#maybe hide from your enemies

[hellhoundmaggie]

I wish I could do all these FL OC games but I just can't get into the head of my character. She's more a vehicle I use to explore the game than a character in her own right. I have a much easier time getting into the head of my MOTR character, but I simply can't imagine her as a 60+ year old running around and having adventures with everybody's ocs I'm sorry I'm sorry

[artficlly]

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand. 

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things. 

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil. 

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him. 

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves. 

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass. 

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next. 

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely. 

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food. 

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster. 

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today. 

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was. 

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express. 

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it. 

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up. 

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.” 

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.” 

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word. 

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing. 

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.  

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting. 

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him. 

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving. 

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice. 

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own. 

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour. 

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop. 

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path. 

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise. 

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.  

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash. 

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him. 

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen. 

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief. 

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his. 

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—” 

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. 

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.” 

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece. 

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm. 

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have. 

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.” 

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret. 

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile. 

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath. 

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow. 

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher. 

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright. 

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put. 

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.” 

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static. 

“Come here.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away. 

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. 

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering. 

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks. 

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

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[marvelwitchergilmore]

Dog Tags

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky is looking for his Dog Tags, and you just so happen to have them.

Disclaimer: Mostly fluff and fun, kinda enemies/rivals to lovers vibes, open ended kinda, reader is mentioned to own a knife. Not Proof Read.

Bucky had been looking for them for weeks. 

His dog tags. His identity. His attachment to a life long forgotten. 

They’d been with him on his last mission; he was sure of it. He remembered clasping them in his hand before laying them under his uniform. And he never took them off unless…did he? 

“Buck. You’ve already looked in here. Twice.”

Sam’s eyes tracked Bucky around the room as if he was the madman’s doctor. Bucky wasn’t paying attention and nearly ran into Sam’s legs that were resting on the coffee table. 

“Dude.”

“They’ve got to be here,” Bucky kept muttering to himself. “They have to be.”

“Buck, I will get you a new set.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t want another set.”

Sam stood with a sigh, placing his bookmark in his book. “For all we know, they’ve been trampled into the mud on our last mission.”

“I would have noticed them. I never saw them.”

Sam watched as Bucky looked in every cupboard in the kitchen. He sighed, again. “Have you asked Y/n?”

Bucky scowled. “She doesn’t have them.”

“And you know this because…”

“I’ve already checked.”

Sam watched Bucky. “Did you ask? You know, before you ransacked her room.”

“I didn’t ransack her room.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two recently. It’s like you’ve gone from agreed silence to sworn enemies, but maybe you should just ask her. She might know.”

“I’ll ask Wanda.”

“Y/n’s better.”

Bucky looked over his shoulder to Sam as he opened another cupboard. “But Wanda is my friend.”

Sam sighed before walking into the kitchen and shutting every door Bucky had left open. 

“Buck-“

“I’m gonna look outside.”

“Bucky!”

He wasn’t listening. But you were. 

“You know, all he’s gotta do is ask.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at you as you leaned by the main entrance. Bucky had left through the back. 

“Do you know where they are?”

You tried to hide your smile and shrugged. “I might do.”

Sam turned around. “Y/n.”

You gave in and walked inside. “Oh, come on, Sam. He kept my knife from me for, like, three months.”

That had been true. It was your favourite one. You’d lost it after being pulled away by Yelena for some ‘Kate Bishop’ emergency. Bucky had found it in the training room and kept it from you for three months. 

It wasn’t until you were both on a mission that you saw him flip it through his fingers before using it. He’d just chuckled when you called him an Ass. 

“Gotta be more careful next time, doll.”

You could have punched him in the face. 

So, when you found his dog tags on the ground, you made a decision. 

Originally, you were going to give them to him. But when you pulled your knife from your holster back on the jet, you were reminded of what he’d done. 

It was simply payback. 

“You know, he’s not gonna be happy when he finds out.”

You shrugged. “S’only fair.”

“Where are you even keeping them? He probably turned your entire room upside down.”

You nodded, “Oh, he did. But he’s never gonna find them.”

From under your clothes, you pulled out the military issued dog tags. Embossed on the metal was Bucky’s name, birthdate and blood type. On the second was his regiment. 

Sam gave you a slightly judgmental look but you could see the pride he was trying to hide. 

“You’ve gotta tell him eventually.”

“You’re not gonna tell him?”

Sam shrugged as he passed you and picked up his book. “I knew he had your knife. I didn’t help you, I’m not helping him.”

You gave a small gasp, “I knew it!”

Sam just laughed his way down the hallway. 

Meanwhile, you looked back at the dog tags with a light smile, your thumb brushing over his name. 

You’d give them back soon. But a little just desserts would do no harm to the super annoying, massive pain in the ass, super soldier. 

Bucky looked for two more weeks. His dog tags were lost forever. He had a feeling Sam know something since he’d suddenly changed his tune on issuing him some fresh dog tags. 

“Just hold out. Maybe they’ll show.”

“Who told you that?”

Sam shrugged, “I went to a psychic.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before trudging over and sitting beside his friend. He’d hold out for one more week, then he was gonna issue them himself. 

You could feel Bucky’s eyes still on you. He was practically searing a hole into the side of your face. 

He’d been like that for three days. Watching you. Staring. 

“You know something,” he said when he finally cornered you. 

You acted as if you didn’t know what he was talking about. “I know nothing.”

“Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“Stop acting dumb,” Bucky told you. 

“Ever considered I’m not acting, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled a little. “Every day.”

You walked into that one. 

“But I know there’s a small part of you that’s a lot smarter than you’re letting on. So, I’ll ask again. Where are they?”

“Please.”

Bucky leaned back a little. “What?”

You clasped your hands behind your back and leaned forward a little, practically bouncing on your feet. “Where are they, please?”

Bucky stared at you before groaning. “Where are they…please?”

You stood tall and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Quit lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Bucky sighed. “Do you really enjoy this?”

“Enjoy what, Bucky?”

You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. “You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side from day one.”

Your gaze hardened on him as you stepped closer. “And you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass. Look, don’t you think if I’d taken them, I’d have kept them safe? Safer than being hidden in my room? I know what they mean to you, Bucky.” 

You stepped back before you could let your mind wander to places further than just standing inches from Bucky in an empty hallway. 

“Kinda like my knife.”

Before you disappeared down the corridor, that last sentence only added fuel to Bucky’s fire. You had them. They were safe. But if they weren’t in your room, where the hell were they? 

It took him ten days to realise. And when he finally did, he hadn’t been thinking about them.

It had been just before he closed his eyes. It hit him. The safest place from him, was you. They’d been on your person the whole time. They had to be. 

And, despite the clock beside his bed telling him it was almost 23:00, he knew where you’d be. 

You hadn’t been sleeping much for the last few months. He knew because of how tired you seemed to move. A little slower, a little more distant. 

Zipping up his grey jacket, he padded his way down towards the training room. 

You hadn’t spotted Bucky standing against the wall, grey sweatshirt, white tee and darker pajama pants. If you had, you would have made some kind of comment about wearing plaid in Spring. 

“I figured it out,” Bucky called out calmly as he watched you. 

You ducked your head as if you’d just avoided a bullet. “What the- James.” You gave a huff. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Bucky just smiled casually and pushed himself from the wall. “I figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” You asked, a little breathless. You’d been in the training room, alone, for the last two hours. 

“Where you’ve been keeping my dog tags.”

“Really? Who says I have them?”

“You and I both know you’ve had them since the beginning.”

You just watched him, studied him. A slight smirk broke out on your face. “I don’t know who took them, Buck. But I’d say it’s Just Desserts, wouldn’t you?”

“For stealing your knife?”

You nodded. “I’d say so, yeah.”

“Wanna know how I figured it out?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

Bucky shrugged. “You knew I’d find out it was you. But you also know I avoid you as much as I can. And I know you’ve done the same with me. That’s how I kept hold of your knife for so long.”

That much was true. It was just safer to avoid each other than it was to deal with the potential ramifications of being left alone together longer than ten minutes. 

You let Bucky continue as he walked closer to you. You remained fixed in place, just watching him. He looked so…domestic. Slightly bed ridden hair, freshly showered, relaxed. Cosy.

“So, the best place to keep my dog tags safe would be with you, at all times. All day. All night.”

“Really?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“And what makes you so sure I have them on me now?”

Bucky took a final step forward and looked you over. His body was in chest from you. 

“May I?”

You nodded, realising where his eyeline had fallen. Silently, his fingers reached out. Ignoring the way his touch felt against your skin, you watched as he pulled his tags from under your shirt. 

He examined them. 

“Found ‘em.”

You looked up at him with a knowing smile. “Seems we have a winner. I must say though, I can see why you get so attached. There’s something…familiar about having them with you all the time.”

Bucky nodded. But he seemed to be thinking. Then he smiled before tucking them back into your shirt. 

You were confused. “Don’t you want them back?”

He nodded. “One day. But, for now, you should keep them safe. They look good on you.”

You looked down, mostly to avoid his blue gaze.

There had been a few moments like this over the last few years. Moments where the ten minutes ran out and it was just you and Bucky, alone, barely inches from each other. All the while, comments passed between you both which made you think that, deep down, you didn’t hate him. 

And that he didn’t hate you. 

Part Two

[hoshifighting]

— Synopsis: Where you “unfortunately” caught your best friend's roomate—your unsaid enemy—masturbating in their shared apartment. — WC: 4.6k — WARNINGS: smut, monster cock!seungcheol, explicit language and content, overstimulation, dry fucking, oral as a tongue massage (f. receiving)—a reward <3, body fluids (cum), dry humping, cock riding, dumbfication, degradation, aftercare, exhaustion, and DIRTY TALK.

here’s how it always goes with seungcheol:

you walk into a room, he immediately finds something to scoff at. maybe it’s the way you dress, maybe it’s the way you talk, maybe it’s just the fact that you exist in his general vicinity. but it doesn’t matter what you do—he hates you. or, at the very least, that’s what he insists on showing you.

joshua, your best friend and possibly the only person in the world who can tolerate both of you without losing his mind, always tells you to be the bigger person. “he’s not that bad,” he says, as if seungcheol didn’t practically hiss at you last week for sitting on his side of the couch.

but whatever. you don’t go out of your way to piss him off, and he doesn’t go out of his way to be nice. that’s just the way it is.

which is why you hesitate when joshua calls you:

“i swear, i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. i left my keys at your place before i flew out, remember?”

“okay, but i literally don’t want to step foot in his apartment,” you stress, cringing at the thought.

“it’s my apartment, too,” joshua deadpans.

you groan, already feeling a headache coming on.

“just go in, grab the folder on my desk, and leave,” he insists. “cheol probably won’t even be home.”

which is how you find yourself standing outside their apartment door, holding joshua’s keys and hyping yourself up like you’re about to enter enemy territory. which, in a way, you are.

you unlock the door, push it open,

and immediately wish you hadn’t.

seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.

your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.

the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.

he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.

the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.

“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.

you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”

“what about joshua?!”

“he… he needed a document.”

seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”

“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”

“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”

but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”

you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.

back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.

so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.

“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.

you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.

“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.

seungcheol tenses. “so?”

“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”

he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.

so you take a step forward. just one.

his breath hitches.

“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”

he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.

so you take another step.

and another.

until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.

his jaw tightens. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”

in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.

you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.

his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”

you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.

so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

“or what?” you whisper.

his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”

your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”

he snaps.

the shirt under you is gone.

his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.

you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt. 

his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.

the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”

no warning. just that.

you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.

there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.

seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.

but he’s not.

because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.

your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.

and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.

so he helps.

his hands clamp down on your waist.

and then he slams you down.

the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.

because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.

but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.

your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.

you can’t move.

“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.

“too big for you, baby?”

you whimper.

“thought so.”

and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.

and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.

“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”

you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips. 

his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.

he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.

“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”

you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.

and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”

a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.

he groans, grinding up into you.

“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”

your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.

and he sees it.

his grin turns cruel.

“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”

you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.

“poor little thing.”

he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.

and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.

“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”

his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”

he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.

“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.

“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”

his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”

he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.

“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.

“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”

his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”

he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.

you shatter.

your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.

it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.

your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you. 

the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.

seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.

“you good?” 

you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”

he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.

his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”

you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.

you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.

you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.

you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.

his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.

you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”

he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.

you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.

he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.

the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.

his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.

your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.

your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”

you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.

he sees it. he knows.

his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.

your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.

but then—a whimper.

not from you.

from him.

you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.

seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.

he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”

your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”

he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.

your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.

seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.

your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.

your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.

you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.

but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.

the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.

but it’s enough to make him look at you.

you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.

then it hits you.

the documents.

joshua.

fuck.

your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”

seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”

he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”

you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”

“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”

your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”

“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”

“no.”

he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”

you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.

yeah. you can fight him about the joshua thing later. maybe. probably not.

[sheepispink]

“You know, Si..” You begin, almost making him groan since it’s eight am and somehow you’re awake already. He swore you were exhausted last night, where was all this energy from? 

“Mm..” He grunts, his head somehow buried in your neck during the night and his large hands splayed around your waist. 

“You could just leave the mask off forever if you like.”

That makes him raise a brow, had he even heard that right? It was early morning, so maybe he was losing it. “Come again?”

“Just sayin’, if you didnt wanna wear it, it’s okay.”

“Love..I wear it to hide my face, y’know, from enemies?”

You let out a huff,stretching your arms over your head as you turn your head to look back at him. “Yeah, but don't worry—no girl will try hit on you-- I can fight.”

He should’ve known since your lips began to curl, that you’d come up with a stupid joke like that early in the morning. This time he does groan, burying his face into your shoulder for a second before he rolls over and faces his back to you. “You’re sleeping with the plushies for that one.”

“Wait– hey– no- I was kidding!”

part of my baker!reader series

buy me a kofi!

[madamechrissy]

Worst Behavior

Art in the center by Houhai673 on lofter

pairings- stepbrother! Sukuna x f! Reader (lil bit of Toji/reader)

summary - Sukuna’s dad married your mom while you were in high school, and you hated each other on sight. He endlessly picked on and tortured you. So much so that he became a fucking YouTube sensation from prank videos starring you! You come back home for summer break after a bad breakup, and of course annoying ass Sukuna is there, with his stupid smirk, ready to pick on you again, only to be derailed when he sees you're going out with his old friend Toji for a date. Turns out, Sukuna has had it bad for you for a long time, and making you hate him was the only way to guarantee you stay far away, but can he keep up the act?

content/warnings - MDNI, tw- stepcest, lots of pining, kinda one-sided lol, Sukuna is an asshole to you, reader hates him. Enemies to ????- ton of sexual tension, jealous ass Sukuna. This chap - fingering, Toji saying what's up, Sukuna masturbating and being just depraved and pathetic tbh, panty stealing, taboo relationships

part two>>>

part one

It was junior year of high school when your mom remarried, and you can't forget that day, the first time you met that pretentious little shit Sukuna. Who was now your 'family' you guess?

He was a couple of years older, already in freshman year of college, he'd come home on break and torment you endlessly, a whole fucking bulky. He'd hide shit high where you can never reach it, jumpscare you constantly, woke you up to fuck with you, and even filmed his pranks and put them on YouTube.

The jerk was actually YouTube famous from the amount of pranks he'd pull and your golden reactions. A mix of throwing shit at him, cursing him out or smacking him while he held his phone and recorded it. There was no doubt in your mind you just hated the giant asshole of an older 'stepbrother’ you had.

Now you're graduating this year, back home for summer break, and luckily Sukuna almost never visits anymore. He's running his stupid YouTube channel and banking on it, on being a dumb little prankster for his millions of subscribers, so now he lives pretty far thank God.

Let him prank everyone else.

You both don't talk whatsoever aside from holidays and family functions, and then it's just Sukuna picking on you. Not much has changed in five years, maybe his tactics are better. A little sneakier.

You smile and hug your mom, and your step-dad. He's actually pretty fucking cool, and your mom and him are cute together. "Hey hunny, I'm so glad you're here!" Your mom is going on and on about a party she's throwing, as you settle into your room, nothing's changed really. Your mom keeps it all the same.

"Mom, you don't have to keep all this out," you tease, looking at your old posters that adorn the walls, scattered Polaroids pinned to your corkboard. "You could make it a guest room?"

"We have a guest room, we love having your stuff here. And Sukuna's room is the same."

"Ugh don't say his name, you'll summon him!" Your mom laughs a bit as you shiver in feigned disgust.

"He's family honey."

"Not even. I get dad, I really do, but I think Sukuna and I will never get along."

"Ah shit that hurts sis." You hear his pretentious voice and panic as he leans in the doorway, stupid fucking smirk on his far too attractive face. You glare at him.

"Yuck don't call me that, weirdo." He flips you off behind your mom's back, putting his hands away as your mom comes up and hugs him tightly. He smirks over her shoulder as you flip him off back. 

"She's so mean to me, why can't she be nicer like you," he pouts, and your mom laughs a bit, leaning on her tip toes to ruffle his light pink locks. 

"You're both mean to each other. Maybe a couple weeks at home will help you two learn to get along."

"He's staying for a couple weeks!? Ugh." You sigh and he scoffs. Your mom shakes her head and looks at you both.

"Dinner in thirty. Get settled and don't kill each other."

Sukuna eyes you then, ever so slowly up and down, while you start setting things down. "Really filled out huh?"

"I'll punch you." He grins again, you wall up and shove at him, pausing when you feel just how hard his chest is. Blushing a bit, he notices apparently, raising a brow.

"Feeling me up?"

"Gross no. Gym rat." He glares now and you smile right back.

"Yeah how's that loser boyfriend of yours?" He asks so casually. Walking in your room and touching all your shit like he does. You follow him and put everything back in its place as he skews every position of any item.

"We broke up," he pauses at your tone, eyeing you then. You're so pretty you make his heart pound in his chest, not like he'd ever fucking tell you. He calls you a gremlin and worse, knowing you're a whole knockout. "Yeah, rub it in."

"Wasn't gonna," you pause then, as his ruby eyes glint and catch yours. For a moment you see a rare softness in them, making you falter. "He got tired of your bitchiness?"

"Oh fuck off." You roll your eyes, sinking on the white day bed, hands brushing the soft sheets that smell like your mom's favorite fabric softener. But you also smell him, Sukuna, so manly and taking over your space, he leans on your dresser, eyeing a picture of you.

"What happened?"

"Like you care," you lay back, shorts sliding up your thighs. Revealing far, far too much skin, he barely tears his eyes away. "He left me for my best friend."

"Oh shit..." he doesn't know what to say, all he's ever done is pick on you, prank you. Be a whole ass. How does he... comfort you? Without getting too close, feeling shit he can't?

What you didn't realize, is Sukuna has had it bad for you for years now. He knows he can never act on it, so the next best thing was to make your life a living hell. To make you hate him and stay far, far away.

It worked, you hate him.

But it's still not enough to stop the raging thoughts always inside him, of the filthy things he thinks of when he's alone. Stroking his cock to memories of you rather than porn, finding himself comparing others to the traits he loves about you. Traits you'll never know.

He can never ever tell you.

"I've got a date this week though. Old friend of ours." You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him then. He feels that familiar pang of fucking jealousy he also can't feel, remembering the ridiculous amount of men he's chased off over the years.

"What old friend?" He asks curiously, you smile a little then.

"Toji. Weren't you two super close?"

"Toji!? You are not going out with Toji." You sit up and glare, Sukuna crosses his thick arms. "Absolutely not."

"I'm twenty one. I'll do what I want, but don't you like him?"

"Tch, you're such an annoying fucking brat," his words make you stand up, as he sets down your polaroid, it's a pretty picture that's always burned in his brain. You at the beach all happy and pretty, he'd been so hard that day he'd had to jerk it in the fucking bathroom stall.

Why do you have to be so pretty? It's so annoying, and your shit attitude. Toji would be all over you, he always found you hot, but he never dared make a move once Sukuna let him know you were off limits. Was Sukuna not as imposing now that he's a YouTube star? Toji acted as if he couldn't still beat his ass down.

“Put the picture back, you’re so weird.” He holds it up high, smirking down at you, while you jump up and try to grab it, his big grin growing on his face, while he runs around your room with it.

“Too short, aww.”

“Anyone is short you giant, lord of the rings ent.”

“Nerd!”

“Give it!” You’re bouncing again, and he’s far too enamored by your pretty tits jiggling for a moment, his hand falls as his eyes catch them, you snatch your picture up then. “Hah! Now go.”

“Like I wanna be in here.” He’s scowling as he walks out, you lock your door with a little click when Sukuna stands in front of it, sighing and resting his back on it.

Why is it worse than usual seeing you? Typically he could hold his composure somewhat, why do you have to smell so good and - 

Shit he needs to stop.

*****

Dinner with Sukuna is the worst. He's devouring everything on his plate before leaning over, starting to slam down your food too. You scoff and shove the whole plate at him. "Yuck, just have it, now it's covered in Sukuna germs."

"You should count yourself lucky to have any of them from me, brat."

"Will you two stop," your mom and Sukuna's dad say it simultaneously with a big sigh, it's an automatic response when you both have to be in each other's vicinity.

"Why don't you just stay somewhere fancy, rich boy?"

"Tch, you really would miss me if I didn't come over, can't have you all upset." You roll your eyes as your mom gives you an entire other plate of food. Sukuna's already downed your plate and eyeing the new one.

"Let me eat holy shit," you turn away from him, about to stab him with the fork when he goes for a piece of chicken. "Sukuna!"

"Stop it, go get another plate." Sukuna's dad instantly has Sukuna resigned just a bit, he rolls his eyes and leaves your plate alone. The two of them look more like brothers than father and son really, he's a spitting image of him.

Sukuna is handsome, you suppose, though he knows it and is so pretentious about it, that it's just annoying. You'd never tell him he was, either, not when he calls you a little gremlin. That started the first year you lived here, along with dweeb, shrimp and brat, he was a classic bully.

You nibble a bit as you stare at your phone, swiping away the annoying notification that he posted, only for him to eye it, smirking. "Aw you do love me, following me and everything!"

"You wish, I keep ignoring it and it won't stop. Conspiracy or some shit."

"Honey, no cussing at the table."

"Sorry mom," she laughs at you two, shaking her head, while Sukuna leans over, peeking at the phone you're now bringing to your chest. "Will you fuck off."

"Language honey. Ow!" You stomp right on his foot, earning a scowl landed at you. "Brat!"

"Jerk! I don't want to eat, I lost my appetite." You stand up then, plate almost entirely untouched, walking up the stairs as your mom asks you to come back down.

God you can't stand him.

You get a knock later, and he's holding a plate in his big ass hands, frowning a bit. "What, dad yell at you?"

"Just eat," he shoves the plate at you, you notice it's been warmed up when the glass touches your skin. You blink a bit in surprise. "You didn't eat anything."

"You ate all my food like an ass, and I'm not hungry." You shove the plate back at him and his eyes narrow, your fingers touching as you try to put it back in his hands.

"Will you just eat? Now."

"You don't tell me what to do.

"You're such a-

"Brat, I know." You tug the plate back, rolling your eyes now. "I'll eat if you leave me alone."

"I don't want to hang out with you anyway," he says, lying his fucking ass off - god he wants to just spend time with you, not that he ever would say it or do it for that matter. “You better eat it all.”

“Oh Jesus.” You shake your head at him, sighing and nibbling some of it when he walks away, you hate how good his ass looks in those stupid gym shorts. He catches you staring damn near, looking back at you with a raised brow, you quickly scowl and shut the door.

Why does Sukuna look so good? You can’t think the shit.

After eating you’re washing up, bumping into Sukuna as he heads to the bathroom, shirtless just to distract you, surely. You’re breathless when you see his bare chest - has he gotten more chiseled? More tattoos? There are many sliding across his chest, his flat brown nipples, dipping down his rib cage and tracing his obliques. For a moment you can’t even say anything, just standing there.

“Did you eat?” You blink a bit, looking up and nodding a bit. “Nothing smart to say?”

“I’m just tired.”

You’re far, far too close to him then, just standing there, cheeks heating up at the proximity. He’s always been gorgeous, he’s always been buff, it shouldn’t bother you now so much. Without another word, Sukuna walks into the bathroom and you head out of it, shoulder brushing one of his biceps, the contact alone making your tummy tense.

The fuck was going on with you lately?

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t originally have a crush on Sukuna when you met him, how couldn’t you? He was so hot, especially to a younger you, before you realized what an ass he was as soon as he opened his mouth. After that first prank you knew he was just your enemy, not that you could have ever acted on your stupid crush anyway.

He’s family now, honey.

You cover your face with the blankets, avoiding any thoughts of that tattooed body on top of you. Maybe it’s your break up, maybe it’s the date coming up, maybe you’re ovulating, fuck… Whatever it is, you’re undeniably clenching around nothing from being too close to that asshole.

*****

Your date with Toji is tonight, you had a little crush on him when he’d come visit with Sukuna over the summers, but of course he never left you alone with Toji. He was annoying as can be when it came to making sure no one talked to you, because no one wanted to fuck with Sukuna, it’s just now gotten easier, since he’s out of college and some of them have gotten a little braver.

He hated your last boyfriend when you brought him over, on sight, though you have to admit he may have been onto something with that one, he really was a complete dick now that you look back on it. But he hated everyone you dated, making sure if he ran into them on campus to threaten them for no good reason, most of them just gave up.

You ran into Toji the other day randomly, and he was looking really good. He's that dangerous bad boy that your mom tells you to stay away from, but you never listen. Good guy you were just with fucked your former friend however, so you’re truly not so sure what everything means right now. Giving him a chance for a date seems like the perfect way to forget two things.

One, your shitty ex.

Two, your annoying step brother.

You’re eyeing your outfit in the mirror, turning this way and that, before brushing your hair out, you’re dressed in a lacy little black bustier and a pretty pleated skirt, you two are going to a concert so you figure you’ll look cute for it. You’re popping on a little gloss, slathering it over your lips until they’re glistening, doing a little spin and then checking Toji’s text.

You’re running down the stairs, hand on the rail, cool under your touch, when you pause, almost running into Sukuna and nearly tumbling off that last step. Sukuna  curses, catching you quickly, until you’re pressed against him. He is steadying you with his hands, huge fucking hands that feel way too good on your skin, when you’re eye to eye with his chest, looking up at him slowly.

“Clumsy brat…” He grumbles, pushing you back then, but his touch lingers for a little too long. When he looks at your outfit slowly, you feel those ruby eyes like a physical touch, slipping down your body and making you tremble just a bit.

Sukuna never looks at you like that.

It’s quiet for a moment, it goes on way too long, his gaze trailing down your breasts in that top, seeing the way your nipples press up like they’re dying for him. You look too good, too pretty, too much of that body revealed, and for another dude to look and touch? His old friend at that- it fucking infuriates him, his fists clenched on either side.

He barely composes himself, while you’re just looking at him under your lashes, doing too much to his brain, his heart pounding in his chest as desire hits him right in the stomach. He’s seen you in all sorts of shorts, bikinis, you name it, but he’s never really seen you dressed like this, and it’s fucking his entire mind up, short circuiting momentarily.

He finally composes himself, crossing his arms and scowling as you smile at him, arms behind your back. “Like the outfit, Sukuna?”

“Like it, fuck no. What’re you trying to dress like that for?”

“Because we’re going to a concert!”

“Tch,” he goes to the coat stand then, yanking his down from it and scowling right down at you. “Put on the jacket, now.”

Sukuna’s throwing his jean jacket over your shoulders again, you yank it off and shove it at him, pretty breasts just heaving in that slutty little fucking top again, he’s torn between being furious anyone sees you like this, and irritated it affects him this bad. What he thought was shoved far down is prominent as ever, fuck it was even worse than before.

“No! Don’t want your stinky jacket.” He is stepping even closer, when you inhale him - and you hate to admit the fucker smells good.

“This cologne is a hundred bucks a spray, you know it smells good.”

“I don’t give a fuck, it’s nasty. As is your giant jacket, it’ll swallow me, he won’t see my outfit at all!”

“Good, no one should.” You scoff at that and shake your head at him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

“Yes! You’re not some big brother, and I’m grown. I’ll wear whatever I want- I look hot actually.”

“You look slutty.” His whisper is too close, you haul back and smack him then, hurting your hand and gasping, shaking it out as the tingles shoot through it, while the asshole smirks. “Hit like a little girl.”

“Oh fuck you, with your big ass head.”

“Honey! Ready for your date? He’s um…” your mom looks outside as she walks up to you two in the entry way,, where Toji is revving up his mustang. “He’s here… I guess.”

“Can’t come to the fucking door?” Sukuna says, you scowl at him.

“Like you do that for girls.”

Sukuna raises a brow. “Like you know what I do for girls.”

“I’ve heard plenty,” he smirks then, shaking his head. “Oh you’re notorious, how many girls have you dated? Manwhore.”

“Me, a manwhore?”

“Mom,” you turn to her now, as she still eyes Toji standing outside of his mustang, you can tell all her motherly instincts are telling her to intervene, but she has always let you make your own decisions.

“Yes sweetie?”

“Tell him I’m fine in this,” your mom pauses, lips parting as Sukuna’s dad comes out, and looks at you briefly before he takes off his jacket from the rack, earning Sukuna’s chuckle. “Really now!?”

“It’ll be cold,” he tries to play it off, clearing his throat as he covers you up with his jean jacket instead. “You’ll catch a chill. And why isn’t he at the door?”

“Exactly-”

“Shush.” You put your finger to your lips as Sukuna is about to gloat at the fact that your parents are in agreement. “Suck up.”

“Me? You!”

“Okay,” your mom takes off the jacket, earning the two men’s scowls. “She’s an adult, she chooses what she wears. Even if… she should wear a jacket.”

“I love you.” You kiss her cheek, grabbing your purse and phone then, walking outside. Sukuna walks to the porch with you, much to your irritation, glaring over at Toji who’s whistling across the yard.

“What’s up, Sukuna?” Toji’s voice makes Sukuna want to take him down, he’s grinning as he looks at you in ways he shouldn’t. “Long time no see. Oooh, don’t you look hot, doll.”

You’re giggling, giggling!? Sukuna is about to lose his mind.

He grabs your wrist, long thick fingers with black painted nails taking it over, you pause at the warmth, at the rough palms, looking up then. The night is humid but there’s a breeze tossing around his light pink locks, as he grips just a little tighter, making you turn to him.

“What is it?” You ask then, your voice for a moment is soft, Sukuna looks at you, then at Toji, sighing. “I’ll be fine.”

“Right.” He lets you go then, you’re bouncing down the stairs practically, Toji’s hand is at the small of your back, his fingers itching to break them, while you hug Toji and he wraps you in his big ass arms.

You’re opening your door, it’s not like Toji would do that, shit Sukuna’s not one to do it half the time, but the fact that it’s you makes him unreasonably angry. You look at him across the driveway, expression unreadable before you slip in the car next to him. Toji zips off so quickly Sukuna’s also worried about you driving with him.

He’s been jealous before, many, many times, but today is just too much, seeing you again, and knowing you’ll never be his, hits harder than it should. He stomps back in the house, your mom thanks him for being so caring - hah - if only she knew what he really thought about you.

Sukuna really isn’t proud of any of the next thoughts or actions that night, no he really isn’t. When he heads up to his room but lingers by yours instead, staring into it and seeing black lace on the ground. He knows he’s just horrible when he walks in and shuts that door quietly, eyeing everything in there, the sweet lingering scent of your perfume hitting his senses.

Sukuna is also not proud when he’s in your room, when he takes those panties you slipped off before you left, just sitting on the carpet by your dresser. He’s not very proud when he picks them up to his face, inhaling your scent - fuck, his ‘stepsister’ has the sweetest pussy. He has done this before, and you just get sweeter tasting, as he desperately laps your slick off them.

He’s so not proud when he’s right in your bed, putting them to his face and releasing his thick cock then, red tip leaking precum and smacking his stomach as it’s released. He knows this isn’t a good thing to do, he’s Sukuna, he could have any woman he wants, they’re all after him, and he’s stealing panties and jerking it on a friday night.

He’s furious that Toji gets to touch you.

If Sukuna touched you, he’d grip your breasts, squish them in his hands, have you littered with his hand prints, show you what it is to really get fucked, and fucked so good you’re delirous from it. Bend you over, grip your wrists with one of his hands, stretch your cunt the fuck out. God he bets it’s so pretty, too, his mind vividly pictures it as he touches his tip, exhaling.

What is he reduced to from you!? In your bed, so big he hardly fits on the fucking thing, sprawled out with his long limbs as he strokes his thick, veiny cock slowly. Your panties are right against his face, he’s perverted and depraved for doing it, especially in your bed, but he can’t stop himself. He’s moaning softly into them, as your scent fills his mind, while his hand jerks it faster and faster.

He’s whispering your name, sweat slicking his muscled body, a thin sheen glimmering under your pretty fairy lights while he’s being fucking filthy on your bed. Picturing your tummy bulging with him, stroking slowly in and out, making you squirt cum all over him till your sheets were soaked. He’s jerking faster and faster, wishing it were you, so desperate and pathetic you make him.

He hates you more for making him this way, him, fucking Sukuna, pathetically cumming in his ‘step - sister’s’ bed, as if he could call you it. He barely knows you, aside from being a dick every break, pranking you to watch your pretty face so angry, getting off on it in far, far too many ways.

He didn’t have to be home for the summer, he actually put himself out doing it, just to see you, to fucking torment you, but it’s you who torment him, when he imagines tasting your pussy from the source. He’d lap his cum out of your cunt, then fill you up again, over and over, until there was no room for anymore, just messy and dripping all down your pretty thighs.

“Fuck,” he whispers it, muffling his moan with that fabric, as his cum pumps from his huge length, dripping in white ropes down his hand, pulsing in his hold. He’s gasping at the release, picturing putting it inside your bratty little fucking mouth.

He’s cleaned up then, right with your panties, whimpering the tiniest bit as they hit his sensitive tip, jerking as he lays there now, sooty pink lashes fluttering, furious as he thinks of you on your stupid date. You’ll never know what he really thinks, it has to be that way, but it doesn’t make it easier, not when he’s cuddling with a pillow that smells like your shampoo.

*****

“I had fun!” Toji smiles, that scar curving up just a bit, his big hand on your thigh as his engine hums.

“You did, huh?”

“I did, I needed that.” He chuckles and leans close, tilting your chin up now, inky locks falling over his brow. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he practically purrs the words, you gather their meaning quickly, heart racing just a bit as his lips descend. “Been thinking of this all night.”

Toji’s kiss is nothing like your ex, it’s a rough kiss, his tongue tracing your lips and slipping in your mouth when you gasp a bit. You hear his moan when he drags one of your thighs closer, spreading you, you feel your body reacting quickly, a mix of nerves, thoughts, and clearing your pussy is reacting too. She’s already been soaked for two days, and now she’s way too excited.

“God, doll,” Toji hums as he kisses you deeper, you’re trembling when his fingers slip up your thigh carefully, teasing and leaving goosebumps everywhere. His dark green eyes lock with yours as he pulls back. “You feel s’good, ya know that?”

“Do I?” You tease, he moans and kisses you again, while in front of your childhood home, it feels so… thrilling but terrifying.

Was Sukuna watching?

No way…

And if so, what would that make you feel?

You’re contemplating that as Toji finds you over your panties, you moan softly when rough fingers slip up and down them. “So hot, fuck…”

“Mnh!” You’re spreading your thighs for more, he feels so good, kisses taking over your addled mind, and you wonder if it can shove down the thoughts you’re having about your dumbass step brother. Thoughts you can’t have, shit you can’t do - even if either of you did want to.

Sukuna would never want you like that. He’s never called you pretty, not that he should, but he’s said the opposite all the time. He doesn’t know, calling you a fucking gremlin or whatever sucks sometimes, you don’t expect his compliments, but deep down a part wants them anyway. You get looking extra pretty for him, a fact you’ll take to your fucking grave.

Toji slips under your panties, you’re gasping when he touches your wet slit with expert fingers. “Soaked, huh doll? Need me to make ya feel good?”

“I’m… ah! Toji…” you grip his wrist, his thumb is circling on your clit now, it feels really fucking good, twitching against his touch. “Mnh…”

“Wanna cum f’me, pretty?” He’s rolling quicker, more pressure now, while he drags messy kisses on your neck.

“Um, I don’t fuck on the - ngh - first date, Toji.” He pulls back now, a smile tugging on his mouth.

“Was just gonna have you cum on my fingers - fuck, mouth if you want,” you’re blushing and he notices, chuckling again. “You’re cute.”

“Cute, huh?” You wonder what it would be like, you’ve always pictured it with Sukuna, his long fingers and black nails in your cunt, things you should never, you shove it back, focusing now. “You wanna finger me?”

“Wanna have you cum,” his voice is gruff, he’s not fucking around when he slips a finger in your soppy little cunt, your nails press into the leather of his jacket as he kisses you again. “Mmm, that’s it.”

Your eyes shut as he massages your cunt with his fingers, stretching you out and making you tense, thighs trembling on either side. For whatever stupid reason you can’t get fucking Sukuna’s body in a towel out of your damn mind, no matter how many times you shove it down, instead just getting wetter. You focus on kissing him, on feeling him, the squishing wetness loud in his car still running.

“That’s it, cum, I can feel it.” Toji’s words urge you on, as he sucks along your shoulder, sinking his teeth in as his fingers curl just so, and you feel yourself cum then, pressure building and releasing in your tummy.

“Ah!” You’re whining out, earning Toji’s grin against your skin, you feel his teeth lines along you, breaths coming quicker and quicker. “Toji, god…”

“You’re so wet.” He puts your panties back, a hand entangled in your hair now. “See, I wasn't gonna go that far.”

“Are you a gentleman?”

“Fuck no,” you giggle a bit. “But we don’t have to rush things. Are you gonna go out with me again?”

“I’d like that.” He kisses you once more, you’re a little dizzy, from your thoughts, your mind, when you walk back to the porch and Toji takes off.

Why do you feel bad?

Surely not for his ass.

Surely not for a man who is just… a jerk, who’s hot sure okay, Toji is too. You need to shove it down, all of it. You try to do just that, it’s still warm outside so the jackets were a silly idea, you unlock the door with your key, stepping inside and sighing as you feel the cool air conditioning hit your skin.

You slip off your shoes by the front door, picking them up and carrying them as you walk back up the stairs, yawning a bit. You know it’s late, so you try to be quiet when you finally walk into your room. You’re taking off that top and skirt, fingers touching the knobs of your dresser so you can find some comfy clothes to sleep in. Mom has everything you’ve ever owned in here still, so you have to sift through the old clothes.

Suddenly, you hear a rustle behind you, making you jerk and eye the mirror, nearly fucking screaming as you see something turning under your goddamn blankets.

“What the fuck!?” You walk over there now, seeing the tints of pink hair in the dark, as none other than Sukuna is in your goddamn bed.

You shove at the big lug of a fucking man, only for him to stop snoring and peek at you with eyes almost black, you tense as they hit you, as you realize you’re just in a bra and panties now. They drift down your body, when he leans up, yawning now, his look making you feel even wetter, even more needy than earlier.

“Are you pranking me? Get up…” Your voice is quiet, as he yawns, gripping your wrist then, tugging you until you almost straddle him over those sheets. You gasp at it, at how his hand brushes across your shoulder.

“Let him mark your perfect fucking skin?” He demands in a scratchy, husky voice, shocking you so much you blink, leaning back. You’re far too close to his hard length you feel under those sheets, against your inner thigh.

“Are you having some weird dream? Sukuna, it’s me…” You say your name, but he hears nothing with the blood rushing in his own ears, as he eyes that damn mark Toji left on your pretty shoulder. His thumb brushes it, while he pictures leaving marks everywhere. “Sukuna?”

He tugs you closer, until you’re sprawled over him, and he’s too fucking tired to stop it, to stop how badly he wants you - the girl he shouldn’t but can’t fucking help but want over anyone. You have no clue, he sees it in your shocked gaze, when he eyes your other shoulder, pristine and free from any marks.

“Did you like it, brat?” He asks softly, you don’t know what to say at that moment, you just look at him, at his lidded eyes and parted lips.

What do you say to that?

“Would you be mad if I did? I’m a grown up, y’know that?” He scoffs then, huge hand slipping up your bare spine, watching as your eyes flutter shut. “Sukuna…”

“Can’t answer, brat?”

“What’re you even doing in here?” You tug back a bit, but he just drags you back down, and soon you find yourself completely straddling him - Sukuna, your enemy, your… what is he exactly?

tagsss- @sukubusss @yamadramallamaqueen @quinny23 @flowerymenendez @valleydolli @gradmacoco @lolliibunny @chosolover32 @tiredasiandaughter @nanam1nz @sukunabish @valentinegab3 @heichouaack @throwmethroughawindow @mizuwki @omkookie @lemonadesforsale @dannaya @maybe-a-bi-witch @fl4weriesworld @karvokr @pillkits @yummycastiel @fl4weriesworld @kitty-yaps @kitassecretgf @deathrye @musiclover2119 @goldenfawnwriting @sttaejoon-blog @lil-cinn @keiiate @sageosimps @paradisestarfishh @ohohostinkyyyyy @blitziwitch @b0nez9 @sukunaforlife @mihauh @gojodickbig @ashlantismorning @erenspersonalwh0re @uncertainlyours @t4ters @msniks @seellove @lnette04 @salemsays66 @chxngminji @poopooindamouf

[underskz]

➪ ‘TIL NEXT TUESDAY

➪ mark lee x cisfem!reader ✩ w.c 8.5k — NSFW ✩ 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: you're a camgirl with a secret admirer who's a little (okay maybe a lot) obsessed

note: y'all do not understand the pain,,, the struggle,,,, the trauma that this fic has inflicted upon me <//3 i quite literally started writing it last year on mark lees stupid lil bday and have been typing away at it for so mf long and have had to dig into the deepest filthiest depths of my brain to finally finish this,,,,, anyways welcome to my twisted mind and we can all blame mark lee my greatest enemy,,,, i hate u… anyways pls make note of the warnings !!! btw don’t ask me what website they’re using idk i couldn’t be fcked to think that hard

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, aka smut, obsessive behavior, viscerally lewd comments, uh lying LOL, wolf in sheep’s clothing energy (good church boy mark lee and his hidden demons <3), honestly both reader and mark r freaky (aww they match each others freaks!), readers thinly veiled shame kink, unsafe sex/no condom, barely any prep lol, not beta read bc im a full send girl (sorry for any typos etc LMAO)

There’s clearly something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ and you can’t quite figure it out. Sure, he seems to be just another fan of your work. And maybe his comments tended to be on the imaginative side.

i wanna dick you down til next tuesday

stuff your guts this thursday and stay buried in you thru the weekend

til youre cryin to me about how you can feel my dick in your throat

how pretty would you cry for me?

That little voice in the back of your head whispers (the one that sounds far too much like Donghyuck), an annoying little I told you so, someone was bound to get obsessed. It wasn’t like you never considered or even feared the possibility. 

But these comments, this person, there was something there. You click into a different video, scrolling down to a specific cluster of comments.

i wanna ruin you so fuckin bad

ruin that pussy for anyone else

wanna hear you beg me to stop 

until it turns into begging me for more

sound fun sweetheart?

Every video, every clip, every single little teaser you post; there’s a thread from him. His stupid username right there, ‘66golden_boy99’ and a digital paper trail that ranges from being unforgivably horny to borderline demented and most of the time a combination of both. 

fuck if i could keep you in a little cage…

i’d fuck u every day all day

turn you into my perfect little pet

made just for my cock

don’t you want that too?

You can’t help but let your mouth gape at that one, a cage? Your head spins at the thought, trying (and failing) to not let your imagination wander.

There’s a certain thrill that crawls down your spine, twisting itself deep into your gut and lodging itself there. An ache that you can’t quite sate yourself, barely sated by these comments. 

So yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ but that could only mean there’s something wrong with you.

“Mark, read this! Isn’t it insane?” Donghyuck all but smacks him in the face with your phone.

“Oh! Um.” He immediately flushes, no doubt flustered by the nature of the comments along with the fact he’s one of your few friends who still gets a little red in the cheeks by your choice of profession. 

Good church boy Mark Lee at your service. Who thankfully plucks your phone from Donghyuck and passes it back to you— most likely to avoid further being subjected to such filth in broad daylight. 

“Don’t bust a tit Hyuck, it’s just some dude living out his freaky fantasy while hiding behind a screen.” You knew it was going to be brought up the moment you saw your friends, but you had hoped that Donghyuck would have the decency to not mention it while seated outside a popular cafe on a busy street.

Jokes on you for thinking he could keep his cool about this. The moment you had sent a screenshot to the group chat Donghyuck had been rearing for a fight, overly scandalized and always righteous whenever he thought his friends were being treated badly.

There was no way in hell you’d tell him those comments piqued your debased interest.

“It’s a little creepy.” Jungwoo settles on, stealing a blueberry off of your parfait. “He doesn’t message when you’re live though.”

“Nope, only comments on clips and videos.” You bite back your disappointment, maintaining an almost clinical tone.

“Does he even watch your streams?” Jungwoo questions as he attempts to swipe a strawberry this time, narrowly thwarted by you whacking his hand with your plastic spoon. 

“What difference does it make? He’s a fucking perv!” Donghyuck snipes.

The answer is yes, he does watch every single one of your streams. Occasionally donates too, yet no messages. No live interactions.

“Hyuck, my whole fanbase are pervs.” You ignore the glare of an elderly woman as she passes by your table. “When did you become such a prude?”

It’s enough of a jab to send the man into a fit, ranting and raving about how he’s perfectly freaky enough and that his boyfriend(s) is (are) so into how weird and kinky he could get. 

“Seriously though, is he scaring you?” Mark whispers, careful to not catch Donghyuck’s attention lest he starts laying into you about your “creepy” admirer again. Mark’s considerate like that.

For a moment you sit with the question, mindlessly spooning around your half eaten parfait. Were you scared? You knew full well you were bound to deal with the occasional creep when you decided to pursue camming as a full-time job after university. 

But you weren’t— aren’t scared, initially you had maybe been a bit unnerved. Yet you hadn’t shared the messages because you wanted your friends to “save” you or anything. More so because you were shocked by the sheer audacity and of course by what was being said.

If Donghyuck wasn’t so busy talking about getting spit roasted much to the horror of Jungwoo, he’d be pestering you for the answer too. And you would’ve lied, told him that you were a little nervous but nothing that’d keep you from carrying on as usual.

Instead you have Mark asking, no trace of judgment behind his thick rimmed glasses, just a curious glint with a healthy dash of concern for a friend.

“He’s not.” Is what ends up coming out. It’s simpler than the whole truth, cleaner as well. 

You couldn’t admit to one of your best friends that it sent a thrill down your spine, to have someone so obsessed they comment utter depravity on every post you make. That you’ve checked to make sure this mystery creep was watching your every stream. And that there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more than to be craved so deeply, to be ached for, to be someone’s sole obsession. 

“If you do get freaked out or anything, uh understandably so, we’ll figure something out. I’ll beat him up?” Mark offers one of his dorky smiles, and despite his statement inspiring little hope — seriously Mark is way too sweet to ‘beat’ anyone up — you still appreciate the sentiment. Offering him a big spoonful of whipped cream and strawberries for his valiant statement.

“Hey! Why does Mark get fed and I have to fight for a crumb?” Jungwoo cries out only causing you to roll your eyes and spark even more outrage from him.

You're thankful that the rest of the outing goes on without another mention of a certain fan of yours. Though Mark seems to be shooting more indiscernible looks your way than usual, but that’s easy to chalk down as him just projecting his own anxieties onto you.

When you all start to bid farewell Donghyuck wastes a few minutes to preach about the dangers of internet strangers, while Jungwoo goads and teases him until his nagging is turned onto Jungwoo.

Again Mark offers comfort — though you really have no need for it, considering the fact you honestly are enjoying the debased behavior more than you maybe should — and you pretend to appreciate it.

needa fuck you over and over and over

til your pretty lil pussy is gaping open

so i can see the way i paint you up inside

wouldn’t you like that?

Yes, you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, fuck yes.

You had just posted a teaser for your next video, a simple reaction to some random threesome video your subscribers had begged you to watch. 

And as always without fail, only a few minutes after you’ve hit post your phone lights up with notifications from ‘66golden_boy99’. You should hate how much you look forward to it— how you’re practically gagging for it (him).

You remember his first thread of comments, remember the scandal that pumped through your veins as the words registered in your brain. 

The thrill.

well aren’t you a sweet thing

He had started it off so normally.

you look like you dont care for just any kind of fun

you look like u need to be fucked within an inch of your life

thrown around and violated like a stupid little toy

i could do that

It’s the only time he hadn’t ended with a question. The only statement needed to stake his claim, to solidify his place. 

It planted the seed right in your lust ridden mind, the growing need to see more and more. It becomes a sick little ritual, to go looking for his comments just after you tuck yourself into bed under the guise of resting for the day. 

You’re desperate enough to reread old ones, to stare at the same comments from days or even weeks ago. Sometimes he’ll throw you a bone, coming back to leave another thread of comments for you to find. 

wanna fill you up so bad

make you take it over and over and over

til my cum is dripping outta you for days

so that all that’s in your pretty head is the thought of my cock pumping you full

wanna make it happen?

Maybe it’s the way you’ve never replied to them, or even acknowledge them in a stream. It doesn’t deter him from continuing, his perverted dedication proving something to you. Something twisted and delicious and all too tempting.

need you so bad

just need to use you over and over and over and over so fuckin bad

turn you into my own pretty fleshlight to use whenever i please

just wanna use you all up baby

how much can you take?

Thursday streams are one of your three weekly streams, and while it had marginally less viewers therefore profit than your Friday and every other Saturday ones, it was by far your favorite.

The chat is far more relaxed, which means you have a better chance to interact with viewers, to have a more intimate stream.

It means you can instead sit at your desk, dressed in nothing but an oversized white tee, playing with your hair and batting your lashes. While making idle conversation as your viewers dutifully pay you compliments and donate small amounts as a hello.

66golden_boy99: hey there

“Oh? Golden boy? And here I was thinking you weren’t interested enough in having a live convo with me.” You wonder if he waited for this, a Thursday stream with an even lower than usual number of viewers to finally send his first message in chat. Was your little freak shy? Only able to sling his filth when nobody was paying attention?

Too late for that, he was in your sights now. 

66golden_boy99: nah just liked sitting here and watching you too much

“Is that so?” You feign distraction, looking off towards the side as you tap your chin thoughtfully. “But here I am, doing nothing. Isn’t that boring?”

There’s a flood of no’s in the chat, messages ranging from horny to sweet about how some like just chatting and others saying that you should at least take off your shirt.

“My shirt? It’s only been twenty-ish minutes since I’ve started and you all don’t wanna butter me up first? Tell me how pretty I am?” You’re accused of being a tease, which is of course your exact angle. Some of them bite, sending cooing comments about how they’d love to see your shirt off, some going as far as to send in a few dollars. 

$200 from 66golden_boy99

it’s okay sweetheart, show em what’ll be mine

Your jaw drops, because while he had tipped in the past, it was never this much. You can’t help the shiver that itches down your spine, ‘what’ll be mine’ he says, like he already has you in the bag.

“Aww you wanna see me that bad? Everyone say thank you to Golden Boy!” You goad, making a show of hooking your thumbs in the hem of your shirt. Slowly you drag the fabric across your flesh, inch by inch exposing how you truly had nothing under your flimsy excuse for clothing. 

66golden_boy99: and where’s your thank you?

“That’s right, you were so generous after all, I should give you a little treat to show my appreciation.” Again you flutter your lashes. “How do you want me?”

66golden_boy99: spreading your legs like a desperate slut

66golden_boy99: wanna see you fuck your fingers

66golden_boy99: cmon babe show off your perfect pussy and open yourself up for me

“Anything for you.” And maybe you’re a little fucked in the head for how much you mean it. 

You’ve never had a favorite before. Nobody in your chat, comments and so on have ever caught your attention. They’ve never bothered to be so interesting, to be so openly obsessed.

Slowly you let your hands wander, cupping your tits before letting your fingertips dance along your ribcage, inching down, down, down. 

You pathetically think of him, wonder who’s on the other side of the screen. It could be some old man, or some greasy incel, maybe it’s someone you’ve met on the street. It could be anyone, and it sickens you almost as much as it excites you.

Carefully, you plant your feet on the edge of your desk, sliding down a few inches in your chair as you spread nice and wide for the camera. 

“This what you want?” The words jumble in your mouth as your fingers continue to  find their way south. You dig your nails into your thighs, moaning loudly at the bite of them into your tender skin.

Shame was something that had long escaped you in this field of work, only the tastefully faked sense of it ever gracing you these days. But there’s that all too familiar burn crawling back into your chest after almost years of nothing. Scorching away at your insides as your fingers drag along your waiting pussy. 

You’re wet, you’re wet and it’s because of some fucking freak on the internet. Your eyes zero in on the chat, hoping to catch a comment from him.

66golden_boy99: fucking perfect for me always so good

It’s all you need to keep going, to let wanton moans tumble out left and right as your back arches into your own touch.

The sense of shame doesn’t diminish, doesn’t fade as you tease your clit and pump your fingers pitifully into your sopping cunt, loudly bemoaning the fact you didn’t grab a toy. 

66golden_boy99: you’ll cum just like this baby, no toys, just your fingers and wishing it was me instead

“Nnn- please.” It’s whiner than you’ve ever heard yourself, because goddammit you are wishing it was him. Old man be damned he had a wicked way of speaking, of sneaking into the dark recesses of your mind and ripping you open. Exposing a side of you that you’d long since buried, a side of you craving to be devoured wholly.

Pleasure snakes through your body, dropping down into your belly as you cum with a whimper. You make a show of bringing your fingers to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste yourself, that sick part of you hoping it makes him want you more. 

You slump against your chair, mindlessly answering chats as you fix yourself into a more comfortable position. You don’t bother looking for your shirt, letting your viewers enjoy watching your chest rise and fall in panting breaths, admire the way the sweat gleams on your skin.

You hope his eyes are glued to his screen. You hope you’re driving him absolutely insane.

“I fear I might be tapped out for the night, but don’t worry there’s always Sunday.” You manage to get out a real sentence, your brain still a little mushy from the post-orgasm haze. “Sweet dreams everyone!” 

You take a moment to let the chat fill with well wishes, a few more donations and scan for a message from one user in particular.  

66golden_boy99: good night sweet thing, dream of me

And oh, you just might. 

Ending streams were nothing special, just a click of a button and your privacy was all yours again. Leaving you with a plethora of thoughts, a tiny remnant of that formerly elusive shame and a craving for something or more accurately someone. 

Send a friend request to 66golden_boy99?

What did you have to lose? What did you have to gain? 

There’s a little angel on your shoulder in the shape of Donghyuck, your ever annoying moral compass, telling you to go shower and to never feed into this anonymous man’s delusions again.

While the little devil on your shoulder shaped like Yuta does nothing, sits there and smirks at you knowing full well you’ll choose his route. 

You always do. 

Sorry Hyuck.

Friend request sent!

Three days go by, no comments, no messages on stream, nothing. Absolute silence.

You can’t help yourself but watch each excruciating second tick by, waiting for something, anything from him. Three whole days of obsessively checking your phone, every social media tied to your occupation and nothing.

It’s like he up and fucking forgot about you. And maybe three days seems too short of a timeline to be losing it, but this is a man who has been all over your account — and notifications — for months.

And he gets scared off by a friend request. 

God, you should’ve known better than to trust Yuta, even if he was just a figment of your imagination at that moment. Though the real Yuta would’ve said the same thing anyway, therefore still making this whole ordeal his fault.

But as fun as blaming your friend and obsessing over whether your twisted little admirer would accept your request, let alone give you something to work with nowadays. It was driving you up the fucking wall. 

You need a distraction, and you need it badly.

Your usual and immediate reaction to having nothing to do and needing attention would be to ask Donghyuck to go out and do something stupid, but the lucky bastard was on vacation with his boyfriend(s?) probably getting fucked into the new year.

So you’re left to consider your options but Jungwoo is definitely still at work and Yuta just left to visit his family. And your other friends lived too far.

That only left you with Mark. God, you need more friends in close proximity. Not because you don’t like Mark, you adore the man if anything and still consider him one of your best friends. It's just that despite all the years of friendship the two of you just haven’t figured out how to quite mesh conversationally like the others. 

You need more spark, conviction. Mark Lee talks like a wet noodle came to life and decided to use ‘yo’, ‘dude’ and ‘woah’ on a permanent rotation. 

At least he’s a great listener.

And since he’s one of your closest friends nonetheless, he would have no problem with you coming over to eat his snacks and lounge on his couch while he works from home. 

So you shoot him a text.

TO: marky markmarkly sparkly can i cum over ;P 

FROM: marky markHaha sure dude! I told you stop spelling it like that > < 

TO: marky markprude be there in 10 want coffee ?

FROM: marky markSure! Caramel latte please :3 

He even texts like a good and innocent church boy. But he’s definitely had girlfriends, and that one boyfriend, so there’s no way he’s a virgin. Is it possible to be a blushing virgin in spirit and at heart?

“Hey beautiful, what can I get ya?” The barista’s stare is nothing short of sleazy, not even bothering to make eye contact as he tries to magically see through your clothing. 

“I’ll take a caramel latte, lemme double check what my boyfriend wanted, hmm just a regular coffee.” And okay it’s a little demeaning to Mark to switch your coffee orders in front of this greaseball. 

The boyfriend comment works well enough, if you take the guy opting to just stare at your ass as you walk out the door instead of bullying you for your number a win.

Thankfully Mark's apartment is just around the corner, and somehow you manage to key in the code not once but twice despite carrying two drinks.

“Marky! Coffee!” Immediately he comes tumbling down the hallway, eyes wide with confusion. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his glasses crooked and half-hanging off his face. His sweat stained white tee, and low hanging gray sweats only the cherry atop the homebody trainwreck sundae of a man before you.

“Hey, yo, shit! Uh dude!” He stops a few steps in front of you, scratching his head sheepishly. “I thought…you would take longer.”

“Do I look like Jungwoo? Or worse, Yuta?” You feign offense with a dramatic gasp. 

“Nah! Ha…ha, um come on in, it’s a fuckin’ mess but like you know, ‘m swamped with work and…”

You hand him his latte and push past him, barely batting an eye at the nightmarish state of his apartment. There’s mountains of paperwork and books stacked along the walls, empty food boxes, bags and wrappers scattered across the floor (along with any other available surface) and you’re trying desperately to not gag at the state of his kitchen.

“Johnny would clean?” You muse as you kick aside an empty pasta box. 

“Johnny would clean.” He sighs. Johnny, being Mark’s roommate, along with (one of) Donghyuck’s boyfriend(s???) is currently on vacation. On top of that, from what you've heard, he’s barely been at the apartment at all the past few months. Definitely too busy catering to every single one of Hyuck’s whims and dramatics.

“I could help?”

“Woah! I couldn’t ask you that, I made this mess on my own. I’ll clean it er.. eventually.” He gestures loosely.

“Mark Lee.” You muster up your best deadpan tone. “I’m so bored I’m gonna chew my own hand off, please let me help you clean your awfully disgusting apartment.” 

“That bad?” He snorts.

“I think that pile of dust moved on it’s own.” At least you’re hoping it’s a pile of dust and not some undiscovered rodent that thrives in the apartments of bachelors with piss poor cleaning habits.

“…I think you’re right. Hey um, lemme just shower and change, I think I’m just as gross as this place. We can clean together. So just…” He shoves aside the pile of laundry inhabiting the couch just enough to give you a place to sit. “Sit for a second?”

The poor guy looks like he’s on the brink of a meltdown, and if you didn’t know Mark as well as you do you would’ve called an ambulance. But he just always has that air around him, exhausted and overworked— but always smiling through it.

“I’m in no rush.” You pat his arm before taking a seat in the space he so generously carved out for you. The second Mark walks off to the bathroom you make yourself nice and comfortable, switching on the TV, straightening out some of the magazines and assorted papers on the coffee table. 

Mindlessly you even start folding some of the laundry next to you. The thought of taking pictures and sending them to Donghyuck so he could show Johnny just how far his roomie has fallen in his absence promptly interrupts your side task.

But to your dismay you find your phone is barely holding on by a few measly percentages. Looking around the living room you know there’s definitely no hope in trying to find a charger on your own. So instead you head off towards the bathroom, following the sound of the shower pouring down.

“Mark!” You knock harshly, hoping he can hear you okay. 

“Yeah?” His voice comes through clear, sounding only a little startled by your sudden presence.  

“Need to charge my phone!” 

There’s a moment of pause and you can only assume it’s because his room is so hellish he can’t even remember where he put the thing.

“By my bed!”

“Thanks!”

His room is actually better than the living room and kitchen, not by much, but still better. You navigate around the clothes and books strewn about the floor. Giggling at his wastebasket full of balled up tissues and a used up bottle of lotion, you definitely couldn’t wait to tell Donghyuck when he gets back. 

Making fun of Mark was an art, a beloved pastime of your friend group. And he always took it like a champ.

You plop down on his unmade bed, looking around for his charger. It’s half under the bed when you spot it, tugging the cord only for there to be a bit of resistance. Carefully you lower yourself to the floor, yanking at the charger and forcing Mark’s IPad to come flying at you.

“Shit!” It lands next to you face down on the hardwood and you pray to whatever gods that you haven’t cracked it. Slowly you pick it up, carefully flipping it over as you prepare yourself for the damage.

“Oh, my god.”

Because it’s not cracked, it’s not even locked, it’s still open to what Mark had been watching last to be exact.

One of your streams, one of your streams with you bent over one of your pillows, both holes stuffed with toys in the perfect position for the camera to see everything. It’s not even a new video, you haven’t done anything like that in months. 

There’s a blur in your vision as you shoot up, lightheaded from standing up straight so suddenly. A scorching heat begins to burn in your gut, creeping through your veins. 

You can still hear the shower going, and you know it must be wrong, to go through his private device like this but…it’s you. He’s been watching you, one of your most bible-thumping, prude-built friends who can barely look you in the eyes and blushes whenever you or your friends make dirty jokes, has been watching your debaucherous streams and has never said a word. 

Sure, Yuta and Jungwoo have confessed to watching more than once and Donghyuck is a fucking mod for your streams. It never bothered you if your friends watched, it wouldn’t bother you now.

But this is…this is different. He kept his viewership a secret, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Was he too embarrassed to say? Was he afraid it’d ruin your friendship?

You close out the video, looking through his watch history which consists solely of your videos, looking at who he follows — you, only you, and you can’t tell if that’s a good thing yet — and now the used tissues in his trash bin don’t feel so funny anymore. 

“Oh.” You mutter lamely as you open up his comment history. Fucking oh. 

66golden_boy99: wanna fuck you with my tongue til youre squirting all over my face

And your world collapses, punctuated by the sound of the shower turning off— yet that’s lost on your ears. You can’t hear anything but the furious pound of your heart trying to dismantle your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins and sloshing around your head. 

Mark Lee, sweet, kind and innocent. Mark Lee, who stutters just talking about who he likes. Mark Lee, the resident saint of the group.

Is him. 

The man who’s been peddling filth into your mind, who’s been haunting you every time you decide to start your stream or post a video, skulking around every comment section with your name on it. 

Is Mark fucking Lee.

“Heya! Did ya find…it.” It’s cinematic honestly, the way his stride slows as his eyes frantically flicker back and forth between you and the IPad. “Y-Y-You!”

It’s instantaneous, his face turning a brilliant crimson as he trips over himself to grab the tablet and throw it haphazardly to the side.

His chest is heaving, panic creasing his features as you look him over. He kept the same color scheme, you think emptily, white tank top and gray basketball shorts. It does nothing for your brain as you stare at him mouth agape.

“I c-can explain?” He has the audacity to squeak, to look ashamed even. He’s trying to hide behind his bangs as they fall over his eyes, trying to look so innocent despite his filthy secret coming to light.  

“Why didn’t you accept my friend request?” It’s probably not what you should open with, and Mark’s jaw simply hanging open at the question might be a testament to that.

“…What?” His croaks, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t accept it, why? And where have you been, it’s been three whole days? I’ve been fucking waiting for—”

“You’re not mad?” His voice is still uneven, and even a pitch higher. 

“Mad? Mad? I’m pissed, you, you idiot!” And you are. Probably. Your mind so fucked from trying to comprehend this newfound piece of info you don’t even know where to begin with how you’re feeling. So mad must be the best place to start. 

“For months I’ve been wondering who had the fucking balls to send these freaky borderline insane comments.” He flinches. “Wondering just who the hell was making me feel like, like…that.”

“I—”

“And it was you! Right under my nose, looking at me with those stupid round eyes and big glasses a-and you just pretended like you knew nothing? …I got off to you on stream?” You hate the way your voice sounds so high in your ears, teetering on the edge of full blown shrieking.

“Please, I’m sor…”

“When Hyuck showed those comments were you even ashamed?” You hiss.

He’s blubbering now, eyes pinned somewhere to the ground; half cooked sentences or maybe excuses scattering about the floor with the rest of his mess. It’s all lost on your ears, a million different thoughts in your head drowning it all out. 

His hands raise as if admitting defeat, even beginning to back away in a pitiful attempt at escaping but like hell you’ll let the fool get away from you now. 

“Goddammit, Mark Lee, look at me!” And he does, his mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing on you. His stupid glasses are nowhere to be seen, giving you an unfiltered front row view of how his pupils are blown wide. “Did you mean it?” 

“Mean…what?” You could kill him, you really could because how after all these months of sending you towards the edge with the crudest, filthiest words he can barely say a proper sentence standing before you.

“Any of it! All of it, was it all just talk?” You must’ve hit a nerve. He’s silent again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the accusation. But it slips away, a fickle persona he shoves down. 

His hands lower to his sides.

“...What do you want?” His voice is more even, eyebrows knitting together. 

You know what he’s asking — he was obvious like that, his heart always worn so proudly on his sleeve — because even now with his disgusting secret out in the open between the two of you. He has the audacity to try to take the gentlemanly route of getting you to explicitly state what you want from him, if you want him. 

When all you’ve been waiting for was for him to take.

“What do I want, huh? Let me tell you what I think first.” You know this will definitely make or break what happens next, and maybe even your friendship. But you’re sick of his games, of dancing around whatever the hell was going on between the two of you. “I think you’re all bark and no fucking bite, I think you hide behind a screen because you’re a coward and you probably couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper bag.”

His eyes narrow once more.

“You hide behind your good little god fearing boy next door persona when you’re a freak who likes watching one of his best friends get off on camera!” 

He takes a step closer.

“I think you’re filthy and depraved, a repressed weirdo with disgusting kinks. A borderline incel!”

And another step.

“I bet the second you actually got inside of me you’d cum and cry yourself to sleep in a matter of seconds.” His expression darkens at that, and now you’re starting to think that you should stop. 

But where’s the fun in that?

“You couldn’t handle even half the shit you said online, you cowardly little prude, you tiny dicked—”

You don’t realize his hands are on you until you're backed against the wall, one tightly gripping your hip while the other lands on your chest keeping you firmly in place.

“You never shut up. Even in your streams and videos you're constantly yammering on, whimpering and whining and begging.” His voice is low, buzzing around your ears and in your head. You look down at the tent forming in his shorts, mouth drying and watering simultaneously.  

“That for me?” Your tongue feels thick as you look up at him through your lashes.

The hand on your chest inches up, until his palm settles against your throat and you're left wondering if he’ll indulge you by tightening his fingers. Even just a little.

“Even now, can’t shut the fuck up.” He moves in closer, until his hardened cock is against your thigh and he’s forcing his knee between yours. “I asked what you wanted, not for you to insult me.”

“You-”

“So I’ll tell you what I want.” And you feel so wildly out of your depth, there’s a cognitive dissonance you can’t quite escape. Good church boy Mark means wholesome activities, ice cream in the park, farmer’s markets and, and–  

“And then you’re gonna try again for me.” 

“M-Me?” It comes out lamely. Is this really Mark Lee? You think belatedly. Looking at you like he wants to tear you apart inch by inch with nothing but his teeth and tongue.

“I want you on my tongue, on my cock, want you begging for me to stop but it’s all just a filthy fucking lie. I want you to want me to ruin you, this, us.” His voice is raspier, laced with a desperation and craving you’ve never heard before and damn do you need to hear more, so much more.

“So try again. Tell me what you want.” And you can see it, that plea in his eyes for you to just say it. To know you want this as badly as he does, the promise, the threat of him finally letting go looming over the two of you.

“Want.” You grab him by the face, pressing your nose against his and staring into the black depths of his pupils. “Want good boy Mark Lee to die right before my eyes, wan’ you to eat me ‘til nothin’ is left.”

It’s slurred, you’re delirious, so drunk off the way he’s already hard off of you screaming at him (or maybe it was getting caught), at the way he’s demanding you to express your want for him when you’d rather just be on your knees.

But the thing is you always have wanted, craved. That underlying itch to see one of your best friends let loose, the borderline wanting (what you thought was) a random stranger to break into your apartment and do filthy, unmentionable things to you. When you flipped over that IPad thinking you broke it to find yourself being the object of his debauched desire, when you saw his username on the site. 

You ached.

It’s stupid and toeing the line of embarrassing with how badly you want, no, need him, how turned on by the fact he doesn’t even know which person to be in front of you. Doesn’t quite know how to be both.

“Let him die.” Is all he can say, having the audacity to take advantage of your stupor to kiss you. To push you back up against the wall and slot his lips against yours, pulling back just to dive back in before you could truly feel his absence. Over and over each one messier, hotter than the last as a debaucherous hunger flows between the two of you.

“You don’t get it.” He mumbles, pressing himself firmly against you, sweat starting to prickle against your skin. “When y-you started camming I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

And suddenly you could see it, vividly. Just behind your eyelids was Mark hunched over in his bed, one of your streams or videos playing in the background as he furiously chased his release. Only to be left wallowing in the shame of jerking it with cheap lotion to you, forced to clean himself off with even cheaper tissues and spending the rest of his night completely alone.

“Your perfect fucking pussy, for everyone to see…when I’ve been waiting.” He rasps, hands finding their way back onto your body. “Couldn’t stand it, couldn’t fuckin’ stand it.”

“Mm, Ma-ark…” Without hesitation he twists his head, allowing himself to sink his teeth at the base of your throat. Pulling away to focus another dark look at you, that heady mixture of unmitigated want and wicked promises swirling in his eyes.

“S’All I could think about, even with our friends.” He noses along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe as his breathing turns ragged. “Wanted to haul you onto the table and fuck you ‘til your head went dumb, ‘til all was left was you squealing like a fuckin’ whore while they all watched.”

There’s a cartoon halo of stars around your head, surely there is, each word from his mouth adding another to the ditzy constellation circling your brain. This is him, this is Mark ‘Golden Boy’ Lee and his once hidden (and so deliciously unhinged) silver tongue. 

“Pl-Please, oh fu— please.” His lips are back to working against your throat, and just as you try to reach up and grab at him, to try and sway him into relieving some of the tension building in the air. 

He steps back, yanking at your arm.

Yet he doesn’t give you a chance to simply fall, or even react. Instead he uses your off-kilter balance to push you onto your knees, thankful that he’s a sloppy loser when you land on a pile of clothes.

“This.” He doesn’t bother being shy about tugging his shorts and boxers off in one fluid motion. “This is how I want you.”

He pauses, as if to let you admire the view and you’re not nearly above doing so as your eyes roam so shamelessly. 

Of course he’s cut, with neatly trimmed hair adorning his groin. And though he's just above average in length, he definitely makes up in girth. You think hazily that calling him tiny dicked was definitely a lie.

Your mouth waters.

He lets out a low chuckle of all things, surely laughing at the way your eyes have widened. And maybe you did let your tongue swipe over your lips in anticipation.

“Go ahead, before I make it hurt.” His words are delayed, understanding creeping in slowly; impaired by having long let that fog of desperation cloud your mind. 

You move before you can think, nosing along the side of his cock, pressing a kiss to a cute little mole that you hope to revisit at a later date. But for now you’re flattening your tongue against the base of his shaft and dragging it up his length at a frustrating rate.

He’s heavy on your tongue, thick and heavy and so so hot, and fuck he tastes good or maybe you’re just already addicted. Doomed from the start. 

There’s a war raging in your mind, whether to try your hardest to please him with your mouth, all too tempted to hear the pretty, desperate sounds he’ll make and maybe it’ll earn you a bit of praise. Or to tease until he’s pissed off enough to throw any regard for you and your (throat’s) wellbeing out the window.

The latter is far more appealing.

Coyly you look up at him again through your lashes once more, bringing your tongue to tease at the tip of his cock, licking off a bead of precum forming.

“Are you tryin’ to blow me or piss me off?” Ah, so he has you all figured out.

“Haven’t decided.” You reply properly by taking his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before sinking further down and ignoring the slightly uncomfortable stretch of your lips. You could get used to this.

Languidly you try to mind your teeth as you sink further down, your jaw aching at the unprecedented stretch. Shallowly you bob your head, barely giving anything as you look up to meet his burning gaze.

“Enough.” He groans, clearly sick of the teasing as his hand comes around to hook his fingers around the back of your head.  

It’s enough of a warning as your hands come up to grip at his bare thighs, whimpering at the first tentative thrust. Unable to escape, knees aching and you can’t help but wonder how damp your panties will be by the time you get them off.

He’s careful at first, not to be too rough in his movements, trying to be considerate of your comfort. It’s ridiculous, and you let him know as much by stabbing your nails into his thighs only forcing him to accidentally bottom out. 

Tears well in your eyes as you choke, gagging around the sinfully thick intrusion into your throat.

“Woah! Fuck, I’m sor-”

He starts to pull away, and desperately you chase after him. But the fucker pulls out, grabbing you by the cheeks to look you in the eyes. 

“Do I have to start calling you names again?” Your voice is already wrecked, but not nearly enough, it could be worse, so much worse. If he would just fully let go. “Or are you just scared?”

He blinks at you, once, twice, those stupidly big eyes of his narrowing into something dangerous. 

“Two taps if it’s too much.”

“It won’t be.” You barely finish the sentence as he grabs you on either side of your head with both hands, pressing the leaking head of his cock against the seam of your lips, precum smearing across. You barely open your mouth before he’s shoving his entire cock down your throat again. 

You can see him, blurred by the tears stuck to your lashes, watching you with such reverence as you pitifully try to relax, still unable to avoid gagging and choking. Yet this time he offers no reprieve, keeps you firmly in place as tears stream down your face and your nails continue to dig into his thighs.

“T-That’s it, choke.” The break in his voice sends something hot through your chest, snaking through the rest of your body and creeping into your veins. How embarrassed would you really be if you came just from having your throat fucked? 

“Where are you?” Your wandering thoughts immediately cease, drawn back in by his fingers dancing along your cheekbone before settling at the back of your head.

He doesn’t even have the decency to let you catch your breath after pulling your attention, shallow thrusts turning reckless as he fucks your face with little regard for you— it’s everything you’ve every wanted from him.

It sends another surge of heat down into your belly, pooling between your thighs and now you’re wondering if your poor panties will even be salvageable after this. 

“Fuck that’s it, so fuckin’ good for me.” He bites his lip, and a part of you wishes you could be tugging on it too with your teeth. 

Use me, use me, use me. The thought fills your mind, leaving room for nothing else but Mark and his cock and your jaw and throat struggling to keep up. 

Frantically you tap on his calf, his response instantaneous.

“You good?” He pulls out again, swiping his thumb along your bottom lip to wipe away a mess of spit and precum.

“Need you,” and you could care less how your voice shakes and rasps, “need you in me so bad. Fuck me.” 

Your fingers dig into his thighs as you muster up the best pitiful look possible, silently begging for more. 

“C-Condom, need, condom.” He huffs, looking around his room frantically.

“Like hell, what happened to painting my insides huh?” Shakily you stand up, managing to push him towards the bed which he doesn’t even bother resisting. “Thought you wanted your cum dripping from my pussy for days.”

And he fucking growls, the sound so wildly animalistic you can barely believe it came from him.

“That what you want? You wanna feel me for days?” You’re on your back in a matter of seconds, his forearms landing on either side of your head to cage you in. He’s staring you down with an uncharacteristic intensity; a predator sizing up his prey.

“Ruin me for anybody else.” It comes out broken, desperation seeping from each word. How much more do you need to bend before he finally breaks?

He’s back on you, a barrage of teeth and tongue assaulting your flesh as his hands leave no part of you untouched, kneading and feeling. Just as you try to bring your own shirt over your head he pushes away your hands, allowing him to take over stripping you bare. 

Each caress of his fingers leaves a trail of fire, almost too hot to bear.  

“Please Marky, please.” It comes out high and whiny and so very needy. “Touch me more.” 

“I’ll give you what you want, just lemme…fuck lemme look at you.” He catches your wrists just as you try to bring your hands up to cover your face, pinning your arms against your sides as his eye shamelessly trace over your figure. There’s a glint of something hungry, swirled with something akin to adoration.

“Y-You like m-me, you’re obsessed.” You

“Yeah, I really fucking am.” He’s grinning, all teeth with a hint of gums that makes your heart somehow pound even harder and you know you’re well and truly fucked. “Like you s’much gonna keep you on my cock forever.” 

He lets go of your hands, grabbing at your thighs to spread them apart, callused fingers dragging up until he’s almost carelessly pressing a finger into you.

“Fuck, you can… o-oh keep me!” You whimper as he bullies one, then two more fingers into your throbbing cunt— there’s a determination bordering on desperation creasing his brow in order to prep you as quickly as possible. 

“Next time, I’ll spend fuckin’ hours doin’ this.” You whine as he drags his fingers out of you.

His hands hook under your thighs, pressing up and up until he can hook your legs over his shoulders and he’s pressing the blunt head of his cock against your hole. There’s a slight sting as he pushes in, the stretch unfamiliar and despite how wet you are some lube would’ve helped. 

But you well and truly could care less.

“I don’t care who sees this, you, I’m the only one who gets to touch, the only one who gets to fuck you like this.” He rasps, bottoming out in one harsh thrust and punching the air out of your lungs.

He’s kind enough to let you catch your breath, indulging you with a few soft kisses along your jaw and nipping at your bottom lip. But it doesn’t last long, following a sloppy kiss with a tentative grind of his hips, then a soft thrust. 

Those desperate whines you usually play up for your streams easily escaping your lips as he builds a steady rhythm. 

“Yes, yes, yes, Mark.” It’s perfect, every single thrust is perfect, the way you're folded in half, the feeling of his fingers digging into you, the strain of toned muscles under flushed skin; so fucking perfect. “Only you.”

And you mean it, fully, wholeheartedly without any hesitation. Only Mark, if that’s what he wants then you want it too, whatever Mark wants he can have.

“M’Close, fuck, I’m so close.” You whimper, raking your fingers through his still damp hair.

“Already?” It spears through your chest, harsh and burning and tears down your belly. 

There’s a split second of perfect silence interrupting the sound of skin slapping against skin, a ringing in your ears followed by the crash of your heart into your ribcage. 

Pleasure slices down your spine, rippling through your body in crashing waves and leaving your head spinning.

He fucks you through the high, any chance of a coherent thought spilling right out of your ears, his name garbled and strained as it forces it’s way past your lips. 

He slows, as if he’s about to waste both your time and do something stupid like pull out and finish on your stomach. And like hell you’re letting that happen, grabbing at his head with both hands and smashing your lips together, pulling away just enough to stare into blown pupils.

“Cum inside me, you bitch!” His teeth come down on your bottom lip, the bite of iron and tang of sweat and spit swirling together on your tongue dizzying, intoxicating. He slams back into you with a force you didn’t know he had, swallowing down a broken moan from his lips as he spills into you. 

“I’m still gonna stream.”  The two of you have settled on his now made bed, tucked under the covers. You had no problem letting Mark dress you in a clean tee and boxers, watching sleepily from his desk chair as he made his bed before depositing you in it.

“I’ll still watch.” He hums. 

“And comment?” It brings up the matter from earlier, the one you never got an answer to. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…I didn’t know what to do. Uh, it was one thing, hiding, but then I thought you…didn’t…”

“Didn’t?” You raise your head, trying to level your gaze to his. 

“Didn’t like m- it, the comments, those messages in chat, all of it. Thought you were just tryin’ to message me to stop. And then I got scared you somehow knew it was…me.” He has that sheepish look smearing his features, a hand coming up to scratch at his nape. 

You stare at him silently, watching as his eyes bounce around your face searching for some hint of what you could possibly be thinking.

“Look where that got us, I can’t even feel my legs, oh my god you have to fuck me on stream, please!”

“H-Huh? Live? Yo I can’t just-”

“Think about it, Marky.” Aching hips and sore muscles be damned, you somehow manage to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. “Fucking me, on camera, for everyone to see just what you do to me. I’d be so good for you.”

You can see it, what little resolve he had starting to crumble, just a little more.

“Don’t you want that?” It’s his words and he knows it, starting to see the monster he’s created. You run your fingers along his jaw, settling one hand on his shoulder while the other comes up to muss up fluffy brown locks. “Stretching me on your fat cock for my pitiful little viewers to see, wishing it was them driving me insane.”

“Baby…” The pet name from his lips is instantly addicting, and you need so much more of it.

“Please.” And now you’re not sure what you’re begging for, your body screams for you to stop, to not roll your hips against his because it’s far too soon to be fucked into the mattress again.

“If, if you don’t stop doing that.” He groans. “You’re not gonna be able to stream tomorrow.” 

You blink. 

“Wow you really are my biggest fan.”

“Huh?”

“Got my schedule memorized and everything, does that mean we could do it tomorrow? You’ll fuck me on stream tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Seriously I–”

“Actually, cancel it.” He’s hooking his hands under your thighs, drawing you closer. “Don’t look at me like that, I said cancel it.”  

“Mm, I don’t know if I can go again yet.” But there’s no conviction behind your words.

“You’re fine, I’ll do all the work.” You’re fine he says, it sends a thrill up your spine right into your brain, reworking the entire chemistry in there. It had been there in the back of your mind, slipping in somewhere between finding out his secret and that first kiss. 

You’re absolutely hooked, simply addicted, to Mark Lee. 

“Okay.” You grin at him.

[guliexe]

━━━PROVE ME WRONG 18+

Yang Jungwon x Female!Reader

.ᐟwarnings/tags: enemies to lovers, soft dom!jungwon, needy!reader, making out, dry humping, dirty talk, praising, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, p in v, squirting, crying, confessing, reader is so down bad for him loool

♡ you swore you hated him, until he made you feel everything you tried to deny.

.ᐟwc: 6.5k

You’ve been in the same friend group as Jungwon for almost a year now. It wasn’t a choice, really, he just came with the package. A friend of a friend who started showing up to things so regularly it was impossible to avoid him. House parties, movie nights, random hangouts at someone’s apartment. He’d be there, always leaning against a wall or sunk into a couch, quiet and sharp-eyed like he was waiting for something to irritate him. And for some reason, that something is always you. You’re not sure when it started. The bickering, the looks, the weird tension that’s too constant to be harmless. Sometimes you think he enjoys getting under your skin. Sometimes you’re afraid you do, too. It’s not like you’re friends. You talk, but only to annoy each other. You stand near each other, but never too close. He’ll brush your arm when passing behind you, or press a hand to your waist like he’s just trying to get by, but you know it lingers longer than it should. He knows it, too.

He’s cocky. Always calm. The type who never has to raise his voice to make you feel like you’re losing. And you—you act tough. You roll your eyes, talk back, call him names that make your friends laugh. But it’s a mask. Because deep down, your stomach flips every time he looks at you. Your mouth dries up when he stands too close. Your brain scrambles when his voice drops too low. You pretend it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. That you don’t go home after nights out and touch yourself to the thought of him—his face, his voice, his fingers on your skin, telling you you’re doing so good for him. You hate him. You want him. You don’t know the difference anymore. And tonight, it’s getting harder to hide.

You stand in front of your mirror, twisting the strap of your top around your finger like it’s a lifeline. The room’s warm, but your skin feels electric—like you’re waiting for something you can’t say out loud. You’re not sure why tonight feels different. It’s just a party. Maybe it’s the way your heart races when you think about him. Maybe it’s the way your hands tremble just a little when you smooth your hair one last time. Or maybe it’s the faint hope that he’ll actually notice you tonight. Not the usual glare or sharp glance, but something else. Something softer. Something real. You pull on your jacket, catch your reflection again, and force yourself to stop overthinking. You’re not the shy girl everyone thinks you are. You’re the one who talks back, who laughs too loud, who acts like she doesn’t care. Right?

You step inside, weaving through the crowd with your friends close behind, the heavy bass reverberating through the floor. The house is packed, voices mixing with laughter and the clinking of bottles. The smell of sweat, perfume, and something faintly like alcohol fills the air. Your eyes scan automatically, and there he is—Jungwon, standing near the far wall, one foot propped against it casually. His dark eyes lock onto yours immediately, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips like he knows exactly the effect he has on you. For a second, it feels like the room shrinks around you. The noise dulls. Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest, but you refuse to let it show. You adjust your skirt and pretend not to notice the way his eyes are still on you. Pretend your breath isn’t catching and your skin isn’t buzzing just from the sight of him, leaned back like he owns the whole place. Your friends disappear into the crowd ahead of you, heading for the drinks table, but you linger, like you always do. Like you can’t help yourself. And of course, it only takes him a few steps to close the distance. He always does this—finds you. He just appears, quiet and intentional. “Wow,” he says, low and slow, voice brushing against your skin like velvet. “You actually made an effort tonight.” You roll your eyes, but your heart stutters. “Is that your idea of a compliment?” He shrugs, looking amused. “Take it however you want.”

You huff, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “Don’t worry. I won’t start dressing up just for you.” His eyes flick down your figure, slow and obvious. “Shame.” You scoff, turning your head so he doesn’t see the way your face warms, but his hand brushes against your waist as someone passes behind you, and again, it lingers. Barely a second too long. “Watch it,” you mutter. He leans a fraction closer. “You didn’t move.” You open your mouth to fire back, but before you can say anything, someone calls your name from across the room. “Guys come sit with us!” Jungwon smirks at you one last time, then walks off without another word, hands tucked in his pockets like he’s not leaving you absolutely burning. The group’s gathered in the living room now—bodies crammed onto couches and sprawled on the carpet with drinks in hand. The lights are dimmed and colorful. You’re curled up between your friends on one of the couches, legs crossed, a drink balanced in your hand. The music has softened a little now that everyone’s packed into the living room, cushions stolen off the couch and dragged to the floor. Jungwon’s across the room, lounging half-sunk into the armchair with a half-empty red cup in one hand and his other arm draped lazily over the back of the seat. He looks calm, bored even, but you know him well enough to catch the spark behind that disinterested expression. He’s watching. Waiting. You try not to let your eyes linger.

Someone suggests Truth or Dare, and it only takes a few cheers and clinks of drinks for it to begin. It starts light, somebody takes a shot, another confesses a secret crush on someone’s older brother, and then someone gets dared to kiss the person to their left, and the room tips into something more teasing and charged. You’re half-laughing at that when someone goes, “Okay—your turn,” and points to one of the girls across the circle. She looks around, eyes sparkling, clearly scheming. She hums, then smirks. “I’ve got one. For you—” she says, eyes landing directly on Jungwon. “And you,” she adds, turning to you. Immediately, the room perks up. Jungwon raises an eyebrow, not moving, but you can feel the attention shift. Your spine straightens slightly. “I dare you two,” the girl says, grinning now, “to sit in front of each other and hold eye contact for a minute. No breaking it. No laughing.” Groans and excited gasps ripple through the circle. “Yes. Yes. That’s so them,” someone says. “Bro, no way,” you say quickly, but there’s already movement in the room. Someone scoots a pillow onto the floor between the couch and the armchair. “Scared?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the chatter. His tone is calm, as always, but there’s a flicker of challenge under it. His eyes meet yours, unreadable. “You don’t have to if you’re already feeling weak.” You roll your eyes. “You’re not that intimidating, Jungwon.” “Prove it,” he says.

Your heart knocks against your ribs, but you don’t let it show. With a dramatic sigh, you uncross your legs and push yourself off the couch, brushing invisible lint off your skirt like this is no big deal. It is. But you won’t let him know that. The circle shifts slightly to make room as you move toward the center, sitting cross-legged on the pillow they placed, facing Jungwon. He’s already there, sitting lazy and cool on the floor like he’s got all the time in the world. His knee brushes against yours when he adjusts his posture, and you resist the urge to pull back. Someone sets a timer. “Sixty seconds,” they say. “Starting now.” The room quiets into a low hum as your eyes meet his. He’s close, closer than he usually allows himself to be in front of others. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze is steady, intense, locked on you like it’s a test and he’s already sure he’ll win. At first, it’s just kind of funny. You raise a brow, challenge him silently. His lip quirks, like he’s daring you to break. You don’t. But as the seconds pass, something shifts. His stare sharpens. Not cruel. Just focused. Curious, even. Like he’s studying you. You don’t blink. You try not to squirm. But there’s heat crawling up your neck, prickling under your skin. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud. You’re aware of everything—how close his knees are to yours, how heavy his gaze feels, how your hands are clenched in your lap to keep from fidgeting. “Thirty seconds,” someone mutters. Halfway.

You swallow, and his eyes follow the movement of your throat. You can tell. You hate that you can tell. “Didn’t think it’d be this easy to shut you up,” he murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear. Your breath hitches, but you don’t answer. “Your cheeks are red.” “They’re not.” “They are.” He leans in a little—not enough for the others to notice, but enough for you to feel his breath on your face. “It’s cute,” he says. You almost flinch. Almost. But you force yourself to stay still. “You talk too much.” “And you stare too much.” You go rigid, caught. His smile widens slightly, lazy and infuriating. “Ten seconds,” someone calls out. You’re barely breathing. His eyes haven’t left yours for a second, and you swear something in your chest is about to combust. The final seconds pass in silence, and when someone finally yells, “Time!” you tear your eyes away like you’ve been slapped. People cheer, laugh, someone throws a pillow, but you don’t say anything. You just rise to your feet quickly, brushing your hands against your thighs. Your skin feels too hot, like the air around you is thicker than it was before. Jungwon doesn’t stand up right away. He just looks at you from where he’s still seated, that smirk back on his face. You return to your seat between your friends, trying to act like you’re totally fine, like your heart isn’t racing and your thighs aren’t pressed together tightly. The game keeps going, but your mind is still tangled in that look, his voice, the heat in your cheeks. Eventually, the game peters out into casual conversation, music growing a little louder again as people get distracted. Some are passing around a joint, others talking over one another, half-curled up on couches or the floor.

You laugh at someone’s joke. Sip from your cup. Try to shake it off. But you can still feel him, like his gaze hasn’t left you all night. After a while, you decide to get some air—or something to drink. Anything to ground yourself. You slip away from the group after a while, mumbling something about needing a drink. No one really notices. The kitchen is quieter, the thrum of music muffled through the walls. You open the fridge, grabbing the juice bottle and pouring it into a red plastic cup with shaky fingers. You don’t know why your hands are trembling. You blame the heat. The alcohol. Him. You’re halfway through your drink when you hear footsteps behind you. “You always run off when I show up.” You don’t have to turn to know it’s Jungwon. You stare down into your cup and exhale through your nose before speaking. “You’re not that important.” He scoffs from behind you. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost every time I’m near you?” You spin, eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here? Are you following me now?” “I came for a drink,” he says, tone clipped. “Didn’t realize I’d find you hiding in here like a coward.” Your mouth drops open. “A coward?” “You heard me.” “You’re unbelievable,” you snap, setting your cup down harder than necessary. “You show up to everything I’m at, pick fights for no reason, and then act like I’m the problem.” “Maybe you are.” That stuns you into silence for a second. You blink at him, your chest tightening. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He steps closer, not quite yelling, but louder than you’ve ever heard him. “You act like nothing matters. Like you’re too good to care. But you do. You care so much it makes you fucking twitchy every time I walk into the room.” You laugh bitterly. “You’re projecting.” He doesn’t smile. “You act like you don’t see me. Like I’m not in the room unless you want someone to argue with. And the second I push back, you act like I’ve done something wrong.” “Because you’re mean,” you hiss. “You look at me like you hate me. You talk to me like you hate me.” “Maybe I do,” he says—fast, harsh.

The words hit like a slap. You stare at him. Something cracks under your ribs, and before you can stop it, you feel it—anger rushing up, quick and sharp and choking.“Then stay the fuck away from me.” You shove past him, shoulder catching his as you storm down the hall and up the stairs, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the music. You don’t stop until you’re in your friend’s room, door shut behind you, and you collapse on the bed. Your chest heaves. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hold it together. You’re lying on your back, arms spread, staring blankly at the ceiling of your friend’s room. The pillow underneath you smells faintly like her perfume, soft and familiar, but it doesn’t help. You’re hot with frustration, and your chest still feels too tight. You’ve been up here for twenty minutes now, shoes kicked off, makeup probably smudged from pressing your hands over your face. You’re angry—at him, at yourself, at how everything with Jungwon always seems to spiral out of control. You don’t realize you’re about to fall asleep until you hear the knock. A soft, single tap on the door. Then a pause. And a quiet creak as it opens. You blink hard, sitting up just slightly. And of course—it’s him. Jungwon slips inside without asking, one hand still on the door like he’s giving you a chance to kick him out. You just stare, lips parted, unsure what to say. He closes it behind him. For a second, he just stands there, watching you.

Then, in that maddeningly even voice of his, he says, “I don’t actually hate you, you know.” You blink again. “Could’ve fooled me.” His mouth quirks. “You’re the only person I fight with like this.” “Wow. I feel special.” He walks closer, slow and steady, until he’s standing at the edge of the bed. Then he sits, not touching you, just leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. You can feel the warmth of him, though his presence too loud in the quiet room. A beat passes. He turns his head to look at you, that unreadable glint in his eyes again. “You looked pissed earlier.” “You were yelling at me—” “You were yelling first.” You don’t know what to say. The silence stretches between you, thick with something neither of you wants to name. You’re perched at the edge of the bed now, knees brushing, and he’s just sitting there like he owns the room, like he’s not making your heart slam behind your ribs. “You’re quiet,” he says, voice low, amused. You glare, weakly. “You’re annoying.” He hums. “You’ve said that before.” “Because it’s true.” His lips twitch, barely hiding his smirk. “You always get so defensive when I get too close.” You freeze. He leans in a little—barely—but it’s enough to make you sit back slightly, even as your breath catches in your throat. “You act tough,” Jungwon murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth for just a second. “But you’re not. Not with me.” Your chest tightens. “You don’t know me.” “I know enough.” His voice dips. “I know you get shy when I touch you. I know you stare when you think I’m not looking. And I know,” he says, gaze holding yours like a challenge, “that there’s someone you’re trying really hard not to say.” Your breath stutters. He smiles, slow and dangerous. “Am I wrong?” You don’t answer, you can’t. Your silence is all the confirmation he needs.

He leans in and kisses you—finally, finally—and it’s not soft. It’s confident, cocky. His lips press to yours with just the right pressure, coaxing you to melt into him, and you do, before you even realize it. Your hands fumble to grab onto something—his sleeve, the bedsheets, anything to ground yourself as your head spins. Your lips part instinctively, and he deepens the kiss with a soft, satisfied groan against your mouth. It’s overwhelming and hot. Way too much and still not enough. He pulls back grinning—smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating. “See?” he says quietly, breath brushing your lips. “Not so tough now, are you?” Your cheeks burn. You blink at him, lips tingling, heart thudding, completely thrown off by how effortlessly he’s unraveled you in seconds. “I—shut up,” you mumble, voice unsteady. He chuckles, and it’s low and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d get all shy on me. Kinda cute, though.” “Jungwon—“ “Yeah?” He leans closer again, his knee brushing yours, hand resting beside your thigh like he’s giving you the option to push him away. You don’t. You can’t. Your eyes flick to his mouth, just once, but he catches it immediately. The smirk returns. “You wanna kiss me again?” he asks, soft and smug and stupidly hot. You hesitate, only for a second, but it’s all he needs to see it on your face. The wanting. The need. His eyes darken. And then—it’s you who kisses him. Messy and urgent. Less about proving something and more about needing him. Your fingers tangle into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer like you can’t stand another inch between you. He hums into it, pleased, letting you take control for just a second, but when he kisses you back, it’s rougher, deeper, like he’s been starving. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tips your head for a better angle, and you melt into him with a quiet whimper that makes him smirk against your lips. “Good girl,” he mutters when you break for air, forehead resting against his, your breath shaky and skin burning. You make a soft noise in response, and he grins like he owns you now. And maybe he does. because you already want more.

You kiss him again, quick and desperate. His mouth firmly moves against yours, savoring how soft you’ve gotten in his hands. You shift, trying to get closer, your legs brushing his—until you end up in his lap, straddling him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The moment you realize, your breath catches. Your hands freeze on his shoulders. But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. He just looks up at you with that unreadable gaze and runs his hands down your thighs, slow and confident. “Mmh” he hums, fingers tightening slightly. “Didn’t think you’d get this needy for me.” “I’m not—” you start, but your voice comes out breathy, weak, embarrassingly close to a whine. He smirks. “You sure? You kissed me twice.” Your cheeks burn. You try to avoid his gaze, but his hand finds your jaw, fingers tilting your face back toward him. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. “Say it,” he says softly. “Say you want me.” You shake your head, just barely. “I—Jungwon…” “Say it,” he repeats, his tone makes you squirm in his lap. “Be good for me.” Something in you crumbles. “…I want you,” you whisper, small and shaky. His grip on your waist tightens, and he pulls you down flush against him—just enough for you to feel the shape of him through his jeans. Your breath catches, and your hips stutter forward instinctively. “Oh?” he breathes out, grin turning sharper. “There’s my good girl.” You whimper. He kisses you again, rough, tongue slipping past your lips with an ease making your stomach flip. Your hands fist in his hoodie as your hips start to move on their own, grinding down against him through your clothes, desperate for friction, anything to ease the ache building in your core and he lets you. He hust watches you fall apart, his hands steady on your hips, guiding your movements lazily as he kisses the breath from your lungs.

“You’re soaked through.” he whispers against your mouth, voice thick. “All from kissing me?” You nod, helpless. “Thought you hated me,” he adds, dragging his lips down to your neck. “But you’re so fucking desperate, baby.” “W-Wonnie,” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please…” He groans at the nickname as his dick twitches under you, his hips shifting up to meet yours. “You don’t get to act all mean with me anymore,” he murmurs, lips hot against your skin. “Not when you’re whimpering in my lap like this.” You let out a shaky moan, biting your lip, and he catches it with a kiss again, messy and deep and completely undoing you. Your hips rock forward again—slow at first, like you’re testing the waters, and then again, needier this time, like your body’s stopped listening to your brain altogether. “Fuck,” you whisper, jaw going slack as the friction hits just right. Your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck. Jungwon just exhales a quiet laugh, one hand trailing up your back beneath your shirt, warm against your spine. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You like it, baby?” You nod fast. “Use your words, baby,” he says, voice almost amused. “Don’t go all quiet on me now.” You don’t mean to say it, not like this, not all breathy and fucked-out and vulnerable, but it tumbles out anyway, “W-Wonnie, please,” you whine, rolling your hips down again. “M’so wet…need you.” His grip on your waist tightens instantly. His head drops back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a beat as he groans. “Shit, you’re unreal,” he breathes, looking at you again, trying to memorize the exact way you look on top of him, all messy and needy and soft. “You’re fucking soaked, huh?” You nod again, face buried in his neck. “Feels s’good… need more.” you whisper, barely holding yourself together.

“I know you do,” he whispers, voice dark and coaxing. “My good girl’s been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Your hips stutter again, and a tiny moan escapes your lips. “You pretend so hard,” he goes on, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, lazy and warm. “But the second I touch you like this, you just melt.” He guides you then—strong hands moving your hips in a rhythm that has you gasping, grinding down against the thick bulge in his jeans. His voice stays low, steady in your ear. “You like it when I take control, don’t you?” “Y-Yeah,” you admit in a whisper, trembling in his lap. Your head tips back as his lips trail along your neck, hot and open-mouthed, dragging a whimper out of you when he starts to suck at a spot just beneath your ear. He hums in satisfaction, lips latching on harder until he’s sure it’ll leave a mark. Then his hands are under your shirt, impatient. You inhale sharply as he tugs it up, his fingers brushing your bare skin, making you shiver. “This okay?” he asks suddenly, voice low but serious. You nod. “Yes.” He pulls your shirt over your head and lets it fall somewhere on the floor. The cool air hits your bare chest for half a second before his hands are on you again—firm and warm. His thumbs swipe over the curve of your breasts before he leans in and wraps his mouth around one nipple, sucking slow and deep, tongue flicking against the sensitive peak. You gasp, your back arching, fingers threading through his hair.

“Mmm—Wonnie,” you breathe, voice breaking. His grip on your waist tightens. He switches to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention while his free hand moves to cup the one he just left, squeezing gently like he can’t get enough. When he finally pulls back, your chest is flushed, marked with faint red patches and the start of bruises. Then he dips down to your neck again, peppering kisses over your throat, your collarbones, and down the curve of your shoulder. “Gonna leave you covered,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “So fucking pretty like this. All mine.” You moan softly when his hand trails lower, resting between your legs under the fabric of your skirt. He firmly presses his palm against your heat. You whimper at the friction, hips twitching. His eyes are dark when they meet yours again, and he smirks like he knows exactly how far gone you are “Need my fingers in you, baby?” he asks, rubbing slow circles over your clothed pussy. “Want me to stretch you out nice and slow?” “Please,” you whisper, almost shaking. He grins satisfied, hungry. “Good girl.” You let him slip your skirt off, hips lifting to help him, and then you’re left in just your underwear. He takes a second to look at you spread out for him, flushed and trembling, before leaning in to kiss you again. Your hands fumble at the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, and he chuckles against your mouth. “Can’t wait, huh?” “Shut up,” you whine. But he obeys. He pulls away just long enough to strip it off, revealing his toned body, the lines of his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt aside. Then he’s back on you, kissing you again like a starved man. And when his hand finally slips past the waistband of your underwear and touches you, you nearly sob.

He groans into your mouth when his fingers find how soaked you are—slick and warm and dripping for him. “Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his fingers through your folds slowly, teasing your clit with the lightest pressure that has you twitching under his touch. “All this for me? You can barely nod, whimpering as he circles your clit, lazy, torturous strokes that make your hips jerk up. You’re breathing hard, face flushed, and your hands clutch at his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you while he keeps pushing you higher with maddening patience. Then without warning, he pulls your panties to the side and slides two fingers into you, slow and deliberate. You choke on a moan, your entire body going tense for a second before melting into the sensation. “W-Wonnie—” your voice breaks on his name, thighs shaking as he starts to move them, curling just right. He watches your face as he pumps his fingers in and out, finding that spot that makes you gasp and clench around him. “Gripping me so good, baby. Bet you’ve been dreaming about this, hm?” His tone is low and thick with lust. Your hips move on instinct, chasing his fingers, chasing the high he’s building inside you. And all the while, his mouth is on your chest again—hot, wet kisses trailing across your skin as he sucks your nipples, one after the other, his free hand squeezing your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s everything. Your head falls back, lips parted in a soft cry. “Feels so good—don’t stop—please don’t stop…”

He chuckles against your skin, fingers curling just right again, dragging another broken moan from your throat. “Not gonna stop, baby. Not when you’re being so fucking good for me.” His thumb joins in, rubbing slow, tight circles over your clit while his fingers keep thrusting deep inside you. Your legs tremble, your body clenching around him. “W-Wonnie, I—I think—” You can’t finish. You can’t even think. Everything’s too much, building fast, burning hot behind your eyes. He kisses your throat, voice ragged. “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby? Show me how bad you need it.” He picks up the pace, precise and relentless, and the pleasure finally crashes over you—white-hot and all-consuming. You cry out, legs trembling around him as your orgasm hits, soaking his fingers as you clamp down hard around him. He works you through it, soft praises in your ear, “That’s it, baby, that’s my girl… fuck, you’re perfect…”—until your body finally relaxes, slumping into his chest, breathless and buzzing. But the need doesn’t fade. If anything, it gets worse. Your hand drifts down, slow and uncertain, until your palm presses over the thick bulge in his sweatpants. He sucks in a breath, hips twitching at the contact. You look up at him through your lashes, eyes wide and glassy, still dazed from your orgasm. “Please, Wonnie…” you whisper, fingers curling slightly over him, rubbing just enough to make him hiss. “Want you in me. Pretty please…”

His jaw clenches, and for a second he just stares at you—like he’s trying to hold himself together, like he’s fighting every instinct not to just take you right then and there. Then he groans, low and wrecked, and leans down to kiss you hard. “You’re killing me,” he mutters against your lips, voice rough. “You know that?” You nod, breath hitching. “Need you.” That’s all it takes. In the next second, he flips you over gently, laying you flat on your back. The shift knocks the air from your lungs, you barely have time to gasp before he’s on top of you, kissing down your body with open-mouthed, desperate kisses, like he can’t get enough of you. Your panties are the first to go, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and slowly drags them down your thighs, eyes drinking in every inch of skin he reveals. “So fucking pretty,” he breathes, mostly to himself. “All this just for me.” Then he sits back just long enough to strip for you, tugging his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion. His cock springs free, flushed and hard and leaking, and your breath catches. You don’t even realize you’re staring until his voice cuts through the haze. “You ready for me, baby?” he asks softly, climbing back between your legs, hand stroking himself slowly. You nod, legs parting instinctively. “Please,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Need to feel you.” He leans down to kiss you again—slow, deep, sweet—and positions himself at your entrance, one hand steady on your thigh. “I got you, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

He pushes in slow, agonizingly slow, giving you every inch, every second to feel him stretch you open. The burn makes your breath catch, and your fingers clutch at the sheets beside you, back arching as he sinks deeper. “F-Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to where your bodies meet. “You’re so tight, baby… fuck, you’re perfect.” Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, and he stills once he bottoms out, his hips pressed flush to yours. One hand strokes over your thigh, soft and grounding, while the other settles against your waist, holding you like you might disappear. “You okay?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. You nod fast, already trembling beneath him, lips parted, eyes glassy. “Y-Yeah… just—feels so full.” He leans in and kisses you, slow, deep, and tender. Not teasing this time, not smug. His hips start to move in slow, shallow thrusts, easing you into the rhythm. Every drag of him inside you makes your body shiver, your breath coming in short, broken pants. He groans quietly against your mouth with each roll of his hips, savoring the way you cling to him. “You feel so good, baby,” he murmurs between kisses, voice low and wrecked. “Taking me so well.” Your fingers thread through his hair again, pulling him closer, clinging. “Wonnie…” you breathe, completely undone. “You feel so good…”He picks up the pace just slightly, the sound of skin on skin soft but filthy in the quiet room. His hands caress your thighs, your hips, your waist—anywhere he can touch, needing to feel every part of you under him. “Wanted you like this for so long,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Always acting like you hate me… but you’re mine now, yeah?”

You moan, nodding helplessly. “Y-Yeah—‘m yours, Wonnie…” His rhythm stutters for a second at that, a quiet growl rumbling in his throat. He kisses you again, harder, hips rocking into yours with a little more force. “Say it again,” he murmurs, voice tight. “I’m yours,” you whimper, clinging to him. His hand slips under your back, holding you tighter as he buries himself in you again, hitting just right. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure builds all over again. And above you, Jungwon just watches—drunk on you, completely wrecked, and totally, hopelessly in love. He keeps moving inside you, steady and deep, dragging soft whimpers and breathy moans from your lips every time his hips press into yours. The way he’s looking at you—like he’s obsessed, like he can’t believe you’re real—makes your heart ache in the best way. “You’re doing so good f’me,” he murmurs, hips rolling in a perfect rhythm. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, trying to keep him close, but the pressure’s building again, hot and tight and overwhelming, and he can tell. Your walls flutter around him, and he groans into your neck, breath ragged. You’re gonna cum again f’me?” he pants, thrusts getting a little rougher now. “Shit… you’re close, baby?” You nod, completely breathless. “Y-Yeah, ‘m close—please, don’t stop—” “I won’t,” he promises, kissing your cheek as his hips slam into yours. “Gonna make you cum so hard, baby. Wanna feel you squeeze me again.” You fall apart a moment later, legs trembling, back arching off the bed as your orgasm crashes through you. You sob his name, eyes wet and hazy, and he fucks you through it—deep, slow thrusts that make the pleasure stretch out endlessly.

He groans, hips stuttering, and presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice tight. “Fuck—you feel so good when you cum…” And then, before you can fully catch your breath, he pulls out. “J-Jungwon?” you gasp, blinking up at him, dazed. “Turn over for me,” he pants, eyes dark and wild. You obey instantly, shaky limbs moving to prop yourself up on your elbows, your chest against the sheets and your ass in the air for him. You don’t even have time to feel embarrassed. “Fuck… look at you,” he murmurs, running his hands down your back to your hips. “God, you’re perfect like this.” You let out a tiny moan, hips shifting instinctively, and then he’s back inside you—deeper this time, the angle making you cry out. He gives you a second to adjust before he starts to move again, hands gripping your waist, his thighs smacking against the backs of yours with every thrust. You bury your face into the sheets, moaning with every stroke. “Wonnie—f-fuck! it’s so deep—s’too much.” “I know,” he groans, watching the way your body reacts, your ass bouncing back against him with each thrust. “You’re taking it so fucking well.” His hand slides up your spine, pressing down gently between your shoulder blades until your back arches more, hips tilted perfectly for him. The new angle makes you sob. “Oh my god—Jungwon—please—” He groans at the sound of your voice, snapping his hips harder, faster now. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.” You can barely think, barely breathe—just the sound of his skin against yours, your gasps and his low, broken groans echoing through the room.

He leans over you, one hand tangled in your hair as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “I could fuck you like this forever,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You were made for me.” You nod frantically, tears in your eyes from how good it feels. “Y-Yeah—made for you, Wonnie—only you…” He grins, wicked and breathless, hips still slamming into you. “Good fucking girl.” He pulls you enough to drag your trembling body flush against his chest. You whimper as he presses his chest to your spine, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you there, completely under his control as he thrusts up into you with deep, punishing strokes. “Fuck,” he breathes against your ear, voice shaking. “You feel so good—can’t get enough of you—” He buries his face in your neck, groaning raggedly as he pounds into you. “I love you. I love you so fucking much.” The words hit you like a wave—raw and unexpected, spoken like he’s been holding them in for far too long, and something inside you just breaks. Your breath catches, eyes stinging with tears. “W-Wonnie…” your voice cracks as you cry out, overwhelmed. “I—I love you too. So much.” His rhythm falters for a beat at the sound of your voice breaking, at the way your body shakes beneath his, but then he holds you tighter, hips snapping harder. “That’s it, baby—say it again,” he pants, thrusting deep and slow now, grinding against your sweet spot with every movement. “Say it for me.” “I love you,” you sob, head dropping back against his shoulder as the pleasure builds into something devastating. “Love you so much, Jungwon—fuck—” And then you break. Your whole body seizes, legs shaking uncontrollably as you cry out his name, and you squirt, unexpectedly, violently, soaking both of you.

Your thighs tremble around him, your entire body going limp in his arms as pleasure crashes over you in a wave so intense it makes your vision go white. “Holy fuck,” Jungwon groans, stunned, still holding you close as your release coats his thighs and stomach, soaking the sheets below. “You’re so fucking unreal—look at what I do to you…” You’re still shaking when he pulls out with a curse, jerking himself quickly with one hand while keeping the other around your waist to hold you upright. “Fuck—gonna cum—gonna cum all over you, baby—” And then he does, hot and thick and messy, spilling across your ass and the small of your back with a sharp groan. He pants your name like a prayer as his hips twitch forward once more, squeezing your waist as he rides it out. After a few seconds, the room goes quiet. Just your shaky breaths and his heart racing against your back. He leans forward and presses soft, lingering kisses to your shoulder, your spine, your neck. “You okay?” he whispers, breath still ragged. You nod, face buried in the pillow, still catching your breath. “Yeah,” you murmur, voice hoarse but full of warmth. “More than okay.” He kisses your shoulder one last time before pulling back, still breathless, still smiling like you’ve ruined him in the best possible way. Then he lets out a small laugh, eyes scanning the room and the obvious mess you two have made, “Shit,” he murmurs. “We really did that in her bed.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

© guliexe

[tddyhyck]

sudden urges [ l.dh ]

pt 1 (can be read as a stand alone)

pairing ⇢ enemies with benefits!haechan x afab!reader

warnings ⇢ 18+, car sex, squirting, wet & messy, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), light nipple play (kinda), food play (ig), unprotected sex, oppa kink, crying, mean names and pet names, pussy slapping, hair pulling, cheating/affairs mentioned, creepy old man mentioned

word count ⇢ 6.9k

playlist ⇢ red line_5sos / turn your phone off_pinkpantheress & destroy lonely / sweet as sin_ten / bite_troye sivan

a/n ⇢ how do we feel about 1 more regular part and then maybe a part from hyuck’s pov?? also, in my world hyuck is the readers oppa so it’s not really a kink all the time

masterlist

you didn’t want to call him but you didn’t really have anyone else who you could call. well you did but he was the first person you felt like talking to. which wasn’t how it was supposed to work. shivering on the curb while your finger hovered over his name on the screen. sighing you tapped it crossing your fingers and toes that he picked up.

“hey,” he whispered lazily as if he didn’t pick up halfway through the first ring.

“uh hey,” you poked at a hole in your tights.

“miss me?”

“can you come get me?” you blurted before he could even finish. the line was silent for a moment then you heard rustling.

“send me your location.” you breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders relaxing as you pulled the phone away to send a quick message. the line was still silent while you waited for it to say read.

“what are you doing over there?” you could practically see his face, eyebrow quirked up and jaw tense big brown eyes staring through you.

“just had to drop some papers off.” it was half true. you did ride the bus over and drop off a stack of papers to your professor.

“that’s all?”

“stop interrogating me, goddd,” you groaned, tugging the hole on your tights, ripping it more. “i’ll tell you when i see you.”

“i’ll be there in 5 i guess.” you heard keys jingle.

“i’m on the sidewalk near building F,” you offered.

“he just made you wait outside? what an ass can’t even drive you home and leaves you to sit outside in the snow?” haechan grumbled into the phone.

“he uh,” you pause realizing how bad it was about to sound.

“wife?” he simply asked. you’d only talked to haechan before about it mainly because he always pried and because you didn’t want lectures from everyone else. there wasn’t a desire to make him like you so you didn’t hide the bad things from him.

the professor was married and you knew that from the beginning, but he had swore they were separated. you believed him until his wife invited half the department to a dinner party where she flashed heart eyes and he doted on her. it made you sick, she was maybe a few years older than you while he pushed retirement.

it wasn’t that you felt obligated to agree when he asked but he was the one giving you credit hours and promising to write recommendations. when he first approached you it made you feel special and admired like you were a four leaf clover picked in a field. now it didn’t feel so special when you realized he did this all the time.

“unhuh,” you murmured. the line stayed silent and you could hear him turning on a blinker “thanks for coming. i didn’t want to bother anyone, they're all so stressed and losing their minds over that exam.” it wasn’t a lie they were prepping for an exam, but for some reason you wanted him to distract you with banter.

“i took the bus though you know, and brought like the biggest stack of papers i finally finished grading. but it stopped running- the bus, guess it was the weather.” you tried to fill the silence rambling on about nothing.

“didn’t think i would take so long, but i had to bring them by i dunno why he makes me. it’s so much easier to just file them away in the office but he always has me come by so he can check them. like i’m incompetent. i wrote the key so i would know.”

“because he wants to fuck you.” haechan mumbles.

“huh?” you ask.

“i’m here.” he pulls into the parking lot and hangs up. you shiver when you stand up before he pulls up in front of you. opening the door you slide in savoring the warmth.

“what did you say?” you question before putting your bag down.

“i said he wants to fuck you. that’s why he makes you bring some bullshit papers.” he rests his elbow on the window leaning his head on his hand looking at you lazily. he turns the heat up while you buckle your seatbelt.

“i know that but he won’t give me the credit unless i bring them by,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“that’s so fucked up. you should report him.” he eases off the brake pulling away from the sidewalk.

“it’s not a big deal.” you sigh still picking at the hole on your leg. “it’s just sex.”

“is he better than me? actually if he is don’t tell me,” you roll your eyes hitting his chest.

“shut up,” you shift in your seat.

“well is he?” he smirks, coming to a stop, looking over at you, hands low on the steering wheel. you shrug but he can read the answer on your face. he reaches over, snapping his fingers in your face and pointing to his own.

“i asked you if he fucks you better than me,” he emphasizes.

“no,” you mumble, looking away again. you know he’s smiling to himself gloating.

“where do you wanna go? are you hungry?” you shrug in response, cheeks pink from your admission. “ice cream?”

“can we eat it at the park?” you ask perking up at the thought of a cool and creamy sweet treat.

“of course.” he turns the wheel heading to your favorite ice cream spot. “can’t believe you want that when it’s like, negative degrees.”

“my love for ice cream is greater than my desire to be warm. plus we’re in a car you have heat we’re fine.”

“can’t believe he made you sit out in this,” he motions with a hand to the sky. grey and dreary, clouds full of snow and sleet that had been spilling periodically throughout the day.

“she would have seen me.”

“well he should have thought of that before asking you to come over. what if you get sick or hurt or someone snatchesd you. then who will grade his papers?” you roll your eyes at his dramatics. he pulls into the familiar parking lot, the neon sign bright but missing the i-c-e so it just says “homemade cream.” he pulls in behind a car already waiting at the window.

“probably some other pretty but stupid girl. it doesn’t matter i’m fine and you picked me up.” you grin nudging his shoulder. “did i wake you up?”

“well not exactly i was going to nap but then my phone rang and this hot girl was on the line all like ‘oppaaaaa please can you come get me from this evil villains house and take me for ice cream and can you pay for it pleaseee ooooppa.’” you gawk at him mimicking your voice quite well for what it’s worth.

“i do not sound like that,” you groan, hitting him again.

“you kinda do though,” he grins, releasing your wrist.

“so you think i’m hot?” you smirk teasingly lean close to him.

“no i just hang out with you because of your personality,” you hit him again, but he grabs your hand when it meets his chest. you rip away before he can interlace your fingers.

“if you keep hitting me i’m gonna hit you back and that would look bad to future employers.” he turns away as you smile, listening to him give the order. strawberry on a cone for you as always and a hot coffee for him. when the worker leaves you lean forward chin on his shoulder.

“i like it when you hit me sometimes,” you whisper. you swear you can feel the hair on his neck stand up. “you know down there.”

“shut up,” he nudges you away before the worker brings his card and receipt then leaves again to make the order.

“just being honest, oppa,” popping the p sound before running fingers over his knee. he jerks, bouncing the leg and brushing your hand away. you huff, air blowing on his ear making him shiver. the window opens and he grabs your ice cream, passing it to you before he grabs his drink with a thank you.

“mmmm,” you moan when you taste the ice cream. sweet and creamy and perfect.

“look at the sign,” pointing to the burnt neon with a grin.

“you know a thing or two about homemade cream,” grinning he taps your leg.

“and you know a thing or two about begging for it.” you smile to yourself, leaning back in the seat crossing your legs.

“begging seems dramatic doesn’t it?” he questions. you grab your phone ready to find the familiar voice memo he had sent you. you up your volume fully before pressing play.

‘heyyyyy, i’m like so fucked up right now,’ he tries to grab your phone as his voice plays from it. ‘i’m walking to your place at least i think i am. fuckk- are you even awake. i’ll sit outside, i don't care.’

“turn it off, oh my god,” he groans, one hand clenching on the wheel while the other presses against his ear..

“nuhuh.”

‘i had a dream about you. i think it was a dream i don’t know. um, wait but there was you, you were there and you finally rode my tongue. i want you to so bad. you’re too freaky to not ride my face at least once. do i need to beg on my knees for it?’

“you’re evil,” wincing as he hears his slurred voice playing back.

‘if i do will you? please. you taste so good and fuck - like so good. now i’m thinking about it. getting hard like a loser over thinking about pussy.’

“i sound so pathetic.”

“yeah you do. it’s hot.” grinning before taking another swipe at your ice cream.

‘shit - anyways uh i’m coming over i know you’re alone. at least i think you are… what if you have a guy in your bed. i’ll jump out of your window then when you look at him you’ll get sad. that’s fucked up but i want you alllll to myself sometimes.’

you turn the audio off before he starts professing his feelings. you’d never talked about the last few minutes of the voicemail. a quiet acknowledgment of the open secret between you both. you weren’t actually sure if he remembered all that he said.

that night you’d opened the door to him on his knees begging for you, but he fell asleep on your couch 10 minutes later with a silly look on his face.

“i still want you to ride my face,” he admits.

“you’re obsessed with eating pussy.” you laugh into your ice cream.

“is it such a crime to love your pussy?” raising his hands after parking in your usual spot turning the car off.

“we’d all be arrested if it was.”

“we can share handcuffs.” he offered a wrist to you and you held yours next to his.

“not the first time,” you tease as you pull away. you tug the lever beside you leaning your seat all the way back and kick your feet up on the dash.

“hey hey no shoes on my baby i just got her detailed,” he scolds grabbing your ankles and lugging you off. groaning, you lift your feet and rest them over his lap.

“yeah i didn’t care about these sweats anyways,” he deadpans looking at your shoes.

“they’re not muddy,” you say, pulling your legs away before reaching down to pull the shoes off. you put your now shoeless feet on his lap again and he doesn’t complain. silence settles for a moment aside for him sipping his coffee and you licking your ice cream contentedly.

“how long are you stuck grading his papers?”

“eh maybe two months. i hope he gets sick of me before then.”

“unlikely.” he mutters to himself, reaching up he fiddles with the sunroof, opening the shutter letting in the orange glow of the street light.

“do you think his wife knows?” he turns his head at your question. “she’s got to right? he probably did the same thing to her too.”

“do you want her to know?” the ice cream is melting too quickly.

“maybe. i don’t know. what’s better? it would be best if they were in an open relationship and she knew but was okay with it.”

“well that’s best case,” he leans his own seat back looking over at you at eye level.

“worst case?”

“she knows and hates you?” he suggests, making you groan.

“she’s so sweet too. fuck, i’m so terrible.” you close your eyes not wanting to look at his.

“he’s a manipulative geriatric asshole and you were vulnerable and naive. he’s terrible for taking advantage of all these girls.” he reassures, patting your arm softly. a weird moment of humanity between both of you.

“i’m not going over again.” you announce.

“good girl,” he pats your head now.

“don’t do that.”

“what?”

“be nice.” he laughs a real full belly laugh and it makes your stomach twinge weirdly.

“i’m soooo nice.” he looks up out of the car sunroof.

“yeah and i'm a worm,” you roll your eyes and his hand slides over your leg he laughs again

“you think i'm mean,” he pouts, poking your leg.

“name one time you were nice to me?”

“hmm,” he pauses a finger tapping his chin before he leans over cupping your ear to whisper. “what about the time i made you cu-“

“lalalala i can’t hear you,” you cut him off, pushing his face away.

“you need new tights,” still smiling as he prods at one of the holes in the sheer material covering your skin.

“you don’t think it gives me an edge?” lifting your leg slightly showing off the ripped black fabric.

“you don’t need an edge, you're mean enough.” you fein surprise trying to kick him but he grabs your leg before you can. squeezing your thigh when he pulls it against his warm body.

“you think i’m mean?” you copy him.

“i can name at least 100 instances.” you roll your eyes. “ok, just one?” he grins over at you before saying.”probably when we met and you called me the hunchback of notre dame.”

“but it made you work on your posture.” you point out. he nods in response. “you were just as mean, i only said that after you said i looked like helga from hey arnold.”

“you were wearing that same pink outfit,” he defends.

“i was a powerpuff girl,” you grumble.

“how’s the ice cream?”

“devine.” he’s looking over at you with big stupid brown eyes. staring back at him you lick over the remaining creamy treat. swirling over the cone collecting the pink cream on your tongue. you’re being overly provocative letting some of the ice cream slide out of your mouth and onto your lips.

“if it’s so good don’t let it go to waste.” thumb brushes over the drip, swiping it into your mouth. you don’t hesitate to suck the melted strawberry off of his finger moaning at the taste. he pulls away spit sticking to his thumb before he licks it. he’s so disgustingly gross and sexy it’s annoying. what light that shines from the sunroof makes him look too golden, too delicious, too warm.

“so sweet,” he sighs. big brown eyes still watching you when you wrap your lips around what’s now a sad hill instead of a full scoop.

“can i have some?” before you can answer he leans in grabbing your face pulling you to meet him. his tongue laps into your mouth collecting the cool sweet liquid. it makes you burn, hot cheek in his hand as he leads you. turning your head to deepen the kiss. the melting treat drips over your fingers as his lips melt into yours.

using the hand that is still on your leg, now gripping the flesh, he pulls you over. settling you on top of him, mouths still open exchanging hot breaths and spit. pulling away you sit back feeling the bulge pressed against you. catching your breath as you look down at him, lips red and puffy, eyes dazed. you press a finger to them to see how soft they are and he licks your digit.

“do you want some more?” moving to switch your hands. bringing the pink sticky fingers to his lips. he sucks them greedily, tongue splitting your fingers licking between them lewdly. watching as you grind against him, knees pressed tightly on his sides while he holds your hips. trailing your fingers from his mouth you slide them over his lips and down his chin. slippery still from his spit you move them finger painting his neck.

“did you fuck him?” it catches you off guard but you keep your fingers on his neck feeling his pulse under them. “like today did you?”

“no. he-�� you pause, deciding if you should share. “he came in his pants and then his wife called.” haechan laughs hard, making you shake on him.

“what a fucking loser.”

“why do you ask?” you bring the messy cone to your mouth again tasting what’s left.

“i don’t want to sound weird.”

“tell me,” you pout bouncing on him. he groans, squeezing your hips to stop you. you can feel his growing hardness against your inner thigh and it makes you clench.

“is it jealous if i say i don’t want to fuck you if he just did. i don’t want my dick near his.” he offers.

“who said we were going to fuck?” raising an eyebrow at him.

“please, mommy,” he whimpers, sitting up face in yours, clasping his hands making puppy dog eyes.

“stupid,” you mumble, pushing his face away, head hitting the seat with a thud.

“can i be honest?” he nods eagerly, hair bouncing against the headrest.

“i don’t even know the last time we did. he keeps nutting before i even get his pants off. plus it’s kinda small, no hate to the micros but like,” you pause using your finger to measure around 4 inches.

“it’s not doing anything.” he’s giggling under you again, this time his cock pressing against you with each shake of his body. you can feel the wetness slipping from you pooling in your tights.

“god, how can a guy like him be married and seduce beautiful young women while having a fast finishing micro. double homicide but he gets rewards.” he shakes his head.

“money,” you rub your fingers together.

“so i’m bigger?”

“obviously.” you roll your eyes finishing the last of your ice cream at least what hasn’t turned to soup.

“so let’s see.” you lean back putting the cone in the spare cup holder. he peaks under your skirt noticing your lack of panties.

“see what?” you watch him stare between your legs so you flip the skirt up for him. “this?”

“don’t distract me.” he closes his eyes, pressing his head back. “i can fuck you better, have a way bigger dick, and buy you ice cream.” he counts each “pro” on his fingers.

“what’s your point?” reaching for his lifted fingers you pull them to your core rubbing them over your tights.

“just that.” he pauses moving his fingers against you letting the seam of your tights brush against you cunt. “i’m a much better option.”

“like to date?” you laugh loudly but continue grinding down seeking more of his touch. you don’t catch the way his eyes dull at your reaction. the idea of him being more than whatever he was to you a joke. he could still dream and dwell on you for hours and days and weeks.

“ew no, just to do these activities,” he replies his other hand slithering over your ass.

“yeah we hate each other, remember?” you smirk down at him as he grabs your ass kneading the flesh.

“oh yeah sorry. don’t let me forget how much i despise you.” he groans pressing the tips of his digits against the tights. moaning when the seam catches against your clit again, you grind down.

“wouldn’t be so fun if we liked each other, or something.” breath catching in your throat as he swirls around your clit. you don’t see the way he looks up at you when you say that. he wonders if you can tell. it makes him mad the way your so oblivious to his affection for you.

“yeah people who like each other don’t do this.” he moves his other hand to your center, gripping the tights and yanking. the middle seam tears easily exposing your cunt to the cool air of the car.

“haechan,” you squeal. “i liked these.” you pout slapping his arm. he keeps going sliding his fingers between your lower lips, collecting slick.

“i told you.” he pauses a finger teasing over your entrance, tapping your waiting hole. “you need new ones.” he fucks a digit into you hard. you whine as he begins to flick his wrist curling the pad of his middle finger into you.

“but i liked these,” whining and digging your nails into his shoulders.

“you can keep them.” his fingers are fast moving to curl against your sweet spot. “wear them for me.”

“i hate you,” voice shaky as you grind down, his palm pressing against your clit.

“i know,” he leans up, lips ghosting over your neck. using his other hand he unzips your oversized hoodie making you shiver.

“i do. fucking hate you,” you moan when he bites your now exposed skin. you grab his hair in response, tugging him away.

“tell me all about it baby, let it out,” he looks up at you. finger working faster in you.

“hate when you look at me like that,” you whimper, closing your eyes, savoring the ghost of his thumb over your clit.

“what about this?” thumb rubbing circles around you swollen bud while his finger continues curling inside of you. grip tightening on his shoulder and in his hair with a gasp.

“hate it,” peeking down watching his wrist flicking fast and hard. your tummy tightens hearing the squelch of your cunt filling the car.

“and this?” he has that grin on his face watching you melt in his hands like your ice cream when he adds a second finger.

“so much,” you whimper. “hate it so much.”

“poor baby. let it out,” he licks over your neck nibbling lightly at the bare skin. the heat spreading over your tummy feeling the knot tightening. so close and you want it.

“hate me so much you’re gonna cum?” he tuts. you hate him you really do. his hand slithers pulling the top of your camisole down letting your breast spill out. squeezing the flesh before pinching your nipple. clenching around his fingers at the tug of his pointer and thumb on the hard nub.

“you think about me when you’re alone, don't you?” he questions, thumbing your nipple and clit at the same time, sending shockwaves through you. “gushing in your panties when you think about how much you hate your oppa?”

“fingering your cunt wishing it was me?” his words make your toes curl more than his fingers. you’d never admit it to him, your mind trailing to him when you can’t sleep. opening yourself up imagining he was there telling you dirty things. your vibrator is fine but he’s so much better.

“or do you hump your pillow thinking about me? it’s not as good is it?” you shake your head mouth opened gasping.

“leaves you wanting more? wanting your oppa’s cock to help you.” his words pull you closer. you bounce on his hand chasing the release.

“moaning for your oppa all alone.” leaving open mouth kisses along your neck when he whispers, “gonna let it out for your oppa?”

“hate you,” releasing onto his fingers with a whine cunt tightening around them. your fingers tug at his hair and he moans into your neck slowing his hand but still slowly pumping into you. thumb still swirling around your nipple when you look down watching the slow flick of his wrist and see the wet spot on his sweats.

“don’t tell me you came in your pants too?” you tease, breathily.

“all you, sweet cheeks,” pulling his fingers out sticky string connecting to your pussy as more slick dribbles out onto the grey material. he brings them to his lips savoring your taste on his tongue. his other hand falls from your chest settling on your tummy rubbing circles with his thumb. your tit still hanging out as you release the grip you had on him your fingers quickly find his waistband. pulling down the fabric you release his cock.

“no panties?” looking up at him grinning as he leans back head resting on his arms.

“i was trying to be fast.” you take his cock in your hands pumping the length. pushing your ass back to bend down and take him in your mouth. he hisses between his teeth when you wrap your lips around his tip. bobbing your head he reaches down to brush your hair out of your face. you pull back releasing him before spitting messily onto his cock.

“fuck,” he groans as your hand speeds up using your spit and his precum to glide over his length. you look up at him through your lashes watching him bite his lip. he stares back at you, before taking him back in your mouth, sucking him slowly.

“you’re so fucking hot,” gripping your hair with his voice raspy. “i hate you too,” his hips buck when you laugh, mouth vibrating around him. continuing you bob your head letting his cock bump the back of your throat when your nose touches his pelvis. you linger swallowing around him.

“fuck fuck fuck,” he groans, using your hair to pull you away. releasing his cock with spit dripping out of your mouth onto his pants. his chest heaves your hand lazily pumping his length. you wipe your mouth before sitting back up. you wiggle forward on him sitting so your cunt presses against his member.

“do you have condoms,” you turn rummaging in the glove box.

“maybe,” he mumbles, watching the way the head of his cock disappears between your folds.

“bro,” you lift a pair of your panties from the box.

“oh yeah you left those,” he says nonchalantly, holding your hips dragging you over his cock. rolling your eyes, continuing to look, attempting to ignore the hardness bumping your sensitive clit, searching for a foil packet but only finding ketchup.

“can we just do it raw?” you side eye him contemplating. “i’ll pull out.”

“it’s gonna be messy.” you sigh, shutting the compartment.

“you like it that way,” his eyes are staring between you. you're grinding on him without his help so he moves his hand to spread your pussy watching the slick coat his member. a mischievous look on his face when he tugs at the ripped tights opening them more.

“hey,” you shriek, slapping his hand. he doesn’t flinch, hands laying across your thighs as he moves his thumb to lift the head of his cock against your clit, groaning at the pressure. you keep your pace hips rocking back and forth. you grip the hem of his shirt pushing it up on his chest.

“shit,” he whimpers, precum pumping from the slit as he grabs your hips to stop you.

“up,” you lift yourself shimmying forward. he holds himself guiding to your entrance and lifting his own hips while you slide down. you groan in unison when you sit fully. you don’t move for a second savoring the fill of his cock. but his impatient hips jump, jostling you over him, making you double over.

“fuck,” you whimper leaning over him hands under his shirt, your hair falling in his face. you push against him, nails digging into his skin and start riding him. ass slapping against his grey sweatpants any sound muted by the fabric. the head of his cock bumping your sweet spot with every bounce.

he reaches around gripping your ass using what’s left of your tights to move you up and down faster, deeper. moans fill the car along with ripping fabric beside the building steam.

“so deep,” you whine. he leans up, hips meeting yours, face now only centimeters away. you shriek when his hand slaps against your ass.

“like it when i hit you down there,” he repeats your stupid comment from earlier has him hitting your skin again. he grips your tights pulling you up and down on him.

“i meant,” you lean away pushing on his chest for leverage with one hand the other going to your clit. “here.” you wince slapping softly over your sensitive bud.

“let me try again,” his hair falls in his face and he leans into you. his mouth latching onto your nipple and slapping your clit harshly. you shake overwhelmed by the suction on your chest, repeated hits to your g-spot, and slick fingers thrumming your clit.

“there?” he asks, releasing your nipple while still tonguing the bud. you nod furiously, tears building in your eyes overwhelmed.

“aww don’t cry little doll,” he teases using his teeth to pull the other side of your top down before sucking the nipple into his mouth.

“so much,” you whimper, hands threading in his hair roughly.

“thought that was how you hated me?” his breath is so hot like the tears you feel on your cheeks. he continues pounding into you, hips driving deeper with each thrust.

“yeah,” you can’t form a thought just his hands, and his tongue, and his fingers, and his cock, his dick, him, him, him.

“cat got your tongue,” tugging your bottom lip. you mumble nothing but everything at the same time feeling yourself come undone slowly but all at once. whining again when his tongue laps at your nipple. his fingers swirl quickly on your clit.

“s’ full,” you moan. he slaps your clit again making you shake clenching tightly around him.

“oppa’s cock to much for you?” you shake you head, core tightening as your release approaches faster and faster.

“want it,” you whine, nodding mouth opened spit dribbling down your chin, cock drunk.

“gonna cum because you hate me again?” he grins up at you. you squeeze around him in response, hearing him hiss. speeding up his finger on your clit sending you over the edge.

“oppa,” you whimper, arching into his hold as you cum. hot pleasure fills your body as your hips jerk. pussy pulsing around him but he doesn’t slow down continuously bumping your sweet spot over and over.

“let it out for your oppa,” cooing, he feels the puddle growing on his pants. the pads of his fingers don’t stop causing your release to spray over his lower half.

“oh my god,” you whimper leaning into his shoulder. hips shuddering as he still moves in you.

“you’re so tight,” your cunt still squeezing around him as he slows. heavy breathing into his neck while you come down he slowly ruts into you. finally pulling back looking at the mess you made on him.

“sorry,” you whimper, overstimulated from the fullness.

“it’s fucking hot,” he replies as you push him back to the seat. he looks pretty brown eyes blown wide and staring up at you, his hair sticking to his forehead. you’re determined to have him fill you up. suddenly needy for his hot cum in you. your fingers move the hem of his shirt farther up, pads brushing his nipples making him shiver.

“what are you doing?” you start moving your hips again, swiveling them.

“what does it look like?” you deadpan fingers pinching his nubs. he whines head tipping back with closed eyes.

“cum in me.” you whisper against his stomach. tongue flicking over his sticky skin as you bounce on him. he peers down at you watching you slither up his chest before tonguing his nipple.

“fuck,” he whimpers biting his lip. his hands holding your hips start to pull you up and down on him. quivering from sensitivity with each drag of his cock.

“nuhuh,” you move your hands to stop his. “let me.” you lift your ass up before slapping back down the squelch and slap of skin fills the car. your hands hold his wrists hovering over your skin, but he reaches for you needily.

“wanna fuck you.” you whine flicking his nipple with your tongue. “make you cum.” pausing licking up his chest to his collarbone. “fill me up, oppa,” you whisper into his ear.

he’s keening at every word and every squeeze of your tight cunt around him. pulling back, releasing his hands, using yours to press l against the steamy window for leverage and the other finding your clit.

“feels so good, oppa,” you whine when his cock hits your sweet spot again. he finally moves his hands using his thumbs to spread your pussy watching the sticky connection as his cock disappears in you.

“fuck i’m gonna cum,” he groans as you pull him closer to the edge.

“cum for me oppa,” you whimper fingers circling your clit and nipple.

“love it when oppa fills up my cunt,” hips fucking into you and his head falls back as he pumps hot seed into you with a moan. you keep moving your hips, milking his cock. letting the tip abuse your insides trying to cum again.

“unhuh,” you whine, overstimulating him as his cum starts to slip out of you. it sticks to your inner thighs, strings connecting you.

“shit, stop, fuck,” he grabs your hips stopping your movements.

“i’m so close though,” you whine, fingers still padding against your clit. he pulls you off of him with a groan, cock lazily slapping onto his pelvis. you move your fingers fucking two into your puffy pussy but it’s not enough it never is.

“help me,” you whine and he adds a finger beside yours fucking into your cunt pumping his load back into you. you bounce down meeting creamy digits as he curls them.

“let me show you,” he coos using his finger to push the tips of your own into you making you moan instantly.

“it’s gonna,” you moan out, gripping his wrist. “come out.”

“what happened to that tight little cunt? did oppa fuck you loose?” you whimper and he adds a second finger watching your hole swallow four fingers with ease. the pads of his fingers helping you curl yours, pressing just right. you feel so close just a little more you think rubbing your clit faster and harder.

“fuck i’m,” your hips start to shake. “i’m.” you can’t finish, crying out.

“one more time, for your oppa,” he directs more than asks.

you garble out curses as you cum. squirting onto your hands and his spent cock. your wrist slowing but he keeps going coaxing the streams out of you. you can’t think of anything, your body buzzing and shivering with waves of pleasure. it feels like it’s never going to end each bump of your own fingers inside you makes you spill more.

“no more, can’t,” you mumble, grabbing for him. mind numb and cunt pulsing out small dribbles.

“so greedy,” he tells you, pulling out with you, one final spurt hitting his dick. you lay your hand on his thigh but he slaps your cunt making you cry. his sticky fingers rubbing against you slowly. he feels what’s left of his cum start to pool on his fingers, mixing with all you gave him.

cupping his fingers he scoops it from you making you quiver again. before he can move his hands you grab his wrist pulling his fingers to your mouth slurping the mixture onto your tongue.

“fuck,” he hisses, watching you diligently sucking every drop from him. “so fucking nasty.”

sitting back on his thighs with a huff looking down to inspect the damage. his pants are practically dark grey now and his shirt even has damp spots. your fingers spread your lips so you can peak at your pussy, wet and swollen still slightly pulsing.

“i gotta put some towels or something in here. this is like the fourth time.” you giggle pushing your hair out of your face.

“sorry,” you puff.

“next time i'm just going to open the door and let you make a mess on the pavement.” you roll your eyes but the thought of him holding you up for anyone to watch while you squirt makes you tingle.

“you're so freaky. don’t tell me you want me to,” he reads your mind.

“shut up,” you push him away.

“next time i’ll just bend you over the hood.” you whine legs squeezing his. your both still catching your breath the air in the car hot and muggy. you groan as you slide from his lap into your seat.

“i’m going to have to get her detailed again.” he mutters looking between your legs where the slick rubs on his seat.

“sorry,” you grin. he looks around to see if anyone is outside but it’s empty. he always parks far away from the entrance, behind the permanently closed pool. it’s rare that anyone pulls up near you. he tucks himself in his ruined sweats lifting his hips to pull them up before opening the door. the rush of cool air hits you, making you close your legs quickly.

haechan rummages in the trunk, he did keep towels and a change of clothes. after the first time you made a mess he secretly stockpiled items for you. a sweater here, some pants there, a duplicate of your favorite blanket.

he pulls out one of his sweatshirts, tugging his own shirt off, tossing it in a small basket he put back there. he shivered pulling the clean one on quickly. he grabbed two towels before walking back to the door handing you one.

“i thought you didn’t keep towels in here?” you question grabbing the towel and shifting it under you.

“i’m not known for telling the truth.” he wipes over his seat cleaning up the mess. he walks back to the trunk as you lean your head against the seat, sighing.

he puts the towel on top of his shirt, grabbing wipes and two pairs of sweatpants he closes the trunk with an elbow.

“here,” his voice makes you open your eyes. he’s holding wipes up and you grab them. pulling them out you wipe over his seat, he’s standing outside swiftly pulling off his pants. you look up his ass in your face and you can’t resist slapping it.

“b word,” he shrieks, turning to you, almost falling, he hopes on one leg, tugging the pants over his shoes. his refusal to call you a bitch makes you laugh. he’s so tender.

“hey you can only call me that during sex,” you scold.

“that seems like the last place i should call you that,” he points out, stepping into the sweats.

“but i like it,” you pout, closing the wipes watching him jump into his pants.

“because you,” leaning in before tapping a finger on your nose. “are a freak.” you bite at his finger but he pulls away too quickly grabbing something off the roof.

“here,” he holds your own pants to you.

“i’ve been looking for these,” you groan, ripping them from his hands. “how long have you had these?” he shrugs getting back into his seat. not bothering with your tights you slip your skirt down letting it pool on the floorboard. he sits his seat back up starting the car again and blasting the heat. you pull the pants over your legs enjoying the soft warm fabric.

“why do you have my pants,” you prod poking his side.

“in case you needed them,” he states plainly.

“awww you’re so sweet,” you pinch his cheek. “do you like me or something?”

“gross,” he blurts, side eyeing you. “do you want me to drop you at your place?”

“please,” you respond, scrolling on your phone. the car is quiet except for the heat blowing through the vents. “thanks for picking me up by the way, and the ice cream.”

“no worries,” he mumbles, turning the wheel.

“do you have more of my clothes?” you open the glove box pulling your panties out.

“just some leggings and shit in the trunk,” he tells you casually.

“why are you stealing from me,” you sigh, making him chuckle.

“i’ll just get pee pads instead. is that better?”

“god that’s weird. i never do that with anyone else,” you admit.

“wait what?” he stops at a light, looking at you grinning.

“i mean i’ve come close but never like,” you pause motioning, “that. the first time was with you.” you see his ego growing beneath his skin already regretting what you said.

“you’re saying only my dick, my fingers, my tongue can get you like that,” he’s smiling to himself and it’s so annoying you want to slap him and kiss him. you shake your head, getting the last thought out of your head.

“don’t get a big head or anything. i shouldn’t have said it.” you roll your eyes picking at fuzz on your pants.

“if it helps you’re the only one who can make me cum by just playing with my nipples.”

“i’m sure you can do that all by yourself.”

“i’ve tried.” he says flatly.

“you’re too impatient. you just want to nut as fast as possible when you’re alone.”

“well duh why would i want to drag it out if i’m alone and not playing with you. i don’t even jerk off that much anymore, i just edge myself for you.” you dwell on what he said. he makes it sound like you’re the only one he’s hooking up with.

“you don’t edge yourself for-“

“no.” he interrupts you before you can start listing people. “i don’t hook up with anyone else.”

“what?”

“i don’t hook up with anyone else.” he repeats.

“i dunno, that’s a little too intimate, haechan,” you tease, trying to seem like you don’t care. part of you wants to think about what it actually means and another part wants to ignore him and be oblivious.

“is it? i like being intimate with you,” he meets your eyes quickly, fingers crawling up your leg.

“that sounds so serious,” you breathe deeply.

“don’t tell me you didn’t like that?” recalling how you felt less than 15 minutes ago. squeezing your legs together and your eyes closed. “i know you. you hate that i do, but i know how i make you feel. i’m confident in that.”

you stay quiet the only sound coming from the heat and wheels on pavement. his hand still rests on your thigh, fingers softly thrumming. you don’t really have an answer or any witty remark. he’s right. he does know your body better than anyone you have ever been with. you hate to admit he knows you better too. reading your mind with ease and his humor is just as dirty and weird. deep down you know how you feel for him but you can’t, it breaks the unspoken rule between you too.

“why do you have to be so,” you groan, his hand smooths over your leg.

“i think you know how i feel about you,” he mutters, turning onto you street.

“huh,” you heard him.

“we’re here,” he pulls up beside your apartment.

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing your bag and shoving your panties in. opening the door and haechan rolls the window down as you slam the door.

“don’t forget,” he holds your skirt up and you grab it from him.

“thanks.”

“good night.”

“good night, and just so you know, i don’t know how you feel about me.” you tell him, pulling back before turning to walk to your door. you want to look back and see his face but you get your keys out and turn them in the lock.

he sits watching you turn the door knob and disappear into your house. he sighs, eyes closing and leaning his head back rubbing his eyes with his palms.

[heedeungism]

𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨.

•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader •°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue. •°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, ????-to-lovers, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au •°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 22k •°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(one fight) and threats of it, lots of tension, mc is a horndog what's new, i meant to make this slow like the first part but im a weak woman, weed, mc is her own worst enemy, mc is stupid before she is smart <3, attempted unwanted touching, riki is the jealous type but in a green flag way, don’t ask where the teachers are, riki has bigger hands than mc, kissing(many a time), once i got the angst out of the way it turned into crack js •°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― thank you all for being so kind and giving me such helpful feedback and love! shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for once again holding my hand and basically beta reading this for me, you're the best queen. •°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, don’t smile by sabrina carpenter, big girls don’t cry by fergie, better than me by doja cat, diet pepsi by addison rae, what a girl wants by christina aguilera, positions by ariana grande, he could be the one by hannah montana, bmf by sza

part one.

AT THE BEGINNING OF FEBRUARY you realized how easy it was to get over Eunseok at the same moment that it sinks in that you can’t get over Riki.

Maybe it's the fact that he’s still friendly despite the ‘breakup’, or that he still makes sweet comments that feel too genuine to be taken as flirting anymore. He hasn’t changed much of his behavior at all since the end of January, actually.

The news of the short-lived relationship spread around school. Though it was clear that you both were still friends, most of the rumors were dispelled. However, some were still infuriatingly present.

Now, you’re not the type of person who gives a shit about what other people think of you—especially not a bunch of pubescent teenagers with so little going on in their own lives that they find entertainment in yours. But your patience is wearing thin. If you hear another freshman whisper about you not being over your cheating ex, you are going to go insane. (Despite your reputation, you are above throwing hands with 14 year-olds.)

“So you want something like this, right?” Julie taps on her phone screen from across from you, showing the nail inspiration photo you had sent her just last week. When you only nod, she tilts her head with a curious raise of her brows, “We can do something different, hon’.”

Quickly, you shake your head and straighten your posture in the chair across from her, “No, sorry. I just—I’m just thinking about shit. I still want a set like that.” You force a soft laugh, and she nods with a soft ‘okay’.

“So? Anything new?” She asks with a pretty smile as she plugs in her nail drill and turns on the dust collector.

You lay your hands onto the rest between the two of you, humming and then sighing, “I’m still single.”

Julie begins working at removing her work from three weeks ago with the drill, though the pink mask keeping her from inhaling the dust doesn’t hide her face of baffled confusion, “I thought you were dating that lacrosse guy, though.”

The sound of the drill and fan are like white noise to the both of you as you sigh and drop your head forward, “Didn’t work out.”

Julie gasps softly, clearly upset for you, “What’d he do?”

While you love that her first instinct was to ask what he did and not what you did, the latter is more fitting for the situation. “He was too perfect and I got scared?” You admit softly with a guilty shrug.

Julie pauses in her work and deadpans at you, “Ho.”

“I know!” You whine softly as she resumes, using your free hand to grab the chilled can of Dr Pepper she’d grabbed for you before your appointment started, sipping from the pink straw before you continue to whine, “I fucked up.”

“I never got to see a photo last time, either.” Julie recalls as she progresses to removing the hard-gel off your other hand, “You hadn’t picked anyone for your little plan, yet.”

Julie knowing about your genius plan to ruin Eunseok and Nayeon’s day, everyday, with your tall, hot, and sweet ‘boyfriend’ was inevitable. She had dropped the traitorous bitch as a client the moment you and Belle told her about it, equally as disgusted by Nayeon as the both of you. Not to mention, Belle always yapped her pretty head off during her appointments, so as previously stated, it was inevitable.

“You’re gonna hate me,” You say, grabbing your phone with your now dusty and bare fingers to quickly tap to a photo of Riki that Jake had sent you. He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm and seemed to be captured in a heated argument with another boy on the team. The first thing you noticed was his hands, though.

When she pauses to look at your screen, she looks at you again and sighs like a disappointed mother, shaking her head and turning the drill back on. You whine, “Don’t sigh at me, I’m in mourning.”

“I thought you said you weren’t worried about catching feelings.” She reminds you, and you roll your eyes.

“Bitch, look at him.” You sass, picking up your phone to show the still-lit screen before placing it facedown in your lap again, “and he was just so—sweet. And he liked when I was mean to him.”

“As he should.”

“—and his smile made me want to stick my head in an oven Sylvia Plath style.” You say with a soft pout on your lips, “It was so much so suddenly, and I freaked out.”

Julie turns off the drill and grabs the brush to clean off the dust from your hands as she nods slightly to what you’re saying, “And Eunseok was so recent.”

“—And Eunseok was so recent!” You repeat in vehement agreement, groaning up at the ceiling as you slump slightly, “Why do boys ruin everything?”

You spend the next few hours of your nail appointment ranting about everything. Riki, your ex, your ex best friend, your dad (who had texted you a long message after you left him that you promptly responded to with a ‘that doesn’t look like an apology so im not reading that’).

mommy dearest 🩷: can you pick up some groceries for me? just a few things

The text from your mom as you swipe your card on Julie’s reader is paired with a chime you recognize as your bank app. Your new nails tap on your screen as you open the notification, grinning at the sight of a hefty transfer of funds into your account. 

The small list your mother sends doesn’t come close to costing the amount she sent you to pay for it, so you decide to stop at Sephora while you’re out too.

You choose the highest percentage to tip and sign her phone screen with your knuckle before bidding her a happy farewell and exiting the salon. The drive to the strip center is barely ten minutes long, your BMW filled with Christina Aguilera and the trip slightly delayed by your admiration of your new nails at every red light. 

When you get into the Sephora, which you decided to visit first since your mom’s list included produce, you b-line to the skincare section. 

You’re debating between oil cleansers when you’re tapped on the shoulder. 

The woman before you looks around your mother’s age, a bit shorter than you but with a beautiful smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Y/n?”

You blink, caught off guard, but nod.

Her grin widens. “I’m Riki’s mom!”

Your stomach drops. Every instinct screams at you to panic, but instead, you paint a pretty smile on your face, the kind your mother taught you to perfect at charity galas. “Oh my god, hi!”

Before you can react, she pulls you into a hug, warm and tight, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. You reciprocate, though your arms are stiff and hesitant.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length. Her eyes, as sharp and bright as Riki’s, scan you with something between approval and curiosity. “You’re just as lovely as he said.”

“Thank you,” you manage, your voice light despite the whirlwind in your chest at the sudden and  information that Riki talks about you at home. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“I can’t believe I ran into you like this!” she says, her excitement bubbling over. “You’re like a doll, honey. The photos he’s shown me don’t do you justice.”

Your brain short-circuits at the word photos. Plural.

“Oh?” you manage, keeping your smile intact even as your heart feels like it’s trying to escape the confines of your chest.

“Of course! He’s always talking about you,” she continues, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on you in the middle of Sephora. “He showed me the cutest one of you two at the bowling alley—said it was his favorite night in a long time.”

Your breath catches, but you quickly cover it with a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s so sweet of him.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She beams like she’s talking about a national treasure instead of her son. “He’s always been so shy when it comes to girls, but with you, it’s different. I can tell you mean a lot to him.”

The words land like a stone in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. You can’t tell if she���s trying to hint at something or if she’s just being a proud mom, but either way, you suddenly feel very out of your depth.

“That’s nice to hear,” you say lightly, though your throat feels tight. “He’s a great guy.”

She places a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm. “You’re good for him, you know. He’s happier these days, more confident.”

Your mind flashes to Riki’s easy smiles, the way he leans into you during conversations, the soft look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You swallow hard.

“Thank you, Mrs. Nishimura,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel . “That really means a lot.”

Her smile softens, and she gives your arm a little squeeze. “Oh, call me Rin, honey. And if you ever want to come over for dinner, just let me know. I’d love to have you.”

“Dinner sounds lovely,” you say with a polite smile, already running on autopilot. “I’ll have to check with Riki, but I’m sure he’d love that too.”

“Oh, good! I’ll talk to him about it tonight,” Rin says brightly, her excitement only adding to the internal chaos brewing in your chest. “You two are so sweet together—I can’t believe he didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

You blink, momentarily stunned, and force out a soft laugh. “That’s really kind of you to say.”

“I mean it.” She gives you an approving once-over before leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, he’s usually so tight-lipped about his personal life. I had to drag it out of him that you two were dating in the first place.”

The air leaves your lungs like you’ve been punched. He hadn’t told her.

“He—uh—didn’t mention that we’re…” you start, the words catching in your throat.

“Together?” she finishes for you with a knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much about it. I just want him to be happy, and it’s so obvious you make him happy.”

You feel your face flush, your carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. But instead of correcting her, you nod, your smile tighter now. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”

She reaches out and pats your arm warmly. “It was so nice meeting you, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to your shopping. Tell Riki I said hi, okay?”

“I will,” you promise, your voice light despite the storm in your head.

As soon as she disappears down another aisle, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Reaching for the oil cleansers again, you try to steady yourself, replaying her words over and over.

He didn’t tell her.

A part of you is…warm with the information. The other part wants to puke your guts out. 

You stare blankly at the oil cleansers in front of you, your grip tightening around the bottle in your hand. The woman’s words replay in your mind like a broken record, each one sharper than the last.

“He’s happier these days, more confident.”

“It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

“He didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”

Your chest tightens, a mix of guilt and something softer—but no less overwhelming—clawing its way up your throat. The whole point of fake dating was to not make things messy. Yet here you are, feeling like a lead character in a rom-com whose life is falling apart. Right now would be an amazing time for Matthew McConaughey to come out and sweep you off your feet. 

(You realize with borderline humiliating speed that you would much prefer if Riki swept you off your feet. Seriously, there must be something wrong with you.)

The bottle trembles slightly in your hand, and you force yourself to set it back on the shelf with a shaky exhale. You’re not the kind of girl who lets this sort of thing get to her. You’re confident, decisive, in control. Except when it comes to him.

The thought makes you pause, your fingers brushing absently over your nails as the memory of his smile creeps in—the one he reserved just for you, warm and easy and dangerous.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the Sulwhasoo cleanser you were debating spending so much on and beginning to mindlessly fill the black Sephora tote as you walk through the aisles. Real therapy has nothing on retail therapy considering you know what your problems are and how to fix them. Paying someone to tell you those things seems counterproductive when you can make yourself feel better by treating yourself.

By all accounts, it’s been a good day for you. Getting out of the school parking lot was exceptionally easy despite the traffic you encounter more often than not. You got your nails done and love how they turned out. You’re currently splurging at Sephora. And now you have reason to believe Riki doesn’t secretly hate you for breaking his heart.

riki 🙈: just got out of practice

riki 🙈: are you coming to the game tomorrow?

You look at your phone as you tap your card on the reader and accept the large black and white striped bag from the girl at the counter.  Thanking her with a smile before beginning to make your way out to your car again. When you settle into the driver’s seat, the heat turns on as you place the bag into the passenger seat.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, nails tapping against your case as your phone automatically hooks up to the bluetooth, ‘After Hours’ by The Weeknd beginning to play. “Oh, shut up.” You sigh as you pause the music and finally muster up the right response.

pretty girl 🪩: depends on how nice you are to me tomorrow

riki 🙈: i’ll bring you a gift rn

pretty girl 🪩: im not home

As soon as the text is marked as Read, your screen is replaced by his caller ID, a photo of him at age ten in a Michael Jackson costume lighting up your screen. You can’t help but chuckle before pressing the green button, reaching to turn the volume up as you ask with a playfully suspicious tone, “Can I help you?”

“Mhm, where are you?” His deep voice and hum makes you bite your fist.

You begin pulling out of the parking lot to make it across the street to the grocery store, “Getting groceries, why?”

“I wanna see you.” 

Lord have mercy—

“You sure you don’t just miss Gus?“ You hesitate to mention the revelations made by his very kind mother in Sephora, but decide to hold off.

“Oh, I do miss Gus, but I miss his mom more.”

Oh, you hate the soft laughter that leaves your mouth the moment you hear it, “I won’t be long at the store, it’s just a few things.”

There’s a shuffle on the other side, then he says, “What store?”

“Riki, it’s literally like four things.” You laugh at his shameless eagerness, “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

He chuckles softly before humming again, “Okay, bye pretty.”

“Bye.” A beat passes and ‘What a Girl Wants’ by Christina Aguilera blares through the speakers so loud you jump, “Jesus Christ.”

By the time you pull into the grocery store parking lot, you’ve replayed his voice in your head at least five times. I wanna see you. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it—soft, easy, like he wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. Like it was natural for him to want to be around you, and for you to want the same. You’re...friends. 

You curse the thought away as you grab your keys and step into the cold evening air, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. You don’t need to be thinking about Riki Nishimura and his stupid, perfect face and voice the whole time.

The grocery run is quick—milk, eggs, a few vegetables, and a bag of Gus’s favorite treats because you can’t resist—and you’re back in your car in record time. You text Riki that you're on the way home and find yourself smiling when he loves the message. It drops a second later when you realize what you’re doing and curse again, tossing your phone into the cup holder like it’s on fire and covering your face to self-reflect.

When you pull into the driveway of your home, it isn’t hard to spot Riki’s black Jeep parked at the curb. What is hard is hiding the grin that forms on your lips as you park your car and get out to grab the groceries in your trunk. The lacrosse player is already exiting his own vehicle and jogging over to help you.

“You didn’t have to come,” you say as he reaches for the bag of vegetables in your hands, but there’s no bite to your words.

“You said you’d text me when you were home,” he replies, his voice light and teasing as he takes the other bags with ease. “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”

You shake your head, grabbing your Sephora bag and locking your car. “So damn impatient.”

“Only when it comes to you.” His response is so casual, so effortless, it knocks the air from your lungs. You glance at him, but he’s already halfway up the path, waiting for you at the door like he hadn’t just said something that made your knees weak.

When you catch up, you unlock the door with the code and nudge it open with your foot, paising once you’re inside to shut it behind him. You kick off your shoes and pass Riki to get to the kitchen, placing your Sephora bag on one of the island’s chairs and watching him place the few grocery bags on the counter. 

“Gus~” You call out as you begin to unpack the paper bags, and there’s a soft warbled meow in response in the direction of your room. The plump tuxedo cat appears around the corner, rubbing his body against the wall with another soft cry for attention that has Riki cooing and lowering himself to the ground to oblige him.

Once you’ve got groceries put away, you watch the 6’ something lacrosse player pet your cat with gentle scratches under his chin that he leans into with slow blinks, “Are you happy?”

Your softly giggled question has Riki smiling up at you, “So happy.”

With a soft huff of amusement, you grab your Sephora bag and walk in the direction of your room, choosing not to glance behind you to see if he’s following. Just act natural, bitch.

You leave your door open as you enter your room, thanking the lord that the cleaning lady had visited while you were out and your room isn’t as dirty as you left it this morning. Walking into your bathroom to start putting away your new skincare, you ignore the sound of him entering your room. 

“You have a lot of perfume.” You hear him comment, glancing over your shoulder to see him admiring the organized collection on your open vanity.

“Yeah, I...have a problem” You say with a soft laugh of slight embarrassment at your habit of buying yourself anything pretty or relatively cutesy. “I have more in my closet.”

Riki whistles lowly, seemingly a bit impressed, “Which one’s your favorite?”

With a hum of thought, you step out of your bathroom to walk to your closet. You don’t mind the open door as you enter, reaching the island in the center working double as storage and where you keep your perfumes. Riki follows just to the doorway, leaning against it as his eyes move from you to the expanse of your walk-in closet. The floor-to-ceiling shelves in the back displaying heels and boots of different luxury brands, the pretty runner rug beneath your feet, it all screams you.

You’re plucking your favorite bottle from the display when his eyes land on the corner of something flat and white hidden behind a woven hamper. The easy smile on your face drops the moment you see him pull it out from its hiding spot, a boyish grin on his face. “You sneaky fuck.” 

He laughs at your immediate cursing, holding the white board out of your reach as you hasten towards him to take it from him, “Pros and Cons?”

“Oh my god.” You give up on taking it from him, hands moving to try and cover his eyes, “Riki!”

“It’s about me, pretty girl.” he argues playfully, still laughing while trying to dodge your hands, “C’mon, just a peek!”

“Boys aren’t allowed to peek—Riki!” You fight laughter as his arm hooks around your head, his hand covering your face as he begins to read out the words you wish you had erased when you had the chance.

“‘Nickname kinda dumb’, you think my nicknames dumb?” He asks in an offended tone, laughter seeping into his words.

“That wasn’t me, that was Jongseob—“

“Cut his hair—Why is cutting my hair a con?” He asks incredulously, finally letting you push his hand away from your face to look down at you. Your back is still half-pressed to his chest, and the moment you can look up at him your heart skips like it’s playing hopscotch in your chest.

You catch the glance his eyes take down below your nose and find yourself pulling away quickly, grabbing the whiteboard from him to haphazardly use your sleeve to wipe the marker off, ignoring his laughed ‘hey!’ and sighing in relief when you erase enough for the rest of its contents to look like random pink lines across its surface.

When you spin around with a playfully pointed finger to curse him out, your words catch in your throat at the look in his eyes. 

How a look could be both heavy and so soft, you do not know, but it's the best way you can describe Riki’s gaze.

“Wh—“ You stammer with hesitation, face heating up as his soft smile turns into a smirk of amusement, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?” He questions in a light tone, almost soft. If you didn’t know better you’d think him genuine in his innocence, but the slight twitch of the corner of his lips and the way his eyes flit to yours gives it away.

“Riki.”

His name leaving your lips draws his gaze away from them, and his smirk turns into one more wry. “I left your gift in my car.” 

Your chest clenches painfully as he turns to exit your closet, your lips parting yet no words leaving them as he walks out. You follow after him, abandoning your perfume on the closest surface, “Riki, wait—“

“It’s okay—” he starts, turning just in time to stop you from crashing into him. His hands find your forearms instinctively, steadying you, but the sudden proximity freezes you both in place.

You blink up at him, startled, your breath hitching at the closeness. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your sweater, his touch gentle, like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.

“I—” You start to say something, anything, but your voice falters when you meet his gaze. There’s something there, something unspoken and unbearably soft that makes your chest ache. 

Your words catch in your throat when he gently steps back, his hands slipping away as though he’s suddenly aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. “It’s fine,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice is soft, but there’s a distance in it that wasn’t there before, and it only makes the knot in your chest tighten. “I’ll go grab it.” 

You take a step forward before you can stop yourself, “Riki, I didn’t mean—”

“Really, don’t worry about it.” His voice is light, too light, as he cuts you off with a small wave of his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You hesitate, watching as he turns toward the hallway, his movements just a little too deliberate. His usual ease is gone, replaced by something quieter, more careful.

Your heart sinks. Is he upset with you? He doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a tension in the way he carries himself that wasn’t there before.

“I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” you blurt out, desperate to bridge the gap forming between you.

He pauses mid-step, his back still to you. For a moment, it seems like he might say something, but instead, he exhales quietly and turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You didn’t,” he says, his tone softer now, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—regret? Frustration? “It’s not you. I just… I need a second. That’s all.”

His mother’s words ring in your head again, “It’s so obvious you make him happy.”

Yet, you feel like the opposite is all you can see. You ask him to be your fake boyfriend to make your ex mad, not even considering his feelings. You tell him you can’t date him despite him treating you with more respect and care than Eunseok ever did. You let him kiss you. You kissed back.

Clearly, you have royally fucked up a few times now.

Confronting him about not telling his mother felt like it would only make things worse between the two of you. Maybe, it’d be better for him to hear it from his mother instead of you.

Your stomach twists, guilt gnawing at you even though his words tell you otherwise. You nod, unsure what else to say, and he offers a faint, almost apologetic smile before disappearing down the hall.

“And then what?” Belle questions with a vehemence that startles you slightly. Eunchae, Hiyyih, and Jongseob are all listening intently from their normal spots in your room, your oldest friend of the four standing with her hands on her hips.

When you had informed the group chat you were staying home the next day, you definitely did not expect the four to show up to your house after piling into an Uber. One look at your tear-streaked face was enough for them to ask the questions that brought you to now.

You stammer slightly, “He—He came back with the gift and made up an excuse to leave.”

“You let him leave?” Belle asks incredulously, and you shrink under her gaze, “Bitch.”

“I don’t know, okay!” You say with your face in your hands, frustrated tears burning your eyes again as you groan, “It’s all so complicated.”

Jongseob raises his hand, waiting for Belle to motion for him to speak before he asks, “Do you like him? Also, is this a bad time to say I have a joint in my bag?”

Eunchae punches his arm, and your hands slide off your face, mind too preoccupied by your current dilemma to even insult the only boy in the friend group for his lack of ability to read the room as usual. Hiyyih leans forward to let the youngest reach over her to get to him, “That was a good question until you ruined it.” 

”Do you like him, though?” Eunchae asks once Jongseob’s arm is surely to bruise and his hands are up in surrender.

You look up from your hands, “I don’t know—“

“You’re pissing me off.” Belle sighs, palm moving to her forehead, and while you know she means well. “You like him.”

“I can’t.” You argue, voice shaking as you fight tears. Eunchae moves from her bean bag to sit next to you. “All that shit with Eunseok was barely a month ago—“

“Who gives a shit about Eunseok anymore?” Belle snaps, throwing her hands up in frustration, “Just because you dated that asshole for two years doesn’t mean it’ll take that long for you to move on.”

“It still feels like I’m using him.” You finally let the tears fall, and her frustration seems to dissipate. She sighs softly, kneeling in front of your sitting form at the edge of your bed.

Her hands move to cover yours, “Do you still have feelings for Eunseok?” The face you make answers her question and she adds, “Do you still think of Riki as a way to get back at him?”

“Of course not.“

“Then you aren’t using him.” She finishes. “He went into this knowing your plan, and you said he even told you it wasn’t you that was the problem.”

You shake your head, tears falling as you blink them away, “He looked upset—“

“Then that’s his problem.” She argues again, “It’s his job to communicate how he feels if he likes you.”

“He does communicate. I’m the issue!” You cry pitifully, “I don’t want him to think I’m not over Eunseok because—I’m still so angry.”

“He cheated on you with your best friend, you don’t have to forgive him to be able to move on to a healthy relationship.” She states.

“But it feels—“ You can’t find words for why it feels wrong to want to date Riki, because the thought of it makes your heart race, “I don’t know! I’ve known him for barely a month and I just—“

“You like him and feel like it’s not real because it happened too fast?” She reads you like a damn book, but you’re almost thankful for it.

“Yes!” You cry, “And he deserves better than that.”

“So, you like Riki?” She repeats her question, her tone matching yours.

You find yourself answering before you can even think, “Yes!”

Your stomach drops as Belle stands like her work here is done. 

It isn’t you realizing you like Riki that has your stomach filling with dread and guilt, it's the fact that you like him more than you have ever liked anyone. 

You liked Eunseok, even told him you loved him, but that seed hadn’t grown in your chest no matter how many times it left your mouth in the form of ‘I love you.’

Yet, you imagine yourself with Riki—loving him—and it all sounds so…easy. The mundanity you dreaded having to live with Eunseok sounded like a dream with Riki. Falling in love with him sounded like something you wouldn’t mind experiencing. 

Which, all things considered, is fucking terrifying to you.

Hiyyih, who had been silently watching the interaction, pats the shoulder of the boy beside her, “I think she’s gonna need that joint now, Seob.”

The shaggy-haired producer straightens up, nodding and quickly reaching for his bag to pull the baggy from the front pocket.

Belle moves toward your closet, “Manchae, Hiyyih, help her wipe her face while I find her an outfit for the game tonight.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head in a panicked way that makes Belle grab your face in her hands, uncaring of the fact she’s squishing your cheeks, “Do you want Riki to be your boyfriend, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are going to this game, and you are going to look hot.” She walks you through it like she’s talking to a child, “And when he scores the winning home run, you’re going to run onto that field and jump him, got it?”

Jongseob raises his hand again, though doesn't wait to be called on as he interjects, “Home runs are baseball—“

“That isn't the point, dipshit.” Eunchae sasses before turning her attention back to you, “Can I ask what the gift he got you was?”

You nod as Belle releases your face, sniffling softly as you hold up your hand to showcase the charm bracelet on your wrist. Two charms hang from it, your birthstone and a tiny lacrosse stick. “He said he got it before…everything happened.”

“He bought you a charm bracelet after a week of knowing you?” Jongseob asks in a suspicious tone, and when the three girls besides you shoot him a dirty look, he holds his hands up in surrender, “Sorry—it’s just I think I’ve…connected some dots.”

“You haven’t connected shit.” Eunchae says, before promptly adding, “I just wanted to say that, you can continue.”

Jongseob shoots her an annoyed look, before looking at you and beginning, “Well, I was talking to Soul the other day—y’know the one that goes to music club with me— and he said he and Riki were friends in Freshman year.”

His hesitant pause has you looking at him and saying, “What does that mean to me?”

He continues, “He mentioned him having a huge crush on a girl then—“

“Why would I want to know this, Seob?” You question with exasperation.

“Let me finish!” He insists, and you sigh, motioning for him to land the damn plane, “I did some digging—aka asking his teammates about it—and while most of them didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me, Jake kind of insinuated it was you.”

You blink, “How did he insinuate it was me?”

“Well, I asked him what he thought about your breakup and he got all weepy about it. Said he was rooting for you guys to be endgame.” Typical Jake. “Then, I mentioned you guys not knowing each other for long and it sounded like he almost said that Riki’s been into you for years.”

The four of you blink at the boy’s retelling of events, and Belle is the first to snap out of her surprise, “And why didn’t you tell us this when you found out?”

“You guys never let me talk. Plus, that seemed like the last thing she wanted to hear.” He argues, then motions to you, and none of the girls in the room can really argue back. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about the truth of his own statement, though, as he holds up the bagged joint once more. “Now, are we smoking this or not?”

Parking your car has never left you with such a dreadful feeling in your gut, which Jongseob swore a hit of his shitty joint would ease, yet all it did was jumble your thoughts more. 

The temperature sensor reads a biting 30°F, and as you zip up the thick teddy puffer jacket you shiver with pure nerves. “Fuck.” 

Flipping down the sun visor, you check your reflection in its mirror. The warm light reflects off the gloss on your lips, which you fuss over with the pad of your finger even though it’s as perfect as it was when you applied it. 

Stalling. You’re stalling.

With a deep breath, you snap the visor shut and cut the engine, grabbing your purse and phone before stepping into the biting cold. The frigid air slashes through the layers of your outfit, your jacket doing little to stop the chill. You already regret picking the cuter option over something more practical, but you’d made your bed. Now you had to lie in it.

Ain't that the truth.

The field is already alive with movement and muted chatter. Teams are warming up, their voices cutting through the chilly air as balls thud against lacrosse sticks and cleats crunch on frosted grass. You can’t see Riki yet, but the sight of the players in their jerseys stirs the knot in your chest.

Decelis Demons v. YG Pirates

As you near the bleachers, a familiar voice calling your name stops you in your tracks. 

“Over here!” 

You turn, spotting Riki’s mom waving at you with a warm smile, flanked by two young girls bundled in matching puffer jackets. His sisters. The younger one is tugging impatiently at her scarf, while the older stands with her arms crossed, looking vaguely unimpressed by the entire ordeal.

“Mrs. Nishimura, hi!” you manage once you’ve climbed the bleachers to join her side, hoping your smile doesn’t betray the whirlwind of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, her voice as kind as you remember. “Riki didn’t mention anything, but I figured you’d be here for him.”

Your face heats at her words, but you force a nod, gripping the strap of your purse tighter and attempting to ignore the cold nipping at your fingers. “Of course, even if it's colder than a Yeti’s ass out here.” 

You almost regret your colorful language before the older girl snorts softly, “Preach.” 

Mrs. Nishimura chuckles, “It is freezing,” she agrees. “I told Riki he should’ve picked an indoor sport, but you know how stubborn he is.” She jests, and then proceeds to add, “Oh, and these are my daughters, Maki and Runa

You smile at the two of them, Maki’s a bit more subdued but Runa’s bright as she waves. At the mention of Riki, your eyes scan the field for a glimpse of his number. The players are still warming up, running drills and shouting plays back and forth.

And then you see him.

Riki stands near the goalpost, casually balancing his stick across his shoulders as he chats with a teammate. Even in the midst of the pregame chaos, he moves with the same effortless confidence that always draws attention, his tall frame impossible to miss.

The sight of him stirs something unfamiliar and electric in your chest. It’s not the usual comfort you’ve come to associate with him—it’s sharper, more restless, like an itch you can’t quite get to.

You tear your gaze away from him when you hear your name called once again, finding Gaeul quickly climbing the steps of the bleachers to get to you, her free gloved hand catching your arm happily, “I was hoping you’d be here!”

You smile, part of you relieved that she isn’t acting differently despite everything, and your eyes fall on the poster board in her other hand, “Is that for Jay?”

She follows your gaze and nods, unrolling it to reveal ‘Go Jay!’ with a big 19 under it, which you assume is his jersey number. The dark red sweatshirt under her puffer reads the same number as well. “Cute, right?”

“Very cute.” You reply with a soft laugh, smoothing a crease from the corner of the poster board as you add, “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“He better,” Gaeul huffs in a mock seriousness, “M’freezing my ass off for him.”

Mrs. Nishimura, who seems to have been listening in from her spot beside you, chimes in with a knowing smile, “He still insists you come to every game?”

You momentary confusion is quickly shaken off as you remind yourself that Gaeul and Jay have been dating since sophomore year, of course Riki’s mom knows her, and the girl in question nods fondly, “He says I’m his good luck charm—“ She gasps, and you blink, “—I forgot to kiss him before I left earlier!”

Your brief panic induced by her gasp subsides as you giggle softly, “Oh, no!”

She playfully smacks your arm and grabs it, “You’re coming with me for that.”

Your laughter doesn’t subside, only grows, as she motions to the Nishimura’s that you’ll ‘be right back’ and begins tugging you along down the bleachers, “Where are we going?”

“To kiss my man.” She answers, but pauses in her step to look at you and clarify, “I’m kissing him, you…can kiss Riki.”

“I will not be doing that, but I respect the effort.”

She groans melodramatically as the both of you continue walking down the bleachers, “Aww, c’mon, you guys were so cute together!”

You thank the lord that it’s too loud for Rin and her daughters to hear the girl from this distance, both for your sake and Riki’s, but laugh softly, “I don’t think kissing him a week after breaking his heart is the right move to get him back.”

Gaeul pauses on the last step to look at you with an unhinged jaw as soon as you realize your mistake, opening your mouth to deny before the accusations leave her pink lips, “You want him back?” 

Her words are shrill with excitement and you have the sudden urge to shrink into nothingness as you hover a cold shivering hand over her mouth and avoid the gazes of those around you both, “Bitch, shut up!”

She flattens her lips in an attempt to compose herself but fails to muffle the excited squeal and bounce of her gait as she tugs you down the side steps of the bleachers to get to the field.

The lacrosse field feels bigger up close, the expanse of frosted grass sprawling out under the big lights on either side of it. Gaeul marches ahead with purpose, her poster now tucked under her arm as she scans for Jay. You lag behind slightly, your thoughts still buzzing from the last few minutes.

“Gaeul, slow down,” you mutter, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as the cold nips at your ears.

She ignores you, her focus locked on a cluster of players by the bench. You spot Jay among them, laughing at something one of his teammates says. Gaeul picks up her pace, her excitement palpable, leaving you to follow at a more hesitant shuffle.

You scan the group of players, not recognizing any of them as Riki. When you do find him, you exhale heavily at the sight of him deep in conversation with Jungkook, the coach clearly getting on his ass for something.

“Hey there,” a voice calls out, smooth and laced with a confidence that plants a murky feeling in your gut. You glance up to see a guy in a YG Pirates jersey standing in front of you, his helmet tucked under his arm and a cocky grin on his face. 32 is bold and dark green on his chest.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.

You take a step back instinctively, your eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”

He raises a brow, his grin widening as if you’ve said something amusing. “Feisty, huh? Just my type.”

Your stomach twists at his boldness, irritation bubbling under your skin. You glance over his shoulder, hoping to spot Gaeul, but she’s already halfway to Jay, oblivious to your predicament. “Ew,” you blanch curtly, trying to sidestep him, but he shifts to block your path again.

“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he presses, leaning in slightly. “I’m just trying to be friendly. What’s your name?”

Before you can muster a surely bitchy reply—or a curse—a presence appears behind you.

“I don’t think this is your side of the field,” a familiar voice cuts in, light yet edged with authority. You glance up to see Heeseung standing at your side now, his lacrosse stick casually balanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but his gaze sharp. “Can’t you tell by the colors, dude?”

The opposing player stiffens slightly, his grin faltering as he sizes up Heeseung. “Just talkin’, man,” he mutters, his tone defensive now.

Heeseung doesn’t flinch, his smile remaining intact as he tilts his head slightly. “Right. And now you’re done.”

The player hesitates for a moment before shrugging and backing away, muttering something under his breath as he turns and jogs off. Once he’s gone, Heeseung turns to you, his easy smile returning. “You good?”

You refuse to utter ‘that was hot,’ so you settle for a, “Yeah. Thanks for that, though.”

Heeseung shakes his head, “Nah, you had that handled.”

You barely miss a beat with your response, “Yeah, but it was sweet of you.”

He shrugs with his hand up and that same grin, “What can I say?”

You make a face, “Not that.“

He goes to defend himself, but Gaeul appears with smeared lipgloss and a pretty grin to happily say, “Coach is kicking us off the field.”

“Joyful.” You say with a playfully stiff smile that has Heeseung whining. A soft giggle from you has his frown turning into a grin again and he shoots you a salute.

“I’ll tell Riki you wished him good luck, ma’am.”

“Don’t get concussed, say that too.” You call back as Gaeul tugs you back toward the bleachers, poster under her arm creased. She’s beaming, and you giggle at her glowing smile, “I think I know what you and Jay got up to while I was harassed.”

Her smile drops as she gasps with concern, “Harassed? What happened?” 

“It’s not that serious.” You quickly assure her, “Heeseung kinda scared him off, he was a guy on the YG team.”

“Ew.” She makes a face as you both arrive at the bleachers, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.” 

As you both arrive back to your seats, and you gasp and happily accept a hot chocolate Rin had thoughtfully gotten for you with a sweet side hug. God you hope Riki still wants you and you can keep this saint of a woman in your life.

As if on cue, the referee blows a sharp whistle, and the players jog to their respective side of the field. Riki is dismissed by Jungkook and pulls his helmet from under his arm as the other members of the team crowd around the coach, his head turning just enough to scan the bleachers.

Your heart skips as his gaze locks onto yours for a fleeting moment.

He doesn’t smile, not exactly—but his expression softens, his eyes warming like he’s relieved to see you there. The corner of his mouth twitches just enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.

And then he pulls his helmet over his head and focuses on Jungkook’s words, it almost feels like a shock to your system but the lingering warmth in your chest makes it hard to feel the cold anymore.

You watch the team huddle, Jungkook’s game face amusing enough to you that you snicker softly before your attention falls back to Riki. Heeseung, who if your memory serves you right is 01, catches Riki’s shoulder in a brotherly way. 

Your brows furrow as you see Riki’s head tilt slightly at what Heeseung says, glancing in your direction and then the opposing teams, and you assume his eyes search for a jersey that reads 32.

The players move onto the field with another whistle, and you watch with dread as two opposing jerseys approach the center of the field. 10 and 32.

Now, you know very little about lacrosse despite it being your school’s biggest sport and your brother playing it, but you know that Riki is a midfielder. You know this through his excited play-by-plays of practice to you on the phone whenever he was finally out, as well as the basic knowledge of how a lacrosse game starts. Two midfielders wrestling for the ball. 

It couldn’t be called wrestling, however. Riki swipes it barely millisecond after the ref blows his whistle, tossing the ball to 05. 

You gasp softly as his shoulder slams into 32s chest hard enough to send him stumbling back, but his body moves quickly toward the opposing defense and away from the startled enemy. If you didn’t know any better you’d assume he was only doing so to keep him off Jake’s back. “Geez, what did you feed him?”

You ask Rin softly, eyes trained on her son and your brain attempting to wrap itself around the difference in his body language and…aggression on-field, when he had barely risen above a loud speaking volume in your presence. She chuckles, “Would you believe me if I said his diet largely consisted of taiyaki and ramen growing up?”

“No.” You awe at her words, eyes still on him but flitting to meet hers for a brief second, “That’s just unfair.”

“Tell me about it,” The elder of his sisters huffs, “I ate my vegetables and have glasses an inch thick, but he gets to eat sweets all his life and has perfect vision.”

“That’s your fathers genetics, not mine.” Rin clarifies, offering you an explanation like it’s second nature already, “That man can’t see something coming straight at his face until it’s already hit him.”

“My brother has horrible vision, too.” You snicker softly, your eyes rarely leaving Riki but only doing so to look between the three Nishimuras, “Refused to wear contacts, even for lacrosse.” You motion in the general direction of the field, and the older woman seems intrigued.

“Your brother plays?”

You shake your head with a soft laugh at your brother’s expense, “Not since highschool, and he was benched most games because he couldn’t see the ball,” your words have Rin laughing and Maki snorting, “plus he generally sucked. He really only joined because his friend was on the team.”

Jake scores a goal and the crowd around you goes wild with cheers, mainly higher in pitch. You let out a supportive cheer and immediately act like you didn’t when his helmeted head turns your way. You’re almost positive a shit-eating grin has formed behind his helmet.

The game continues, the scoreboard leaning toward Decelis’ victory as the first two quarters come to a close and half-time ensues. 

“No.” You reject Gaeul’s suggestion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth.

“Aww, c’mon!” She whines, tugging your arm closest to her, “His face would be so funny!”

“He’s wearing a helmet, you can’t see his face. And it’s small enough for you to hold up by yourself.” You point at the poster-board in his hands, which she had happily held up for a good portion of the game until her arms got tired.

“But my arms are gonna fall off.” She groans melodramatically, “Please?”

“Buy me another cocoa and I’ll think about it.”

As half-time comes to a close, your right arm is screaming for relief while you hold your side of the poster up and nurse a cup of steaming cocoa in the other hand. Gaeul shamelessly screams in support of her boyfriend, who you see hunch over slightly like he’s holding back laughter of amusement.

Your hand feels like it’s about to fall off, and you curse yourself for refusing the mittens Eunchae had offered in favor of showing off your new nails. ‘They’re too pretty to cover up,’ you had whined, yet now you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers started breaking off like a vampire’s from Twilight.

The scoreboard reads heavily in the home team’s favor, and you pray to every deity that the game finally ends for your arm’s sake (and your crippling anxiety). Though, watching Riki slice through YG’s defense and score points like they're nothing doesn’t look like it’ll be getting old for you anytime soon. 

“You’re drooling.” Gaeul teases as you suck in a sharp breath at the sight of Riki once again shoulder 32 off balance, hard enough for him to fall onto his ass this time. Tensions are high as the time counts down, though part of you’s hoping this never ends. 

“I don’t drool.” You retort in a soft grumble, yet you rub the side of your wrist over the corners of your mouth self-consciously. “I’m a fucking lady.”

“Right…” Gaeul agrees with playful doubt in her tone that’s punctuated by giggles as you playfully shove her shoulder.

The final whistle slices through the winter air as Riki launches the ball into the goal, accompanied by an uproar of cheers and groans from the crowd. Decelis has won, 12-7, the scoreboard glowing with the decisive win. The players pour onto the field, some celebrating, others trudging off in defeat. Your eyes dart instinctively toward Riki, helmet under his arm, hair damp with sweat as he exchanges fist bumps and quick words with his teammates. The way his expression softens to a grin when Jake slings an arm around his shoulders makes your stomach twist.

You clutch your empty cocoa cup, suddenly desperate to find a reason to approach him. Before you can muster up a plan, the chaos swallows him—players crowding, parents flooding in from the sidelines, and Gaeul’s excited tug on your sleeve pulling you back to the moment.

“Let’s go find Jay!” she beams, and you immediately look toward Rin, Maki, and Runa.

The woman smiles warmly and pats your shoulder, “We always wait in the parking lot for him. You two can have a moment.”

Gaeul is dragging you down the bleachers the moment you softly thank the woman. Your heart thrums as you scan the chaos for Riki, but he’s nowhere to be found. Gaeul bounces ahead, her attention locked on her boyfriend. 

Her hand slips from your arm as you’re both swept into the excitement, and her curls disappear in the crowd. 

The field feels like a warzone, buzzing with shouts, laughter, and the rhythmic stomp of cleats against frozen grass. You’re jostled in every direction, bodies pressing and colliding as parents swarm to congratulate their kids, and the players themselves disappear into the fray. Your fingers curl around the half-empty cocoa cup as if it might ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Where is he?

You catch glimpses of Riki’s teammates—Jake’s unmistakable blonde head bobbing as he jokes with Heeseung, Sunghoon hoisted onto someone’s shoulders—but Riki remains elusive, swallowed by the tide of bodies.

“Riki!” His name slips out, barely audible over the noise, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. What are you even doing? Someone brushes past you, hard enough to make you stumble. “Watch it,” you mutter, turning to see a player in a YG jersey, helmet off and grin too familiar.

32.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a once-over that makes your skin crawl. His shoulder brushes yours again as he angles toward you, his smirk sharper now. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he drawls, voice low enough that it’s almost lost in the noise.

You make a face of disdain, like speaking to him both disgusts you and is beneath you, “Is that supposed to be cute?”

“C’mon,” He says, tone dripping with what you assume is his attempt at charm, “Don’t be like that. You’ve been watchin’ me the whole game.”

“I don’t even know you.” You respond with the same look on your face that reads you’d rather be anywhere else than where you are, listening to him.

He steps closer, undeterred by your tone and clear disgust, “That can be remedied,” His voice is low, and you see his hand move from his side to reach for your waist.

Your anger takes over your motor control, and the half-empty, long chilled cocoa in your hand splatters over the front of his jersey, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

The cocoa splashes onto his jersey in a satisfying arc, the dark liquid seeping into the white fabric. His grin falters for a moment, replaced by a stunned look that quickly twists into irritation. “Are you fucking serious?” he snaps, brushing at the stain, but it’s a futile effort.

“Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” You retort, mirroring his tone, “Who the fuck told you that you could fucking touch me?” 

The players around you have started to notice the commotion, a few stopping to watch as Number 32 bites back, “You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.”

If what boiled within you was anger, then what it morphs into at the player’s statement must be seething fury, “Excuse me?”

“What’s goin’ on here?” A hand clasps over your shoulder but the voice calms any volatile reaction brewing in your gut, Jungkook stepping between you and the YG player.

Jungkook’s presence immediately shifts the energy around you. His broad frame looms between you and Number 32, the way his body blocks out the other player like a wall of stone, calm yet unyielding. The cocky grin fades from the YG player’s face as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, shooting a glare at Jungkook.

Jungkook doesn’t even glance at the YG player, his focus entirely on you as he steps closer, his gaze softening slightly when he sees the tension in your shoulders and the shift in your jaw. “You okay?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle in the midst of the chaos.

You nod, even though the heat of anger still lingers in your chest. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice shakes just enough that Jungkook catches it.

His eyes flick briefly to the YG player, who’s clearly not in the mood to test Jungkook’s patience any further. “Walk with me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. You want to protest, to stay and search for Riki, but something about the way Jungkook stands there—tall, unshakable—tells you it’s not worth resisting.

He guides you through the crowd and off the field with his hands on your shoulders. When the two of you arrive at the edge of the field where the bleachers drop off and the parking lot comes into view, he releases you. “Do I need to go talk to that kid’s coach? Or parents?”

“No, I think the shit-colored stain on his jersey says enough.” You retort swiftly, the implications of his words stick with you, though. ‘You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.’

It isn’t as if you woke up yesterday, you know he’s talking about Nayeon. Whether it be some kind of intuition or you’re just that fucking familiar with her thought process from years of what you had thought was friendship, you know it. 

“Hey.” Jungkook’s gruff but somewhat gentle call snaps you out of your stewing, and you blink at him, “Don’t do anything I’m gonna hear about, okay?”

Your immature response is interrupted by the loud cheers and chatter morphing into shouts and hollers of a more alarmed tone that has the both of you looking in the direction of the field. Jungkook doesn't seem eager to let you involve yourself in whatever it is that’s going down on the field, you know this because he’s shooing you off toward your car in a dismissive but authoritative tone. 

If you cared at all about anything except beating Nayeon’s face in at the moment you would be protesting and following after him as he jogs toward the commotion, but you don’t. Instead, you walk to your car, toss your Prada bag into the passenger seat as it begins to warm up, and plot.

Watching your friend group’s grins fall while learning that you did not, in fact, kiss Riki after the game but left without even speaking to him in a fit of blind rage was not how you wanted to start your weekend. You blame their soured moods for the fact that all four of them were avidly against your plan to beat Nayeon’s face in the next time you see her, but begrudgingly decided to not jump to conclusions.

The only proof you have that Nayeon was the one to sic that cretin on you may be his words, which aren’t worth much, but you refuse to believe anything else.

Monday arrives with not a singular text or call from Riki, and while Belle has already talked you off of the metaphorical ledge about it, you feel the urge to disappear off the face of the Earth every time you imagine seeing him again after leaving the game he asked you to attend without so much as a word.

Part of you figures the silence on his end is payback, or him deciding to finally let his alleged crush on you go. The other part of you really hopes he was just busy.

Jake is…silent in your second period. Not that you’d mind the silence on any other day, but it’s definitely not normal. Well, he’s silent until he catches sight of the charm bracelet on your wrist as it clinks softly on the desk. His grin is back in seconds and he takes his phone out.

“Want a picture?” You offer sarcastically. When Jake eagerly nods and holds his phone up for the picture, you shoot it a mock smile and manicured middle finger as your charm bracelet catches the light above.

With giddy giggles, Jake takes the photo and practically bounces in his seat in joy as he taps his thumbs on his screen hastily. You’re rolling your eyes and looking down at your worksheet when he asks, “Wanna know who I’m texting?”

“If I wanted to know I’d ask.” You respond swiftly, tapping the eraser-end of your pencil on the desk absentmindedly.

“It’s Riki.” He states with a smugness that pisses you off.

Looking up from the paper, you raise your brows, “Okay?”

“He needed proof,” He adds on with his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, “Wanna know why?”

“I feel like you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

He’s still smirking as he proves you right, “He thinks you hate him.”

You blink, annoyed nonchalance pushed aside by genuine confusion, “Why would he think that?”

Jake shrugs, though his face seems anything but clueless and you hate that he knows more than you do, “Maybe ‘cause you left the game without saying anything to him.”

“Jungkook made me get off the field.” 

“You could’ve waited with his family in the parking lot.”

“Well, I didn’t.” You snap, growing frustrated with the conversation despite it being your own damn fault, “Why are you telling me this, Jake?”

“‘Cause he’s my friend and he’s been miserable.”

“Then he should talk to me.” You retort with a sigh, guilt filling your gut despite your defensive words, and he tilts his head with a nod of agreement, “If I hated him he’d know. I don’t exactly keep that shit a secret.”

Jake, who had bore witness to your fight with Jaclyn Delvacchio in junior year, hums, “Well, can you do us all a favor and talk to him, please?”

“We have fifth period, I’m not gonna ignore him for an hour when he sits next to me.” You roll your eyes and focus back down at your worksheet.

By the time the bell rings, you’re halfway between plotting your own demise and debating if you should actually try to talk to Riki. The idea makes your stomach twist. What if Jake was wrong, and Riki doesn’t want to hear from you? What if your silence solidified something in him—pushed him away for good?

But then you remember how he smiled at you that day in the hallway, the soft tug of his lips like he couldn’t stop himself, and how his eyes lit up when you agreed to come to the bowling date. You remember the way his voice faltered ever-so-slightly when he asked you, like he was bracing himself for rejection but couldn’t bear not to try.

The thought makes your stomach hurt and your chest heavy, and you realize something that makes you want to kick yourself: you don’t want to lose that. You don’t want to lose him.

Yet, you so easily brushed him aside in your list of priorities to stew in your anger about someone who shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind at this point. 

You screwed up. Again. 

At this point, you feel like you’re winning the losing game. Not only do you hate losing, but you hate the feeling in your chest and gut that makes you want to go home and rot until Riki forgets you ever existed. Belle’s voice screams in your head to talk to him, to make the effort to speak to him and throw away your pride.

So, instead of staying in your old Latin teacher’s class for fourth period grading papers, you persuade her to let you spend your fourth period ‘at lunch with your friends’. 

Your friends all share the same lunch period; sixth, when you’ve already gone home. So you lied, yes.

But Riki has fourth period lunch.

You slip through the cafeteria doors, the clang of trays and the murmur of conversation fading as you scan the room for him. The place is packed, and your heart beats louder than the chatter around you. It’s ridiculous—Riki isn’t hard to find. But your anxiety builds anyway, sending a slight tremble through your hands.

You spot him by the window, his profile framed by sunlight, his usual quiet demeanor marking him as an island in the chaos of the cafeteria. His friends surround him, but they’re not your focus. Your eyes zero in on him, his long sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hair messy and covering his forehead like he didn’t feel like styling it this morning, the rings on his hands that glint in the cafeteria light.

But before you can make your way over, the sound of a voice you loathe cuts through the air, sharper than glass.

“A couple hundred bucks and he was practically my dog.” Nayeon muses at the two girls you barely recognize that sit across from her at a table not far from you, “Sucks that he failed, though. Would have spent my money on someone else.”

“So you…had him hit on her?” The girl on the left asks, a bit confused as she exchanges a look with the girl beside her.

Nayeon seems eager to relay the details, “I told him she liked playing hard to get,” She shrugs disinterested, yet you see a sliver of the smirk on her face from your angle, “made him all the more eager to knock her down a peg.”

The two girls seem peeved by what she says, like any sane person would be, but anything either wants to say dies on their tongue as they catch sight of you. “Girl…”

One trails off as you begin your approach, the same lightness in your gut that has your vision clouded with seething fury.

She looks over her shoulder just enough for you to see her smirk drop into wide-eyed fear.

Your hand catches the back of her head, slamming the side of her face into the table with little care for the eyes that immediately find you, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you, bitch. What was that?” There’s ‘ooo’s and ‘oh shit’s from the wuickly forming crowd as you pull her up by her hair, launching the flailing girl onto the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She scrambles off the ground, immediately getting in your face as she hisses, “You don’t deserve him.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” You curse as your hand meets her face, and she shrieks as her head snaps to side. 

Nayeon recoils for a moment, eyes wide with shock, but the anger on her face quickly replaces any hesitation. "You think I'm scared of you?" She spits, moving toward you with a snarl. She may not have expected this, but now that it's happening, she seems desperate to prove herself.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, you shove her into one of the metal chairs, the clattering sound of it screeching across the floor as she stumbles backward. The two girls hasten to get out of the way, faces a mix of fear and ‘oh shit’. 

Nayeon picks herself up with blind fury guiding her actions, hands flying out as she lunges forward to shove you back. Your hands grasp her hair again, and the crowd surrounding the scene roars.

Her nails claw at your wrist as you yank her forward. She’s small, but her anger makes her stronger than she has any right to be. The fight is a mess of hair pulling and shoving, curses from you and shrieks from her.

You shove her hard into the table again, the force sending a tray of half-eaten food crashing to the floor, and the crowd goes wild, hooting and cheering. The heat in your chest ignites with every movement. The adrenaline rush is undeniable.

Nayeon's attempts to push you back only seem to fuel your anger further. Her breath is ragged, and you can practically taste the bitterness she's been carrying since the moment you stepped into her world. Every movement of hers is desperate, like she's trying to claw her way back to a victory she's long since lost.

"Get the fuck off me!" she yells, her voice barely audible over the chaos. But you don't listen. You slam her against the chair again, hard enough that she falls onto her ass, eyes wide with disbelief. Nayeon's face contorts in pure anger as you approach again, her hands flying up in a futile attempt to strike you. Her nails scratch at your arms, but the pain barely registers.

But then, someone grabs your waist, lifting you off the ground effortlessly. The world tilts as you're pulled off of Nayeon, feet leaving the ground. For the split second that you’re struggling against them, thinking it’s one of her friends or a teacher, you curse at them too.

Then the cologne hits your nose and the voice hits your ears, “Alright, that’s enough, pretty girl.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as Riki’s voice cuts through the frenzy, low and soft in your ear, but with a sharp edge of firmness that you’ve never heard from him before. His grip on you doesn’t waver, and despite the anger still coursing through your veins, you freeze for a second, thrown off by the ease he had pulling you off of that traitorous bitch—who’s being held back by Jake and Jungwon.

“Skank!” Nayeon shrieks, clawing at Jake and Jungwon’s arms that keep her from lunging at you again.

Any calm that Riki’s presence brought you is washed away, but he pulls you back by the waist as you move to have a go at Nayeon again. His arms wrapping around you to keep your arms at your sides as you bite back,  “Says you, bitch.”

“Easy, easy,” He eases, your back hitting his chest as your jerky and angry movements force him to pick you up again, “Cool it, baby. You got her good.”

“Get her out of here before the teachers get here,” Heeseung orders in a hushed tone as the other members of the lacrosse team grab at phones and shove the crowd back.

“I’m not—hey!” Your defiant statement is interrupted by the arm around your waist tightening and your feet lifting off the floor once more. “Riki!”

“I know, I know.” Riki’s hold is firm as you struggle weakly against him, his voice deep and low like he’s easing a wild animal, his touch warm. You can’t bring yourself to fight back the way you did with Nayeon as he walks you out of the cafeteria building. His presence, the warmth of his chest against your back, it all has your defense mechanisms easing up and your anger softening to a low simmer.

When he finally sets you back down, the cool chill of the air eased only by the sunlight hitting the two of you, you turn to face him with a charged glare, “I can walk.”

He holds his hands up in good faith, or maybe an attempt to calm you down, “I know, baby.”

“And she deserved that.”

“I know, baby.”

The way he repeats himself so softly, how he’s letting you take out the remnants of your anger on him, it only makes the ache in your chest worsen. You exhale sharply, “Stop that.”

“Okay.” He says, voice soft but no pain or hurt to be detected in his voice, only in his eyes.

Your own sting almost automatically with both frustration and anger at yourself and no one else, “No, not—“ Taking a deep breath, your hands move to your face, “This is all wrong.”

“What is?” You try not to notice how he doesn’t attach ‘pretty girl’ or ‘baby’ to the end of his question. You fail.

“Everything.” You mutter, exhaling another soft, “Fuck.”

“You’re bleeding.” He points out, his hands pulling yours from your face to examine the scratches up your arms. 

“Nails are intact, though.” You mumble softly, trying to make yourself feel better. Riki looks at you in slight disapproval, brows furrowing, and you add, “I’m okay.”

He sighs, shaking his head, “There’s a first-aid kit in the locker room, let me clean you up.”

“Ew, I’m not going into the boys locker room.” You reject his offer with an obstinance that would usually amuse him, yet he shows a sliver of frustration in his body language. “And I told you, I’m fine.”

“Okay, you can either walk or I can carry you.”

“As if.” 

Your challenge is met with him raising his eyebrows and lunging for you a second later. You flinch and swat at his hands, “Okay, fine!” He pulls back again with a ‘that’s what i thought’ look, “I’ll walk.” you add with a defiant ‘hmph’ as you walk past him.

He doesn’t press the issue, following you towards the athletics building and holding the door open for you to enter first, to your utter fury of course. Stupid boys. Stupid emotions.

When you find the boys locker room, you pause as he pushes the door open, “I’m not going in there.”

He sighs with a nod like he expected as such, “I’ll be right back, stay here.”   

You sigh and cross your arms, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the wall across the locker room entrance.

Riki returns with a first aid kit and his hoodie, “Let’s go to the bleachers, no one’s got practice today.” You assume the hoodie is for you, and you’re proved correct when he tosses it into your face and snickers when you curse at him. “C’mon.”

You begrudgingly walk with him out of the athletics building to the school field not a far walk from the entrance. 

You hear the bell ring from where you sit on the bleachers minutes later as your chilled fingers are tended to by the lacrosse player, “You’ll be late, you know.”

“We’ll both be. It’s fifth period now.” He states as he delicately cleans the raw skin streaking up your wrist with an alcohol wipe.

“Ow.” You mumble, and he tsks with a growing smile.

“Don’t be a baby.” He teases, and you mock his words in a higher pitched voice back to him.

“Fuck you.”

He snickers softly, gently rotating your hand in his to clean the visible lines tainting the delicate flesh, “Baby.”

His statement isn’t the beckon or fond coo you wish it’d be, but it causes flutters in your gut all the same. You mock him again and he huffs softly in amusement, refraining from continuing the back and forth to focus on your scratched up wrists and forearms. 

As he moves to your right hand, his touch lingers on the charm bracelet hanging off your wrist as he dabs at the skin. The metal chain catches the sunlight, twinkling faintly against your wrist as Riki pauses. His thumb brushes over one of the charms absentmindedly before he speaks, voice softer than you expected. “You’re wearing it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse stutters. His touch, even as fleeting as it is, sends a warm shiver through you.

“I just…” he trails off, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, his gaze filled with something tender. “I wasn’t sure if it was your style.”

“Why’s that?” You ask with a slight furrow of your brows, and he snickers softly.

“I’m sure it’s not the luxury you’re accustomed to.” 

“Everything I wear isn’t expensive. I’m not a snob.” You huff in slight offense, though he finds it amusing.

“Never said you were a snob, princess.” He clarifies, discarding the alcohol wipe to grab the ointment from the kit, “Nothing wrong with being spoiled.”

“I’m not—“ you go to argue, but the amusement on his face has the words dying on your tongue as you look away from him, “You’re such an ass.”

“Aww, I’m wounded.” He pouts softly, before it turns into that pretty smile again and he laughs softly, “It looks good on you.”

It takes a half-second for you to remember he’s talking about the bracelet, and your instinctive reply comes in the form of a weak, “Fuck off.”

His head falls forward as he laughs at your weakly aggressive statement. His touch is still gentle as he continues, hands unbelievably warm around yours. How unfair.

“Your hands are freezing.” He states softly, tube of ointment placed aside in favor of engulfing your hands in his. You watch him rub at them, your nails clicking against his rings with every movement until they catch his attention, “These are nice.”

“I know.”

He huffs in amusement, biting his bottom lip before he says, “‘Course you do.”

The tension between the two of you shifts, delicate and tenuous, like a thread stretched too tight. Riki’s touch is warm and steady, and you hate how easy it would be to let yourself relax into it. His thumbs keep brushing over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and your chest tightens with every pass.

You clear your throat, trying to focus anywhere but his hands, but when you look up, his gaze is already on you. It’s not intense, exactly. Not piercing or overwhelming. Just…soft. Patient, even. The kind of look that has your fight or flight instincts kicking in to protect the 

“What?” you snap, defensive and unsure, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You regret it instantly when his brow furrows slightly, though his hands don’t pull away.

“Nothing,” he replies softly, his voice steady. “Just glad you’re okay.”

The simplicity of it almost knocks the wind out of you. You blink, trying to find a reply that won’t give you away, but the words stick in your throat. All you can manage is a mumbled, “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone carrying a gentleness that makes you ache. “But I worry about you anyway.”

You don’t know what to do with that—how to handle the sincerity in his voice or the way his touch lingers like he’s afraid to let go. It feels like too much and not enough all at once.

“You shouldn’t,” you mutter, trying to pull your hands back, but he holds them lightly, just enough to keep you there without forcing you.

“Can’t really help it, pretty girl.” His lips curve into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Especially when you’re getting into fights.”

Your stomach twists, a cocktail of guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. You want to tell him it wasn’t just a fight. That it was Nayeon, that she deserved it, that you were defending yourself in more ways than one. But that isn’t the truth, is it? Not really.

“I—” You start, then stop, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat. “I don’t—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. “Riki, I can’t—I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” his hands grasp yours tighter as he leans forward with his gaze so…so attentive. 

“This.” You motion vaguely between the two of you, trying to not cry in front of him. You’re failing horribly. “Us. You. Me. God, fuck.”

“Talk to me, pretty girl.” He pleas softly, and your chest feels as warm as your hands are in his.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You exhale, head dropping back in an attempt to keep your frustrated tears from falling, “And I keep fucking up everything good in my life, and I just—“

His neck cranes slightly to meet your gaze as you avert it to his hands around yours, waiting for you to continue. Listening.

You take a deep breath, “I like you, I really do,” his thumbs slow to a stop against your knuckles, but you don’t look at him, “and you’re so—perfect and I’m not—“

“Don’t say that—“

“I’m not.” You insist, and one of his hands moves to your cheek as you continue, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear, “I’m…messy and mean-“

“I don’t care about that.” He argues gently, but you’re not done.

“-and I can’t even handle my own shit in a mature way so why should I be able to give you anything better—“

You don’t get to finish as his lips press against yours, cutting off your spiraling words with a kiss so sudden and deliberate it steals every thought from your head. 

His hand on your cheek tilts your head up toward him, his other remains holding yours. It’s not a hesitant kiss. There’s nothing unsure or tentative about it, not like the first one he gave you. He isn’t suffocating you, or doing anything more than moving his lips against yours like it’s all he’s wanted to do for years but knows to take his time savoring it instead of rushing in with teeth and tongue.

All you know is that you’re leaning into him, your anger, frustration, and self-doubt melting away under the weight of his touch. It’s a good kiss—better than good. It’s consuming, overwhelming, and entirely too much, yet you feel like more wouldn’t be all that bad.

When he pulls back it isn’t far, his forehead resting against yours. You’re breathless, your lips tingling in the aftermath and brain foggier than you’d like to admit. His nose brushes against your as he says, “I don’t care about any of that,” his voice is low and hoarse, “I just want you.”

You exhale shakily, feeling his words hit you lips, “Riki—“ 

“I’ll wait.” He promises softly, a hint of desperation in his words that has something in your gut fluttering, “However long it takes for you to be ready, I’ll wait.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head weakly, looking down at your lap. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care about fair, pretty girl.” He responds with a slight smile, hand moving from your cheek to tilt your chin up and make you look at him. His gaze flits between your eyes and lingers below your nose, a pattern that mirrors your own. “I can wait.”

His words are soft, spoken like an oath as his eyes find your lips again and decide to stay there a while.

“Why?” You ask, barely a whisper.

Riki lifts his gaze to look you in the eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he says, “‘Cause I like you more.”

You roll your eyes, “Is it a competition?”

He hums low, as if apprehensive, “Not much of one.” Your jaw drops slightly as if offended and he laughs softly, “I mean, I have you completely outmatched, pretty girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” You challenge with a slight laugh, “How so?”

He shifts closer as he hums again in thought, “Well, you’ve liked me for how long? A few weeks?” The question is more of a statement, and he seems unbothered by the short time-span with the smile on his face, “Yeah, I’ve got you beat.”

“You didn’t know me until recently, so it doesn’t count.” You argue with defiance, and he raises his brows.

“Are you invalidating my feelings for you right now?” He asks in a mock-offended tone, hand moving to his chest.

You scoff with playful annoyance, looking away from him briefly before your gaze finds him all over again, like a moth to a flame, “How long?”

His smile turns shier, and he chuckles awkwardly, “Nah, it’s not a competition. You’re right.”

“Nuh-uh, you started it,” You laugh, shoving his sturdy chest weakly, “C’mon, I already know. I just wanna hear it.”

Your smug words paired with the shrug you give have his eyes narrowing, “You know?”

You nod, “Jake ratted you out.” 

Riki’s eyes widen slightly and he groans, head dropping forward in embarrassment, “I’m gonna kill him.”

Riki lifts his head, still chuckling under his breath as he finally relents, “Alright, fine.” His eyes meet yours again, warm and steady, even as a blush creeps across his cheeks and ears. “Since freshman year. Happy now?”

Despite you being the one to force it out of him, you hold back the urge to giggle and turn away from him. “Very.” You answer with a slightly blissful grin on your face.

“You gonna hold that over my head?” He asks playfully, leaning closer like he wants to kiss you again.

You fight every impulse telling you to close the distance yourself, but let your eyes move between his eyes and smirking lips freely, “I might.”

“Yeah?” He jests softly. 

You hum, deciding to be a little mean. “I could also hold over your head that your mom still thinks we’re dating.”

His eyes shut and the hand creeping towards yours again freezes. His head falls forward and you panic for a moment thinking you went too far before you realize his shoulders are shaking and you can hear soft wheezing. “You’re mean.”

His muffled whine makes you snicker gleefully, and you add, “She said I’m good for you.”

You don’t realize the joy behind those words until he raises his head with a teasing but genuine (and flirty) grin on his face as he asks, “You’re happy about that, huh baby?”

You find yourself teasing him back instead of getting hostile at his flirty tone, probably due to the boost he gave your ego, “Mmm, not as happy as you seem to be with me as your girlfriend. According to your mom, anyway.”

Before he can reply, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.

“Nishimura.”

Both of you whip your heads toward the source of the sound. Standing at the bottom of the bleachers with his arms crossed and an exasperated expression is Jungkook. He’s wearing a hoodie and joggers, looking like he just came from the gym with his curls in a bun, but his sharp eyes land squarely on Riki first, then shift to you.

“What the hell are you two doing up there?” Jungkook asks, though there’s no real heat in his tone.

Riki straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just…taking care of something, Coach.”

Jungkook’s brows rise, and he gestures toward the field. “And why aren’t you in class?”

“I—uh—” Riki stammers before Jungkook waves a hand dismissively.

“Save it. I don’t need the whole story. Just get your ass to class before I have you running suicides until next week.” His gaze softens slightly as it flicks to you. “And you? ”

You shrink a little under his stare, mumbling, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Jungkook lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You—” He shakes his head before gesturing toward the parking lot. “Go home, kid. And no more fights, please—or distracting my team.”

“Alright, alright,” you mumble as you stand. You glance at Riki, who’s already grinning like this whole thing is hilarious, and shoot him a glare. “Stop smiling, you ass.”

Riki just snickers, his grin growing wider as he stands. “I’ll walk you to your car, pretty girl.”

Jungkook shakes his head, muttering something about teenagers and their hormones. “She can walk herself, get to class.” 

Any complaint Riki wants to make is silenced by the pointed finger Jungkook sends him, and he sighs. Your cheeks burn as he leans down to press a kiss to one of them with a soft, “See you later, pretty girl.” 

Riki averts his eyes from Jungkook’s judgmental gaze as his star midfielder jogs down the bleacher steps, offering a respectful bow of his head as he passes.

Jungkook then looks over at you, and you’re already arguing, “I have to get my bag from my locker.” 

He deadpans, clearly unimpressed as he says, “Ask one of your friends to get it for you.” 

Unable to argue with his reasoning, you let out a soft huff and begin patting your pockets for your phone. A relieved sigh escapes your gloss-smudged lips when your fingers brush against the device through a layer of fabric. Silently, you thank whichever of your spirit guides prompted you to button your back pocket before entering the cafeteria.

You suddenly remember another reason to stay a bit longer, “My keys are in my bag!”

Jungkook sighs, “If I see you in the halls in 10 minutes you’re getting banned from my field.”

You grin, bouncing down the steps with a happy, “Thanks, Coach Jeon.”

He makes a face of disgust, hand gently pushing the side of your head as you walk by, “Get out of here.”

It’s almost laughable how quickly the situation disappears, like it never happened. No one snitches—not one person. Even the crowd of students who saw everything miraculously forget when teachers start asking questions. It’s the lacrosse team who spins the story, their collective loyalty so seamless you almost believe they rehearsed it. Nayeon threw the first punch, they all swear. You didn’t fight back. You defended yourself.

The only video evidence of the fight are clips of Nayeon lunging for you and blurry photos, another thing you’re sure the lacrosse team took care of, so the school really have nothing to go off of. By the time the dust settles, it’s like the cafeteria incident is just another school rumor, one of those things everyone knows happened yet every retelling of events sounds skewed in some way.

Your mother hadn’t been informed by the school of the issue, thankfully, but you had endured a scathing voicemail from your father about the ‘stunt’ you pulled with Eunseok’s ‘bright and good’ girlfriend while eating Chinese takeout with Belle Tuesday night. She sat there munching on an eggroll and snatching small pieces of your sweet-fire chicken while your father’s angry ramble drew on and on for a few long minutes before he ended it with a, ‘call me back.’ The laughing fit you and Belle had over that one has become a bit of an inside joke now.

Thursday evening finds you in the kitchen of your home following your Aunt’s slutty brownie recipe with Riki on FaceTime propped up against the egg carton. “Butter, butter, butter…” You mumble to yourself as you reach for the ingredient, making a face as some of the softened dairy gets on your thumb. Riki, who had been silently observing you through the screen, snickers softly. You send a pointed look to the camera, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“M’not, you're just cute.”

“Fuck you.” You lose the fight against the smile forming on your face as you unfold the waxy wrapping of the butter and tip it into the mixing bowl, “I’m always cute.”

He only hums low with that same smirk on his face as he rests his chin on his arm, watching you switch on the mixer and grab a brownie pan from the cabinet beside the stove. A beat passes and he asks, “You don’t have to, you know?”

You glance away from pressing your knuckles into the cookie dough to flatten it along the bottom of the greased pan, “I know, but I don’t want your friends to have anything over me.”

Your joke is received with a soft laugh, “I wouldn’t let them hold it over you.”

“While I would like to see that, this is much easier.” You dismiss as you move to the sink to wash your hands and grab the pack of oreos. “Plus, Jungkook loves slutty brownies so maybe he’ll take the stick out of his ass if he gets one.”

Riki snorts softly on the other end, his bangs messily covering his forehead and eyes, “It’s game day, I don’t think the stick will come out.”

You hum in defeat, shrugging slightly as you begin to place the layer of oreos into the pan, “A sweet treat for good graces then.” 

Once you finish the layer of oreos, pour the brownie batter over it, and stick it in the oven, you sigh loudly. Fanning yourself and pulling your hair off your neck as you move toward your phone to grab it. “Jesus Christ, it’s hot.”

“It’s 30° outside.” 

“I’m not outside, I’m inside.” You sass with a ‘duh’ look on your face as you hold the phone angled up at your face as you walk toward the living room. “And how dare you try to contradict me.”

“Sorry, pretty girl. It won’t happen again.” He responds after a light chuckle.

You feign another roll of your eyes as you fail to fight the smile growing on your lips once again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

The next morning, you arrive at school earlier than you’d like—especially with how fucking cold it is. Still, you look cute and feel it too, with a new lip gloss on your lips and a pair of pearls on your ears to match the ones on your eyes.

Exiting your car, you hasten your trek to the field. The bags rustle at your sides as you chant a soft tune of “I’m so fucking cold” under your breath. Your hands are, once again, not protected by gloves as you so vehemently refuse to cover up Julie’s masterpiece. She was very pleased that her hard work stayed intact during the fight, but recommended you treat your hands with care if you want them to last as long as they usually do. 

Jungkook notices your approach, tipped off by the high-pitched shiver that escapes your lips as you finally arrive on the field—a sound that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team either. They seem to all slowly get distracted by your figure’s approach, eyes drawn to either the bags at your sides or cute way you’re walking in the cold.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook snaps in annoyance, his tone almost dismissive.

“Jesus Christ, this violates the Geneva Conventions in some way, I'm sure.” You huff softly, holding up the bags as you arrive at his side, “I made slutty brownies.”

Jungkook’s frown softens as the team parrots your words hopefully, and he then barks, “Single file, maggots.”

You’re almost too cold to enjoy the spectacle the team provides racing to get first in line, yet keeping a respectful distance ahead of you. You snicker softly as you set the bags down, bending with a shiver to grab them to pass out before the one in front of the line protests. 

“You’re cold?” Kai asks with worry from the front of the line, and the one behind him, Taehyun, steps out of line with his arms held out.

“I’ll pass them out, you need to warm up.” He fusses with a slight scolding tone, “There are hot-packs over there.” He cocks his head toward the bleachers as he takes your place in front of the bags.

You’re left standing there in confusion as Taehyun takes over your current job, walking towards the bleachers in search of the stated hotpacks before a warm object is pressed to your cheek and you startle. 

Riki snickers softly as you look at him in disgust before realizing it’s him, and your face softens to an eyeroll with a soft ‘fuck off’ muttered under your breath. You move to grab the hotpack from him, but he cheekily holds it out of your reach with a boyish giggle. 

The look you give him has him flattening his lips to hold back a grin as he silently hands the heat pack to you with a muttered apology. 

“Why aren’t you in line?” You question, and he has that same smirk on his face.

He shrugs, “Wanted to talk to my girl first.” You give him a look and he groans, “Can’t you just let me indulge for a second?”

“Patience is a virtue, Riki.” You muse as you cross your arms to tuck your hands away with a hotpack in each hand. “Plus, you said you’d wait.”

“And I will—I am.” He confirms with a shake of his head and a lighthearted grin, “But you could be a little more forgiving, pretty girl.”

“I don’t believe in forgiveness.” You retort with a shrug and a pretty smile.

“Niki!” Jake calls out from the line a few yards away, he’s a few players behind with a grin on his face as he says, “Don’t worry about getting in line, I’ll get you one!”

“Yeah, keep talkin’ to your girlfriend~.” Sunghoon teases, causing most of the team to snicker or whistle.

Riki’s ears go red, but when you point it out with a giggle, his hand immediately shoots to one of the red appendages and he shakes his head, “It’s the cold.”

“Niki, our shy boy!” Heeseung coos from the line, and the rest are all too eager to join in.

“Wow, Niki, you're so cute!”

“Niki, kiss her!”

“It’s giving Romeo!”

Riki groans softly, hands covering his face from your vision as you laugh, a warmth blooming in your chest that eases the chill in your bones. “I’m gonna kill them.”

He’s about to say something else when Taki takes a bite of the brownie in his hand and grunts something sounding like “oh yeah” with his words garbled by the mouthful he’s chewing. 

You watch the scene unfold with amusement, leaning back on your heels as the team collectively loses their minds over a baked good. Taki, still mid-chew, looks like he’s having a near-spiritual experience, while Jungkook shouts something about chewing with his mouth closed.

Riki uses the distraction to lower his hands from his face, a grin breaking through his earlier embarrassment as he watches you watching them. His voice cuts through the chaos, low and teasing: “You seem happy.”

Your gaze moves to him, “Is that an issue?”

“Not at all.” He responds smoothly, “You look good when you’re happy.”

“I always look good.” You retort out of habit. 

He seems to have expected it, nodding along in agreement before he asks, “So, if I asked you to wear my jersey instead of whatever cute shirt you were gonna wear tonight, would you?”

“Look good? Yes.” You answer with a light, teasing tone, “Agree? Mmm, maybe.”

“You’re killing me, baby.”

“Sweet names will get you nowhere.”

“So, you like it when I call you that?” He asks, stepping closer with a cheeky grin.

You remain defiant, arms crossed as you instinctively lean away from him with a laugh, “I never said that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.” He retorts swiftly, his head tilting and his eyes moving over your face with a smugness that pisses you off.

“No, I didn’t.” You agree, and his eyes narrow slightly at the almost flirty smile on your lips as you turn away from him to make your way back to Taehyun. 

You fight the giddy feeling in your chest as you feel his gaze on you, deciding against sparing a glance back as you hear the crunch of his steps following after you.

As always, you’re right. Riki’s spare jersey looks adorable on you.

“He’s gonna die.” Gaeul practically squeals at the sight of you. It’s a bit warmer than the morning had been when you arrive at the opposing school’s stadium, the long sleeved fleece-lined undershirt protecting you from the chilled breeze. “Bitch, your ass looks fantastic.”

A grin brightens your face and laugh leaves your glossy lips as she fawns over your look, “Right?” You turn slightly to give her a better view of your behind purely out of excitement, because yeah, your ass looks good in these jeans. 

“It’s smiling at me,” She gasps, smacking your butt lightly with a laugh before hooking her arm with yours and beginning to tug you along. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight with everything that happened last game.” 

“Why?” You ask a bit cluelessly, before remembering the event clearer and shaking your head, “Oh, that weird guy? No, I’m fine.”

She hums with a slight frown as the two of you get to the concessions, “I’m so sorry for leaving you in all the chaos, I didn’t realize you weren’t behind me until I got to Jay.”

Sensing the remorse behind her words, you find yourself quickly saying, “Don’t feel bad, I’m okay.”

“Ugh, I need your number! That’s been eating me alive all week!” She huffs softly as the line moves up, “I tried to find you at school but you kept evading me.”

“You couldn’t ask Belle? Don’t you two share a class?” You question with a slight tilt of your head and her jaw slacks.

“Why did I not think of that?” She mutters to herself as you both reach the front of the line and she orders herself a soft pretzel before looking over at you, “My treat, an apology.”

You aren’t one to reject free food when offered, so you look at the concession worker and say, “A Dr Pepper and another soft pretzel, please.” 

Gaeul pays and a worker in the back pulls out two warm pretzels as another grabs the familiar maroon bottle from a cooler. She starts speaking again the moment the food and drinks are in your hands.

“Food isn’t allowed on the field, but I already gave Jay a kiss before he went on the bus.” 

Her smile is suggestive, and you make a face that has her whining, “C’mon, I’ll hold your food while you go—“ She shimmies her shoulders and purses her lips into a kissy face that has you letting out a shrill ‘ew, stop!’

“That’s deplorable.” Your words contradict the laughter seeping into your speech, “I am not going down there.”

“Boring.” She groans, but her face brightens suddenly and she waves ahead. When you follow her gaze and find Mrs Nishimura approaching, you internally freak out until she smiles at you and you remember how lovely of a woman she is. 

A lovely woman who seems to zero in on the jersey you wear the moment she’s within arms reach, “Oh, don’t you look darling!”

She pulls you into a warm hug and you accept it keenly, “Thank you! Are Maki and Runa with you?”

Your question comes as she pulls away, keeping you at arms-length as she shakes her head, “No, they stayed home with their father, neither wanted to make the trip.”

The trip being about an hour long car ride to the other side of town, which is fair. Feels shorter when you’re driving, though. You got through SZA’s new album on the way, too.

The three of you make it to the bleachers, finding a spot to watch the game as the ref whistles and the teams start to huddle. The board reads:

STARSHIP ALIENS v. DECELIS DEMONS

You sporadically tear pieces off of your soft pretzel as your eyes follow Riki the entire game, catching his eye at multiple points and having to act like you don’t see he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face under that face-guard.

The Demon’s win 12-8 long past sunset, a chill nipping your nose and the empty paper your pretzel came in crumbled into a ball in your hand. Rin sends you the same look as the last game before retreating toward the parking lot.

The moment you step foot on the field after releasing Gaeul’s arm, Jake appears in your view with a big grin, “Didja see the weaving I did? I looked cool, right?”

You debate breaking it to the boy that you may have entirely forgotten he was even on the team, too focused on his teammate to even notice him.

“I don’t think she was watching you.” Heeseung appears with his helmet off and his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. He moves to throw an arm around your shoulder and you quickly dodge with an ‘eugh’.

“You’re sweaty and you stink.” You grumble with a grimace on your face, and Heeseung seems ready to complain before he grins again at something behind you and a second later arms engulf you from behind. 

“You’re cute from the back too, pretty girl.” Riki muses into your ear, lifting you up held against his chest with his arms wrapped around you. 

“Riki, you sweaty bastard, let me go!” You whine, struggling against him as he lets your feet touch the ground again.

He giggles boyishly as he obeys, and as you turn to give him a piece of your mind you find the curses dying on your tongue at the grin on his face.

His smile is wide and unapologetically smug, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel like your heart is trying to claw its way out. His helmet dangles loosely in his hand now, his hair a damp mess but somehow still looking good.

“You can’t just pick people up like that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but betraying yourself when your lips twitch upward. “It’s rude.”

He leans forward slightly, closing the gap between you as if he can’t keep himself away. “Oh? You didn’t like it?”

You roll your eyes, stepping back to put some space between you, but Riki matches your movement with an exaggerated pout, clearly enjoying himself. Before you can fire back with something probably aggressive or mean, another voice cuts in.

“Alright, Romeo, stop flirting and help us pack up,” Jungwon calls, dragging the duffel bags of gear toward the bus. He tosses a water bottle at Riki, who catches it without really looking.

“I’ll see you in a minute,” Riki says softly, his grin softening into something warmer that sends an entirely different kind of shiver through you. He leans down and kisses your cheek before jogging off to join his teammates. 

Holy fuck.

Your heart is racing in your chest like an old woman whose heart is about to give out, and your long sleeve undershirt is suddenly too damn hot. 

You barely manage to pull yourself together before Gaeul pops up next to you, a knowing smirk spread across her face as she loops her arm around yours. “He kissed you~,” she sing-songs, her tone just low enough not to draw attention, but her amusement is blatant.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, pressing a hand to your cheek like it’ll somehow stop the warmth there from spreading like the grin in your face. You hope the shadows cast by the stadium lights are enough to hide your flustered state.

Gaeul doesn’t let up as the two of you wander toward the edge of the field, her giggles like little daggers stabbing at your already tattered dignity. “He picked you up. And got touchy.”

“I’m aware,” You huff, “I experienced it.”

“I mean, I don’t think you get how big a deal this is,” she practically rambles, “Riki’s never been this…confident!”

“Oh?” You question with your brows furrowed slightly.

She nods with an eager hum, “Riki’s shy! At least he was when I first met him.” Everything up to this point hadn’t pointed you in that direction regarding Riki’s personality, too familiar with the smug smiles and nonchalance, “I mean, he’s like a different person now that you’re around.”

“That’s…good, right?” You question hesitantly, “I mean, he wasn’t weird or anything, right?”

Your voice must have failed to convey the jesting tone you intended because Gaeul quickly begins to backtrack as you approach the bus. Jungkook is at the driver's seat of the bus while some of the team boards it with their duffles hanging from their shoulders and others are loading the luggage compartment with gear, free of their shoulder pads and helmets. 

Even without the padding, Riki’s back is broad, jersey hanging off muscle. You can barely see Jake past him, who's on the other side of the compartment helping organize it. 

You forget about any questions on your tongue when the shorter male cheekily points out your approach from behind and he looks over his shoulder for you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

Beautiful bastard.

He wastes no time in loading the equipment bag in his hands into the compartment before stepping away from the bus, jogging toward you with that grin. Gaeul begins to pull away with a grin, but leans in to speak quietly enough for him to not hear, “I’ll give you guys a second.”

She shoots a wink at you as she and Riki pass each other, a soft snicker leaving you as she calls out happily for Jay, who’s just stepped off the bus.

Riki slows as he reaches you, his smile turning slightly sheepish now that it’s just the two of you. He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his neck, his other hand gripping the hem of his jersey. “You’re not mad about earlier, right?”

You ignore the fact his movements cause the jersey to ride up, revealing a sliver of his abdomen that makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

“I haven’t decided yet.” You respond with a nonchalant shrug and a thoughtful tilt of your head. 

He chuckles softly, his hand dropping from his nape as he steps closer with the same magnetism as before, like he doesn’t want to be too far, “C’mon, I was happy you’re here.”

“And you just had to pick me up?”

His laugh is warm and full, the sound washing over you and melting away any annoyance you could have pretended to feel. “Yes.” he says with a nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners again as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

This time, you roll your eyes and half-fight the smile naturally growing on your face, “Fine, but that’s your first strike.”

His brows raise in curiosity, his grin turning to a smirk as he asks, “First strike? How many do I get?”

“Three. Duh.” You sass, and he seems to find that just as amusing as your very serious strike system, though you find it kinda hot that he didn’t question the logic behind it. (The answer: if Sheldon Cooper can have a strike system, so can you.)

“And what happens after three?” He asks, leaning closer with intrigue and that stupid smile.

“Let’s hope you never find out.” You retort, having an idea of what to say but not sure if ‘flogging’ is too far. (You know Belle would laugh, though.)

“Nishimura!” Jungkook barks from the open doors of the bus. The last of the team is filing onto the bus, probably eager to get home. “Stop lollygagging and get on the damn bus.”

You snort softly at the word choice, but find that you aren’t safe from the Coach’s annoyance, “You too, go home. Don’t make me tell them about Shadow.” 

The gasp that leaves your lips is one of pure betrayal. The audacity. The nerve. “You—”

He raises his brows in a ‘do it, i dare you’ way and your lips fall shut.

Riki is unable to move past the Shadow thing. “Shadow? Like the Hedgehog?”

“No, like my cat.” You snap sarcastically, “Get on that damn bus.”

Your gaze moves to the vehicle in question, and you find the eyes of the Decelis lacrosse team trained on you and Riki. Through an open window, you hear a voice you think is Kai’s saying, “I thought her cat’s name was Gus.”

“Baby, you have to tell me now.” He laughs breathlessly, like he’s not sure whether to let it out or keep it in for your sake.

“It will never leave my mouth, and I swore him—“ Your words shift from defiant to angry as your finger shoots out to point at the tattooed man impatiently waiting at the bus’ door, “—to secrecy!”

Your words are full of betrayal as you vehemently continue with your manicured finger still pointed, “You took the Unbreakable Vow!

“You were eight.” The Coach retorts. “You used a Crayola marker. It was pink.”

You want to argue, but hold yourself back for everyone’s sake as you look back at a heavily amused Riki and say, “Get on the bus.”

“I’m not letting this go.” He warns with pure joy on his face and a laugh in his voice as he begins to slowly walk back.

You simply shake your head and cross your arms defiantly, “I’m not gonna tell you.”

He only tilts his head with ‘really?’ look, too smug for his own good, the bastard. 

Jay and Gaeul appear, her lipgloss smudged on his lips and messy on her own. Jungkook notices them with a disgusted frown and chilling glare. Jay mutters a ‘sorry Coach’ after kissing Gaeul goodbye, and she happily begins to approach your side.

Riki takes the brief moment of time to circle back and ask you quickly, “Are you free tomorrow? Or tonight?” 

You blink, mindful of Gaeul’s approach but finding his impulsivity endearing, nodding instead of saying something you’ll cringe at later.

His grin stretches wide, lighting up his face like you’ve just made his entire night. “Cool. I’ll text you,” he says casually, though there’s a spark of excitement in his voice that betrays him. Before you can respond, he jogs back toward the bus, shooting you one last look over his shoulder as he climbs the steps.

Gaeul sidles up to you, her arm sliding through yours with practiced ease, the grin on her face telling you she heard the exchange, “Ready to go?”

You’re thankful she doesn’t tease you again, nodding as the both of you begin to walk toward the visitor parking. 

With your back turned, you don’t see one of the slightly ajar windows sliding open more, or the boy that pops his head out of it until he calls out, “Hey!”

You stop mid-step, glancing back over your shoulder to find Riki leaning halfway out the window, his hair messy and damp but looking entirely too perfect for someone who just played an entire game.

You raise a brow in silent question.

“You look good in my jersey!” he calls out, his tone playful but tinged with something softer—something that makes your heart skip.

Your cheeks heat instantly, and you can’t fight the smile breaking across your face. Gaeul snorts next to you, gripping your arm like she’s about to combust.

“I know!” you shout back, doing your best to sound casual, though the warmth in your voice betrays you.

His grin widens, impossibly charming, and he shoots you a two-fingered salute before disappearing back into the bus as the vehicle begins to roll away. Gaeul finally releases her pent-up laughter, practically bouncing on her toes.

“You know?” she echoes, mimicking your response and clutching her stomach. “Girl, you’re gonna kill him one day with that play.”

You start walking toward the parking lot again, tugging her along to keep her from lingering. “I wasn’t playing anything,” you say, though the warmth in your cheeks tells a different story. “I do look good in his jersey. That’s just reality.”

“Sure, sure,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into yours. “But you could’ve just said thank you. Or blushed. Like a normal person.”

“Showing that he affects me is embarrassing.” You grumble softly, “I’ll die before I boost a man’s ego like that.”

(Though, you did cry in front of him about how much you like him, so maybe that argument isn’t valid anymore.)

She cackles at that, nearly stumbling over her own feet as you reach your car. “But, seriously, I’ve never seen him like that. He’s so…” Her voice trails off as she unlocks her own car a few spaces down, but the twinkle in her eye says enough.

“So what?” you press, opening your car door but pausing before you get in.

Gaeul grins knowingly, pointing at you with her keys. “So gone for you.”

You spend the next minute acting like the thought of him being ‘gone’ for you, as Gaeul put it, doesn’t make you want to squeal into a pillow and kick your feet, and when the two of you part ways that feeling remains.

The hour drive home feels longer with Riki on your mind, but maybe it’s the fact you aren’t sure if seeing him again tonight is the best idea. 

Something you’ve realized about yourself since meeting Riki is that you suck at impulse control. You preach self-control yet the moment he’s around you—or even mentioned—you find yourself wanting to act on every impulse the chemicals in your brain fire.

When you get home, pulling into the garage as your parents were once again out of town, you read a text Riki had sent not ten minutes prior.

A beat passes before he responds and you huff in disbelief.

The response comes in the form of a phone call. His contact photo lights up your screen, and you huff softly in amusement before pressing the answer button and bringing it to your ear as you get out of your car, “Yes?”

“Both?” His voice comes through, playful yet tinged with something warmer. You can hear the muffled chatter of his teammates in the background, he must not be home yet. “You’re really not making this easy for me, you know.”

“You asked,” you counter with a soft laugh, locking your car and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I just gave you the answer.”

“Yeah? Which door should I be knocking on? Front or back?”

“You’re not seriously coming tonight, stupid,” you say, though the idea isn’t unappealing. You reach the door, cursing softly at how loud the garage is as it closes. Your hand wraps around the door handle.

“Why not?”

“Riki,” you start with a laugh, entering your home and flipping on the light.

“What? You said both,” he teases. You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Besides, Coach is gonna drop us off at the field to grab our cars anyway. It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything.”

You hesitate, caught between the thrill of seeing him tonight and the logic of how tired he must be after the game. “Are you sure you don't wanna go to bed?”

“Not really,” he says softly, a bit more serious now, warm. “I’d rather see you.”

Your stomach flips, the sincerity in his voice knocking the wind out of you. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

“And you love it,” he shoots back, but there’s a gentleness there that makes you smile despite yourself.

“You better shower before you get here,” You say after a beat, and you swear you hear a whispered ‘yes’ before adding, “Don’t need your stench stinking up my house.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles on the other end, a sound that comes through your phone beautifully. “Just don’t fall asleep before I get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, just text me when you’re on the way.” You walk toward the kitchen, dropping your purse on the counter and unzipping it to grab the eyedrops as you say, “Also, do you have a curfew?”

“Why? You tryna keep me for longer, pretty girl?” His teasing words are unfortunately true, but you refuse to admit it.

“Well, it’s already almost 10:00.” You dodge his question as you unscrew the tiny bottle in your hands, “I didn’t know if your mom would want you home sooner rather than later.”

“Nah, she’s fine with it.” He assures you, and then a beat passes and he asks, “What about yours?”

“They’re out of town, so it doesn't really matter.” You shrug, “So to answer your question, the front door is fine.”

You hear shuffling on the other end, a car door opening and closing, “So, you don’t mind if I stay a while?”

You can hear the smile in his words, and with a bite of your nail you say, “I’ll kick you out when I get sick of you.”

He laughs softly on the other end, “I’ll stay till you kick me out, then.”

You exchange a few more words before he hangs up to drive, and you have a window of time to panic(and clean up). 

After a five minute debate with yourself about taking off or keeping on your makeup, you decide the former is the better option with how late it is and your track record of falling asleep without doing so. 

(You also make a promise to yourself that if you fall asleep in front of Riki, death is the only option.)

So, when you get the text that he's arrived and you open the door with a bare face, you half-expect him to comment on it. You had FaceTimed him late enough for the boy to bear witness to your nighttime routine on multiple occasions, but he’d never shown any reaction to it.

The only reaction you get is the same boyish smile as always, the warmth behind his eyes making your heart lurch in your chest.

“Hey,” he greets softly, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he steps inside. He smells like some mélange of citrus and musk, his body wash and cologne you assume, and it makes your head feel funny.

“Hey.” You respond with a light huff of amusement as you step aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him, “I see you showered.”

His damp hair covers his forehead, the same messy style he has everytime he takes off his helmet and sweat saturates each lock, yet a bit frizzy like he towel-dried it before he left.

He chuckles, head shaking lightly in amusement as he lets you lead him toward the kitchen, “I listen.”

His words are playfully defensive, the boyish smile on his face and the way he cranes his neck slightly makes you laugh, “You better.” He hums, dropping himself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eyes flickering over the space as you move to grab yourself a drink. “You want anything?” 

“Whatever you have.” He shrugs, so you grab two Dr Pepper cans from the fridge and move back to the island.

Riki watches you pull two straws from the drawer in amusement, his elbows on the counter as you pop open the cans with practiced ease and an unhurried leisure. You catch his eyes with a raise of your brow that has him smirking slightly and saying, “Just watchin’.”

“I’d prefer you didn't stare.”

“Can’t help it.”

You roll your eyes at him, but put the straw in and hold the can out toward him anyway. When he takes it with that almost besotted  look in his eyes and his fingers brush yours, you find yourself turning away from him the moment it’s out of your hand, “Are you hungry?” 

Riki shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the can before taking a sip. “Nah, we stopped for food after the game.”

You nod, opening the pantry to browse and distract yourself, but it does nothing to drown out the weight of his gaze. This was a horrible idea. When you glance at him, he’s still watching you, straw between his lips, eyes holding something unreadable.

“Stop it.”

Riki obediently averts his gaze, turning in his stool until he’s no longer facing you—though he playfully overachieves, turning his back to you completely. You can’t help but poorly conceal a laugh at his actions, which prompts him to look back over his shoulder for your smile.

You act like you don’t catch the way his gaze follows you, ignoring the way it forms a knot in your gut. “C’mon, let’s sit in the living room.”

He follows without hesitation, the soft thud of his socks against the floor trailing after you. You settle into the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, and he drops down beside you like he belongs there.

He does it so easily—makes himself at home in your space, in your presence. It should annoy you. Maybe it does, but not for the reasons you wish it did.

Riki sets his drink on the coffee table, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. He doesn’t touch you, but he could. If you shifted even slightly, if he reached just a little further.

You pretend not to notice.

You scroll through the options absentmindedly, hyperaware of Riki’s presence beside you—the way his fingers drum idly against the couch cushion, the way his head tilts slightly in your direction when you stop on a show.

“This good?” You ask, your voice quieter than intended.

“Yeah,” he says softly. You get the feeling he doesn’t really care what’s on.

You settle into the silence, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between you. For a moment, it’s almost comfortable, normal. But the stillness makes your mind race, and it’s impossible not to notice how close he is. You shift slightly, your side brushing against his as you settle deeper into the cushions, and the air feels thicker somehow, heavier.

You steal a glance at him, his eyes fixed on the screen, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture that wasn’t there before. His shoulders are a little tighter, his jaw a little more set, like he’s holding something back.

Like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, Gus appears around the corner with a sweet trill and takes the attention of both of you away from the movie(and each other).

Riki perks up immediately, his gaze shifting from the screen to the small ball of fur trotting toward the couch. “Oh, hey, buddy,” he greets softly, leaning forward slightly as Gus hops onto the cushions with practiced ease.

You watch with amusement as he settles in Riki’s lap, loafing contentedly and blinking slowly at you from his spot. Unable to bear it, you shift slightly closer to the boy beside you to reach your cat more comfortably, muttering a soft and fond, “Traitor.”

The midfielder laughs softly, ringed fingers gently scratching the tomcat on his head near your own, “He loves me.”

“He’s a lovey cat.” You retort, and though your words are true, you’ve never seen him lay in anyone’s lap this fast, much less a boy. He was never too fond of Eunseok, and doesn’t really care much for Jongseob, yet seeks out affection from Riki every time he comes over. “He likes warm laps.”

“Maybe he just has good taste.”

“Or maybe he’s a cat.” You retort, shifting again in your seat to make sure you’re not too close. He comments this time.

“Am I making you nervous?” He asks teasingly, voice low. 

“Excuse me?” You ask with a judgemental confusion on your face.

He seems undeterred, only motivated by the tone you give him, “You keep fidgeting, baby.”

“What did I say about calling me that?” You lightly smack his side, and he winces playfully.

“My bad,” he concedes, hands lifting from Gus momentarily in mock-surrender, “it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t lie.”

He chuckles, “It’ll happen again.”

A noise begins to play from the other room, and Gus immediately launches himself from Riki’s lap to run off. You laugh softly at Riki’s slight pout, the boy dramatically reaching after the feline longingly, “That was his automatic feeder.”

“Damn.” He sighs, his hands falling back to his sides on the sofa. The tip of his thumb brushes your knee accidentally, and the tension in the air shifts once more.

Both of you seem to zero in on the simple contact, accidental and barely-there yet electric in a way you’d never experienced such minute touches. The tip of his thumb turns into the pad of it, a gentle tracing of circular patterns on your knee. Then, his knuckles join, as if testing the waters.

When you glance at him he's already looking at you, his eyes dark with something unreadable, something intense that makes your stomach flip and your chest explode with warmth. Like an itch, one you know how to quell but the side of your brain dealing with critical thinking tells you it’s probably a bad idea.

His palm flattening against your knee is enough for you to disregard the advice of your logical brain and act on the only impulse your brain can fire at the moment. 

Riki’s other hand moves to your cheek when you’re close enough, long fingers tangling into the hair behind your ear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone. His head tilts to the side, nose brushing yours as he shakes it lightly. He doesn’t use the hand on your cheek to push you away or tease you further, any playfulness gone and replaced by a warmth and desire that makes your chest fill with butterflies. 

Your breaths mix, the sound of the TV drowned out by the sheer madness of him. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is pull away, like it’s a struggle to not close the short distance between your lips and his—to not cross any lines. Then, his forehead presses to yours gently and he says, “We don’t have to. I can wait.” 

His words are soft, nearly whispered, yet his deep voice makes them heavier on your gut than you’d ever admit. You find yourself speaking in a mirrored tone, “I don’t want you to wait anymore.” 

His eyes widen just slightly, and his lips part, just barely, his gaze dropping to your mouth. His thumb continues its delicate path across your cheekbone, his fingers flexing in your hair as if anchoring himself to this moment. You can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the proximity making your heart race.

“I want you to know,” he begins, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said about waiting…I won’t rush you.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, his words a tender weight against your chest. But it doesn’t change what you’re feeling now or how close he is. How easy it would be to just close the gap and kiss him, to let all the tension and uncertainty dissolve with the space between your lips.

“I know.” You say with a slight smile.

Before you can second-guess yourself, your lips find his in a soft and brief kiss. 

Riki’s intentions seem to differ from your own as you move to pull away, the hand on your cheek sliding into your hair as his lips chase yours to pull you back in. There’s no hesitation behind it like before, his lips moving against yours with a building urgency that you can’t help but reciprocate.

You gasp softly against his mouth when the hand on your knee glides up your thigh, fingers pressing into skin and pulling you closer almost desperately. He tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss, a low sound from his chest setting your blood aflame as you maneuver into his lap.

His hands move as your knees settle on either side of his hips, warm palms splaying over the curve of your waist and fingers digging into flesh to feel you as close as possible. It’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

Your fingers thread into his slightly damp hair, another deep sound escaping his intoxicating lips that has your stomach flipping. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips brushing yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last. You can feel the way his heart beats beneath your palm, just as fast as yours, and it makes something tighten in your chest.

Riki tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing against your cheek as he exhales softly, his grip on your waist shifting as his hands trail up your spine. He pulls you impossibly closer, a restrained urgency in the way he holds you. He's patient—always—but there's something in the way his fingers press into your skin, in the way his lips part just enough for his breath to mix with yours, that tells you he's feeling this just as intensely as you are.

Pulling away feels like the worst idea in the world, but your lungs ache and something in the back of your mind tells you this is all too soon, too fast. The sound that the disconnect of your lips with Riki’s makes sends a thrill up your spine that the look in his eyes only exacerbates.

His forehead is warm against your own as your breaths mix and his hands slide back down to your waist. His lips ghost yours as you pant softly against him, his head tilting and his nose brushing over your cheek as his lips find the skin there, then your jaw, and your pulse point. You can feel the chastity of his kisses, the type that’s so gentle you’re not sure if you actually felt his lips on you or you just want them there enough to trick your mind into believing it.

“God, pretty girl.” He sighs, burying his nose into your neck to stop himself from kissing you more.

“Riki,” you murmur, unsure of what you want to say, only knowing that you don’t want him to move away just yet.

He hums against your skin, his breath warm, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, then exhale softly. “Nothing.”

He chuckles, low and knowing, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, but there’s something tender in the way they study you, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your waist, his touch light, reverent. “You good?”

You nod, though your heart is hammering in your chest. “Are you?”

He tilts his head slightly, as if considering, then grins—small and lopsided. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to your lips again, lingering for a beat too long before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I should go before I do something stupid.”

The admission has your stomach flipping once more, but you find yourself huffing softly in amusement, “Yeah, you should.”

The moment your hands move to his shoulders and you attempt to dismount his lap, his arms wrap around your waist and his nose returns to its home buried in your neck, “Mmm, in a minute.” 

A laugh escapes you, breathy and light, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the line of his shoulder blades. “You just said you should go.”

“I should,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”

You hum softly, deciding against teasing him and instead settling into the security of his embrace. You feel him smile against your skin, slowly pulling his face from the junction between your neck and shoulder.

Then, his hands move, one sliding up your spine while the other lifts to cup your jaw, and he kisses your cheek. Soft. Chaste.

“Okay,” he murmurs, still so close. “Now I’ll go.”

You don’t stop him this time when he loosens his hold, when he gently shifts you off his lap. You don’t say anything as he stands, raking a hand through his already-messy hair(courtesy of your hands, of course), or when he stretches and his hoodie rides up. When he looks down at you, you almost shrink under his gaze before he smiles that warm way you love and he leans forward to grab your hand in his.

You let his fingers slide between your own, your eyes on him as he tugs you gently and prompts you to get off the couch to step closer to him with a soft huff of amusement, “I thought you were going?”

His hand in yours slips out in favor of joining the other on either side of your jaw, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks fondly as he mirthfully smirks down at you. You have no choice but to tilt your head back to look at him at this proximity, and he doesn’t seem all that eager to widen it.

“I am.” His muttered confirmation is contradicted by the way his lips find yours again, soft yet eager, no longer hesitant to join them as often as he’d like with your prior statement. When he pulls away and you chase his kiss, he hums with amusement in his grin, nose nudging yours. “How am I supposed to leave if you keep making me want to kiss you, huh?”

“I didn’t even do anything.” You defend yourself with a soft laugh.

“Mm, you don’t have to.” He groans softly, eyes shutting as he presses his forehead to yours and sighs, “You’re mine now, right?”

The bluntness of his question has your heart skipping but you hum as if apprehensive, “Maybe. You didn’t ask.”

His eyes open and he looks at you with playful disbelief and a whole lot of amusement, “You want me to ask you out, pretty girl?”

“I never said that,” You retort reflexively, ignoring the way his eyebrows quirk up in challenge and entertainment, “But I might be yours if you ask nicely.”

“Nicely. Right….” He nods in mock understanding, and when he leans in to kiss you again, you meet him halfway. “Will you…” He starts with his voice soft and deep in all the best ways as he pulls away between kisses to continue, “be…my girl?”

He pulls away just enough to see your face as you recover from the dizzying way his lips find yours, and your words are softer than you intended as you breathlessly reply, “I’ll have to think about it.”

His shoulders shake with soft laughter as he shakes his head and mutters, “shut up,” under his breath before he closes the distance once more.

𝒇𝒊𝒏.

©heedeungism : do not rewrite, copy, repost, or translate any of my works without my permission.

[whosashan]

Hi~ Love and DeepSpace girly here

Could you do hc's for the boys where MC is like. Later for dinner or something but before the bois can go and see what's up, MC sends them a text that's like

"Yea I'm gonna be late for dinner. Not sure how late, but I'll be there. I've been trynna find a way out of my room for like 20 minutes, but there's this very big bug between me and the door, and every time I move, it moves. When it flies its wings make this whirring noise akin to some vassal horror. We're locked at a stalemate, I'm at every disadvantage, and I wholeheartedly believe the bug is aware of this."

(I don't hate bugs or anything but this sounds so funny in my head)

BUGGED AND BELATED

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: You're trapped in your room, locked in a silent battle with a bug that’s far too aware of your fear. Every move you make, it counters. Every escape plan, foiled. Dinner will have to wait—this thing might actually win.

A/N: Thank you for the request. Hope you enjoy!

You were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago. Twenty. For a date. With a man you had just started seeing—a man you actually liked, which was rare enough to be considered a cosmic event. You wanted to make a good impression. Show up on time, looking effortlessly stunning, exuding charm and mystery. Just like the diva you were.

Instead, you were crouched behind a chair like a soldier in enemy territory, locked in a silent battle with a creature that had no business being this menacing.

The bug sat there, unmoving, yet radiating pure malice. To be honest, you couldn’t even tell what species it belonged to—somewhere between a beetle and a winged nightmare—but what you did know was that this thing was an opponent of the highest caliber. Every time you so much as shifted toward the door, it twitched, its wings lifting just enough to emit that sinister, high-pitched whirrrr.

And like a rational, fearless adult, you responded by screeching and diving right back into hiding.

This was a hostage situation. A Mexican standoff where only one of you had the advantage—and it sure as hell wasn’t you. The bug had taken control of the room, standing guard like a tiny, exoskeletal bouncer blocking your exit. If it had arms, you were certain they’d be crossed. Maybe even holding a clipboard with your name on the Do Not Pass list.

To be fair, you weren’t afraid of it, not exactly. It’s not like you thought it would launch an aerial assault and drag you into the vents. No, this was something worse. This was the principle of the matter. You were bigger. You were (presumably) smarter. You had evolved beyond your primal ancestors who once feared such creatures. And yet, here you were—hiding. Defeated. Outplayed by something a fraction of your size with the IQ of a rock.

It was a battle of wits, and the bug was winning.

You were moments away from accepting your fate, contemplating whether it was time to draft a farewell message to society—“Tell my date I died bravely in combat”—when your phone rang.

Loud. Sharp. Invasive.

The bug moved.

And so did you—by nearly launching yourself out of your own skin.

Xavier

You glanced at your phone, still flicking your eyes toward the bug every few seconds, refusing to trust the little menace. It had already robbed you of your dignity—you weren’t about to let it rob you of your life, too.

The screen lit up with a message from Xavier.

"You could've just told me if you didn’t want to meet today. I could be asleep right now instead of waiting 20 minutes for my date, who didn’t show up 😔👎"

You groaned, slapping a hand to your forehead. Great. Just great. His text was clearly teasing, but the guilt still hit like a truck. Xavier was sweet, kind, patient—all things you did not deserve while currently cowering behind a chair, engaged in psychological warfare with a bug.

You shot a death glare at your opponent.

The bug, as if personally insulted, spread its wings again with a menacing whirrr, as if to say "Do something about it, coward."

You squeaked and pressed yourself further into hiding. The sheer audacity of this thing.

Frustration bubbled in your chest, so overwhelming it almost made you want to cry. This was it. The bug had won. You were defeated.

Desperate, you called Xavier. He picked up on the second ring.

"Bug!" you shrieked—because apparently, that was the only thing your panic-ridden brain could muster.

Unfortunately, your enemy took offense to your attempt at reinforcements.

With an unholy BZZZZZZT, it lunged.

You screamed and made a break for it, sprinting toward the bathroom like your life depended on it—which, at this point, it probably did. You barely managed to lock the door before stuffing a towel under the gap to ensure the beast wouldn’t crawl its way in.

From the other end of the phone, Xavier’s voice came through, laced with concern. "Y/N?"

"Xavier! There’s a murderous bug in my apartment! It wants me dead! Oh my god—I'm too young to die!" you wailed, slapping your thigh in frustration.

Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

"Ow."

You winced, rubbing the sore spot like an idiot.

There was a pause on the line before Xavier simply said, "I'll be there in a second."

You barely had time to process that before the call ended.

Outside, you could still hear the bug, hovering around like a tiny, winged executioner.

"Stupid bug," you muttered under your breath, arms crossed, sulking in your self-imposed exile.

A minute passed. Then—a knock on the bathroom door.

"Y/N?"

You practically leapt up, flinging the door open. Your eyes darted around the room, scanning for any signs of your sworn enemy before finally landing on Xavier.

“…Did you get rid of it?” you asked, breathless.

He simply nodded, expression unreadable.

For a moment, you could only stare at him—your knight in shining armor. And then, overcome with relief, you launched yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck like a lifeline.

"My savior!!" you cried, rocking the both of you side to side, your gratitude radiating off you in waves. For extra effect, you even pressed a dramatic kiss to his cheek before pulling back, hands settling on his shoulders.

Xavier was visibly flustered, the tips of his ears burning red. But there was also something else in his expression—a quiet, barely-contained laugh.

And then he did laugh. A soft chuckle, amused and way too smug for your liking.

He reached out, smoothing down your slightly disheveled hair. "You're adorable when you're terrified."

"Don't you dare laugh at me," you pouted, though the small smile on your lips betrayed you. "You don’t understand how bloodthirsty that thing was."

"Mm, sure," he mused, eyes gleaming. "But now that I’ve saved your life, and considering you did ditch me tonight…" He tilted his head, a mischievous smirk playing at his lips. "You’ll need to make it up to me."

You narrowed your eyes. "I’m going to kick you."

"Okay, okay—" He held his hands up in surrender, still grinning.

…You did end up baking his favorite cookies as a thank-you, though.

Zayne

You snatched up your phone with the urgency of someone fleeing an inferno.

“Is something the matter? We were supposed to meet 20 minutes ago,” Zayne’s voice was impossibly calm, though you could hear a hint of something softer underneath—a trace of disappointment, perhaps, that you weren’t there.

“Help!!! Me!!!” you wailed into the phone, your eyes fixed on the fiend in front of you. It was perched in the doorway like a guardian of doom. A creature so vile, it made your pulse quicken with panic.

You swore it was mocking you.

“Where are you? I’ll be there in five minutes,” Zayne responded, his tone laced with concern that might’ve been heartwarming if you weren’t currently engaged in a life-or-death standoff with an insect that seemed capable of understanding the emotional depths of human suffering.

“In my apartment... There’s a bug. It’s holding me hostage, Zayne, I’m not kidding. I can’t get out,” you explained, backing away slowly as the bug twitched. The sheer audacity of this tiny creature to hold you prisoner in your own home had you flabbergasted.

You could almost hear Zayne’s sigh through the phone, a mixture of concern and, dare you say it, disbelief. You could practically picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, probably contemplating the universe's cruel sense of humor. Was this how living a life by your side would look like?

“…I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You tried to wait. You really did. You took a deep breath, lifted a pillow, and threw it at the bug. It fluttered back, as if taunting you, and your confidence plummeted faster than the falling stock market. Next came the slipper, but that only made it angrier. You briefly entertained the idea of throwing the chair at it—seriously, what was the worst that could happen? But common sense prevailed.

Still, the bug didn’t relent. In fact, it seemed to be toying with you, edging closer with each passing second, its wings fluttering like the harbinger of doom.

And then, like a knight in shining armor—if that knight was slightly irritated and impossibly poised—Zayne entered.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. He knew you’d open the door for him.

The scene he walked into was something straight out of a tragedy, but it lacked the nobility and grandeur. You were cornered like a mouse by a cat. The bug sat there, wings spread in a challenge. You, in your finest cornered-animal panic, clutched the edge of the couch as if it could save you.

Zayne surveyed the situation, his brows knitting in disbelief. The word “seriously” almost visibly hovered over his head. He muttered something to himself under his breath—something along the lines of “A grown adult, reduced to this…” and grabbed the slipper you had unsuccessfully used in your battle. With one deft movement, he swatted the bug dead.

It was over. The monster was slain. You were free.

He turned to you, expression still a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“Are you… Are you quite finished?” Zayne asked, his voice a low, cultured lilt, tinged with something that could almost be construed as amusement. His gaze flicked to the corner where you’d been backed into, and then back to you, who was now clinging to his arm like your life depended on it.

"Oh, thank God you're here," you sighed, utterly dramatic, “I thought I was going to perish in this apartment, alone and forgotten, just me and the bug in an eternal standoff!” You fluttered your eyelashes at him with all the flair you could muster, trying to inject some levity into the situation, though your chest still heaved in relief.

He blinked, visibly softening, but his voice remained stern, a tad patronizing as he gave your cheek a light pinch.

“You and your antics. Unbelievable,” he sighed, shaking his head. “What on earth possessed you to try and fight the insect with a pillow?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” you huffed, pouting as you gripped his arm tighter. “That thing had too much intelligence—I’m telling you, it was strategic.” You let out a dramatic sigh, as though recounting the tale of a great hero's struggle. “But, I’ll make it up to you. You’re my hero, after all.”

A sudden mischievous gleam flickered in your eyes. “How about I treat you to a massage for those tired, heroic muscles of yours?” you said, raising an eyebrow playfully, leaning in just enough to make your intentions clear.

Zayne raised an eyebrow in return, his lips twitching into a small but unmistakable smile. “A massage, hm? How very… unconventional of you,” he said, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “And here I was, expecting a thank you cake or perhaps a trophy for my valiant deeds.”

“I’ll bake you cookies later,” you said with a wink, already turning toward the kitchen. “But right now, I’m focused on making sure you aren’t walking around with tense shoulders from saving me from certain doom.”

Zayne’s smile softened, his eyes glinting with fondness as he crossed his arms. “Well, I suppose there’s no point in disobeying you now, is there?” He reached up and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, his voice soft but teasing.

You grinned up at him. “But if that thing ever shows up again…” you glanced at the now-dead bug lying on the floor, “we’re going to need more than just a slipper.”

You smiled to yourself. The bug was defeated, your date was salvaged, and Zayne… well, Zayne was a keeper.

Rafayel

Your phone was practically drowning in notifications from Rafayel. Each ping was more insistent than the last, almost like he thought you were hiding under a rock and couldn't see them.

"Where are you??" "I've been waiting for you for like, an hour now." "The audacity. I'm leaving. Fishes would start walking faster than you would get here." "AND you're not replying." "I'm this 🤏 close to blocking and reporting you."

You groaned, every word a reminder of how you were literally about to die at the hands—or wings—of a bug. You cursed under your breath and, with all the dignity you could muster, typed back: "House. Bug. Come!!!!!" That was all the energy you could spare before the creature—an absolute demon with wings—flapped them in your direction. Your heart skipped a beat. You dove behind the couch, praying it didn't have night-vision, or a complex plot to kill you slowly.

Your phone pinged again.

And again.

And again.

You didn’t dare check it—no, not while the little monster was hovering like it was plotting your demise. It was a battle of wills now, and you weren’t about to let your phone ruin your chance of survival.

You grabbed the nearest weapon: your expensive perfume. Maybe, just maybe, a spritz of it would do the trick. You aimed it like a champion—but the bug? The bug didn’t even flinch. Instead, it got more aggressive, flapping its wings with a smirk, if bugs had expressions. And the worst part? You just wasted your last drop of your favourite, expensive perfume. A tragedy on all fronts.

With no other options left, you waited for salvation. Where was anyone when you needed them? What kind of sick joke was this? How could you be outsmarted by an insect?

And then, the sound of footsteps. Hallelujah.

It was Rafayel.

You couldn’t decide whether you were filled with relief or utter terror. Was he here to rescue you? Or was he about to bail on you and leave you in a dramatic, bug-induced death scene worthy of a low-budget horror flick?

The door swung open with zero drama—Rafayel just barged in. He saw you, crouched behind the couch, practically whispering to yourself like you were in a hostage situation. His eyes immediately locked onto the bug, and for a second, time stopped.

His mouth opened, and you could practically hear the gears in his head turning before he spoke: “You are so in trouble right now, young lady. I—”

But then, the bug made a dramatic entrance. It flapped its wings in a show of pure, unadulterated confidence, like it knew it had just broken Rafayel's spirit. Rafayel froze, his eyes widening in horror, and within seconds, he was out the door, like a man running from a natural disaster.

“Rafayel! Don’t leave me here, you fish!” You whined, your voice pitched high in a way that made you sound like you were either five years old or on the verge of a mental breakdown. You weren’t sure which one it was.

The bug flapped its wings once more, mocking you. It was taunting you. You were being outwitted by something with a brain smaller than a grain of rice.

“I am not coming in there unless you get rid of this disgusting thing!” Rafayel’s voice came from the safety of the hallway, an unmistakable whiny tone in his words. He was refusing to enter, as if you had just asked him to enter a lion’s den while wearing a steak costume.

“You’re a fish! Don’t fishes eat bugs??” You groaned, still peeking out from behind the couch like a small animal in danger of being eaten alive.

“I have never been more insulted in my entire life,” Rafayel shot back, his voice dripping with melodrama. "Never in my—"

Before he could finish his Oscar-worthy speech, the bug made a beeline straight toward him. It was clearly hunting him now, and if you could hear its evil little thoughts, you were sure it was laughing at him. Rafayel yelped in sheer terror, darting behind the door like a child avoiding a splash of water.

“Take it away from me!!” He whimpered, his voice cracking in an almost comical way. If this were a reality show, this would definitely be the most embarrassing moment of the season.

You rubbed your temples in exasperation. This was fine. Everything was fine. Sure, your dignity was shattered. Sure, Rafayel was now questioning your survival instincts. Sure, you were the one who brought a broom to a battle that required grit and determination. But you were ready. It was time to defeat the beast. You needed to. After all, you couldn't get slain by the monster. you still had the whole Lemuria to repopulate.

“If I die right now,” you muttered to yourself, glaring at the bug like it was the villain in the movie of your life, “just know… I think your cooking’s actually terrible. And I once purposefully placed a brush next to your bed so you would slip on it. And—”

You were cut off by the sound of the bug’s wings buzzing, louder and more threatening than ever.

You grabbed your broom with the determination of a warrior and—without hesitation—charged. You swung it like a sword, taking out all your frustrations in one glorious, wild swipe. The bug was in mid-flight, doing its best to dodge your clumsy strikes, but eventually, victory was yours.

The demon bug, defeated, fluttered weakly out the window, and you stood, panting, broom still held high, like you’d just slain a dragon.

And then—silence.

You turned to Rafayel, still holding the broom like you were the hero of the story, waiting for your applause. But no. Instead, he stood there with his arms crossed, his lips pressed into a disapproving frown.

“You did WHAT?” he asked, the disbelief in his voice thick enough to spread on toast.

And in that moment, you realized—you’d won the battle against the bug. But now, a greater danger awaited you - an angry fish.

Sylus

You barely had time to register the sound of your phone ringing before bam, your door was obliterated like it was made of cardboard.

There stood Sylus, a whirlwind of concern and urgency, his brow furrowed, eyes scanning the room with that signature intensity.

He must’ve assumed you were in immediate danger, and, well... he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You were hiding behind the chair, poking your head out like a startled meerkat, a wave of relief washing over you at the sight of him. Sylus, your towering savior. The person who could fix anything, even the most horrifying of circumstances.

The bug, though? It seemed just as startled as you, its wings twitching nervously as though it could sense Sylus’s unyielding presence in the room. If bugs could feel power, this one was now thoroughly aware of its impending doom.

You almost giggled to yourself. Game over for the bug.

Sylus, meanwhile, stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze shifting between you and the bug with an expression that could only be described as... confusion.

"Kitten, what’s the matter?" His voice had that smooth, no-nonsense tone, but there was a definite edge of concern hidden beneath the sternness.

You pointed dramatically at the bug on the floor, your finger trembling slightly as you did. You could feel your pulse racing, that primal fear creeping back. Sylus’s eyes followed your outstretched arm to the bug, then shifted back to you, his expression unreadable. He took a beat, processing the situation. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he deadpanned:

"You’re not actually serious, are you?"

You couldn’t even muster a comeback. Instead, you whined, ducking further behind the chair as the bug flapped its wings once again, preparing for round two.

"It’s trying to kill me!" You squeaked, clutching the chair as though it were your only line of defense against the monstrous thing that was quite literally the size of your thumb.

Sylus’s gaze lingered on you. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it disbelief? Amusement? Maybe a little bit of both. He stood there, dead silent, taking it all in. And then, to your horror, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

"Sylus, wait!" You squeaked, your voice rising with panic. The bug was closing in! Would your hero really leave you to face your untimely death at the claws—or wings—of this vile creature?

But just as quickly as he’d left, Sylus returned, striding in like the cavalry had just arrived. In one hand, he held a can of bug spray. No grand entrance, no dramatic speeches, just a weapon of mass destruction for your foe.

Without another word, he unleashed the spray like a warrior wielding a sword of justice, a small but fierce hiss filling the air. The bug’s frantic wing-flapping turned into a lazy, defeated flutter as it crumpled into oblivion.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, cautiously peeking from behind the chair, making sure the battle was truly over. The bug was definitely down for the count. You waited another second, just to be sure, then, with all the grace of a startled deer, you leapt from your hiding place and ran straight into Sylus’s arms.

Without missing a beat, you buried your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around him as though he were your personal superhero—because, in this moment, he definitely was.

"Thank you, my hero!" You chimed, looking up at him, your voice a mixture of gratitude and—okay, maybe a little bit of dramatics. But could you blame yourself? It was a near-death experience.

Sylus’s face didn’t shift much, but his lips curled up at the edges in that trademark sly smirk of his. Oh, here it came.

"My, my... Whatever shall I do with you?" His voice was smooth, filled with an undertone of amusement as his hands slid around your waist, pulling you in closer, his presence overwhelming and comforting all at once.

You couldn’t help but giggle, your heart still racing from the excitement of it all. “Whatever you wish, oh my savior.” You batted your lashes dramatically, trying—and failing—to hold back a grin. "But first, let's get this dinner! All this near-death experience made me starving!"

With that, you grabbed his hand and began tugging him toward the door like a child dragging their parent to their favorite amusement park. Sylus followed, his chuckle rumbling through his chest as he matched your pace.

“As you wish, my lady,” he replied, his voice warm and amused.

“Oh, and by the way, you need to replace my door. You did kinda knock it down.” You gestured at the gaping hole in the doorway, now very much ruined by his heroic entrance.

Sylus raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can just buy you a new house.”

“No,” you said flatly, shaking your head with conviction. “Not a new house. Just the door. And maybe some new furniture to match the hole you made.”

Caleb

You ignored your phone's ringing for now - afraid to move your gaze away from the bug.

You'd tried everything: pillow throws, shoe swats, even a half-hearted attempt at swatting it with a hairbrush. But every time you tried to inch your way to the door, the thing flapped its wings with an eerie, almost taunting precision. You were fairly certain it was actively laughing at you. The worst part? You couldn’t figure out what it even was—was it a cockroach? A beetle? No, it had the terrifying charisma of a tiny dragon.

At this point, your phone was pinging like crazy, full of messages from Caleb.

"Where you at, babe? :P" "You good? 😬" "Okay, I'm seriously starting to get concerned. Did you get abducted by aliens? XD" "Or worse... did you bail on me??"

You groaned, knowing you had to respond. With one eye on the bug (now doing an actual flyby of your head), you typed out a frantic reply: "Bug. Help. Please. I’m literally being held hostage."

The "send" button clicked just as the beast made a bold move toward you, sending you diving behind the couch. You muttered something obscene under your breath, praying to whatever higher power existed that Caleb would get the message.

You heard the front door creak open, and the sound of footsteps entering your apartment. Caleb’s unmistakable voice rang out immediately.

"You alive in there, or did you get eaten by a mutant insect?" His tone was teasing, light, but you could hear the hint of concern buried underneath it.

The moment you saw his face peeking around the corner, you almost burst into tears, then immediately regretted not thinking of this sooner—why hadn't you just called him earlier? This was a disaster.

"There!" You pointed shakily at the bug, now circling you like a demented helicopter, "It’s... it's trying to kill me, Caleb. Please get rid of it before I lose my mind."

He looked at the bug, then back at you, arching an eyebrow. "So, you're telling me this... thing has been keeping you hostage for 20 minutes? I’d say I’m impressed, but also... I’m honestly a little offended you didn’t call me earlier."

You shot him a pleading look. “I didn’t want to bother you! Plus, I thought I could handle it myself, but clearly—" you gestured at the bug dramatically, "—I was wrong."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I’ll take care of it. But you owe me one for this. You owe me big time."

As if on cue, the bug lunged towards him, its wings buzzing aggressively.

"Look at this thing, Caleb! It knows I’m weak!" you shouted, half laughing, half panicking. You watched him as he calmly reached for the nearest object—a broom—before striding toward the creature like a true warrior.

"Relax, pipsqueak. I’ve got this." His voice was smooth, dripping with that signature teasing tone, but there was a flicker of protectiveness in his eyes. You knew he wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.

With one swift motion, he shooed the bug out of your apartment, making sure it was well and truly gone before turning to you with a satisfied grin.

You practically threw yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Oh my god, Caleb. Thank you. I would’ve died in here if it wasn’t for you.”

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing the top of your head as he held you tight. "You owe me, sweetheart. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. I came here expecting a romantic evening, not to play exterminator." His hand gently ran through your hair, a soft gesture of care that made your heart flutter despite everything.

"I’ll do anything," you said, your voice a little too serious.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Anything? Hm, we might need to revisit that offer later, but for now..." He paused, leaning back to look you over. "I think we can still salvage the evening. After all, we’ve got the whole night ahead of us, right?"

You smirked, playfully brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Yeah, and you’re not getting out of dinner that easily. You still owe me a real date after this."

He laughed, pulling you closer. "Alright, alright. But just so you know, next time, I’m sending you a bug-catching kit as your official starter pack for dating me. You’ve been warned."

You couldn’t help but grin, a weight finally lifting from your shoulders as you found yourself safe in his arms.

"And Caleb," you said, trying to hide a mischievous smile, "You look hot when you move around with a broom."

[countlessimagines]

Your World [ Wolverine x Reader ]

Summary: your Wolverine was your whole world.

A/N: I like writing angsty stuff and this movie provided me with the best possible scenarios <3 hehehe I love wolverine

Warnings: Cussing, mentions of blood

Marvel MASTERLIST Link here

SPOILERS BELOW

-

It wasn’t an ideal love story that brought you back to Logan.

Being a mutant with incredible healing abilities and a broken heart made it so easy for Stryker to capture you. Your Wolverine had been the one to rescue you from the clutches of Stryker and the horrible fate that loomed over your head. All the days of experiments and cold rooms where you’d be injected with who knows what, it all lead to him.

But you always had to remind yourself that Logan had gotten you out, made you a X-Men, but found the brutal truth of how dangerous it was to be loved by you.

You loved deeply and endlessly, like a void waiting for eternity to be loved and to love. Logan was exactly what your heart desired for years.

Someone who could never die, never leave you.

Fighting alongside each other became a beautiful symphony. And God protect anyone who caused you harm, because Logan would only see red and slice them to pieces. It was a miracle none of the X-men had been torn to shreds, but Scott always came close.

The team would always joke about your relationship, saying how could an innocent soul be in love with such a brute like Wolverine.

But Logan knew the only way he could breathe was to be with you, to hold you, to kiss and love you.

He would always find his way to you no matter the circumstance.

Beast was holding you in the infirmary because he wanted to run tests? Logan was there.

Storm and Jean wanted to have a girls night? Logan was sitting outside the room in case anything happened.

Scott was training you in hand to hand combat? Logan was definitely there.

Your world consisted of him and him only.

And maybe that is why it hurt so much when he let your entire team die, because you had not made them your whole world.

You had been away on a mission by yourself when you received the news of their passing. You returned to a bloodied home, no sign of Wolverine to be found.

Life began to blur after what happened. You had to go into hiding, because people blamed you for what happened, too. And there was no one there to stop you from spiraling into a flurry of self hatred.

Hatred for what you had become. A love sick puppy so consumed with Logan only. Maybe if you had been there, maybe if you hadn’t put so much trust in him, maybe if you could have taken the hits for your team.

And the thought that stuck with you the most, if you had been there, screaming for help - would Logan had only saved you and left the rest to die?

Because the love you shared was slowly becoming so obvious to you that it was not pure or natural, but rather so simple it would have made you and Logan public enemy number one.

But you supposed that had already happened, too.

Your mutant abilities were the only thing you had left, so you consumed yourself in underground work. Becoming exactly what the X-men had fought against.

Shedding your uniform, you had to separate yourself from the X-men because people recognized you too easily. It was hard to find any work where people wanted a tainted mutant.

You tried your hardest to not let every moment be consumed by the thought of Logan. He had never reached out to you after the event, despite the grief between you so overwhelmingly strong. He couldn’t face you and love someone who would have stepped through hell and back for him.

He felt as if he didn’t deserve it.

So time continued to pass as the bond between the two of you was severed so deeply that it was suffocating to be apart.

But it wasn’t until Deadpool showed up to your apartment that you were finally addressing your past.

“Leave, now. I’m not hearing any of your bullshit.” You tried to close your door but he stopped it.

“Please, c’mon. I need you! Wolverine needs you!”

You tensed at the mere mention of him. “If he needed me so desperately, it is far too late for him to come back.”

“But you’re his one and only, for fuck’s sake! Every variant I’ve met of him has had a you stalking around like a lap dog. You know how many of you’s have beaten the shit out of me?” He rambled on, and you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t care to understand what you’re saying, so goodbye, Wade!”

Deadpool sighed before kicking the door in and stabbing you through the chest with one of his blades. You stared at him in shock and couldn’t register anything as he flung you over his shoulder into an orange portal.

You landed on a hard ground that pushed the blade out of you. “Wade, you’re a dead man.”

He stepped through the portal and leaned over your body. “Sorry about that, but I can’t die so you’re stuck with not only me, but Wolverine!”

Deadpool giggled and ran off, making sure to rip the blade out of your stomach. You winced but felt your regeneration cells working to stitch you back together.

Slowly sitting up, you spat out blood.

“I tried to tell him not to bring you into this.”

You froze at the voice you fought to forget, willing calm into your fast beating heart.

Sitting up fully only made your legs wobble and your head spin. But you had to look up into the eyes of the man you still loved.

Logan looked different, healthier and happier. It only made you feel sick.

“I’ve been busy.” He said it so casually that it made you want to slap his chest for the lack of greeting. “Wade gave me a second chance. I helped save his world.”

“You haven’t seen me in years and you choose to brag?” You scoffed, removing your shirt to assess the damage Wade had done to your shirt.

Logan sucked in a breath as he took in your battle worn scars. Despite your healing factor, you still kept every scar from every wound you had endured.

He remembered the last time he saw you, you only adorned a few on your chest and stomach.

Now it was littered with them.

“You’ve been busy too, I gather?” Logan said with a hint of sarcasm.

You glared at him. “Why am I here?”

“Wade thought that I needed you.” He admitted it with such ease, like he knew it to be true in his heart.

“And? Do you need me?”

He hesitated before answering. “I’ve always needed you… and I think that’s why I let myself go for so many years. Because I knew that no matter what I did or said to you, you would never forgive me. I would always be the one who let our team die… let you go.”

“Well you’re right, because I never would forgive you. Not after abandoning all of us,” you choked out, the tears beginning to creep into the corners of your eyes. “I loved you fiercely, Logan. All it would have taken was one call during those first few days and I would have been there for you. We could’ve been healing together. But you chose this life of despair for both of us, Logan.”

“I know.” He said, his own eyes watering.

“I despise you.” You said, but your heart was breaking, letting out the true feelings. It was bleeding for him and for him only.

Logan stepped closer and you did not stop him.

“I want nothing to do with you.” You said, your voice cracking.

“I understand.” He said, five feet away from you now.

“I hate you.” You began to weep, the blood in your heart revealing what you wanted truly.

“I don’t blame you.” Logan closed the gap between the two of you, holding you close to his chest. You cried into his shoulder, holding on for dear life. “I’m never leaving you again.”

All you could muster was a small nod, your tears staining his shirt. His own were dripping onto the top of your head.

And in the empty apartment, you and Logan stood, holding onto each other.

Holding your world together.

[gyuuberryy]

teeth

“let's play together, you make me so thirsty”

pairing: vampire!heeseung x reader

synopsis: you were not thrilled about the move in of your new neighbour. mostly because he was so strange and seemed to be hiding something dark. and partly because you couldn’t stop yourself from getting closer to him because of your unwanted attraction. you were determined to expose his dark secret and get rid of him once and for all. but, it was proving to be a difficult task because he was just so irresistible..and needy.

genre: enemies to lovers, vampire au

warnings: lots of suggestive content!!(read at your own discretion), blood, alcohol, getting trapped in a lift, making out, teeth and biting(obviously)

note: this is like my first time writing something suggestive so i was a little nervous, but i think it turned out well! there's no smut tho. teeth is such a freaky song teehee, i hope this gives off the same vibes. listen to the song while reading this, enjoy!

word count: 5.2k

READ PT2 HERE

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

fairy lights strung across the hallway cast a warm glow on the gaggle of your neighbours crammed into the shared corridor. plates heaped with enough food to feed a small army overflowed from a makeshift table, the air thick with the aroma of baked ziti and something suspiciously like burnt brownies.

it was the monthly floor potluck, a supposed chance for neighbourly bonding. you, however, stood alone by the shoe rack, arms crossed and a scowl firmly in place.

the source of your discontent? lee heeseung, the new resident in 3B. he'd moved in a week ago, and in that short time, had managed to charm the socks off everyone else. mrs. kim from 3A gushed about his "angelic smile," mr. lee from across the hall swore he'd single-handedly fixed the perpetually leaky faucet, and even the ever-grumpy mrs. park from 2B had softened to his "polite demeanour." you, however, weren't buying it.

there was something… off about him. he was a little too pale, a little too perfect. the way his eyes seemed to glint in the fairy lights sent shivers down your spine, not the good kind. maybe it was the way he never seemed to eat anything, politely declining every dish offered with a charming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. or maybe it was just a gut feeling, a primal instinct screaming that there was more to heeseung than met the eye.

as you nursed your lukewarm coffee, heeseung materialised beside you, a plate piled high with (uneaten) pasta in his hand. his smile, as always, was dazzling.

"hey there! i'm heeseung, from 3b. i’ve been meaning to meet you for a while! everyone's been raving about you."

you narrowed your eyes at him. "is that right?"

he chuckled, a sound a little too melodious. "absolutely! they say you make the best chocolate chip cookies on the floor." he gestured to the burnt offering on the table. "though, these brownies look like they could use some work."

a sarcastic snort escaped your lips. "they're mrs. park's. apparently, baking isn't her forte."

heeseung's smile faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he recovered. "well, maybe next time you could bring your famous cookies," he suggested, his voice smooth as silk.

you raised an eyebrow, suspicion solidifying in your gut. "maybe i will," you said, your voice devoid of warmth.

heeseung seemed to hesitate, the air crackling with a strange tension. then, with another dazzling smile, he excused himself and moved on to mrs. kim, who was already gushing about his "nonexistent" culinary skills.

you watched him go, a cold dread settling in your stomach. he might be fooling everyone else, but you wouldn't be swayed by his facade. there was something about heeseung, something dark and unsettling, and you were determined to find out what it was.

weeks bled into months, and your suspicions about heeseung only intensified. he'd become the bane of your existence, a charming yet infuriating shadow that seemed to follow you around the building. every potluck, every hallway encounter was a constant push and pull between your icy suspicion and his playful facade.

he revelled in teasing you, his compliments bordering on flirtatious. "looking lovely today, aren’t you?" he'd purr, his eyes gleaming with an amusement that sent shivers down your spine. you'd counter with sarcastic remarks that usually sailed right over his head, leaving you more frustrated than ever.

one particularly rainy afternoon, you were rushing down the hallway, arms laden with groceries, when the treacherous floor betrayed you. your foot slipped, and you went sprawling towards the cold tile. but before you could hit the ground, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you upright with surprising ease.

for a moment, you were trapped in heeseung's embrace. your ear was pressed against his chest, and a jolt of fear shot through you. there was no comforting thud of a heartbeat, just a chilling silence. his touch was icy cold, sending a wave of goosebumps erupting across your skin.

you scrambled away from him, a mixture of terror and anger twisting your features. "don't touch me!" you hissed, dropping a bag of groceries with a clatter.

heeseung straightened, his smile unwavering. "whoa there. just trying to be a good neighbour."

you glared at him, your voice trembling. "there's nothing neighbourly about you, heeseung. what are you?"

his smile faltered for a flicker of a second, a flicker you caught this time. but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual charming facade. "just a guy who likes to help out a damsel in distress," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

but the amusement didn't reach his eyes. they held a glint of something predatory, something that confirmed your worst fears. he wasn't normal. and whatever he was, it was becoming increasingly clear that he was toying with you.

you grabbed the remaining grocery bags, clutching them tightly to your chest as if they were a shield. "don't think this is over, heeseung," you hissed, your voice surprisingly steady despite the fear gnawing at your insides. "i'll find out who you are, and i'll expose you."

he tilted his head, a playful glint back in his eyes. "is that a challenge, darling?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine. "be careful what you wish for. you might just find out more than you bargained for."

with that cryptic message hanging in the air, he turned and sauntered back to his apartment, leaving you alone in the hallway, the weight of his words and the chilling memory of his touch settling over you like a shroud. you were determined to unravel the mystery of heeseung, but a new, terrifying question gnawed at you: were you prepared for what you might find?

sleep evaded you that night. the unsettling encounter with heeseung replayed on a loop in your mind. you tossed and turned, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of rain against your window. finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, you crept out of bed and tiptoed towards the door, hoping to get some fresh air.

just as you were about to unlock the door the ‘ding’ of the elevator’s arrival stopped you in your tracks. who could it be this late at night?

peeking through the peephole, you were met with a sight that sent a fresh wave of terror coursing through you. heeseung stood casually a few feet away from your door, the rain slicking his dark hair back from his forehead.

he was whistling a cheerful tune, completely oblivious to your scrutiny. but what truly sent shivers down your spine was the state of his hands. they were stained with something dark and viscous, drying in the cool night air. it looked… suspiciously like blood.

the blood ran cold in your veins. just as you were about to pull back, heeseung paused, his head tilting ever so slightly as if he could sense you watching. a slow, unnerving smirk spread across his face, his eyes seeming to lock with yours through the peephole. how? it was impossible.

panic clawed at you. you stumbled back, adrenaline flooding your system. you had to warn the others. heeseung couldn't be trusted.

the next day, you stormed into mrs. kim's apartment, her usual cheery demeanour replaced by a frantic urgency. you blurted out everything – the coldness, the lack of a heartbeat, and the bloodstains you witnessed the night before.

mrs. kim, however, listened with a furrowed brow. "blood? are you sure, dear? heeseung wouldn't hurt a fly."

heeseung, conveniently appearing in the midst of your outburst, played the part of the concerned neighbour perfectly.

"is everything alright here?" he asked, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. "seems a little tense."

mrs. kim just dismissed him, shaking her head with a small chuckle, “nothing dear, it’s not important.”

his smile was disarming, his eyes brimming with feigned innocence. "oh i see. what were you two talking about so intently then?"

you glared at him, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. "i was just telling mrs. kim about your… unusual habits." you recounted the previous night's events, your gaze flitting between mrs. kim and heeseung.

heeseung chuckled, a light, airy sound that sent shivers down your spine. immediately, his expression morphed into one of concern, looking at mrs kim. "hasn’t she been acting strangely lately? maybe a little… stressed?"

his words stung. he was twisting the narrative, making you seem paranoid and delusional. your frustration grew, your voice rising as you tried to explain what you saw, but your neighbour's eyes held only pity and dismissal.

mrs. kim patted your hand soothingly. "maybe you're just a little stressed, dear. heeseung's a good boy, always looking out for everyone. don't you worry about him."

shame burned in your cheeks. you were alone, your warnings falling on deaf ears. heeseung's smile widened, the glint in his eyes predatory.

"see?" he said, his voice low and menacing, but directed only at you. "sometimes, silence is the best policy."

with that, he turned and sauntered away, leaving you trapped in a nightmare you couldn't seem to wake up from.

back in your apartment, you sank onto the couch, a defeated sigh escaping your lips. you were alone, your suspicions dismissed as paranoia. but the image of heeseung's bloodstained hands, his chilling smirk, burned into your memory. you wouldn't give up. you had to find a way to expose him, to prove to everyone that the perfect neighbour was nothing but a monster in disguise.

the bass vibrated through the floor, the air thick with sweat and the sweet scent of spilled cocktails. you were lost in the music, laughing with your friends, a rare moment of reprieve from the constant worry that was heeseung. the tipsy buzz from the vodka-cranberries only amplified the carefree feeling, pushing his unsettling presence to the back of your mind.

tipsy from a few too many drinks, you excused yourself, needing a momentary escape from the pulsating heat of the dance floor of the club. the cool night air was a welcome change as you stepped into the balcony, the cityscape shimmering under the neon glow. a sudden prickle ran down your spine, making you stop mid-step. it was the distinct feeling of someone's gaze boring into you, a predator sizing up its prey.

your heart hammered against your ribs as you spun around, searching the crowd. there, leaning against the wall opposite the club entrance, stood heeseung. his perfect features were cast in shadow, but the glint of his eyes in the darkness sent a shiver down your spine. he held a drink in his hand, his knuckles white around the glass, as if tightening his grip to control himself.

the moment you locked eyes with him, the air crackled with a tension so thick you could almost taste it. it wasn't just fear this time. there was a strange undercurrent, a dark energy that seemed to emanate from him.

your mind, fuzzy from the alcohol, couldn't quite grasp it, but your body reacted instinctively. panic surged through you, erasing the tipsy haze. this wasn't the charming neighbour; this was the dangerous entity you'd glimpsed before.

you didn't waste a second. turning on your heel, you practically sprinted back into the club, weaving through the crowd. your breath came out in ragged gasps, fueled by a cocktail of fear and the alcohol throbbing in your veins.

with a desperate lunge, you pushed open the nearest door, the sign above it proclaiming it a restroom.

just as you fumbled for the lock, a strong hand shot past your shoulder, wedging itself between the door and the frame. you froze, staring in horror as heeseung casually pushed his way in behind you. he slammed the door shut with a sickening thud, the lock clicking ominously behind him.

he cornered you against the door, his body acting as a wall and a scent that was both familiar and strangely intoxicating. the air crackled with unspoken tension, thick with the remnants of your fear and an undeniable spark of…something else.

“what do you think you’re doing?”, you winced at how weak your voice sounded.

he leaned impossibly close, his breath chilly against your ear. he seemed to be tipsy as well, with the way he stumbled and invaded your personal space.

the alcohol loosened your inhibitions, and his voice, usually smooth and playful, now had a dark, alluring edge to it.

"you looked beautiful dancing under those lights," he whispered, his words sending shivers down your spine. "such a shame you seem to hate me so."

his nearness was overwhelming. you couldn't feel any heat radiating from his body, but the way his lips brushed against your ear sent a jolt through you. his voice, usually smooth as silk, now had a rough edge, sending a shiver down your spine that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

your mind, fuzzy from the alcohol, struggled to process the situation. he was terrifying, yes, but a strange, confusing attraction warred with the fear simmering beneath the surface.

your gaze latched onto the physical beauty in front of you - the sharp angles of his jaw, the way the moonlight glinted off his dark brown eyes. all the warnings you'd tried to ignore hammered against your intoxicated mind, but for some reason, they held no power in the face of the undeniable magnetism of the man pinning you to the door.

“what do you want from me”, your words came out in a hushed whisper, scared as if speaking any louder would ruin the moment.

his gaze flitted down to your lips as he got closer to you, now only a breath away. he leaned closer, the scent of something foreign, yet oddly alluring, invading your senses.

his gaze dropped to your lips, painted a soft pink from the drinks you'd consumed.

before you could register the movement, his lips were on yours. the kiss was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – the initial shock giving way to a surge of heat that defied logic. his hand slid down your back, pressing you flush against the wooden door.you clung to him, a confused mix of fear and a thrilling sense of forbidden desire coursing through you.

the kiss deepened, becoming desperate, hungry. he tasted of something sweet and metallic, a strange anomaly that sent a jolt through your system. you ignored it, caught up in the intoxicating whirlwind.

his body was freezing cold, save for his lips, his skin a contrast against the heat from your body which made a wave of concern rise up in the back of your head. but it was all forgotten as his hand moved to your neck, his fingers trailing a chilly path before dipping behind your ear.

you gasped at the sudden feeling, and heeseung took the opportunity to let his tongue enter your mouth. the kiss got messier and hotter, as if he was trying to devour you whole.

he rained kisses down your jawline, each one a searing brand against your skin. his touch sent shivers of anticipation down your spine, your breath hitching as you felt his teeth graze a sensitive spot.

it wasn't a bite, not yet. it was a brush, a feather-light caress that sent a jolt through your system. but it wasn't just the touch. there was something… different about his canines. they were sharper, pointier than human teeth, and the sensation sent a wave of surprise through you.

he froze, the movement of his mouth stopping abruptly. his breath hitched in his throat, coming out in ragged gasps like a predator startled mid-hunt. his eyes, locked on your neck, flickered with a mix of hunger and… something else. a flicker of remorse, a struggle you couldn't quite decipher.

the tension in the room was suffocating. you stared back at him, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and desire. but before you could form a question, before you could understand the shift in him, heeseung pulled away. his grip on your neck loosened, replaced by a cold indifference.

his eyes, once filled with a dark desire, now held a chilling emptiness. the warmth of his body vanished as he stepped back, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. he stared at you for a long, agonising moment, his eyes unreadable.

then, in a swift movement, he turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving you pressed against the door, the memory of the heated kiss a stark contrast to the cold dread settling in your stomach.

the heat of the kiss still lingered on your lips, a confusing memory tainted by the chilling realisation of what he truly was. you cradled your neck, the phantom sensation of his sharp touch lingering long after he was gone.

days bled into a strange silence. the unsettling encounters with heeseung, once a daily occurrence, had vanished. you wouldn't normally miss his presence, but the sudden absence gnawed at you with an unsettling curiosity. you found yourself glancing down the hallway at his door more often than you cared to admit, the memory of the stolen kiss replaying in your mind in a confusing loop.

the thought of venturing to his apartment, of seeking him out after the charged encounter in the washroom, sent a jolt of nervous energy through you.

shame burned in your cheeks at the memory of the heated kiss, a stark contrast to the chilling way he'd left you. yet, a sliver of concern gnawed at you. his absence was unnerving.

finally, curiosity, laced with apprehension, won over your better judgement. you stood outside his door, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked tentatively.

the silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before the door creaked open a sliver. heeseung stood there, his face pale and drawn, dark circles smudging the area under his eyes. he looked… unwell.

"heeseung?" you ventured, surprised by the concern that slipped into your voice. "are you alright? you look terrible."

he didn't answer, just stared at you with an icy indifference that sent a shiver down your spine. the playful glint in his eyes, once so unsettling, was replaced by a hollowness that chilled you to the bone.

heeseung scoffed, a harsh sound that scraped against your nerves. "i'm fine. now leave."

the hostility in his voice stung. the concern you felt evaporated, replaced by a cold anger.

"look," you snapped, "i just came to see if you were okay. but clearly, you don't want the help."

he scoffed, a humourless sound. "of course not. why would i need help from the likes of you?"

he slammed the door shut before you could retort, leaving you standing alone in the hallway, the echo of his harsh words ringing in your ears. shame burned in your cheeks, a confusing mix of hurt and anger churning in your gut.

how dare he act like you were the villain? he was the one who made your life a living nightmare, the one with secrets that sent shivers down your spine.

scowling, you berated yourself for your momentary lapse in judgement. you hated him. you had to.

he was a danger, a monster in disguise. yet, the flicker of something vulnerable you'd glimpsed in his eyes, the way he'd pulled away so abruptly… it was a confusing puzzle you couldn't seem to solve.

heeseung stumbled out of his apartment, a desperate lurch in his gait that spoke volumes of his weakened state. he fumbled with grabbing his keys, nearly dropping them, before finally unlocking the deadbolt.

he needed to get out, anywhere but the suffocating confines of his apartment. he threw a glance down the hallway, hoping for an empty elevator, but his luck had run dry. the red "in use" light mocked him above the metal doors.

he slammed on the button, urgency pushing past the haze in his head. as the doors dinged open, revealing you standing there, his heart sank.

heeseung flinched back, shuffling into the corner like a wounded animal. "get… out," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

"seriously?" you scoffed, following him with your glare. "that makeout session in the club must have been rough if you can't even stand the sight of me now."

heeseung remained silent, the effort of breathing stealing his focus. you rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath about his lack of manners. you turned away, choosing to ignore him.

suddenly, the elevator lurched to a halt, plunging the cramped space into slight darkness. a metallic groan filled the air.

"great," you sighed, reaching for the call button. "looks like we're stuck."

a strained voice answered through the speaker, informing you that a technician would be on their way shortly.

"shortly?" you groaned. "how long is shortly?"

"it's hard to say, ma'am. there's been a minor fault in the system."

you groaned, sinking down onto the floor.

heeseung remained silent, his body trembling. every passing second felt like an eternity. hunger gnawed at him, a primal urge clawing its way to the surface. he gritted his teeth, fighting against the monstrous transformation that threatened to take over.

"hey," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

you shot him a sceptical glance. "what?"

shame burned in his throat, but the need for survival outweighed his pride. "do you… by any chance… have any blood on you?"

you leaned closer, your suspicions finally confirmed.

"about time you admitted it," you cheered, a triumphant smirk creeping across your face. "i knew you weren't normal."

heeseung let out a dark chuckle, a sound devoid of humour. "don't get too excited," he rasped. "you shouldn't be so happy about this."

"oh, come on," you scoffed. "spill it. what are you? some kind of freak?"

a tense silence followed, broken only by the hum of the faulty elevator. finally, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

"vampire."

shock flooded your system. it was one thing to suspect, another to hear it confirmed.

"no way," you scoffed, refusing to believe it. "vampires don't exist."

but his next words sent a shiver down your spine. "the reason i stopped you at the club… it wasn't because of the kiss. it was the smell of your blood. it was… intoxicating."

"ever since i've met you…" he began, his voice surprisingly soft despite the edge of desperation in it. "the smell of your blood, so sweet, has been driving me crazy. so different from anything i've ever encountered."

he paused, a tremor running through his voice. "for years, i've resisted feeding on humans. morality, you might call it. i rely on animal blood, a poor substitute at best. but your blood…" he took a shaky breath, "it was like a siren song. after that night, i can’t even smell any other type of blood without my stomach churning in disgust."

you listened intently, a strange fascination battling with the fear that coiled in your gut. this wasn't the heeseung you knew, the playful neighbor who reveled in teasing you. this was a creature raw and exposed, driven by a primal need he could barely articulate.

"years," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "years of animal blood, a constant reminder of what i can't have. but then you…" he trailed off, the echo of that night in the club hanging heavy between you.

a shiver ran down your spine, but it wasn't entirely from fear. there was a vulnerability in his confession, a desperate need for something more than just sustenance.

"the challenge," he said, his voice gaining a tinge of bitterness. "the forbidden fruit. maybe that's what drew me in at first. but then…" he hesitated, a flicker of something akin to shame crossing his features.

"then what?" you prompted, your voice barely a whisper. this wasn't how you'd imagined confronting a vampire, yet here you were, drawn into his story.

"don't you see?" heeseung's voice rose, a tremor of desperation colouring it. "you make me weak, vulnerable. yet, your defiance only intensifies the pull. you're everything i shouldn't want, everything i crave."

the revelation sent a jolt through you, a terrifying mix of fear and… something else. the line between predator and prey seemed to blur in the confines of the elevator. you were trapped, yes, but there was also a strange sense of being held hostage by a creature consumed by a desire he both craved and loathed.

the silence that followed heeseung's confession stretched on, thick with a tension that was no longer just fear. you understood him, perhaps better than he understood himself.

taking a deep breath, you surprised yourself by what you said next. "maybe there’s another way."

heeseung's head snapped up, his eyes searching your face in the dim light. "what do you mean?"

"i can help" you held out your wrist, the moonlight filtering through a crack in the elevator door illuminating the delicate veins beneath your skin. "you said you needed blood. maybe i can…

he recoiled as if struck. "no. absolutely not. i won't—"

"heeseung," you interrupted, your voice firm despite the tremor in your heart. "look at me. i'm not scared. in fact…" you hesitated, a blush creeping up your neck. "maybe i… feel the same way."

the air crackled with a new kind of tension. heeseung stared at you, his face a mask of disbelief. "the same way? how?"

"like you said," you whispered, "forbidden. a dangerous attraction." you met his gaze, holding it with a newfound resolve. "if this is what you need, i… i consent."

heeseung's breath hitched. shame flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by a raw hunger that made your own pulse quicken. "but," he said, his voice low and urgent, "i need more. much more. and from… a different place."

your stomach lurched. "different place?"

a flicker of vulnerability crossed his features. "my apologies," he murmured. "to properly sustain me, i need… the jugular."

the word hung heavy in the air, a primal request that sent a wave of apprehension through you. the image of a vampire sinking its fangs into someone's neck flashed before your eyes. but then, against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding slowly.

a surge of relief, tinged with desperation, washed over heeseung. he moved towards you, a predator closing in on its prey. the closeness brought back a memory - the night in the club bathroom, pressed against the wall, his chilly breath on your neck.

he trapped you against the corner, his body a wall of heat, completely different from the other day where he was freezing.

"please," he rasped, his voice raw with hunger and a strange, desperate plea. "i can't control myself much longer. let me…"

his voice trailed off, replaced by a whimper that both shocked and ignited something within you. this wasn't the cold, calculating heeseung you'd feared. this was a creature on the brink, his monstrous hunger battling with a threadbare shred of control.

"alright," you whispered, the word leaving your lips before you could overthink it.

he didn't hesitate. he leaned in, his movements a blur of desperation. kisses, hot and wet, rained down on your neck, each one a branding iron leaving a fiery mark. you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain. but it never came.

instead, as his fangs pierced your skin, a jolt of something unexpected surged through you. it wasn't pain, but a warmth that spread through your body like liquid fire. your mind grew hazy, your senses overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure that originated from the very point of contact.

he moaned, a deep, primal sound that echoed in the confined space. "so sweet," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "the best i've ever tasted."

he drank deeply, his body trembling with each intake. you could hear him purring, a low rumble that resonated deep within your core. the pleasure was overwhelming, a dizzying mixture of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for breath. your mind turned hazy, each noise tumbling out of his lips sounding like liquid gold to you.

when he finally pulled away, breathless and satiated, he looked at you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. he languidly licked away the remnants of blood from the wound, his warm tongue sending a jolt of electricity through you.

he didn't stop there. he swiped at the blood that trickled down your collarbone, his tongue making a suggestive swipe against your skin. a dangerous glint flickered in his eyes, and you couldn't help but lean closer, a thrill coursing through you.

the jarring hum of the elevator coming back to life jolted you both from your current position. heeseung, his fangs retracted, quickly pressed the button for your floor. a strange mixture of fear and elation bubbled in your chest, a sensation as unfamiliar as the pleasure you'd just experienced.

he turned to you, his eyes searching your face. "are you alright?" his voice was concerned, a stark contrast to his needy whines just moments ago.

you hesitantly reached for your neck, expecting a throbbing pain. instead, you found smooth, unmarked skin. a gasp escaped your lips. "it… it healed?"

heeseung nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "vampire saliva," he explained casually. "has a few… interesting properties. speeds up healing, for one."

a blush crept up your cheeks as you recalled the wave of euphoria that had washed over you during his feeding. "and…" you stammered, "the pleasure?"

"speaking of pleasure," heeseung's voice dipped to a husky whisper, "vampire saliva has another... side effect."

he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "an aphrodisiac," he breathed, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "especially potent when mixed with a good dose of desire. all thanks to those initial kisses on your neck i had planted.”

"so that's why…" you mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

the elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar hallway. you stepped out, feeling oddly energised despite the ordeal. a playful smile tugged at your lips.

"so," you said, turning to face him, your fingers playfully tapping his arm, "how do you plan to repay me for that little… service?"

heeseung raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. before he could answer, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your forehead in a sweet kiss. pulling away, he grinned, his fangs catching the dim light playfully.

your heart hammered in your chest as he took your hand, his touch sending a spark of heat through you. stepping closer to your apartment, he winked.

"let's discuss repayment options in private, shall we?" he said, his voice dripping with a promise of things to come.

he took your hand again, his touch surprisingly warm despite his vampiric nature. before you could respond, he gently steered you towards your apartment, leaving you breathless and caught in the undercurrent of a dangerous, exhilarating game you'd just begun to play.

as you fumbled with your keys, trying to unlock the door in hurry, he leaned down next to you and murmured, his voice a low, suggestive rumble.

"i'm sure you taste just as good everywhere else."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

New Purpose | Yandere Saja Boys x Reader

“You want me to do what?!”

The call from your awkward and friendly acquaintance in the idol-managing business leaves you in an unreadable ball of confusion. Typically when Bobby did call you it was to brag about his girls or about the latest resort he was gifted by the girls. But this time he needed your help and you weren’t sure if you were going to give it. 

“Please please (Y/n)! You taught me everything I know; if there’s anyone who can handle them it’s you.”

Bobby pleading on his knees doesn’t change your reluctance but the pleading gazes of the boy-band in question made you slow to voice it. It also was harder to refuse when you could see the shining blue shackles on each of their wrists. A marked hand slides onto your shoulder with a stealth you haven’t felt in a long time and instinctively you reach for the holster under your coat, locking eyes with the one you once deemed to be an enemy.

“It can only be you. Mx. (L/n).”

It’s the purple-haired idol who not only was rumored to have once endangered the Honmoon but mended it with strength that surpassed her ancestors. Here she was glowing with her shining demon marks in broad daylight. A part of you still found it wrong.

She took your blatant staring in stride; sending Bobby out of the room,”Mind giving us some space? I think it might land better y’know? Idol to idol?”

“Oh, sure thing Rumi! In fact, I’ll go get the celebratory ramyeun now!”

He dashed as if his life depended on it, leaving you and Rumi with the shackled demon idols. Looking warily at the hunter you slowly pulled your hand away from your holster. The fakely wide smile on her fades into something more concerning. Pressing her purple-painted lips together, it’s time to address the real elephant in the room. 

“Why are they still here?! I thought you killed them all when you made the Honmoon golden.”

She nervously smiles, “I–thought I did too. But it seems that they were sealed in the upper world instead. The only one who….didn’t make it was thanks to Gwi-Ma.” She steps away from you, putting her hand out as if to pet the “baby Saja boy.” Previously he looked as though he was dead; standing with a face that epitomized boredom. That all changed when Rumi came close. His eyes glowed that sinister yellow and his fangs were bared as he chomped at the air her hand used to be. The blue chains clink with golden chains that shine in a ripple like the Honmoon itself. 

“You must mean the leader. Jin.”

You were playing with fire. For all the shipping edits that the idol leaders were put through, anyone could’ve guessed that they were close. While you don’t have eyes and ears close to her domain, it still got back to you just how close she’d gotten with him. During Huntrix's report of the event, Jin’s returned soul was what gave the trio the power to completely exorcise Gwi-Ma. A feat that was impossible even for the first hunters to exist.

“Yes…Jin,” she spoke his name with a heavy resonance. A respect that hadn’t dulled at all because it still felt raw.

”He saved me by showing me how to accept this part of myself rather than hide.”

She held her hands in front of her playing with the light against her marks, “Still he’s showing me there’s more to this side of myself I never really understood before.”

You watched her close her hands into fists and turn to you with a fierceness in those brown eyes you’ve never seen in person,” Which is why I think we should try helping them before we kill them.”

Stopping your laughter you finally spoke, “We?”

“We. Huntrix can’t do this on our own. You’ve been handling the otherside of the hemisphere well and now that both sides are sealed all that’s left is to care for the demons that slipped through.”

“Then why not just kill them?” The one with abs tries to jab at her which she skillfully dodges,” They clearly aren’t fond of you.”

Pausing she looks at them and then at you. 

“I have to try…if Jin saw something worth using maybe…maybe there's more to them that I haven’t seen yet. That no one’s seen. I’m hoping you can do that.”

“I’m retired. I don’t think I can do much of anything now.”

Rumi gives you a look. That glare of determination that makes you feel exposed.

“I’ve heard you before. You can do this.”

You turn, prepared to refuse but she grabs your hands.

“Please (Y/n).To protect our reign of peace….please.”

______________________________________________________________

“Alright, Saja boys. Listen up you live and breathe to be the idol group I demand you be, you hear me?!” 

The collective groans of the demon boy band, the sound makes you smirk. In an instant, you begin to hum an old song you used to sing unsheathing your whip from its holster. Romance is the one who perks up, the only one who seems to catch on that you are about to obliterate them.

“AcK!”

“OW that burns!”

“Please don’t!”

“Okay okay, we’re all listening p-please contine.”

It’s over in seconds. Everything but their faces is covered in disgusting blue welts. 

“As I was saying. I expect my perfect idol boy band to be smiley, friendly, and to say 'yes (Y/n)' whenever I ask you questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes (Y/n)!”

“That’s good now have a good show just like we practiced!”

It’s been interesting taking on the Saja boys. Their image that had Jin be their cool and calm collected leader was very much the truth. Without you breathing down their necks you found they were quite awful to all around them.

“Abby did you or did you not hit that PA with a button of yours, on purpose?”

“I mean they were looking too hard anyway it’s not my fault.”

“It is your fault that they went to the hospital thanks to your stupid little stunt.”

“It’s whatever they got a souvenir they’ll never forget!”

CRACK!

“Not the whip please, I’ll make a public apology! Sorry!”

You’ve dealt with idols that had a kamidere complex or outright narcissism but you haven’t dealt with literal demons who barely grasped that humanity was anything more than a population of overgrown bugs. 

“Alright, Bae Bee what’s going to be the right response if someone asks how you feel about the subject of turtles?”

“Goo Goo Gaga?”

“No. Try using real words please.”

“It’s…whatever?”

“I did that whole slide show and you didn’t gather anything from that?!”

“....”

FWHIP!

“Their…mid?!”

CRACK!

“Wahhh!”

But you wouldn’t continue with this farce if you didn’t realize there was a learning curve to be had. The first time it dawned on you was when Romance came to you in the dead of night, clutching the book you’d gifted them your second day: How to be a Human for Dummies. You were lounging on the large couch watching your shows when he walked in. He stood awkwardly by the door like a child who’d come to woefully inform his parents he’d wet the bed. You pretended not to know he was there; gauging if he’d actually ask for help like you offered.

“Why should we try?”

You muted the TV. Giving the pink-haired demon your full attention, you turned as he stood at the opposite end of the couch.

“Because you’ll die if you don’t.”

His nails dug into the paper cover,” no I mean why do we have to…I’ve already tried doing that before. I don’t want to go through that again.”

His marks flashed and you couldn’t see his face clearly; his hair making a curtain you so desperately wanted to peek past. 

Sighing you stood, “Follow me.”

Doing as he was told he followed you over rooftops, skillfully swinging through the concrete jungle to end it bumping into your back. He opened his mouth to insult you, to whine about how you couldn’t just answer the question to following your gaze. Down below in a window that flashed with all matter of colors, was a girl surrounded by friends singing terribly into the microphone as they cheered her on.

“You see her” The girl with the red bow in her hair?”

“...yeah.”

“She used to wonder that too. She used to walk home every day from school to her room. Locking herself away because she once listened to the same voices you do. Frankly, if she had continued listening she would have ended up just like you.”

“Then why isn’t she…like me that is?”

“Because she kept trying. Worked hard to find those she could care about; though it was hard she found them. Only because she tried.”

“So what?! I try and everything will be fixed?”

“I didn’t say that but no matter what you’ve done. Trying to make amends. Trying to be better is what makes it, you, worth it in the end.”

“Even if it took 300 years?”

“Even if it took 300 years.”

They certainly had their moments and that was enough to not exorcise them when their third month existing in the idol world rolled around. Much to your displeasure, you had no choice but to inform Rumi you’d continue to manage the Saja boys. If only to help them reconcile with themselves. To instead use their talent and influence to strengthen the Honmoon and continue to keep the positive energy that the fans permeated alive and well. 

If you worked hard, you could save the remaining Saja boys.

____________________________________________________________

“I hate this.”

Mystery was the first to voice this opinion. Finally left alone and unsupervised the Saja Boys were able to speak without the threat of being whipped, stabbed, or otherwise ground into a pulp on the shining golden Honmoon. Backstage just before another performance.

“Yeah, this just such a bummer. It was more fun when we worked for Gwi Ma!” Abs spoke leaning against the walls of the hidden stage. 

“Was it actually fun or were we just happy not to be reminded of who we are?” 

Romance turned still maintaining the front position of the band just as they’d been instructed, looking into the golden eyes of his fellow demons. Looking for the same confusion he’d been saddled with since they started this.

“I don’t really care, I just don’t like feeling…like this.” 

“Like what, Myst?! What exactly do you feel?” 

Abandoning his position, he closed in. Holding the quiet demon by the neck and slamming him into the wall. The infrastructure of the stage shook and dented but Romance was careful. He wasn’t certain why he cared so much to know his answer. He’d been asking the same thing of himself for all this time.

Mystery pursed his quivering lips. Romance growled and threw the demon to the ground, rolling into Abs’ feet. The muscular demon deflated when Romance turned to him expecting an answer, his eyes darting around as if the moving walls would have it scrawled somewhere. 

The lack of response only made the pink-haired demon angrier. Fangs beared and marks on full display he charged narrowly scratching at Abs’ face. Mystery got up to intervene, fully prepared to bite the neck of the completely wild Romance. Until his voice broke the silence.

“Purposeless. That is what we are feeling.”

His real voice was much deeper than his human one which is why when the late Jin led the group he was specially instructed to keep it hidden. But they had no leader. They have no Gwi-Ma. All they have in this hidden stage is each other. 

Romance retracts his claws, the marks still glowing bright, and he pulls at his locks.

“He’s right. W-we have nothing anymore! All we have is ourselves and that’s worse than nothing. W-w-we can’t even go back!”

His shaky declaration makes everyone unsettled. Placing a name to their fear—to their reality made it far too true. Their marks all begin to glow with an anxious throbbing. Mystery retreats into himself huddling into the corner. Abs freezes, willing his body to move and failing miserably. Even Baby lets the cap he’s wearing cover his face as he slowly slides to the floor.

“What’s the use of trying to change if I don’t even know why I’m here?! You’ve seen these humans!? They don’t know so what am I supposed to do?!”

The Honmoon throbs at his cry. 

“How can I try when I don’t want to face who I am?!”

Demon marks flaring in tandem with the flickering gold.

“What good can come from someone as far gone as I?!”

The Honmoon dangerously touches the color pink. 

“What am I supposed to do with myself!? Without any voice what am I supposed to do!?”

Multiple tears of the barrier are forming and joining at the seams around each of the separate Saja boys. Each one is influenced by their pain and about to damage the sanctity of the Honmoon.

~kzzt~

Like a heaven-sent. The comms in their ears buzzed to life.

~kzz~He~kzztz~

The pink fades and the healing blue returns to the barrier.

~kz~Hey can you guys hear me in this thing? It’s me (Y/n).kzztz~

It’s your voice. Their guardian. Their manager.

“As expected these walkies are crap. Anyway, I expect you boys to give me your best because I know you can do it. Can you do that for me Saja?”

The voice in their ears answered the only remaining questions.

“Yes, (Y/n).” “Yes, (Y/n).” “Yes, (Y/n).” “Yes, (Y/n).”

“That’s what I like to hear. Now wow that crowd and no soul stealing.”

The silence of the stage was lighter. More defined. The long turned-off comms burned into their ears. All of them replaying the echo of their manager’s voice—soothing, uplifting, commanding.

“It is them. That will be our purpose.”

Baby’s voice spoken with clarity confirmed what they all decided. As the stage begins to rise and the cheers of their fans increase even more. The Saja Boys are in position, prepared to perform just as their manager demands it. 

______________________________________________________________

“So how’s it gone, managing them?”

All of Huntrix was over for the day, enjoying some bubble tea as they looked at the golden-covered city. The barrier glowed strong with a healthy pulse fully powered by their fans.

You were glad that you’d convinced the boys to attend their shoot solo. Otherwise, you would’ve risked having this conversation with them around. Which wouldn’t have been a good idea considering how close they’ve gotten.

“It’s going great. They haven’t had another incident since I last called.”

The girls shared a look. 

Mira sneered at the promotional material for the group scattered on the table, picking it up like it was dirty laundry. 

“By great do you mean, like the Honmoons not broken great or that there's an uptick in murders in the last month—all where you guys were going on tour–great?”

Zoey chuckled anxiously, “We don’t want to accuse but the numbers don’t look great.”

Shooting a look at Rumi, you settled in your chair. Looking out at the city below carefully putting pressure on the plastic cup in your hands.

“Look I wish I could definitively say it’s just a coincidence but I looked into those cases myself and most of them seem airtight. But I’m not entirely sure there wasn’t some demonic influence.” Zoey and Mira shared a look before turning back to you with a grimace.

“I’m saying there’s just no way to tell for sure if it was them and without evidence I can't exactly ‘convict’ anyone.”

“So you're saying there’s no way not one of those boys slipped through your grasp?”

��Yeah (Y/n)...we know you’re technically retired and there’s five demons and one of you…it can’t be easy.”

Rumi finally looked ready to speak and you had a feeling you weren’t going to like it. 

“We were thinking maybe you should take a break!” She didn’t look entirely convinced, looking between Mira and Zoey. “We’re going on a break for a little while so maybe we can look after them for you.”

“I’d love that,” you studied their faces for some kind of joke,” but I don’t know if you can handle the boys any more than I could.”

The girls confidently laughed.

“Are you kidding?”

“We nearly killed them the last time we met!”

“Yes, Huntrix has got this in the bag!”

The girls cheered with pride as they whooped and hollered at one another. You admired their spunk, something you felt came far too less now that you’ve outgrown the group you used to hunt with. 

“Alright then girls, I’ll take you up on your offer–”

“Yes!” “The-Best-B-ab-y Sitters in the wooorldd!” “Yeah, this is going to be a piece of cake!”

“---a word of caution girls.”

Your words had them stopping in their tracks, their triumphant smiles only softening to acknowledge you. The only one it completely faded from was Rumi, who almost looked afraid to see you step on the elevator.

“The Saja Boys are a lot more determined than you’d think. Try not to be an obstacle for them.”

With that, the metal doors slid closed, and for once in a long time you were alone. Now came the hard part—telling them. 

______________________________________________________________

“You have got to be kidding me!?”

It was Bae Bee taking his usual spot at your back, his fanged sneer hissing into the side of your head he was previously nuzzling against. His nails had gotten longer penetrating the T-shirt you were wearing, a single flick to his wrist had him retract his claws but not loosen his grip.

Speaking of claws you could feel the demon on your lap allowing his to emerge and grip at your jeans all the tighter. The practiced action of oncoming tears soaking through the denim told you, Mystery was having a similar reaction. Across the room were Romance and Abby both dressed in their custom robes were drying with their respective blow dryers after using the dressing room’s shower. Both appliances were crushed and melted onto the floor within seconds of your announcement. The demons-responsible, flashing their marks and fangs at you. Romance immediately straightens up, adjusting his hair and robe before glaring down at you.

“I thought we had a deal.”

“YEAH A PROMISE! WE’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BREAK THOSE.”

Abby was worse for wear marks and teeth on full display; you mentally noted to pay the venue for the damage he’d cause. Already a partition was torn through, a wall successfully punched into, and a microwave was effectively torn apart. If you didn’t ease his worries the staff would be next.

“I’m not leaving you guys. The deal was that if you all made an effort to change, I’d never leave.”

“Which is what you’re trying to do,” Mystery muffled protests had everyone nodding.

Romance stepped forward again, arms crossed and amber eyes glowing deviously down at you. 

“Then that would mean our deal is off!”

“No, it’s not! We never said anything about time off or leaving and coming back.”

“Didn’t have to,” Bae whispers into your ear with a smirk on his face, ” You are the one who agreed.”

It’s then you feel the need to reach for your whip, reaching for your beloved weapon underneath your coat. Searching for your saving grace next to your waist you only to find its empty holster. Looking over to Abby who’s suddenly stopped his violent tirade to pull at the much sought after weapon. 

“Then if you go that means we don’t have to abide by the rules anymore.” He looks at you like a puppy, one who’s done something awful and hopes you understand. The boisterous Abby was no longer there, a serious look on his face. 

You want to soothe him. To deny it. But the truth of the matter was just that, you had to leave and at this point,t it wouldn’t do you any good to demand they accept otherwise. Your whip across the room, your body held in place by a smirking demon, your legs held down by another, and your attention on the one you were sure had made the most progress. 

“We have changed if it helps. We’ve upheld our end of the deal. For you to go against us now…well we’ll just try to preserve our purpose.”

By now you were in no place to make demands.

“So go enjoy your…trip. We’ll be waiting and by then we’ll have changed some more just as you commanded.”

No trip to the Maldives would erase those words from your head.

______________________________________________________________

When you return from any kind of holiday there’s a moment of great depression. A crushing sense of reality from the joy you experienced comes in full force as you unpack and reenter your tiresome schedule. In your case it was no different, for two whole weeks you could ignore the haunting reactions of the demons you guarded to lounge with a poolside cocktail in hand. Of course, your return would be tumultuous. 

In the darkness of the condo you’d begun to call home, was Rumi. Sat crossed-legged in the mess of sliced furniture, just as worse for wear as the decor around her. You called to her, almost unsure it was she until she looked up. Her eyes were swollen, her marks an ugly black and the typically brown and golden eyes were red. 

“I…didn’t think anything would change,” she finally spoke carelessly musing as you tried to nurse her wounds, “that I would still be strong enough to beat them…I just wasn’t ready for them to…change like I did.”

You want to question her. To ask what she meant but the four pairs of golden eyes smiling back at you explained more than anything she could have said.

“A deal’s a deal.”

Out of the darkness limp bodies clattered to the floor. Battered and bruised it was Zoey and Mira. Unconscious and scarily still you watched Rumi struggle to carry them both, limping to the elevator. She spared you a single glance; eyes filled with too many apologies to ever speak.

“I…can’t be an obstacle to you anymore. Goodbye (Y/n).”

With the broken jingle of the elevator, you were left with your boys once again. Gripping the handle of your whip, you wait for them to reveal themselves to you…fully. Without a word, they emerge in their original forms circling around you with smiles on their marked and purple faces.

“So what are we doing now that I’ve returned?”

Their distorted chuckles don’t settle your unease.

“You said you changed do you plan to show me?”

“Of course, (Y/n).” Abby’s voice was the loudest and when you turned prepared to strike, your arm was held in place by the demon. 

“Whatever you demand of us.”

You dropped the whip catching it with your opposite hand, rearing to strike again only for your other hand to be caught and pried open. Your whip forcefully fell into the hands of Bae who smiles cruelly as he snaps your beautiful weapon in half with a ripple of magenta smoke. Of course, you struggle but the hands holding you in place are firm, warping your struggles so that you fall to your knees. Your chin is being held so gently by the new lead of the Saja Boys.

“We are always at your command, (Y/n). Because you are our purpose.”

You open your mouth to speak, to finally give a proper command since they demand it of you. Only for your lips to be covered in Dutch tape, which is played with as Romance comes even closer. The dark blue blush on his face shows just how much he relishes the glare you have for him.

“Since you broke your deal with us, we are free to change. To finally be free to serve our purpose however we see fit.”

It’s then you feel something monstrous intertwine itself with the barrier of the Honmoon pink and orange demon hands replacing the idol demons’ hands. Allowing them to look down on you as well all of them casually caressing your sealed lips.

“You right (Y/n), we have changed.”

There were hands in your hair.

“We’ve grown stronger and it’s all because you gave us a chance. Because you taught us to care.”

There were hands on your back.

“Encouraged us to try.”

Somehow they were in your brain.

“Even if it takes 300 years.”

You sleep in the arms of the Saja Boys—Your boys because you’re all they work for. All they try for. All they’d think to change for. 

You are their purpose and they’ll do anything you they demand.

Totally forgot some of these guys died on screen Whoopsie!

Kofi → Here Masterlist → Here Commissions → Here

🖤🖤🖤🖤

[sixeyesonathiel]

02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[melminli]

Love To Dream

summary - there was this one girl that thanos really wanted, though, she didn't really want to have anything to do with him. unfortunately, that made him want her even more.

pairing: (thanos) choi su-bong x fem. reader

word count: 1.5k

contains: modern au, mention of drugs, enemies to lovers vibes ig, crack, yearning

a/n: i don't even know what this is tbh but I felt like we all deserved some laughs ;)

Life was good - life was really fucking good, Thanos thought to himself as he winked charmingly at a group of hot girls. They had been looking in his direction for a while now while giggling, clearly interested in him. He continued to watch them as he sipped his drink, music pumping through his veins like adrenaline. Thanos's eyes darkened as the girls continued to cast lustful glances in his direction - he knew he could easily get more than one of them into bed tonight and why wouldn't he? It hadn't been long since his last performance on stage, reminding everyone present once again of his legendary status in this club.

However, his attention was focused somewhere entirely else after the most breathtaking person ever decided to walk past him. The pick-up lines he had been thinking of for the group, vanished from his mind after this angel showed up in front of him since the other girls could barely compare. The whole thing looked like something out of a scene from a Kdrama because time seemed to pass in slow motion and your hair was swinging in the air like that of a princess - which would have been the perfect time for some product placement because it just looked so damn soft.

Thanos had his mouth wide open in shock and put a hand over his heart to check if it was still beating while his eyes never left your figure. You - who was leaning prettily against the bar right next to him as you ordered something from the bartender.

“Hey.” he finally recovered from the moment and casually moved towards you. “I'd introduce myself, but I assume you already know me.” he talked to you with his flirty face as soon as you looked up at him.

You smiled shyly. “Yeah, I watched your performance,” you answered him and seemed quite grateful that he was speaking to you right now. “You were pretty good.” you giggled slightly as you complimented him.

“Yeah, that's just how I am.” he sighed as he looked around the room as if it was a burden for him to have to live with all the recognition. His eyes met yours again and he tried to impress you by unpacking a few bars while emphasizing them with the movements of his hands. “Girl, I know you and I are meant to be because after I looked at your pretty face everything stopped being. If only you saw what I can see, you'll understand why I want you so desperately.” he rapped to you, stealing the last line from some One Direction song, but you didn't need to know that.

You shyly put your hands in front of your face to hide your smile. “Oh my god, that was so incredibly sexy, I'm so horny for you right now.” the words came out of your mouth and made Thanos screw up his face weirdly for a second.

Because first of all, those vulgar words didn't match your innocent demeanor in the slightest - and secondly, you said exactly what Thanos had imagined you would say - it was actually a bit creepy since you literally said it word for word. Thanos hardly thought that he could foresee the future all of a sudden or that you could maybe read minds, though he decided to ignore the whole thing as soon as you started touching his chest softly with your hands. He wanted you so bad.

“You don't even know what you're doing to me right now,” he whispered to you while you felt him so sensually and he was about to kiss you, hadn't you stopped his lips with your hand as you laughed into his face. “I think you should wake up now. Otherwise, the pink elephant will keep handing out balloons to people.” You told him, pointing behind him to where the bar was supposed to be.

“Hah?” he asked you confused and turned around while continuing to hold you in his arms, but all he saw were a few dogs breakdancing - and that was nothing out of the ordinary. He continued to look at the scene with a grin, even though some inner voice inside him was stressing out about kissing you immediately as if he was running out of time. He finally turned back to you and was about to continue when he suddenly heard a man speak. “You really should wake up man.” Nam-gyu's voice told him and Thanos only caught himself almost kissing him after he took a closer look. He just pushed him away from him in disgust and then -

Thanos woke up from his sleep, bathed in sweat, when he saw your face in his field of vision. “Finally, you're sleeping like a dead man. There's some guy at the door who wants to talk to you,” you told him as he sat up tiredly while slowly recovering from his strange dream.

That's right. You weren't just some hot girl he met at the club, you were his fucking roommate. Thanos discreetly pushed more blanket over his lap as he tried to shoo you away from his room with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah - I'll be right there, just - give me a moment,” he said without looking you in the face.

You just sighed slightly and complied with his request, though not without letting him know how unhappy you were. “I told you to stop giving our address to these dealers. I don't like it when they show up here,” you grumbled under your breath before dashing out and closing the door behind you.

After that, Thanos let out a very heavy sigh and stroked his face aggressively. “Now she's showing up in my dreams, too? Fucking great.” he grumbled to himself and got up from the bed to put on some decent clothes. His eyes met his own reflection as he pulled a shirt over his head. “Get a grip man, what's wrong with you?” he asked himself as he grimaced in annoyance. “You're Thanos the destroyer, not some kind of -”

“Stop taking so long and come here already!” your voice suddenly shouted, coming through his door slightly muffled.

He looked even more annoyed at that and made his way to the living room while shouting back at you. “I'm fucking on it, alright!” and it only took a few loud steps from him to your front door for him to yank it open to fix the damn problem. He looked at his friend, completely bothered by his presence. “What do you want?” he asked him and was kinda glad that it at least wasn't Nam-gyu because he just really didn't want to see his face at the moment and probably for a little while.

“Hello, to you, too.” the man in front of him greeted him, already used to his weird mood swings. “I just wanted to do you a favor by bringing you some of the pills you wanted because last time you almost beat me up when I didn't have them with me,” he explained, holding the bag, which Thanos grabbed instantly before inspecting it more closely. “Don't act like you didn't deserve it, I paid you the money in advance, man. Of course, I was angry,” he complained again and would probably have beaten him up for real right now if he had ruined his morning over something completely unnecessary. However, he would still have to make sure that something like this didn't happen again so that you didn't have another reason to kick him out of the apartment.

“You know, maybe this was meant to be. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been greeted by an absolute hottie today,” he said happily as he stood there, still interested. “Is she your cousin or something? Do you want to introduce me to her?” he asked and was quite confident in the way he acted, but Thanos just looked at him emotionlessly for a few seconds until he slammed the door in his face.

"Okay, he's gone now!" he exclaimed, bored, and made his way into the kitchen, where you were sitting with a cup of coffee or something while scrolling on your phone. "Don't open the door for that guy if he shows up again," he said, grabbing a cold Sprite from the fridge. You just looked at him with a displeased look. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll make sure that he and no one else shows up after today. But, I'm just saying that in case it still somehow happens."

Thanos then opened the can and drank from it while he continued to watch your face from the side. Eventually, he sat down next to you, although, to his dissatisfaction, that didn't seem to get your attention. "Hey, you want to go on a date?" He asked, and you weren't sure how many times he asked you that by now. You kept scrolling on Instagram. "You know my answer to that."

Thanos continued to grin hopefully. "Yes?" he asked and then watched you disappear out of the kitchen with your cup of coffee in your hand - probably to your room. "You should be glad that I'm even asking you! Other girls would die for..." he muffled towards the end before he stopped talking entirely once he realized that you weren't giving him a reaction.

Maybe, I should just go back to sleep, he thought to himself dejectedly, unable to believe that he had actually better chances with you in dreams with pink elephants and breakdancing dogs.