped yourself in a plush towel you found and you clutched it tightly to your chest.

You wiped the fog from the mirror with your hand, revealing your flushed face. Even though you looked better, the haunted look in your eyes was still there.

Along with the fear.

You didn’t wanna go out but you had to.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

You needed to check on your mother, needed to know she was okay.

Your mothers life depended on you and you didn’t know what the day would bring but you couldn’t stay here hiding like a scared child.

You stood in the center of the room drying your hair with trembling hands and that’s when the sharp knock on the door jolted you.

Your fingers tightened around the towel around yourself as you stared at the door, frozen.

Another knock, firmer this time and your pulse quickened.

It had to be Jungkook.

He'd come to demand an apology to punish you for your behavior from last night.

Badly.

The thought of his wrath made your knees weak but the knocking persisted, not aggressive but insistent.

You couldn’t hide forever.

If you ignored him, it might make things worse and might provoke the anger you were certain was simmering beneath his coldness.

Swallowing hard, you forced your feet to move.

Your hand shook as it hovered over the doorknob as you took a deep breath, bracing yourself for facing him.

With a final surge of courage, you turned the knob and pulled the door open.

Your body tense, ready to flinch.

To your shock, it wasn’t jungkook.

A woman stood in the hallway, she was in her fifties from what you thought by looking at her appearance. Her dark hair with silver strands was pulled in a bun and her face was softened by wrinkles.

She wore a simple black uniform but her smile was genuine.

She looked at you with concern but there was a kindness in her gaze that made your chest thud with something you couldn’t name—relief that it wasn’t jungkook.

“Good morning, mrs. jeon.” she said

Her voice held a maternal warmth that unsettled you.

The title—mrs. jeon—hits you with disgust reminding you of the marriage you'd been forced into once again.

A name you'd never accept as your own.

Her smile didn’t falter though as you didn’t speak.

“You can call me mrs. kim.” she continued

“I’m the housekeeper here. I cook, clean and keep things running for mr. jeon. He asked me to bring you these.”

She extended her arms, offering a stack of neatly folded clothes.

You stared at them, throat tightening.

It was a collection of clothes that you usually wore but the only difference was that the fabrics looked impossibly luxurious.

The kind you'd only ever seen in shop windows.

And just by looking at the top item, you could tell that it was worth more than a months rent at your father's apartment.

Your distrust of jungkook's intentions kept you rooted in place.

“I don’t need these.” you said bitterly.

Barely masking the tremor beneath it.

You were sure that this was another way for jungkook to assert his dominance over you to make you feel indebted to him.

Your father had done the same, giving you small things only to use them on you later on to guilt trip you or taunt you.

You wouldn’t fall for it again.

mrs. kim's eyes softened.

“They’re just clothes, dear.” she says gently.

Not pushing you.

“You need something fresh to wear, don’t you?”

She didn’t mention how jungkook had picked these out himself, thinking you’d like them and that they’d suit you.

The idea of jungkook choosing these clothes—knowing your size, your preferences—sent a chill down your spine.

It felt invasive.

He'd reached out and learned about your personal life without permission.

How did he know anyways?

Had he been watching you?

Studying you?

Your fingers tightened around the towel, knuckles white.

mrs. kim noticed your hesitance but she didn’t argue further, she simply held out the clothes, her expression patient.

“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.” she smiles.

“But you can’t stay in that towel all day, can you? just take them for now. You can decide later.”

Your eyes darted between her and the clothes.

You had nothing else to wear—the dress you wore last night was crumpled and sweaty.

You had to give up your pride, your refusal to accept anything from jungkook.

Reluctantly you reached out and took the stack, heart racing.

“Thank you.” you muttered.

Your eyes fixed on the floor, you couldn’t let her see the shame and fear in your eyes.

Accepting the clothes felt like accepting jungkook's control and you hated it, hated him along with yourself for being so powerless.

mrs. kim nodded with a grin.

“Breakfast is ready downstairs when you’re ready. Take your time, dear. No need to rush.”

She turned to leave and you closed the door behind her, the lock snapping shut.

You stood there for a moment clutching the clothes to your chest. These clothes were his doing, another reminder that you were in his house and bound to him in ways you couldn’t escape.

You set the clothes on the bed and picked a sweater, it was beautiful, perfect even and exactly what you'd have chosen for yourself.

And that made it worse.

The thought of wearing his gifts and his money touching your skin made you feel like a doll dressed up for his liking.

But you had no choice.

With a heavy sigh, you picked up the sweater, a skirt and dressed slowly, the clothing fitting you perfectly like it had been tailored just for you.

You resented how good they felt, how they made you feel cared for when you knew it was a lie.

jungkook wasn’t kind.

He couldn’t be.

Men like him—powerful and in control—never was.

You pushed your damp hair behind your ears as you looked at the door.

You didn’t wanna go downstairs, you didn’t want to face the possibility of seeing jungkook.

But you needed to call the hospital and that need outweighed your fear.

At least for now.

You opened the door and walked down the staircase, heart pounding as you looked at your feet because you thought if you looked up, you'd see jungkook.

The air was filled with the scent of food and your stomach growled since you were hungry but you pushed it down, refusing to give in to jungkook's offerings again.

You didn’t want his food, his clothes or his pity.

You didn’t want anything from him.

You reached the dining table and looked at the table which was set with a feast that made your breath catch—an array of dishes.

Every possible breakfast item one could think of, along with bowls of fresh fruits and homemade pastries and croissants.

It was overwhelming and in excess.

You’ve probably never seen so much food at once in your life where you could barely have a meal in a day.

mrs. kim appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.

“mr. jeon wasn’t sure what you liked.” she chuckled.

“So he asked me to make a bit of everything. Please sit down.”

You stood frozen, your eyes scanning the table, stomach twisting with hunger.

And disgust.

At his ability to control every aspect of your life

You laughed mockingly, the sound startling her.

“What is this, a bribe? does he think he can buy me with his fake kindness?”

You whispered under your breath but mrs. kim heard you anyway.

Her smile faltered.

“It’s just breakfast, dear.” she says soothingly.

“You need to eat. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

You refused to admit her words, you'd gone hungry before and survived without eating for a whole day.

This feast was nothing but a show, a way for jungkook to flaunt his wealth.

“I’m not hungry.” you lied.

Though your stomach betrayed you with another grumble.

“I just need a phone. Can you please give me that? I need to make a call.”

A desperation in your voice

Her eyes softened with sympathy but she reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a brand new smartphone.

“mr. jeon left this for you before he went to his office.”

You stared at the phone, heart sinking. It was a much updated top model phone than the old one you used before with a cracked screen.

You wanted to throw it across the room and scream that you didn’t want this.

But you needed to call the hospital, you needed to hear that your mother was still alive, still fighting so you grabbed the phone, taking it.

You exhaled shakily with unshed tears, you felt dirty for giving up but your mother was important and you couldn’t risk her.

“Fine.” you sign.

“But I’m not eating.”

mrs. kim frowned as she studied you.

“You need to eat, mrs. jeon.”

Her voice almost pleading.

“mr. jeon won’t be happy if you don’t. He was very clear about it.”

The mention of jungkook's displeasure frightened you but you were too angry and hurt to care.

“Tell him to fuck off.” you snapped.

The words burst out before you could stop them.

Her eyes widened, mouth parting in shock because no one spoke about jungkook like that—not in this house, not in his world.

The curse was a word you never dared to utter before but your tongue was loosened from all the emotions you felt.

Since last night.

“I don’t care what he wants.” you added.

“I’m not his puppet.”

You turned to leave but her words stopped you.

“I’ll let you be.” she said quietly.

“But the foods there when you change your mind.”

You went back to the guest room, the phone clutched in your hand.

You slammed the door shut and leaned against the door, chest heaving. You dialed the hospital's number that was already saved.

You realized that all your saved contacts were here.

But you didn’t pay much attention to it as you waited for the line to connect, wanting to hear that your mother was okay.

The nurse picked up, confirming your mother was stable but still in a coma, all her expenses covered.

You furrowed your brows, assuming it was your father using the money from your marriage and the thought made you sick.

But you were grateful.

You hung up relieved and tossed the phone on the bed before sitting down on the edge of the bed, your knees tucked against your chest.

You sat there for a long time, the room quiet except for the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen downstairs, where mrs. kim was likely preparing another meal you had no intention of eating.

Your mind too heavy with the thoughts of your mother, your father and the man who now was your husband.

The silence was shattered by a soft bark outside the door, your breath catched.

The bark came again, followed by the scratch of paws against the door.

Your first instinct was fear—because this place is very unknown—but your animal loving heart won against everything.

You stood and approached the door.

If you ever saw a little one, you had to follow and you still remembered the puppy from outside the diner that day whom you fed.

And your heart felt so happy, the last moment of happiness before it got snatched from you and you needed that closure again.

Their pure souls too good for this tainted world.

You opened the door slightly and peered out.

A large, dark brown doberman stood there, his eyes sharp and his ears perked as he tilted his head to look at you.

He was an intimidating tall dog, nothing like the little puppies you were used to, he was the kind of dog that could tear through anyone without hesitation.

Your breath hitched and you stepped back but then he moved, stepping forward with a soft whine.

His nose sniffing the air as if trying to understand you.

He didn't growl or bare his teeth, instead he lowered his head slightly.

“Hey buddy.” you coo.

You knelt slowly, keeping your movements slow not wanting to startle him.

You looked at his collar and you read the name etched into it.

“bam”

jungkook's dog.

Of course the dog belonged to him, another innocent soul for him to control.

But bam's eyes were soft, almost pleading and when he stepped closer, his nose brushing against your hand, you felt a small warmth.

His tongue darting out, licking your fingers and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“bam, huh?” you murmur.

You reached out hesitatingly then gently scratched behind his ears and he leaned closer to your touch, his eyes half closing in contentment.

The weight of the day—the tears, the anger—seemed to lift just for a moment as you sat there with him.

“You’re not so scary, are you?”

bam responded with a happy huff, his tail wagging enthusiastically now.

You sat cross legged on the floor, letting bam settle beside you. He was big, his head leveling with your shoulder when he sat up.

But there was a gentleness in him that surprised you.

You'd expect a dog like this to be cold and scary like his owner but bam was different.

He nudged your hand whenever you stopped petting him, his wet nose making you laugh, the sound making you gasp.

It had been so long since you'd laughed since you'd felt anything other than agony.

“You’re a good boy.” you hummed.

“I bet you don’t even know how cruel your owner is.”

bam tilted his head as if listening and you found yourself talking to him.

“My mom’s sick, you know.” you whimper.

Your fingers tracing patterns on his collar

“She’s the only one I have. My dad… he's awful. He sold me to jungkook like I’m some kind of thing.”

“And now I’m here stuck and I don’t know what to do.”

Your voice cracked, eyes glistening with tears but you didn’t stop.

bam listened, his eyes fixed on you and it felt like he understood, like he was the only one in this house who did.

You told him about your dreams of escaping this and building a life where you could be free. You told him about the fear you felt every time you thought of jungkook.

The way his presence made your heart thud with something you couldn’t name.

Hours passed like this.

bam stayed beside you, head resting on your lap and he showed that you weren’t entirely alone after all.

You let out a sigh as he closed his eyes under your pets.

“You’re lucky.” you whisper.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid all the time.”

The door creaked open and you tensed, hand stilling on bam's head.

It was mrs. kim.

“mrs. jeon? you really should eat something. mr. jeon doesn’t like it when his instructions are ignored.”

You bristled, jaw tightening.

You didn’t care about any of his bullshit.

“I’m used to going hungry. I’ve done it before and I have no problem doing it again.”

You looked down at bam, who was watching you and you scoffed.

“I’m not eating his food.”

You told bam as if he could understand.

“I don’t want anything from him.”

But your stomach growled louder this time and bam nudged your hand as if urging you to reconsider.

You shook your head stubbornly.

“I’ll be fine.”

You said more to yourself.

But as you sat there, you felt hope.

Maybe, just maybe.

You could survive this place if only because of this unexpected friend who'd found you in your darkest moment.

You suddenly heard the sound of the front door slamming, pulling you out of your thoughts as your heart jumped, pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears.

It was him.

jungkook was home.

The realization caused you dread as you curled onto the dog.

You hadn’t seen him since last night, since you’d screamed at him and you couldn’t help but think of the worst possible things he could do now.

The sound of heavy footsteps grew louder as you clutched your sweater, your breath uneven.

bam stirred, lifting his head as he sensed the approaching presence.

You wanted to lock the door again but you knew it was pointless.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door and you braced yourself, mind racing with images of your father's rage that followed with pain.

You expected jungkook to do the same.

The door opened without a knock as his towering figure filled the space, his tailored black suit accentuating his muscular body.

You squirmed under his gaze as his jaw tightened and his expression—anger, yes but something else too, something you couldn’t read.

“Why haven’t you eaten?” he asked lowly

There was a sharp edge to it.

You gulped, voice trapped with fear.

“I wasn’t hungry.” you mutter.

But it carried a stubbornness.

You kept your eyes on bam, avoiding his gaze, your hands stroking the dog's fur to ground yourself.

You didn’t want to look at him and didn’t wanna see the anger you were sure was there.

His eyes narrowed, frustration crossing his face.

He stepped into the room, his presence filling the space, making you feel smaller.

You tensed but then his gaze shifted, landing on bam who was still curled in your lap, his head resting against your thigh.

jungkook's expression changed to surprise, softening the hard lines of his face as a brow lifted slightly.

Bam doesn’t like anyone but him.

And yet…

jungkook studied you with an intensity that caused you goosebumps.

He took another step closer and you flinched as his hands clenched into fists at your reaction.

“You need to eat.” he says.

Voice calm now but still carrying the commanding tone.

“Go downstairs. Now.”

The words sparked something inside you. You'd spend your life swallowing your anger but with jungkook it was different.

He wasn’t your father.

But he was the man who'd married you against your will.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I’d rather starve.” you snapped.

Tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Stop pretending you care! you don’t get to act like you’re some savior when you’re the reason I’m here trapped in this marriage!”

Your voice cracked on the last word, chest heaving with sobs. The dog whined softly, sensing your distress and pressed close, his nose nudging your arm.

You were shaking and you expected jungkook to yell to prove you right about him.

To teach you a lesson for disrespecting him.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, eyes fixed on you with something even he couldn’t explain, anger in them for the tears you shed.

He disliked your distress.

He didn’t want that.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” he rasps.

You didn’t believe him.

Couldn’t.

“Stop lying.” you hissed.

“Y—you’re just like him. You'll hurt me, control me and make my life hell. I know men like you—”

“Enough.”

His one word cut off your words, cold but not cruel.

“You will eat, y/n. If I have to force you, I will.”

The finality of his words shook you and you felt your stubbornness crumble under his authority.

You were scared, body trembling as you stood, bam sliding off your lap and going to jungkook.

You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and followed him downstairs.

You didn’t want to obey.

Didn’t wanna give him the satisfaction.

But you were exhausted with hunger and you didn’t want to piss him off more, even though you didn’t understand why he cared if you ate or starved.

What does he get by doing this?

You looked at the dining table now set with a fresh spread of new food—lunch of course, but a variety of them just like breakfast.

Way too many options.

jungkook gestured to the table, eyes still fixed on you.

“Eat what you like.” he whispers.

There was a warmth beneath his words.

You sat, hands shaking as you picked up a spoon.

jungkook moved to the other side of the room, leaning against the wall as he lit a cigarette.

The smell of tobacco filled the room as he watched you, his eyes never leaving your small frame.

You felt exposed and embarrassed under his gaze but you had no choice so you took a small bite of rice.

It was delicious.

You had to admit that, it was not the stale food you were used to but each bite showed exactly how little control you had in your life.

You felt like a doll that he could command.

bam padded over and settled at your feet, his warm body pressing against your legs. You glanced down, a small smile tugging at your lips as you reached down to pet him.

jungkook's eyes softened at the sight, pride and possessiveness crossing his face as he watched bam's loyalty shift to you.

He's never done that with anyone else, not even the staff because the doberman was a grumpy dog and he scared off several people.

But his behavior towards you shifted in such a short time.

It shocked him.

You ate slowly, your stomach too knotted to handle much but jungkook didn’t move, didn’t speak and just watched.

Making sure you ate enough.

In his mind he was thinking of everything that happened—your father’s lies, the forced marriage.

The pain you’ve carried for years.

He wanted to find your father to make him pay for what he'd done.

The thought of that man threatening your mother's life and selling you like you were nothing made jungkook's blood boil.

He imagined wrapping his hands around your father's throat, watching the life drain from his eyes but he pushed the thought down, smoking faster now.

He couldn’t do that.

Not yet.

Your mother was sick and any move against your father would hurt you more and that was the last thing he wanted.

He hadn’t slept last night, pacing his room, the image of your tear streaked face burned into his mind.

He'd been angry—at your father, at himself.

At the world that had let you suffer

He'd been lied to, told you'd agreed to the marriage and the guilt pressed on him.

He'd wanted you since that day outside the restaurant when he'd seen you feed that puppy, your sad eyes awakening something inside him he didn't understand.

He'd thought you wanted this.

Wanted him.

But now he knew the truth and it changed everything.

He couldn’t confront your father yet, couldn’t risk pushing you further away.

But when the time came, he'd make sure that man suffered for every tear you'd shed.

Watching you now, he felt the urge to shield you from the world that had hurt you.

You were so fragile yet so fierce, at least you showed him emotions, even if it was anger.

It infuriated him.

He wanted to tell you he wasn’t like your father, that he’d never hurt you but he knew you wouldn’t believe him.

Not now.

So he stood there, eyes tracing the curve of your face and the way your hands trailed as you ate.

He'd make sure you were taken care of whether you liked it or not.

“You need to eat more.” he said suddenly.

“You look frail.”

You froze, your spoon halfway to your mouth, eyes flicking up to meet his for the first time.

There was no anger in his gaze, only concern and it made your heart stutter.

“I’m fine.” you protested.

“I know how to take care of myself.”

“Do you?” he questions.

“You’ve been starving yourself for years. I’m not blind, y/n.”

Your cheeks flush with anger.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.” he grumbles.

A glare in his face.

“I know that you’re not going to let yourself waste away in my house. Eat.”

You hated how he made you feel—small and powerless but also strangely cared for.

You took another bite and jungkook watched satisfaction present.

He wanted to say more, to tell you he'd paid for your mother's treatments that he'd make sure she was taken care of.

But he didn’t.

He knew you wouldn’t believe him and knew your trust had been shattered long before he’d even entered your life.

So he stayed silent, looking at you and the way you fought to hold onto your strength despite everything.

He'd wait for you to see him, to understand that he wasn't your father and that he'd protect you.

Even if you hated him.

You finished eating, stomach full but heart heavy.

You stood avoiding his gaze and moved to leave, bam trailing behind you.

“Wait.”

His voice stopped you in your tracks.

He stepped closer, his tall shadow falling over you, making you shiver at the proximity.

He pulled a black card from his pocket and held it out.

“Use this if you need anything. Clothes, food whatever you want.”

You stared at the card, your hands balling into fists.

“I don’t want your money.”

His eyes hardened but his voice remained firm.

“Take it, y/n. You’re my wife.”

The word “wife” made your lips part in surprise.

You wanted to refuse to throw the card in his face but his stern gaze pinned you in place, his authority undeniable.

“You’re not gonna live like you’re still in that hellhole with your father.”

His words make your breath shake as you reluctantly take the card, your fingers brushing against his calloused ones, sending a jolt through you.

You didn’t say anything else as you turned away and hurried back to the guest room, even if you accepted his card, you would never use it.

No matter what.

jungkook watched you go, his fists balling as his cigarette burned in his hand.

Your ignorance cut him deeper than he'd expected.

But he wouldn’t stop even if you fought him every step of the way.

But for now he'd give you space, let you hate him and let you heal.

He'd wait.

Because you were worth it even if you didn’t know it yet

۶ৎ

A few days passed and you'd mostly stay in the room, it was your own haven from everything that's been going on outside.

A barrier from the reality of your new life.

You kept the door closed and locked even though every corner of the house carried traces of him that made your chest tighten even when he was nowhere to be seen.

You confined yourself to the guest room as much as possible, only going out when necessary.

The phone jungkook had given sat on the dresser and you would use it sometimes to hear the nurses updates about your mother.

You'd call almost every day and hear the same thing again—that she was still in a coma—and you'd hang up and curl onto yourself on the bed.

You'd try to distract yourself because everything you're going through makes you exhausted.

mrs. kim, the housekeeper became your only companion in the house, her presence kind and motherly.

And you’ve started liking her.

She'd knock softly on your door and leave trays of carefully prepared food outside and the portions were generous, you could sense her care in every dish.

At first you resisted eating, refusing to accept it but then you realized that jungkook will make another appearance like that day and force you to eat.

So you stopped resisting, not wanting to see him again.

You'd sit on the bed eating slowly and you hated how the food nourished you.

The comfort it brought to your starving body.

But you ate because you had to, at least for your mother.

You'd always thank mrs. kim politely.

“Thank you, mrs. kim.”

She'd nod and smile warmly.

“You’re welcome, mrs. jeon.” she'd reply.

The title felt weird and you didn’t want her calling you that but you never corrected her even though the urge was there.

You weren’t mrs. jeon—never.

You were y/n, your own self.

You didn’t belong to anyone.

You appreciated how mrs. kim never pried, never commented on the fact that you and jungkook slept in separate rooms despite being married.

Barely spoke or lived like strangers under the same roof.

You found yourself warming up to her despite still being distant because you couldn’t fully trust anyone.

After being betrayed several times in life.

Your interactions with jungkook were almost nonexistent, the last time you did was when he made you eat that day.

You avoided him, staying in the guest room or slipping out to the garden when you knew he was at the office.

The garden was a comfortable place and you'd sit on a stone bench, bam at your side pressed against your leg as you petted him absentmindedly.

bam had become your best friend during this time, you and jungkook were the only ones he'd warmed up to.

You'd always talk to him and he'd always listen, his tail wagging and you'd feel good that not everything in this house was cold or threatening.

You would even feed him sometimes with the huge collection of dog food that was exclusively for him.

That softened your heart even just a bit because of how far jungkook goes for his bam.

How he cares for his dog.

jungkook for his part, maintained a careful distance.

He was gone most days as he buried himself in work and his absence felt like a relief to you.

Allowed you to move through the house without the constant thought that you'd run into him.

When he was home, you'd hear him and his steps but he'd mostly be in his study, his deep voice a low murmur on a phone call and the clink of a glass as he poured whiskey.

But he never sought you out, never knocked on your door or demanded anything from you.

It was as if he understood..

And he chose to give you space.

You didn’t trust it or anything because you thought he was hiding his true intentions like your father, waiting for the right moment.

Yet jungkook's actions were nothing like that but you refused to acknowledge that.

The wardrobe in your bedroom was filled with fresh clothes always in your size and style and you'd wear them reluctantly.

The fridge always stocked with your favorite snacks—some of them you mentioned your liking to mrs. kim in a rare moment.

You didn’t know jungkook was behind it and didn’t know he’d overheard the conversations or paid attention to your habits.

He ensured you had everything you needed even a small stack of books that appeared on the shelf.

Because you loved reading.

All delivered by mrs. kim.

jungkook's silent attempt to make you feel at home.

۶ৎ

One evening you went to the kitchen a bit hungry and the sight stopped you as you saw the food on the table and you thought mrs. kim left it since she usually was the one who cooks.

But the food felt too personal and different… like it was made by someone else.

You ate, not knowing jungkook had cooked it himself, his hands moving with a care he'd never shown anyone directly.

He never cooked for anyone but he did for you.

He'd left before you came down, not wanting to pressure you and he knew that you wouldn’t touch the food if you knew he was the one who cooked it.

Your routine fell into a rhythm.

You'd spend your days reading, playing with bam or staring out the window in your room, dreaming of the life outside.

You stopped resisting the gifts from jungkook because you couldn’t afford to fight everything by yourself and you just needed to wait till your mother got well.

But you never let yourself forget that this is a cage and you didn’t want this.

Soon being in the house all day became suffocating, and you missed your job at the bookstore.

It was more than a job—it was your escape, your dream and you loved working there.

You needed it.

Needed the normalcy and the independence of earning, even if it’s a small income but you could still contribute it to your mother’s bills.

You couldn’t rely on your father, couldn’t trust him to keep his promises, not after he’d sold you to jungkook without a second thought.

The thought of your father and how he didn’t even check on you even once after marriage hurt you more than you expected.

A small part of you hoped he'd care.

That he’d call to see if you were okay, but he hadn’t—maybe he never cared at all.

You were just a burden.

۶ৎ

The next morning you went down willingly, knowing jungkook would be there and found him in the kitchen.

He stood by the counter wearing a navy blue suit, his hair pulled into his usual man bun, a few strands loose.

His brows furrowed in a glare as he focused on his phone, likely checking updates of his work.

You hesitated in the doorway, your heart racing, hands twisting together.

You'd avoided him for days and now facing him, being the first one to approach him made your chest cave.

“uhm…” you started.

Your voice trembles as you forced yourself to step forward and you felt his gaze on you immediately but you didn’t make direct eye contact.

“I wanna go back to my job at the bookstore. I can't leave it. It’s… it’s important to me.”

You looked at him briefly, his eyes meeting yours, unreadable.

For a moment he said nothing and you braced yourself for rejection.

Expecting him to demand you stay, to control you like your father had controlled your mother

Your father had never allowed her freedom.

And you feared jungkook would do the same.

But his expression softened a bit as he set his phone down.

“You can go.” he states.

The dominating tone still there.

“But you’ll take my car and driver. For safety”

You blinked, stunned, the air leaving your lungs.

“You’re… okay with it?” you asked

It was too easy, too kind because your father would’ve laughed and told you a woman’s place was in the home serving her husband.

“I won’t stop you from doing what you love.”

“But you’ll be safe. No considerations on that.”

He left no room for argument.

You nodded slowly, reluctant but relieved.

His agreement threw you off, contradicting the image you'd built of him as a cold, controlling man.

“Okay.”

You paused before saying

“Thank you.”

You never thanked him for anything before but you couldn’t hold back this time and you hated yourself for it.

He nodded once, eyes holding yours, then turned back to his phone without another word.

You walked back to the guest room confused.

He was being kind but you didn’t know if it was genuine and you couldn’t let your guard down.

You couldn’t let yourself be fooled by his generosity.

At the bookstore later that day, the familiar scent of paper and dust made you feel better.

Your coworkers, a small group of women who'd become your friends, noticed the ring on your finger and asked about your marriage, giggling among themselves.

“It’s… fine.” you lied.

Your smile forced.

You didn’t want their pity and didn’t want to admit that you were trapped in a marriage you hadn’t chosen.

You worked quietly shelving books and helping customers but your heart wasn’t in it.

The joy you’d once found in the bookstore felt distant because of the pressure of what you’ve been going through.

jungkook on the other hand never questioned where you went, though he knew every detail.

His driver, a stoic man, reported about all your movements to him—trips to the library and to the hospital to sit by your mother's bedside, your small frame hunched as you held her hand.

Whispering to her even though she couldn’t respond.

jungkook didn’t ask for specifics and didn’t want to intrude but he needed to know you were safe and okay.

He'd instruct his driver to stay close, to ensure no harm came to you and the driver obeyed without question since he's very loyal to jungkook.

jungkook’s protectiveness was a vow one he’d made on your wedding and he meant it.

After seeing your swollen eyes and trembling lips, he couldn’t help it.

And how now he's also one reason for your tears.

He didn’t understand why you stirred something in him, why your pain cut deeper than his own.

But he just knew… he couldn’t let you go.

Your hatred was a constant ache in his chest.

He knew you saw him as a monster like your father and it gnawed at him.

He'd spent his life building walls around his heart against a world that had abandoned him as a child.

Left him to fend for himself in foster homes that offered no warmth.

But you’d slipped through those walls like a much needed light. He didn’t deserve a girl whose selflessness had awakened something in him that was long dead.

You’d changed something in him—something soft, dangerous—and he didn’t know what to do.

But he just knew he couldn’t see you broken.

He didn’t know if it was love, he didn’t believe in such things or ever experienced it.

But it was something.

That bound him to you.

In a way he couldn’t explain.

You had started noticing the differences between jungkook and your father, how he abused your mother and controlled every aspect of her life.

jungkook, for all his coldness, hadn’t done that.

He'd given you space and freedom, even agreeing to let you return to your bookstore job without hesitation.

But you refused to soften.

Because he'd trapped you and no amount of kindness could erase that.

۶ৎ

The afternoon sun cast shadows across the floor of the polished kitchen.

You stood by the island, mrs. kim beside you stirring a pot at the stove.

You'd offered to help her cook not because you felt obligated but because the guest room has started feeling too much.

Its walls closing in with every hour you spend alone with your thoughts.

mrs. kim had welcomed your help with a warm smile and handed you a cutting board and a pile of vegetables so you set to work.

Slicing vegetables as it helped distract you from overthinking.

The kitchen felt warm not just because of the stove but also from her presence that made you feel less alone.

You'd really started appreciating her.

You found yourself opening up, if only slightly.

“It must be hard working for jungkook.”

You say almost casually but still with bitterness present.

“He’s so cold and rude. Doesn’t seem like he cares about anyone.”

She paused, her spoon stilling in the pot as she turned to look at you, her eyes had a depth of understanding that caught you off guard.

“mr. jeon isn’t like that.” she says.

Even though she didn’t sound overly defensive

“He can be stern, yes… but only when it's necessary. He's not a bad person, mrs. jeon.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you diced an onion sharper than necessary.

“He’s not as nice as you think he is.” you add.

“Men like him… they're all the same. They act kind until they get what they want, and then…” you trailed off.

Your throat tightening with memories of your father and how badly he would react when he was drunk or even in general.

mrs. kim wiped her hands on her apron and faced you fully.

“I’ve worked for mr. Jeon for years.”

“He’s not perfect but he’s not what you think. You know what he did once?”

You looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“He pays me well more than I ever expected. When my youngest child was sick and needed surgery we couldn’t afford, he covered it without a second thought. Didn’t even ask for anything in return. Just told me to take care of my family.”

You paused your knife hovering, her words made your stomach flutter along with a doubt about the assumptions you made about jungkook.

You didn’t want to believe her but the sincerity in her voice and the way her eyes softened when she spoke of him made it hard for you.

“That doesn’t mean he’s good.” you said quietly.

She didn’t reply right away, her gaze lingering on you.

“I don’t want to pry into your marriage.” she said carefully.

“That’s between you and him. But I've seen a lot in my years and I can tell you this...”

“mr. jeon lost more than most, his trust, his parents and his chance at a normal life. He's built so much wealth from the ground to protect himself but that doesn’t mean he's heartless. He’s worth a chance.”

“Not because he’s your husband but because he’s a man who’s trying even if he doesn’t always know how.”

You looked away, a shaky breath leaving you as you resumed chopping, wanting the tears that had welled in your eyes to go away.

You didn’t want to admit how much her words affected you.

Her words hit a nerve, especially the story about her son.

“I don’t see him that way.” you grit out.

“That’s up to you,” she says simply.

“But people aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes they surprise you.”

You didn’t respond, focusing instead on the task at hand.

The conversation, though, didn’t leave your mind.

You didn’t know that jungkook hadn’t known about your forced marriage but the idea that he might be more.

That he might have a heart beneath all this…

You shook your head, focusing on helping mrs. kim plate the food, trying to bury the doubt she'd planted.

۶ৎ

One morning you wandered into the kitchen barefoot and stopped at the sight of a coffee maker on the counter. It was a new model, along with a whole collection of your favorite coffee packets.

You stared at it, heart skipping a beat.

You hadn’t had coffee in days and it wasn’t present in his house anyways because you’ve heard from mrs. kim that jungkook disliked coffee.

So what is this doing here?

Coffee was one of the small joys in your life and you approached the machine cautiously, you didn’t wanna use it, not knowing the purpose of this.

Maybe jungkook bought it for a staff…? Or did he have a recent liking for coffee?

Obviously he wouldn’t know you loved coffee so much and go out of his way to buy one for you specifically… right?

You brewed a cup and sipped, closing your eyes and savoring it.

For a moment you were just y/n, not jungkook's wife but just a girl with a cup of coffee.

You didn’t know jungkook was watching from the hallway, he stood there, his suit already on for the day.

Your grin, the genuine one you let out, hit him right on the chest.

He'd chosen the coffee maker himself and had spent hours researching your tastes, wanting to give you something that would make you happy.

Even if you'd never know it was from him.

For you.

You laughed as bam approached and you fed him some of the chicken left boiled for him.

He was jungkook's dog but he was yours now too and the thought brought a strange loving feeling.

That you relished in.

Sometimes you'd curl up on the couch and lose yourself in a book.

jungkook watched you sometimes when you thought you were alone.

He'd stand in the doorway of the study, dark eyes tracing the way your face brightened, your lips curving slightly.

You were so beautiful to him…

Your innocence, everything, captivated him.

It made him possessive of you.

He'd turn away before you noticed.

Every day he asked mrs. kim the same questions as he stood in the kitchen.

“How is she doing today? did she eat well?”

mrs. kim would nod, giving honest answers that yes you would eat, but not a lot. You're quiet and well, you're managing.

He'd nod back with a nonchalant hum but inside he was noticing every detail, the way you looked healthier, your skin less pale.

The rich, healthy foods he ensured were always provided helped you and it gave him a quiet satisfaction.

Even if you'd never thank him.

He didn’t need your gratitude, he needed you to be whole.

Get everything that you never got in your life.

You noticed the changes in yourself too, though you hated to admit it, your clothes fit better and your body felt strong.

You'd always been weak from hunger and stress but now you looked less frail, your curves fuller.

You still refused to use the black card jungkook had given you, the one he'd pressed into your hand with a stern look.

You used your own money earned from your bookstore job for anything you needed, determined to maintain some semblance of independence.

You hated being too dependent on him.

The card sat untouched in a drawer.

Meanwhile, jungkook’s feelings for you grew with every passing day, an obsession he couldn’t shake.

A girl who hated him had become the center of his world.

He thought of you constantly—at his office, during meetings and even in the quiet of his own room, which was supposed to be yours as well after marrying him but it wasn’t.

Never would be.

He had too many questions about your life, about everything but you were already hurting and hating him and demanding too much will push you further away.

He didn’t know how to fix it.

So he did what he could—small gestures, quiet care, hoping one day you'd see him for who he was.

Not who you feared he'd be

You, on the other hand, hated how everything made you feel cared for when you were supposed to see jungkook as the enemy and you'd sit and eat in silence at the dining table.

Your eyes fixed on your plate, avoiding the empty chair where jungkook might sit if he were home.

jungkook was out most days and you didn’t understand why he stayed away.

Didn’t believe it was out of respect.

You'd spend time with bam, who you've accepted as your little baby.

“You get it, don’t you bamie?”

You pout as you scratch behind his ears.

“You’re stuck here too but you make it better.”

He'd nudge your hand then, jungkook would watch all those moments from his study window when you'd spend time in the garden with bam, playing with him.

Watching you laugh as bam chased a butterfly—that rare moment of joy you let out.

He wanted to reach out, to cross the distance between you two but your words from the wedding night still echoed in his mind—"you're just like him. I’ll never expect you”

So he did what he could.

jungkook's care extended always as time went by.

He'd instructed mrs. kim to ensure you had everything you needed—every snack, everything you craved but were too shy to ask for.

When you'd find a new warm blanket in the guest room, perfect for cuddling with bam, you'd thank mrs. kim, assuming it was her thoughtfulness.

She'd smile, her eyes knowing but never correct you.

jungkook’s orders were clear: give what you need to make you comfortable, but don’t push or intrude.

۶ৎ

Today you emerged from the bathroom, your body wrapped in a towel and it was a short one, barely meeting at your chest but you didn’t have any extra towel.

Your hair still wet from the shower, dripped water as you adjusted the towel, ensuring it stayed secure.

You went out of the room to grab a piece of your clothing that bam had probably playfully brought out with his teeth while playing.

You moved quickly, grabbing it, intending to slip back into the guest room before anyone could see you in such a state.

Your mind was preoccupied and you were so focused on reaching the safety of your room that you didn’t hear the sound of footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

jungkook walked with his phone in his hand as he typed a quick message to his assistant.

He was distracted, dark eyes fixed on the screen, unaware of you.

You collided into him, stumbling as your foot caught the edge of a rug.

The towel slipped slightly, exposing your cleavage as you gripped it tightly against your breasts while the other instinctively grabbed at his suit to steady yourself.

You gasped, your fingers curling onto his suit, heart lurching as you realized who you'd bumped into.

jungkook's hand shot out immediately, his large hand wrapping around your upper arms to keep you from falling.

The warmth of his touch was unsettling against your bare skin as you froze, catching your breath.

Your cheeks pinked with embarrassment as you stood there exposed and vulnerable, the towel your only shield.

jungkook's eyes widened briefly in surprise as he registered the situation.

His gaze locked onto your face, avoiding the way your body was almost bare.

The intensity of his stare made your stomach flutter, a mix of fear and a strange warmth unsettled you.

You were still holding onto him and could feel his strong, muscular figure.

His teeth clenched, a muscle ticking as he fought to maintain control.

He was acutely aware of your closeness, the way your breasts pressed against his chest.

The way your small frame seemed even more delicate, his grip on your arms was careful not to bruise but enough to keep you upright.

“Sorry.” you breathe.

You tugged the towel tighter around yourself, your eyes burning with shame as it exposed your cleavage anyways.

You felt exposed not just physically but emotionally as if this moment had taken away the walls you'd built to protect yourself.

You wanted to disappear, to retreat to the guest room and hide from his piercing gaze.

The idea of him seeing you like this made your heart race.

“It’s okay.”

A deep rumble leaves him.

He released your arms slowly, his hands hovering for a moment as if unsure whether to steady you further or step back entirely.

“You alright?”

You nodded quickly, still avoiding his eyes, your cheeks flushed deeply.

“I—I’m fine.”

Your voice trembled as you took a small step back, putting distance.

The towel felt flimsier than ever and you crossed one arm over your chest but that only made your breasts pop out more and jungkook cleared his throat before looking away.

He didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.

You smoothed your wet hair back nervously, he made it impossible to breathe and you can still feel his touch from when he steadied you.

jungkook's eyes remained fixed on your face. He didn’t let his gaze drop and didn’t allow himself to linger on your curves or the way the towel hugged your frame.

But the effort was hard, hands clenching at the sides as he fought the desire that coursed through him.

You were breathtaking even in this unguarded moment—your flushed cheeks, wide eyes, the way your damp hair clung to your skin.

It stirred something primal in him, a need he hadn’t felt in years but he pushed it down, his jaw clenching harder.

He wasn’t your father.

Wasn’t the kind of man who’d take advantage of your vulnerability

He was your husband.

He'd promised himself he'd protect you even from himself and he meant it.

“Be careful.” he said deeply.

He stepped to the side, giving you space to pass, his posture rigid.

His eyes followed you briefly—a flicker of guilt and maybe longing passing through them before he turned his gaze to the floor, giving you the privacy you so clearly needed.

You nodded again.

Exhaling, you hurried past him, your bare feet moving quickly towards the guest room.

The door clicked shut behind you and you leaned against it, heart pounding.

Your mind racing with his touch, his voice and his restraint.

It also sparked the memories of the wedding when he kissed you.

Barely a kiss, just a peck… but so respectful.

As if he knew you weren’t ready.

He hadn’t looked at you the way you’d feared, he hadn’t leered or made you feel like an object.

Since the wedding night, not once did he ever force you or touch you without consent.

Your thoughts were all over the place.

jungkook hadn’t.

He respected you and kept his eyes on your face. It didn’t fit the image of the cold, controlling man you’d convinced yourself he was.

You hated how he made you feel.

Hated him.

You tried to process what happened, your body reacting on its own and you felt a faint throb between your legs that you tried to conceal by pressing your thighs together.

Though it only worsened it.

You shuddered, you’ve never felt such feelings before and you didn’t wanna dwell on them so you went to change your clothes.

Hoping it would help to outrun your thoughts.

The way you bumped into him in the hallway had shifted something.

However small.

And you weren’t ready to face what it meant.

jungkook still stood in the hallway for a moment longer, heart racing with the unfamiliar heat in his veins.

Seeing you wet and flushed had tested his control.

He'd wanted to pull you closer to feel the warm wetness of your skin under his hands and to erase the fear in your eyes with his touch.

But he hadn’t.

Because he wanted to be the man you needed him to be.

The effort had left him shaken, body tensed as he felt his cock harden under his pants and let out a low growl.

Adjusting himself.

Because it's been forever since a woman made him react.

He turned, heading toward the staircase.

He needed to get to the office and needed the distraction of work.

Anything to keep the image of you off his mind.

۶ৎ

That day late at midnight

You couldn’t sleep.

Thunder rumbled so hard it shook the windows, sending tremors through you.

It was raining heavily.

You sat huddled on the bed, your knees drawn tightly to your chest as if you could make yourself smaller.

Panic clawed at your chest.

Each thunder was a reminder of your childhood, of nights spent hiding in your closet as your father's voice echoed through the house.

The sound triggered memories you'd tried to forget—your mother's cries and the crack of a hand against skin, your own tears as you prayed for it to stop.

Whenever it rained, your father wouldn’t be able to go out and his temper would always be high so he’d yell and beat up your mother.

That’s why you hated rain and blamed the weather for it.

Now alone in this unfamiliar house, married to a man you feared only increased it.

You felt like a child again, small and powerless.

Your hands trembled.

Your breath came in short gasps and a sob broke free uncontrollably.

The panic attack taking hold of you.

You pressed your palms to your ears trying to block out the thunder but it was no use.

The noise was everywhere.

The weight of it all—your forced marriage, your lost dreams and your mother's illness—crushed over you and you wailed harder, body shaking.

You covered your mouth trying to not let any noises out, not wanting jungkook to hear.

You felt so alone.

You couldn’t do this anymore.

A small knock on the door cut through your sobs, startling you as your body tensed, staring at the closed door.

It was jungkook—you were sure of it.

No one was home except him now.

The thought made your panic spike, thinking of his dark eyes and anger from being disturbed by your pathetic cries.

What if he found your crying annoying and was angry?

What if he thought you were weak and a burden?

And throws you out of the house in this weather?

You tried to swallow your sobs to pull yourself together but the thunder crashed again and you flinched, a whimper escaping your lips.

“y/n?”

jungkook's voice came through the door, concerned.

It wasn’t the cold, commanding tone you’d expected, the one that he’d used when he’d ordered you to eat.

“Are you okay?”

You wiped at your face and tried to steady your voice.

“I’m fine.”

But the words came out shaky, barely audible.

Another thunder shook the house and you gasped loudly.

“I’m sorry I—I didn’t mean to…”

You started speaking as the door creaked open and jungkook stepped inside.

He was dressed casually, which was a rare sight that you haven’t seen—a black t-shirt hugging his muscular chest and sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

His dark hair loose and slightly messy, free from its usual man bun.

His presence was overwhelming even in the dark.

His eyes usually so unreadable, held worry in them as they landed on you curled on the bed, your face glistening with tears.

“Don’t apologize.” he says gently.

He closed the door behind him.

“It’s just a storm. You’re safe here.”

You shook your head, hands clutching your knees tighter, you didn’t want him here and his pity or any of his fakeness.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him to go away.

His expression shifted, dark eyes softening.

He took a step closer then stopped as if aware of how his presence might intimidate you.

“You’re not alone.” he rasps.

“I’m here. I’ll stay if you want me to.”

You hesitated, your fear of him warring with the desperate need for comfort.

He was the last person you wanted to rely on but in that moment with the storm outside and your heart jumping out of your chest, his presence felt like a lifeline.

A tether to something solid.

You swallowed hard.

“Okay.” you sniffled.

jungkook nodded, his movements careful as he pulled the single chair from the corner of the room and set it beside your bed, keeping a distance.

He sat, his posture relaxed but alert, his hands resting on his thighs as he noticed how your panic attack was still there.

“Breathe with me.”

His deep voice almost soothing.

“In and out. Slow. Like this.”

He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and exhaled, his eyes never leaving yours.

You tried to follow, your breaths shaky and fast but his steady gaze kept you going.

Inhale exhale, inhale exhale.

The rain and thunder still went on but it seemed farther away now, his voice overtaking your attention.

“You’re doing good.”

He encouraged you.

“Just keep breathing. The storm will pass.”

You nodded, your hands loosening their grip on your knees.

The panic was still there but less overwhelming with him here.

You didn’t understand why he was doing this.

Why he cared.

He was supposed to be cold, cruel.

But this man sitting quietly in the dim light, eyes soft and voice steady was nothing like the monster you'd imagined.

But you clung to the comfort he offered, too desperate to push it away.

“You’re stronger than you think.”

He said after a moment.

“You’ve been through a lot, y/n. I see it in your eyes, but you're still here, still fighting… that’s not weakness. That’s a strength most people don’t have.”

His words hit you and you stared at him, your eyes wide, tears still clinging to your lashes.

“You don’t know me.” you defended.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t.” he admits.

His eyes not leaving yours

“But I see you. I see how you carry it, how you don’t let it break you. You’re not alone, not tonight.”

“I’m here and I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”

You wanted to argue to tell him he was wrong that you were broken and weak.

That you'd been broken for years.

But the sincerity in his voice stopped you.

For the first time you saw him not as the man who’d married you against your will but as someone trying to help.

Someone who saw your pain and didn’t turn away.

The thunder crashed again and you squeaked, grabbing the bedsheets.

“Listen to me, it’s okay.” he coaxes you.

“Just focus on me. The storm can't touch you here, not while I'm here.”

Your breaths evened out, the panic fading slowly. You leaned back against the headboard, body exhausted from crying.

From fighting the fear.

jungkook stayed silent, his eyes watching you carefully not with judgement but with a patience that made your chest ache.

You didn’t understand him.

Didn’t want to.

But in that moment you forgot you hated him, forgot you feared him.

He was just a man sitting there offering you safety when you'd only ever known chaos during storms like this.

Your mother had been the only one to comfort you during rain like this.

Now jungkook was here and it felt both wrong and right.

“Try to rest.” he whispers.

“I’ll stay right here. You don’t have to be afraid.”

You didn’t respond, throat too tight with emotion and you slid down the bed, pulling the blanket over yourself.

The rain was slowing and your eyes grew heavy, tiredness pulling you under.

As you drifted off, you felt safety and a warmth you hadn’t expected.

jungkook's presence lulled you to sleep, your breath evening out, body relaxing for the first time that night.

Maybe the first time ever.

jungkook watched you, his heart squeezing in his chest.

You looked so small.

Your face streaked with dried tears, lips parted as you slept.

The t-shirt you wore loose and slightly oversized hugged your curves in a way that made his nostrils flare, his eyes catching the outline of your body before he forced himself to look away.

He got flashbacks from the morning when you crashed into him and everything was taking a toll on him, hands tightening on his thighs.

You were beautiful, heartbreakingly so.

He noticed the faint outline of your nipples through the fabric, hard and pebbled and his body reacted despite his efforts to stay in control.

He turned his gaze to the floor, he wouldn’t let himself think of you that way, not when you were so vulnerable.

Cursing himself for the thoughts he couldn’t stop.

As if the universe itself was set on testing his patience today.

He didn’t sleep, his eyes returning to you again and again. You made soft noises in your sleep, small whimpers that broke his heart.

He wanted to reach out to smooth the crease between your brows and erase the frown.

He couldn’t believe that you had let him stay so near you yet so far but at least it was small steps that you were comfortable around him to let him stay.

A small part of him was grateful that you'd let him stay that you'd fallen asleep with him there.

It was a small trust, one he didn’t deserve but he clung to it.

When he heard you crying from his room, he rushed not even thinking twice.

He wanted to pull you in his arms and hold you tight when he saw you shaking so bad, wipe your tears away with his thumbs and whisper words of comfort to you.

Hold you against his chest as if he could protect you from the world.

But he knew that wasn't possible.

Carefully he leaned forward, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek slowly so as not to wake you.

Your skin was soft and warm.

The contact felt electric.

He pulled back and he suddenly needed a cigarette. He wanted to smoke to distract himself but he didn’t want to disturb you so he didn’t.

For the first time valuing someone else’s comfort that wasn’t his.

He knew you saw him as nothing but a captor.

He'd married you because you made him feel for the first time but now he wondered if he'd made a mistake, if you'd be better off without him.

Because you deserved all the good things in the world.

If he’d known, he told himself, he would’ve helped you, would’ve paid for your mother’s treatment and given you freedom.

Even if it meant not marrying you, even if it meant hurting himself more.

Only if he knew.

Only if he didn’t believe the bastard of your father.

He sat there all night, awake, his body still.

The storm soon stopped, the rain softening but he didn’t move.

He watched you memorizing all your features closely.

He'd prove you everything.

And most importantly.

He'd wait as long as it took to earn your trust, to show you he wasn't what you thought he was.

But for now he'd sit as a guardian for you in the dark.

Watching over you as you slept.

And promising himself that just like this he’ll be watching over you for the rest of his life.

For as long as he breathed.

────

taglist: @wintaemoonjen @minewlove @chaelvrx @nanisblogg @slutology00 @kelsyx33 @furioustrashlover @jjeonjjk7 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @asyr97 @ttanniett @bratzdaull @yunhoswrldddd @jeonzll @endlesslysassy @elmarimochi9513 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lisax-30 @moodytangerine @taetaecatboy @katwiththatrat @yikes-ukiyo @minimoninini @lachimolalajeon @flutterguk @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @universallywizardkoala @kookxin @mageprincess7 @satisfied18 @existentialzaddy @strawberryberrygirl @tranquilreign @honeybearmin @melooooosusupp @thvflowr @granataepfelchen @cherricherryy @tatamicc @minghaosimp @kooko009 @clrwonuu @withmuchluv-tannie

[rabdoidal]

whats that sound in my closet? it’s like wires sparking??? the fuses in the breaker box…i think they were…..no they couldn’t have been…..

anyway i kno the game is about dating everything but whatever volt and eddie having going on has NOTHING to do with me

💡 kofi link in bio if you’re feeling generous 💡

[othernaut]

It's funny.

I play a whole bunch of tabletop role-playing games, and while I most frequently play characters that match my gender, sometimes I don't, because it's shared fiction and sometimes the best character to insert into a growing story is someone who's more unlike myself. I've played a Terrestrial Exalted who was meant as an examination of how outcast/misfit men trend to historical performances of masculinity when they can't attain the modern one. My current character in Fate of Cthulhu goes by they/them because I, the player, waffled for so long on deciding their gender that I also figure it was perfectly appropriate for the character to do so - so probably agender, but functionally in drag all the time.

The only time I've gotten any confusion or, heck, even pushback when filling in the pronoun section on a character sheet was when I played Rep. This was a Fallout game, and Rep was a Mr. Handy designed for customer service. My goal when playing Rep was to express the kind of unfathomable, gut-chewing rage that anyone who's worked a customer service position longer than three months knows deep in their bones. Rep was literally incapable of expressing itself in anything other than a perma-chipper, helpful manner; it was hardwired never to say a bad thing about its employer and to take every opportunity to upsell, on every interaction. The only way it could express how this made it feel was by drilling super mutants in half with a giant cartoon drill arm and then hovering over the gore, repeatedly asking the fresh giblets to complete a customer satisfaction survey. The gender was the least interesting thing.

And nevertheless, it came up. Never in a mean way, more, I think, in a real way. Rep got addressed as male a lot due to the fact that its pre-loaded, focus-tested customer satisfaction voice was a kind of smiley male-presenting mishmash of every ad voice-over that had ever sparked a scintilla of anger in me. When it insisted that it was it, that was met almost with pity - the assertion that no, Rep, you're a person just like everyone else, not an object. When it was an object, when the object-ness of its persona was probably the only part it was actually happy about. It was a machine, it was built by people to do a job. Now that those people are environmental storytelling skeletons and the job is over, it gets to define its object-ness for itself. Also it has a vast library of interactions with people it very much wants not to be, and it liked the distance that it/its pronouns provided from that infuriating mass.

Playing these weird little guys is such an interesting thing for me, part of why tabletop role-playing is one of the closest things we've got to modern magic. When you embody a character through roleplay, there's always some kind of unexpected flowback, some element of being that you're never going to get any other way. If you're any kind of writer or artist, I think you kind of owe it to yourself to see how these stories feel when you settle inside them. I can't write stories solely about my own gender, and I very vocally miss the time of experimental, "what if there was... no gender?" sci-fi, so eh - natural point of continuation.

Somewhere out there in the borderless realm of imagination, a shiny, laminated robot hovers over a mountain of corpses, incandescent with rage, something akin only to itself - and happy.

LOVE AND PEACE FOR IT/ITS PRONOUNS

[archivequinn]

Heat Signature | Johnny Storm

Summary: You are a brilliant young scientist, recently recruited to collaborate with the Fantastic Four on your most ambitious project yet. The mission? Present your prototype to the world, secure funding, and finally prove your ideas right. Everything was supposed to go smoothly. But nothing is ever easy when Johnny Storm is involved.

As he offers his surprisingly insightful support and insists on becoming your personal assistant (because of course he does), you're pulled into an unexpected partnership filled with banter, brainpower, and barely contained sparks. Things get even more complicated when a hotel mishap forces you to share a room, and long nights working together start to blur the lines between professional and... something else entirely.You’re supposed to be focused on the mission—but how do you stay scientific when your assistant has cheekbones that should be illegal and a smile that feels like setting the world on fire?

Words: 5,760

ao3 link

part 1

You are a scientist. Not just any scientist.

You’re the kind that rewrites blueprints in your sleep and questions the laws of physics for fun—like they’re puzzles left behind by an ancient god daring you to dream bigger. You breathe data, eat uncertainty for breakfast, and wear your curiosity like armor in a world that often underestimates ambition wrapped in a white lab coat. You're driven, tenacious, and just the right amount of arrogant to survive in a building where the average IQ could short-circuit a satellite.

From the moment you stepped foot into the Baxter Building—a towering monument to innovation and impossible dreams—your life has been a whirlwind of experiments, hypotheses, and groundbreaking discoveries. You remember the way the elevator hummed beneath your feet that first day, how your fingers twitched with anticipation, notebook clutched to your chest like a secret waiting to change the world.

Working with Reed Richards himself—yes, Mister Fantastic, the human rubber band with a brain that makes quantum computers look like typewriters—is something that still feels like fiction. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at him mid-sentence, wondering if you accidentally walked into a dream built by sheer intellect and a ridiculous amount of stretch. He’s your mentor now. Endlessly patient, maddeningly curious, and somehow always three steps ahead of a universe that can barely keep up with him. Being in his orbit is like standing in the gravity well of a collapsing star—overwhelming, illuminating, and transformative.

Then there’s Sue Storm. The Invisible Woman. And oh, you could write a thesis on her alone.

She’s brilliance wrapped in calm. Grace under pressure. Arguably the most powerful person in the entire building, and somehow also the most grounded. Her force fields could level a city, sure—but it’s her emotional equilibrium, her quiet authority, and the way she sees people that leaves you breathless. She enters a room and shifts its center of gravity—not by force, but by sheer presence. She listens to your ideas with genuine attention, offers feedback without a trace of condescension, and reminds you, with a soft touch on the shoulder, that even the best minds crack sometimes—and that’s okay. You carry her inspiration with you like a lodestar, stitched between the lines of your every breakthrough.

And of course, there’s Ben Grimm.

The ever-lovable rock wall with a Brooklyn accent and a soul soft as warm bread. He treats you like you’ve been part of the team since the Big Bang, always cracking jokes that are half-groan, half-hug. He brings bagels every Friday morning because, in his words, “science runs on carbs, and you deserve the good stuff.” Sometimes, he’ll hold your tools while you rant about data corruption like a war general, nodding solemnly, adding the occasional “sheesh” for effect. He teases, sure—but there’s respect in his humor. Solid, unshakable. Like you’re one of his own. Like you already passed the test you didn’t know you were taking.

You're one of the youngest researchers to ever be offered a permanent position at Baxter Labs, and let’s be clear—it wasn’t luck. You earned this. Bled for it. Burned through sleepless nights and empty coffee cups and the kind of obsessive perfectionism only a true visionary can afford. Your project—an experimental energy harnessing system designed to convert atmospheric pressure into clean, unlimited power—isn’t just a fancy light show. It’s a revolution waiting to be born. Think: energy towers in the most remote, forgotten corners of the globe. Limitless electricity humming through places that were once cloaked in darkness. No more fossil fuels. No more geopolitical extortion. Just a new world, quietly blooming under the hum of progress.

You know what this means. They know what this means. And for the most part, they support you every step of the way.

Well… almost everyone.

Because then— There’s him.

Johnny Storm. The Human Torch.

Golden boy of the Fantastic Four. The literal hotshot. A walking flame with a jawline sculpted by chaos and a grin so criminally smug it probably has its own SHIELD file. He enters every room like it’s already his, radiating a confidence so infuriatingly casual that it leaves smoke trails in its wake.

He doesn’t technically work in your lab. And yet—somehow, he’s always there.

Perched on counters, stealing your test results to “check your math,” throwing peanuts into your beakers and calling it a “stress test.” Once, he tried to “optimize” your prototype by melting its casing with his finger—purely in the name of curiosity, of course.

“Relax,” he said, watching you panic over days of lost work, “you should thank me. Now you know it can’t handle extreme heat. That’s… like, important data, right?”

You tried not to scream. You really did.

He’s infuriating. A menace in designer sunglasses. The kind of guy who sets off the fire alarm just by entering the room with too much attitude and half a joke tucked behind his teeth.

He calls you things like “Einsteinette” and “Lab Coat Babe,” and once had the audacity to introduce you at a press conference as “the real genius around here—but don’t tell Reed.” You spent the next three days avoiding eye contact with your mentor, convinced you were seconds away from being vaporized by Reed’s disapproval-laced silence.

But here’s the thing: He’s not mean. Not cruel. Not careless in the way that would actually harm.

In fact, there’s something stupidly charming about the way he teases you, like a schoolboy yanking the hair tie of the girl he’s secretly in love with—but doing it with fire-tipped fingers and a smirk that could melt steel. It’s infuriating, honestly. He brings you coffee sometimes—only to immediately steal a sip with the most unapologetic grin you’ve ever seen, as if your caffeine dependency is somehow his business. He fixes your wiring when you're too tired to see straight—then denies it ever happened, like your suddenly functioning equipment just magically repaired itself in the night.

He listens when you talk about your project, even if he leans back dramatically in his chair, yawning and muttering sarcastic comments under his breath. And somehow, he always knows when something's off—like the day your test chamber collapsed and wiped out three months of data and progress in under three seconds. You were seconds away from breaking down.

But he didn’t say much. Just sat beside you on the cold, scuffed lab floor, like it was the most natural thing in the world, handed you a half-melted protein bar, and nudged your shoulder gently until your breath hitched and a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it. No lectures. No false promises. Just presence. Just him.

He’s there. Always somehow... there. Like gravity, like inertia, like a law of nature written into the physics of your days.

And despite how much you pretend to hate it—how you roll your eyes when he bursts in without knocking, or groan when he calls you Einstein in that exaggerated tone—you’ve started to expect him. You’ve started to look for him in the room before you even realize it. You’ve started to look forward to him.

Which is absurd, of course. You’re a serious scientist. A respected one. You don’t have time for distractions—especially not ones with cheekbones like Greek architecture and flames for fingers, ones who walk like they own every room they step into and smile like they know your deepest secrets.

Still, every theory has an exception. And somehow, he’s the one anomaly you can’t solve.

Today is the day you’ve been working toward for what feels like your entire life. The culmination of years of sweat, setbacks, breakthroughs, and breakdowns. The Baxter Building’s main lab has never been this full—scientists from across the globe, advisors from powerful institutions, Reed’s most respected peers, the kind of minds who write the future of science rather than merely follow it.

All seated. All watching. All murmuring in anticipation, their voices a dull thrum beneath the quiet hum of the machines. Cameras hover silently, mechanical eyes blinking red, and the glass panels between you and the audience shimmer faintly—fragile, transparent boundaries separating genius from failure, acclaim from humiliation.

You stand center stage. Your palms are damp. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs. Your pulse roars in your ears like static, like warning—but your voice, miraculously, remains steady as you begin.

“Today I’ll be presenting a working prototype of the Atmospheric Pressure Converter. A system designed to extract clean, renewable energy from weather systems already present in our atmosphere.”

It sounds simple. Polished. Practiced. But you know the weight those words carry. Because behind that sentence are months of grueling research, towers of dog-eared notes, blown circuits, abandoned blueprints, and sleepless nights you stopped counting after week six.

Your hands hover over the console, trembling ever so slightly. You type in the final sequence. Every keystroke feels like a countdown. You glance up once—Sue gives you a firm, encouraging nod, calm and grounded like always. Reed watches closely, already calculating the variables. Ben lifts his chin with a subtle but solid you got this expression.

And far in the back, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, half-shadowed and entirely unfazed, is Johnny Storm. The Human Torch. Your personal fire hazard.

He catches your eye. Raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. Mouths, Go get 'em, Einstein.

You smile. Briefly. Despite everything.

Then press the activation key.

There’s a low hum. A flash of blue light across the console. Something stirs in the core of the machine—you feel it, like the first pulse of a heartbeat. For one perfect second, it looks like it’s working. Like the years of effort have finally, finally paid off.

But then comes the sputter. The flicker. The pop.

Suddenly, the lab fills with smoke. Dense, chemical, stinging your eyes. Alarms whine in high-pitched chorus. Red lights strobe. A gust of cold air pushes through the vents as emergency systems roar to life. The prototype emits one final, sickly whine— —and dies.

Just dies.

You freeze. Fingers clutching the edge of the table. Your eyes sting—not from the smoke, but from something sharp and hot rising in your chest.

You hear someone coughing. Glass scraping. A chair being pushed back too fast. The crowd on the other side of the glass ripples with confusion, then disappointment. Then, worse—amusement. A few people whisper. One of them snorts.

And then comes the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that lands on your shoulders like a lead blanket, thick and heavy and suffocating. The kind that makes your heartbeat sound like thunder in your own head. The kind that feels like failure echoing louder than any explosion ever could.

Your cheeks are burning. Your throat is dry. You try to explain—to speak, to move, to salvage something—but your brain is jammed. Glitching. Stuck in a loop that only says you failed you failed you failed you failed.

And all you can think, over and over, is: I failed. I failed in front of everyone.

You turn on your heel and walk out. Not slowly. Not with grace. Not with some dignified speech.

You bolt.

By the time you reach the smaller lab space you’ve been using as your private workroom, your chest is aching—tight and burning like the embers of something that never quite caught fire. Your legs give out the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a soft but definite sound, like the final punctuation on a sentence you didn’t want to finish. You collapse to the floor, spine pressed to the cold, sterile wall, curling into yourself. You draw your knees up, holding them close like they’re the only thing left that won’t fall apart if you squeeze hard enough.

It’s not fair. You worked so hard. You knew it was ready.

But the world didn’t agree. And now all you’re left with is the ringing silence of failure.

What went wrong?

You don’t even realize you’re crying until your fists, clenched in the sleeves of your lab coat, grow damp. Your fingers tighten around the fabric as if anchoring yourself to this reality might somehow undo it. There’s a wet warmth at the corners of your mouth—a trail left behind by tears you didn’t invite. A quiet, broken gasp escapes, and you clamp your lips shut like you can hold back the flood. But it’s too much. The pressure in your chest builds, thrums like a second heartbeat, demanding release. So, finally, you let it out.

A stack of folders beside you gets the worst of it. They crash to the ground like toppled dominoes, papers scattering in a flurry of disarray—fluttering down like autumn leaves torn too soon from their branches. Some pages catch the edge of your worktable, others skim across the floor as though trying to flee the scene. You lash out at a nearby chair without even looking; it tips, crashes down. A loud, metallic thud. You don’t care. You’re already broken open. What’s a little more mess?

Somewhere behind you, the door creaks open.

It’s a small sound. But in the vacuum of your grief, it feels enormous.

You lift your head just enough to catch the silhouette of someone tall, framed in gold by the hallway’s flickering light. The sharp contrast makes him look almost unreal—like a statue caught between dimensions.

Johnny.

He hesitates in the doorway. He always does when you're like this. Not out of fear—no, Johnny Storm doesn’t know what fear is—but uncertainty. Guilt, maybe. Not knowing if this is a moment where words help or hurt. Not sure if you want to be found.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s so soft, you almost don’t catch it. Like he’s afraid to disturb you. Like he’s learned the language of your quiet and is trying not to speak too loud.

You turn your face away, burying it deeper in your knees. “Go away.”

But of course, he doesn’t.

He never does.

Instead, he carefully steps over the wreckage you’ve left in your wake, graceful despite the chaos. He crouches beside a few scattered pages, gently gathering them up with the clumsy reverence of someone handling old love letters. He holds them in the wrong order, squints at them like they’re hieroglyphs.

“I think this one had a diagram? Or a doodle,” he murmurs. “Maybe both.”

You don’t laugh. Not quite. But something involuntary escapes you—a breath, shaky and soft, caught halfway between a sob and a scoff.

He glances at you, then carefully lays the papers aside like they’re pieces of a broken puzzle he doesn’t know how to fix. “Okay. New plan.”

With a small flick of his wrist, fire blossoms at his fingertip—a spark that dances and then steadies. He draws the flame into his palm, shaping it slowly, almost meditatively. You watch, your tears still clinging to your lashes, as the fire stretches and flickers and curls inward. It breathes. It blooms.

And then, impossibly, it becomes a rose.

Not a cartoonish flame flower, not a haphazard shape—but a rose. Delicate and impossibly precise, petals glowing in shades of orange and gold, pulsing like it has a heartbeat of its own. Alive, but not burning.

“For you,” he says, as if offering you a paperclip instead of a miracle. His crooked smile is familiar, crooked like the rest of him. “Don’t tell Sue I’m using my powers indoors.” He holds it out. “It’s non-flammable. Promise.”

You stare at it—this ridiculous, beautiful, useless thing—and for the first time in hours, something in your chest eases. You smile. Just barely. But it’s real.

“Better,” he says, smug and proud. “Though, to be fair, I thought about making you a tiny fire-dinosaur. But I wasn’t sure if you were more of a T-rex or a stegosaurus person.”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer ‘devastatingly charming.’ But I’ll accept ridiculous,” he says, with a faux-formal bow.

Then he drops down beside you, sitting cross-legged like this is just another Tuesday. His fingers absently spin the flame-rose in midair, making it twirl like a ballerina made of heat.

“I saw the whole thing,” he says after a beat. His voice dips lower, softer. “The presentation, I mean. You were... amazing. Up until the part where your machine kind of... exploded. That part was slightly less amazing.”

You grimace. The memory is still too raw. Too loud.

“I know today sucked,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “And yeah, okay, not ideal when your Big Moment goes up in smoke—pun extremely intended—but hey… I’ve torched entire press conferences before. At least yours didn’t melt anyone’s shoes.”

You wince at the reminder, but it’s softened by the sheer absurdity of his tone. Typical Johnny. Bright enough to burn, but somehow always finding light in the ashes.

“But you know what?” he continues, voice laced with something rare—earnestness. “Every single genius I know has had something blow up in their face at least once. Reed’s first interdimensional gate turned his eyebrows green for a week. True story.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. It bubbles up, unexpected and uncontrollable. It cuts through the fog like sunlight.

“There you are,” Johnny grins, triumphant. “Knew you were still in there.”

Then, more gently, with a gravity he rarely shows: “You’re not done. Not even close. Whatever broke today, we’ll fix it. Together.”

You turn to look at him again—and this time, you really look.

His eyes are steady. Still full of mischief, sure—but underneath, there’s something unwavering. Something that says: I see you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.

And somehow… Somehow, for the first time in what feels like hours, you believe him.

“I should look at the internal stabilizer,” you murmur—your voice hoarse, rasping from fatigue and tears, but there’s a steadiness returning to it now. Like the storm in your chest has passed, leaving behind something quieter. Sharper. “It was the last component I installed. If anything misaligned during calibration…”

Johnny raises both brows, that ever-present mischief already flickering to life behind his eyes. With the kind of overdramatic flourish he probably practices in the mirror, he straightens up and extends a hand like a gentleman at a Regency ball.

“Well then, Doctor,” he says, that infamous smirk creeping back into place like it never left, “shall we science the hell out of this mess?”

You blink. A breath. A heartbeat.

And then—you take his hand.

He pulls you up, maybe a bit too dramatically, as if he’s casting you in some invisible movie scene only he can see. It’s absurd, and exactly what you need. Your legs are unsteady, your joints stiff from sitting too long in grief, but the moment you’re standing beside him—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin like a living ember—it’s like your balance resets.

Maybe not hope yet. But movement. That’s something.

Together, you approach the wreckage of your prototype like detectives returning to the scene of a very personal crime. You drop to your knees beside the housing panel, already thinking through component hierarchies and conductivity flow, while Johnny casually starts clearing debris like a man auditioning for America’s Got Magicians.

“Careful,” you mutter, your voice dry. “That’s the focusing ring, not a frisbee.”

He holds the circular piece like it’s a bagel he’s not quite sure how to eat. “Noted. No throwing the glowy donut. Even if it glows really, really temptingly.”

You roll your eyes. But a corner of your mouth quirks upward. You let it.

Time slips after that. The hours don’t tick—they hum.

You adjust calibrations with trembling fingers. He hands you tools without needing to ask. You think aloud, mapping logic into the air like it’s a language only the two of you understand. He listens. Occasionally tosses out a wild theory. Sometimes it’s complete nonsense, other times it sparks something useful—and once, just once, it makes you stop mid-sentence and whisper, “Wait… that could actually work.”

He grins like a kid winning a science fair.

He never leaves. Not even for a second. He doesn’t check his phone, doesn’t get bored, doesn’t make an excuse to duck out. He just… stays. A constant, chaotic flame beside you. Comforting. Steady, in his own unpredictable way.

Eventually, your body starts to give out before your mind does. Your fingers cramp. The numbers stop making sense. You blink too long between thoughts, and equations begin to unravel into meaningless squiggles.

Johnny notices immediately.

“Okay, genius,” he says, nudging your knee with the gentlest pressure. “Time to take five. And by five, I mean horizontal.”

You shake your head, bleary. “I can’t—there’s still a fluctuation in the thermal grid and I—”

“You’re fried,” he cuts in, and—for once—there’s no pun layered underneath the word. Just quiet, unvarnished concern. “Literally and figuratively. You’ve been running on fumes since Tuesday, and I know caffeine is like your fifth vital sign, but even you can’t keep this pace forever.”

You want to argue. Really, you do. But the edge of the workbench is right there, and your skull feels like it’s being held up by willpower alone. So instead of a retort, you let your forehead rest against the desk, eyes drifting shut just for a moment.

Just a moment.

When you open your eyes again, the world is different.

Dim. Quiet. Soft around the edges.

Johnny’s hoodie is draped over your shoulders like a makeshift blanket, its warmth soaked into your skin. You’re curled on the battered couch in the corner of the lab, its cushions lumpy but familiar. You have no memory of walking here, no recollection of lying down.

And it’s morning.

Pale sunlight filters through the blinds in strips, painting stripes across the cluttered worktables and upturned chairs. You shift groggily, blinking sleep from your lashes. Your joints ache. Your mouth is dry.

Then, you see him.

Across the room, Johnny is perched at your desk—hair mussed, back slightly hunched, sleeves rolled up. There’s a graveyard of energy drink cans at his elbow and a small constellation of highlighters scattered like fallen stars across your papers. Your notes are spread out in front of him, messy and brilliant, with his own chaotic scribbles threading between your equations.

He’s so focused he doesn’t even notice you.

You watch, wide-eyed, as he lines up a scrap of circuitry with the schematic you gave up on hours ago. He tilts his head, murmuring under his breath like he’s translating from a language no one taught him. “That’s why the frequency kept looping… it wasn’t the stabilizer. It was the dampener coil.”

He says it like it betrayed him personally.

Then he adjusts something in the prototype, carefully, precisely—and powers it up just enough to see.

A soft blue light flickers across the panel.

And holds.

You inhale sharply. The air catches in your throat.

He… did it.

You slide off the couch in silence, blanket falling around your ankles like shed armor. He hears the soft shuffle of your steps and looks up, surprised.

“Oh—hey. Morning,” he says, as if this is the most casual thing in the world and not a cinematic redemption arc unfolding before your eyes.

You stare at the machine, then back at him. “Did you just…?”

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t sleep, and you were snoring like an angry squirrel, so I figured I’d—”

“Johnny.”

He stops talking.

You approach slowly, reverently, like the prototype might vanish if you move too fast. Your fingers graze the edges of the modified coil. You trace the new connection—precise, subtle, clever.

You see it now.

The loop was too tight. The output needed the tiniest breath of delay. A fractional pause. Something only a heat-reactive element could provide.

He didn’t guess.

He understood.

You turn to him. The weight in your chest expands and contracts at once.

“You stayed up all night,” you whisper. “You fixed it.”

He shrugs, but his voice is softer than before. “Team effort.”

And just like that, your heart trips over itself.

Because this man—this beautiful disaster, this self-proclaimed human sparkler—sat in your failure without trying to smother it or sweep it away. He didn’t run. He learned. For no reward. For no recognition.

Just for you.

You don’t even think. You close the space between you and wrap your arms around him.

He goes stiff—like you short-circuited something. But after a breath, his arms circle your waist and hold on. Not too tight. Just enough. His chin finds the top of your head like it belongs there.

He holds you like someone trying to stay grounded. And maybe… that’s what you both are now. Anchors. Balance. Fire and focus.

“I told you,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and steady. “You’re not done.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever… you smile.

Because maybe brilliance doesn’t come from isolation. Maybe it doesn’t need perfection or applause.

Maybe it just needs someone who stays.

Someone who burns.

The second chance doesn’t come easy. Reed is skeptical—of course he is—and it takes a week’s worth of data reconstruction, hypothesis defense, and shameless begging to get him to approve presenting the repaired prototype. You know he’s only giving in because Johnny keeps popping into the lab mid-meeting with a “Come on, Stretch, don’t be a drag,” and somehow, every time he speaks, Reed sighs like a disappointed professor but waves his hand in reluctant permission.

The new presentation is scheduled at a much larger scientific symposium in another city—higher stakes, bigger audience, potentially career-defining. Naturally, everything needs to be perfect. And Johnny—chaotic, loud, infuriatingly charismatic Johnny—has volunteered to be your assistant this time.

“I still think ‘assistant’ is too humble a title,” he says, leaning casually against the lab bench as you pack your notes into a case. “I prefer ‘co-pilot.’ Or ‘mission specialist.’ Or—wait for it—‘hot sidekick.’”

“You’re literally just carrying the clicker,” you remind him dryly.

“Yeah, and emotional support,” he adds, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “You think Reed approved this trip because of your graphs? No, sweetheart. It’s my winning smile and disturbingly good hair.”

He’s impossible, but at this point, you’ve stopped fighting it. He is helping. He stays up sorting your diagrams while you recalibrate the simulation. He runs coffee during the worst of your breakdowns. And when you stress spiral over whether the new stabilizer will hold, he’s the one who reminds you to breathe.

The trip begins with a six-hour drive in the Fantasti-Car—because Johnny refuses to take a commercial flight when he could, quote, “look this good while flying solo.” And for a moment, it's easy to pretend this is just… normal. Like you're two regular people on a work trip, not one brilliant scientist and a literal supernova in human form.

That illusion shatters at the hotel lobby.

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk says, blinking at the screen. “There’s only one room under your reservation.”

You frown. “That can’t be right. Herbie was supposed to book two.”

Johnny glances over your shoulder with a grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And let me guess… one king bed?”

The clerk checks again, sheepish. “Yes. That’s… what it says.”

You turn to Johnny. “Tell me you didn’t bribe Herbie.”

He gasps, hand over chest. “How dare you accuse me of something so—okay, maybe I suggested he book us somewhere with a hot tub. But that’s entirely beside the point.”

“There is no point. I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Johnny leans in slightly, smirking. “Come on. We’ve literally fought interdimensional threats side by side. You’re telling me this is the line you draw?”

“I like boundaries. And personal space. And uninterrupted REM cycles.”

“Well,” he says, slinging an arm over your shoulders, “good thing I sleep like a log. You won’t even notice I’m there.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they might stick, but the damage is done. There’s only one room, and nothing available for miles thanks to the conference crowd. Begrudgingly, you follow him upstairs.

The room is… fine. Neutral. Corporate beige. Two lamps, one desk, and one very large bed that now feels impossibly small.

Johnny tosses his bag onto it like he owns the place, already kicking off his shoes. “You want left or right?”

“I want a completely different room, preferably on a different floor.”

“No refunds,” he singsongs, flopping back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “This is kinda nice, though. Like a school field trip. Except we’re way smarter. And hotter.”

You sigh and drop your case onto the chair, ignoring how your pulse picks up every time his shirt rides up slightly as he stretches. He doesn’t mean anything by it—he never does—but you’re starting to.

Because somewhere between the jokes and the endless teasing, he’s wormed his way past your carefully calculated walls. And now, trapped in this room with him, it’s getting harder to pretend he’s just a distraction.

Later that night, you're both side by side on the bed, laptops open, notes spread out like a paper sea between you. He’s surprisingly focused—eyes narrowed, fingers tapping as he scrolls through a simulation you coded just yesterday. Every so often, he makes a joke, and you laugh—maybe too loudly. He looks over, and for half a second, the room is silent.

And then he says, “You know… I’ve worked with a lot of scientists. Been to a hundred of these boring tech things. But this one? I actually care about. 'Cause you're in it.”

You stare at him, heart thudding. “That’s… dangerously close to a compliment.”

He smiles, soft and a little too genuine. “Maybe I’m just evolving.”

The room is warm. Maybe it’s the lack of proper AC or the oversized windows swallowing the evening sun whole. Or maybe—it’s just him.

Johnny lounges across half of the bed like he owns it. Which, technically, he doesn’t. The plan was two beds. Two separate sleeping arrangements. Nothing remotely intimate. But somehow, due to Herbie’s enthusiastic but questionable booking skills, there is now one king-sized bed and a very long night ahead.

You stand stiff by the desk, pretending to check tomorrow’s itinerary for the sixth time, your fingers twitching around your tablet like it might suddenly give you a second bed if you poke hard enough.

Johnny glances over his shoulder, his eyes flickering with mischief. “You’re pacing.”

“I am not pacing,” you mutter, very much pacing.

“You are. You’re doing the anxious little professor shuffle.”

You shoot him a glare. “There is no such thing as a ‘professor shuffle.’”

“There is now. You invented it. Congrats.” He grins. That same grin. The one that could probably make flowers bloom or planes crash, depending on the mood.

With a dramatic sigh, he shifts, flopping back against the pillows and folding his arms behind his head. “Look, I know sharing a bed with me must be a tremendous hardship for you.”

“Oh, absolutely agonizing,” you say flatly. “I’m practically trembling.”

He chuckles, soft and smug. “You could just admit I’m kind of charming.”

“I could also admit you’re a narcissistic fire-hazard with a flair for dramatics.”

Johnny mock-gasps. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, eyes fixed on you. “You really think I’m a fire-hazard?”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair’s still a little messy from the flight, tousled in that frustratingly perfect way. His eyes glow—not just metaphorically, but with this actual, barely-there amber hue, as if the sun never truly left him. You wonder if he’s always this warm. If it’s a power thing, or just a him thing.

And God, those arms. Not fair. Scientists shouldn't have arms like that. Especially not ones currently folded around a pillow like they’re auditioning for some late-night fantasy commercial.

“I think you’re…” You hesitate. “...a bit much.”

His grin widens. “A bit much?”

You nod. “Loud. Chaotic. Obnoxiously confident. And sometimes—very occasionally—you’re… helpful.”

Johnny blinks. Something shifts in his gaze. Just a fraction. The smile’s still there, but it softens. Like he heard more than you meant to say.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” he says. “Brilliant. Scary smart. Kind of terrifying when you go full lab-mode. And I like that you don’t let me get away with anything. Makes life interesting.”

You feel your throat tighten a little. You’re not used to this—him being sincere. And it does something weird to your insides. Something uncomfortably fluttery.

He shifts again, this time sitting up, legs folded under him, his presence magnetic in the quiet room. “I know I joke around a lot, but... I’m not clueless. I see the way you look at me sometimes.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I don’t—”

He raises a hand. “It’s okay. I look at you too.”

There’s silence. A heavy, electric pause that crackles between you.

And then he’s closer.

You don’t remember moving. Don’t remember crossing the space. But somehow, your knees are brushing, your breath is shallow, and his fingers are just barely grazing yours like he’s asking permission without saying a word.

Your brain screams to calculate, to classify, to analyze—but your body moves faster. Leans in. Tilts up.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle at first. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you too much. But it deepens quickly—warm and insistent, as if he’s been holding back for way too long.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. You’re acutely aware of every inch of him—the way his lips move with yours, the subtle heat radiating from his skin, the fact that he smells like smoke and something golden.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he grins against your lips. “Told you I was charming.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, voice low, fingers still tangled in yours. “It’s already there.”

dividers by @strangergraphics

[tsuemi]

how about rin fucking you after losing a game 💕

your mind was a haze of broken whimpers and sharp, wet slaps as rin fucked you through his frustrations, the pace merciless, his cock bullying its way deeper into your aching pussy like he wanted to rearrange your guts. “fucking isagi,” rin snarled, his teal eyes dark, narrowed, his jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack. “stole my fucking goal. that should’ve been mine.”

“a-ahn! r-rin—t-too—too fast—!” you sobbed out, voice shaking as your nails clawed the sheets, your body being shoved forward by the force of his thrusts. your hips were sore from the relentless pounding, the fat tip of his cock spearing so deep it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“shut up. you’re taking it.” rin’s voice was low, sharp, his fingers bruising into your hips as he dragged you back onto him with every punishing stroke. “you love this, don’t you? love being my fucktoy when i’m pissed off.”

your moans turned into broken cries, drool dripping down your chin as your pussy spasmed helplessly around him. “hnnnngh! a-ah! f-fuck, rin! so—so big—s-so full!—!” but he wasn’t hearing you. not really. his mind was still back in that damn match, replaying the moment over and over.

“could’ve had it. that goal was mine.” his breath was ragged, his thrusts turning erratic, more violent, his pelvis slapping against your ass with wet, brutal smacks. “but no. fucking isagi—always there, always in my fucking way—”

you were nothing but a mess beneath him now, reduced to whimpering moans and babbled pleas, your pussy clenching down on him as your brain melted under the sheer intensity. “r-rin—ahhn! c-can’t—f-feels—feels s-so good—” you sobbed, barely able to form words, the overstimulation sending sparks up your spine, your thighs trembling as he kept fucking you without pause.

“made to take my cock, aren’t you?” rin spat, voice sharp, his pace turning cruel, each deep stroke making your vision blur. “my dumb, pretty little fuckhole.” your cries were high-pitched and raw now, desperate gasps spilling from your lips as rin used your body like it was the only outlet he had left.

“i should’ve shoved him out of the way. i should’ve—fuck—we could've won if i was the one who—shit..” his muttering dissolved into guttural curses as his cock throbbed wildly inside you, the wet squelches of your pussy wrapping around him only fueling his frustration. “i’ll cum so deep in you you’ll feel me for days,” he growled, snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. “that’s what you want, right? want me to fuck you dumb until you can’t even think?”

you couldn’t answer. you were too far gone, babbling nonsense, drool staining the sheets under your face. “r-riiin! p-please! f-fuck! t-too much! haaaah!—!” but rin didn’t stop. couldn’t. his grip on your hips was ironclad, slamming into you over and over, your pussy fluttering around his cock like you were about to break apart. his mind was lost, blinded by the match, his own anger, and the addicting squeeze of your warm, wrecked walls. “fuck—fucking take it—shit—gonna cum—” he snarled through his teeth, hips stuttering as his cock twitched violently inside you, his pace turning sloppy, desperate.

then he buried himself to the base, his breath hitching as hot, thick ropes of cum spilled into you, filling you up so much you could feel it pooling deep inside. his nails dug into your flesh, his hips pressing flush as his load pumped into you, the lewd warmth making you sob into the sheets.

“fuck.” his voice cracked, softer this time, almost guilty, as he pulled his hips back slowly—his cock sliding out with an obscene, wet squelch, strings of cum following. he gently pushed you down onto the bed, his hands no longer rough, but trembling, as if only now realizing how brutally he’d used you. “...baby, you okay?” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his brows furrowed with a rare flicker of worry.

you could barely nod, eyes glassy, but a weak, blissed-out smile curled on your lips. “y-yeah, you were just s-so rough…” you whispered, voice slurred, your body still twitching from aftershocks.

rin cursed under his breath, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. his cock was still hard, still twitching, but now his frustration melted into something else—a quiet guilt, tangled with possessiveness, tangled with need. “i’m such a fucking idiot,” he muttered, pulling you gently against his chest, his lips brushing over your ear. "sorry about that. i'll make it up to you tomorrow, okay?"

© tsuemi | don't copy, repost or translate any of my works