#muted and unassuming

[dualcosmog]

0664 Scatterbug

[intheupside]

Players, coaches and GMs at the IIHF men’s world hockey championship don’t hide. That includes Sidney Crosby, just some dude on a nearby park bench.

Before heading to the rink, Canadian winger Macklin Celebrini was talking on his cellphone in the lobby, hoodie pulled over his baseball cap, and goalie Jordan Binningtonwas taking counsel in a bar nook with a few of the coaches.

Outside, autograph seekers stood with hockey card binders while, unknown to them a few park benches away, Sidney Crosby and Mike Matheson were looking, and laughing at, something on Crosby’s phone. They were unassuming partly because of their muted dress — sweats, T-shirt — and partly because hockey players in the wild aren’t physically totemic, unless they’re named Zdeno.

Daring to blow their cover, I wished them “good luck,” they politely chimed “thanks!” and one of the greatest hockey players the world has ever seen went back to being some random dude on a park bench in Stockholm.

Settling in for a drink before heading back to our room, an older gentleman brought over his glass and can of Coca-Cola to a round elevated table where two young Swedish women — hotel employees at the end of their day — were roasting marshmallows over a small fire. They asked where we were from. My wife and I told them “Toronto” and the gentleman said he was from Halifax.

I asked if he’d been to the world championship often and the fellow, whose name was Troy, said: “Yes, a few times.”

I commented on the play of the Haligonian players here — Crosby and MacKinnon — and asked if he’d watched them come up through minor hockey, especially Sid, a phenom by the time he was 11.

The gentleman sipped his Coke and then returned the glass to its coaster. He told us: “Well, I’d say I did, yes. Seeing as I’m his father.”

sid must be loving being Just Some Guy

[solefi]

God Between My Legs

𓂃𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠,

| 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

〻(muse.) sim jaeyun

〻(wc.) 11.4k

〻(genre.) smut. dark-ish romance.

〻(notes.) this was inspired by the song 'a little death' by the neighbourhood. i tried writing in third person for the first time in a while as a way to challenge myself, so... sorry if it sounds weird :p

〻(cont.) fem! reader. description of female anatomy. use of Y/N. kissing (a lot). unprotected sex. pulling out. switch! jake. fingering. cunnilingus. multiple positions. overstimulation. licking(?). mentions of cum. cum eating (male). dirty talk (like, a lot of it). spreading my jake oral fixation agenda. mirror sex (kinda? but not really). use of petnames (baby, sweetheart). reader is described as being smaller than jake and having hair long enough to grab in a ponytail. porn with a little plot?

Exhausted and on the run, a runaway girl and the boy who holds her like she’s the only thing worth living for find sanctuary in each other.

The road stretched endlessly and in complete darkness, only broken by the occasional flickering lamppost, the passing of headlights, or the red neon glow of a motel sign. The only sound was the low hum of the car engine and the muted hum of raindrops against the car windows.

Jake’s hands were steady on the wheel, knuckles pale under the dim dashboard light. He hadn’t said a word since they left. His jaw was tight, and his shoulders looked stiff. Every so often, he would turn his head to look at her, but then quickly look back. This time, though, he looked for longer.

She sat curled into the passenger seat, legs tucked beneath her, sleeves covering her hands. Her eyes were distant, and her voice had gone hoarse hours ago due to all the screaming, but at least she wasn’t crying anymore.

She heard him exhale heavily and stopped feeling his eyes on her.

A black duffel bag sat in the back seat, its contents being everything important they owned: clothes, IDs, cash, medication, basic toiletries, a burner phone, a couple of Jake’s blood bags (carefully hidden inside an unassuming pouch), and his watch, which he refused to wear anymore—too recognizable, he said. Too risky.

His hand twitched on the gearshift, then reached toward her—slowly, like he wasn’t sure if she’d pull away.

She didn’t.

Their fingers met, barely. But she clutched his hand like it was the last solid thing in the world.

“I've got you. Always,” Jake said finally, voice low, rasped from hours of silence. His accent melted the edges of the words.

Y/N answered by tightening her grip, eyes still focused out the window.

He glanced at her, then added, “I’ll kill anyone that comes near you again,” his voice no louder than a murmur. “Anyone.”

A beat of silence passed. She turned towards him.

“I’d help you bury them,” she said quietly with a shaky voice.

Jake let out a short breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. He pressed her knuckles against his lips, “That’s my girl.”

The silence returned, but it was different now. Not empty—just waiting. Expectant.

A bright light from a crumbling motel illuminated their faces. It’d been the first in over two hours to show that relieving word in green light, blooming like a beacon that promised some rest for both of them.

With a swift flick of his wrist against the steering wheel, Jake pulled into the lot. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The building looked like it had seen better days—fluorescent lighting leaking through grimy windows, paint peeling, and a Coke machine that looked forgotten by time.

Jake turned the engine off.

For a moment, they just sat there.

“Wanna stay in the car?” he asked gently, not looking at her.

Y/N blinked. “I…I don’t wanna be alone.”

Jake turned to her then. His hair was tousled, damp near his temples, and he looked impossibly tired—but his eyes held her like another’s arms never could.

“Okay,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “I’ll take care of you, yeah?”

She nodded, “Okay.”

The motel lobby smelled like stale air and damp carpet. Fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed overhead. There were vending machines along one wall with empty rows of old-looking snacks, and a plastic dust-coated fern in a chipped ceramic pot by the entrance. 

Jake walked in first, black duffel slung over one of his broad shoulders. His sweater was damp, making it slightly heavier than usual. It was a little stretched at the sleeves, but long enough to cover his belt and the waistband of his jeans; it was his favorite. Y/N had gifted it to him on their first anniversary.

She followed just a step behind, eyes down but sharp, scanning everything—quietly clocking exits, faces, weaknesses. He hated that she had to. Her legs were bare beneath a pair of denim shorts, she had a tank top clinging to her chest, and Jake’s oversized hoodie swallowing the rest of her.  

Behind the desk sat a man in his mid-50s who looked like he hadn’t seen the light of day in years. Greasy hair clung to his forehead, and the collar of his shirt was stained with sweat. His breath stank of microwave dinners and cheap beer. 

“Well, shit,” the man drawled, leaning forward on his elbows. His eyes didn’t even pretend not to wander over Y/N. “That’s a pretty little thing you got there.”

Jake’s expression hardened. 

The man reached beneath the desk and slapped a dingy clipboard with a registration form down, in front of him. “Bet she keeps you warm at night, huh?” 

Jake said nothing, opting to fill the paper and try not to tear the man’s throat out. He didn’t want to cause a scene, being aware that the last thing Y/N needed was another traumatic event happening because of her, but god, was that ball of grease making it hard from him to behave.

The man scratched at his neck, his eyes never leaving Y/N. Tracing the way her hair fell over her shoulders. 

“If I were you, I’d be careful, boy. Girls like that one don’t stay loyal for long,” His smile widened. His eyes cut toward Y/N again—lingering too long on her bare legs and the dip of her cleavage. “Though, I bet she looks gorgeous on her knees with her tongue out.”

The air changed like a static charge crawling across the skin.

Jake didn’t say a word. He just set the pen down and gave the man a look while his hand dropped to the back pocket of his jeans. His fingers grazed a sharp blade—small, easy to flick open, and easier to bury in someone’s throat. Quick, and much less messy. Though at that point he wanted to make it hurt.

But before the situation could escalate, Y/N wrapped her fingers around his wrist. She didn’t need to say anything. 

He paused.

‘It’s not about you, idiot. Think about her.’

He remembered how her body trembled in the shower while he scrubbed the blood off her body—not having the luxury of time, to be able to do it as gently as he would’ve wanted—and the way her eyes avoided the dead body in her floor at all costs.

His grip loosened.

His hand moved to his front pocket, taking out his wallet and sliding the cash across the counter.

The man slid a grimy clipboard across the counter, followed by a single plastic key. “7B. Corner room. Pretty quiet. No one would hear a thing.”

Jake took the key and started walking outside with Y/N, now holding his arm.

“Better hang on to him, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Boys like him don’t last long out here. The minute he goes for gas, I might just answer the door instead.”

Jake stopped mid-step.

Y/N pulled him gently, asking for his attention. 

“It’s not worth it,” she whispered so that only he could hear.

Jake didn’t move.

“Jake.”

He turned to look at her. Angry. Offended. Possessive.

He held her gaze for a few seconds and then closed his eyes for a beat, jaw flexing as he breathed through his nose. Y/N didn’t let go of his hand until they were outside.

The cool air hit once the door opened—wet with rain that never stopped pouring.

As soon as the motel door swung shut behind them, Jake turned to her, voice low and serious. “Should’ve killed that fucker.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Y/N said softly.

Jake turned to her with something dark and hot in his stare. Y/N brushed her fingers along his knuckles. “It’d be hard to get the blood off your sweater.”

That got a ghost of a smile from him.

They walked in silence again, hands still laced, until they reached the door to their room. Jake unlocked it without a word. It smelled like mildew, the carpet was littered with suspicious stains, and the comforter on the bed was older than both of them combined. A single lamp flickered in the corner next to a small table with two wooden chairs, casting warped light across the room.

Jake stepped in first, scanned every inch—walls, window, ceiling tiles. Once he made sure the room was clear, he let the duffel drop to the floor near the dresser. She didn’t question his actions, allowing him to do whatever he needed to calm his paranoia.

He shut the door, locked it, and slid the bolt into place. Then he checked the knob, then the bolt, then the knob again. Still feeling like it wasn’t enough, he grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and wedged it under the door handle with a slow, deliberate shove. Only then did he step back, still facing the door with tense shoulders.

Y/N sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up beneath her, Jake’s hoodie bunched around her thighs. Her fingers played with the frayed seam near the pocket. 

“It won’t open,” she said gently. “No one’s getting in.”

“Not gonna risk it,” he muttered while checking the door again.

With a heavy exhale—let out like he hadn’t taken a real breath since they left the city—Jake sank down to his knees in front of her, resting his head in her lap. 

His hands moved, sliding up the outside of her calves, thumbs tracing gentle circles to soothe the nerves under her skin back into place. Yet his movements—up and down, over and over—seemed more like it was him who needed the repetition to calm whatever was clawing at his ribs.

Y/N’s hands slipped into his hair without hesitation. Her fingers tangled through the raven-black strands, nails brushing his scalp gently. It was instinct. Muscle memory. The way she touched him when she didn’t know what else to say.

They stayed like that—him with his eyes closed, and her lost in thought.

Just that morning, she’d woken up in her bed, sunlight peeking through the curtains in soft streams. His arm was around her waist, mouth against her shoulder, whispering something about finding a place for just the two of them—a stupid, perfect moment.

She remembered the gunshots. Her apartment torn to hell—furniture flipped and broken, bullet holes in the walls, blood across the floor. She remembered the sound of Jake kicking down the door. She remembered him dressing her up and dragging her towards a car that she didn’t recognize.

And now they were here.

In a motel that smelled like rot and someone else’s regrets, with Jake kneeling in front of her like her penance. Her savior and her ruin.

He raised his head slowly, like it hurt to move. His eyes met hers, tired, red-rimmed, and crystallized. Y/N studied every inch of him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered—rough and low, like the words had clawed out of his throat.

His lips were dry, the lower one split with a cut he kept bothering between his teeth. There was a bruise blooming just under his jaw, ugly and dark, half-hidden beneath his hair. His sweater was damp at the collar, wet with a mixture of rainwater and sweat.

Her hands reached to cradle his face delicately, as if he were to break if she used too much force. Her thumbs brushed slowly across his cheeks, wiping away what little was left of his composure. And instead of pulling away, Jake leaned into her touch.

One of her thumbs trailed down, brushing the cut on his lip and then applying more pressure. He flinched slightly, his mouth parting from the sting. His eyes searched hers as if he were afraid she might vanish if he blinked.

“I love you,” she said.

A single tear rolled down Jake’s cheek, his eyes never once leaving hers. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, trying—and failing—to find words to formulate an answer.

So instead, he stood up. 

Y/N didn’t move—didn’t even breathe—as he stepped forward and caged her with one hand braced on the bed beside her hip, the other gently brushing her cheek.

Jake stared down at her, eyes glossy but intense, and then he kissed her.

Not slow or careful, but everything—all of it—at once. Love, fear, need, guilt, relief. It poured into the kiss from his very being like water breaking through a dam. His mouth crashed against hers, urgent and soft at the same time, teeth grazing her lip before he kissed her deeper, letting his body press into hers like he needed to be sure she was real.

Y/N responded without hesitation. She opened to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him back with everything she had, like this was the only place in the universe where she belonged. Her hands travelled upwards to tangle in his hair, fingers sliding through the strands like she never wanted to let go again.

Jake let out a low sound against her mouth—half a growl, half a moan. His hips pressed into hers as he deepened the kiss, mouth moving feverishly, hands wandering beneath the fabric of her clothes like he needed skin under his palms.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed, eyes locked.

“I fucking adore you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it hurts.”

One of her hands moved down again to wipe off the fresh tear tracks on his cheeks.

His eyes swept over her face—cheeks flushed, lips parted, chest rising with shallow, anticipating breath. His lips found hers once more, slower this time—but no less hungry.

His hands moved to the hem of the hoodie she wore—his hoodie—and slowly, he unzipped it. The sound was quiet, but it felt loud within the room's silence. He peeled it off her shoulders, letting it fall behind her onto the bed.

Then, his fingers slid beneath her tank top. He didn’t rush it, though. He pushed the fabric up slowly, palms brushing the warm slope of her stomach, ribs, and finally lifting it over her head. Her hair fell around her face in soft waves.

“God, look at you,” he whispered.

His hands slipped down to her shorts, thumbs brushing the band before sliding them off inch by inch. He knelt again to guide them down her thighs, his mouth ghosting across her skin as he did. His lips pressed a kiss to the bruise on her knee as a silent promise. Then they were gone—shorts, fear, and the last of the night’s cold fingers.

She was left in only her bra and panties, breath soft and body already arching toward him.

Jake rose again, eyes locked on hers, and reached behind her to unhook the clasp. The straps slipped down her arms like falling silk. 

His hand slid between her thighs, brushing her still-clothed core with the lightest stroke of his fingers.

She let out a breathy moan—soft and instinctive and his.

“There she is,” he murmured, a smile growing on his face. “You always sound so pretty when you want me.”

Y/N reached up without a word and tugged at the hem of his sweater. He raised his arms and let her pull it off, revealing the slightly damp T-shirt beneath, clinging to his frame.

She slipped her hands beneath that next layer and lifted it too, revealing the bare torso beneath—warm skin, faint scars, a few smudges of grime from the road and the fight. Her palms ran along his chest, slow and lingering, over the bruise just below his ribs, up to the center of his chest where his heart beat like a war drum.

Then her fingers moved to his belt.

She undid it with steady hands, her knuckles grazing the soft line of hair beneath his navel. The buckle clinked. The button snapped open. The zipper came down slowly.

She eased his jeans down his hips, her eyes never leaving his. 

Jake stepped out of them, standing over her now in nothing but breath and want and the fire burning in his eyes.

Her hands slid back up his thighs, over his hips, tracing along the sharp lines of his toned abdomen and the dip of his lower back. Her hands weren’t shy. She knew him. And he let her see him.

“Touch me,” he rasped. “Everywhere. I want to feel like I belong to you.”

“You do,” she said, voice low, shaky with need. “You always have.”

Jake followed when Y/N tugged gently at his wrist, guiding him down onto the bed beside her. The mattress creaked beneath their combined weight, thin and worn, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but skin and breath and the heat building between them.

He laid facing her, propped on one elbwo, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. Y/N mirrored him, her fingers already skimming his shoulder, then down along the soft line of muscle across his chest. His skin was warm beneath her palm—faintly damp, flushed, and alive.

Jake’s eyes traced every flicker of movement. She could feel his stare like a physical touch.

“You look like a fucking dream,” he murmured, voice rough silk. His accent curled around the words, low and thick like honey.

She smiled, slow and sinful, and leaned in close until her lips hovered just by his ear.

“Then do something about it.”

Jake let out a breath of a laugh, short and sharp. “Oh, believe me, I’m gonna.”

He turned his head, nose brushing her cheek, and whispered directly against her skin. “I’ve been thinking about this… about you in my hoodie… parading around with your thighs all soft and bare… I swear it had me losing my mind.”

She gasped softly when his hand slid over her waist, pulling her tighter to him. Her thigh brushed his—then something else. Hard and thick, straining against the fabric of his boxers. She tilted her head just enough to catch his smirk.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth, Jakey.”

“And you love every word,” he whispered, kissing the shell of her ear. 

Her hand trailed down his stomach, her fingers feathering along the band of his boxers before dipping lower, slowly pressing over the thick bulge beneath the fabric. 

His hips flexed forward instinctively, chasing her touch. “Fuck…” he hissed.

Her hand rubbed over him again, firmer this time, and Jake groaned—low and guttural, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

“You’re so hard,” she whispered, dragging her lips along his jaw. “Have you been aching for me since we walked through the door?”

Jake turned toward her, his lips brushing hers with maddening slowness.

“Since way before that,” he breathed. “Since I saw you covered in blood and still fuckin’ beautiful. Since you said ‘I love you’ with those shaky hands and I wanted to drop to my knees and taste every inch of you for the rest of my life.”

Y/N whimpered, her hand curling tighter around him through the fabric.

“I’d never feed again in my life if it meant I can have that pretty mouth on me at all times.”

Jake kissed her—open-mouthed, deep, his tongue claiming hers as his fingers slid along the dip of her waist, down to the curve of her ass. He squeezed gently, grinding himself into her touch.

“You wanna see what my mouth can do?” she murmured against his lips.

Jake grinned, teeth flashing as he licked into her mouth again. 

“Oh, trust me, I know.” One of his hands slipped between her thighs to rub slow circles over her soaked panties.

“I want your thighs on my shoulders and your voice hoarse from screaming my name,” he growled. “I’ll have you so fucked out you’ll forget everything else but me.”

She moaned, and he bit her lower lip gently.

He leaned in, slowly, and pressed a single kiss to her inner thigh. Then another, higher up. Then another—closer. She twitched beneath his mouth.

And when his lips ghosted over her slick, swollen heat through the thin barrier of her panties—fuck. She let out a sound that shot straight through his spine.

Jake chuckled low.

“You’re already soaked?” he murmured, his breath hot against her clothed core. “Just from me running my mouth?”

He licked her through the fabric again—slow and deliberate. A long, wet stripe from the bottom of her slit to the swollen nub at the top. Her thighs tensed, and her fingers twisted in the sheets.

Jake moaned.

“I can taste it, even through the cotton,” he groaned. “You’re not fuckin’ real.”

Then he did it again—his tongue flattening, dragging up over her with aching pressure. He circled her clit through the soaked fabric, then used his fingers to push it slightly aside, exposing her properly.

She gasped when the cool air hit her slick folds, and Jake didn’t waste another second to let his tongue meet bare skin.

A slow stroke. One, then two. Then the tip of his tongue flicked right over her clit—fast, teasing, before he flattened his mouth against her, licking and sucking in slow, sinful rhythm.

Y/N moaned, long and high.

She could feel every flick of Jake’s tongue like a pulse.

It started as warmth—wet and slow, the drag of heat between her thighs making her legs tremble. But then it spread. Her skin flushed, prickled, tightened in waves. Her belly clenched. Her chest rose and fell faster, nipples hardening in the motel’s stale air.

Jake growled into her.

“Fuckin’ sing for me, baby.”

His fingers slipped down, circling her entrance, smearing her wetness up over her slit and back down, working in tandem with his mouth—pressure and motion, just enough to tease her open without giving her what she wanted. Yet.

One finger dipped inside, shallow, curling just a little.

“Feel that?” he whispered, voice soaked with lust. “You’re pulling me in already. She missed me.”

Y/N’s head fell back.

“Jake…”

He sucked hard on her clit at the same time his finger slid deeper, and her whole body arched off the bed.

“Oh—fuck—Jake—”

He didn’t let up. Didn’t even pause. His tongue circled, flicked, pressed. His finger curled again, and then another joined it—thrusting slow, thick, wet sounds echoing in the small motel room as her body clamped around him.

His fingers slipped beneath the band of her panties, tugging them down with a quick, practiced motion and letting them slide past her thighs, knees, and ankles until they were gone—tossed somewhere on the motel floor, forgotten like everything else that wasn’t her.

He resumed his ministrations to her heat with another long lick of his tongue. Her hips bucked involuntarily, only to be caught by his strong hands. He held her open possessively, grounding her like he belonged there. Like she belonged to him.

Every time his tongue swirled over her clit, it was like a current. It tugged something deep in her gut—coiled and heavy and needy.

She whined softly, head rolling against the pillow.

Jake chuckled darkly, tongue flattening against her again before he spoke.

“There she is,” he murmured, lips brushing right over her. “My sweet girl. My pretty baby with a filthy fuckin’ mind. You gonna come for me, yeah?”

Her fingers fisted the sheets. The pleasure was sharp now—buzzing and deep, like her body couldn’t decide if she needed more or needed to escape. But he wasn’t letting her go.

“Shit, every sound you make just makes me hungrier,” he whispered. “Like I could stay down here for hours. Would you let me, baby? Would you ride my tongue like you ride my cock? All sweet and needy and wrecked?”

She gasped—a ragged sound pulled straight from her chest.

Her thighs tried to close, instinctively reacting to the intensity, but Jake didn’t let them. His arms pinned her open again, his mouth dragging over her again with more pressure this time—faster. His fingers teased her entrance, soaked and twitching, never pushing in again, just stroking, circling, making her want.

“She’s mine. This cunt’s mine. Say it,” he groaned.

Y/N’s voice shook, barely a whisper. “Yours. Jake—I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“Yours. Fuck, Jake—don’t stop!”

He latched onto her clit with his mouth, sucking just hard enough to have her back arching. His tongue flicked over the swollen nub, rhythmic and relentless, while his fingers finally slid back inside—two, then curling.

The stretch. The wet sound. His fucking voice.

“You’re so tight like this, baby. So fuckin’ good around my fingers… just imagine when I sink my cock into you. Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll forget your own name.”

Y/N let out a strangled moan. Her body was right there—trembling on the edge, her vision blurring with the heat. Every nerve under her skin was singing. Her thighs trembled, her core slick and throbbing, her hands lost in the mess of Jake’s dark hair.

And just as that perfect, unbearable heat coiled impossibly tight in her belly, his mouth slowed.

He stopped.

He parted from her with a long, slow lick—one last deep stroke, his tongue pressing into her fluttering, soaked entrance. She gasped, back arching. Her body welcomed it, clamped down around the warm, wet intrusion, needy and desperate for more. But it was only a taste. A farewell.

Then he pulled back, licking his lips like a man coming up from worship, not war.

Her slick shimmered on his mouth, on his chin. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing heavy, chest rising and falling with the pace of his hunger.

Jake gave her pussy one final kiss—slow, wet, open-mouthed, his lips sealing over her entrance in a filthy goodbye that made her toes curl.

Then he leaned back, running his hand slowly up her trembling thigh, fingers trailing like embers on overheated skin. He grinned, smug and shining.

“She missed me,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked, dazed. “What?”

Jake dragged his fingers gently through her folds again, a soft touch now, barely-there. Just enough to make her twitch.

“Your sweet little cunt,” he whispered. “She missed me. Clenching ‘round my tongue like she hadn’t felt me in days.”

Y/N flushed instantly, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.

“You—Jake—that’s so—”

He leaned forward, raised a brow, and let the smirk crawl across his face. “That same pussy I had my fingers in this morning, baby. When I made you grind against my hand until you came all over the sheets.” His voice dipped lower. “And you’re telling me she still missed me?”

She slapped his shoulder lightly, giggling despite herself. “You’re the worst.”

Jake laughed, that deep, messy, boyish sound that made her chest ache. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then kissed her inner thigh gently, almost apologetically. Then again, softer, trailing upward—his body following the path until he was level with her.

Y/N watched him rise, her skin still flushed and buzzing, her thighs parted, her breath catching when his face came close again.

This time, instead of being teasing or wild, the kiss was calm.

His mouth met hers like he was kissing her in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, like she hadn’t just screamed into the motel pillows. Like her taste on his lips didn’t matter—or maybe it mattered too much.

She sighed into it, arms looping loosely around his neck, fingers curling into the still-damp strands at his nape.

And when he finally pulled back, his voice was quiet. Different.

“I’m never letting anything touch you again.”

Y/N tugged gently at his arm again, pulling him down with her.

Jake followed instantly, like he was born for it. They sank into the mattress together, bodies pressed side by side, her hand still curled behind his neck, fingers threading through the damp strands at his nape. He was warm against her—bare skin to bare skin, all muscle and heat and tension—but her focus was already drifting.

Because then he kissed her again.

Slow at first. Soft.

Just the faintest brush of lips that sent sparks across the surface of her skin.

But then his mouth opened, and everything else stopped.

Jake’s tongue slipped into her mouth like he owned the air she was breathing. He didn’t push—he coaxed. He guided. His lips molded to hers with aching, perfect pressure, and then that wicked tongue of his licked over hers—just once, slow, deep, wet—and her entire body reacted.

Her thighs clenched instinctively.

A low whimper escaped her throat before she could catch it.

Jake smiled into the kiss.

He heard that.

He licked into her again, tongue flicking, curling, then retreating just to pull her back in with a gentle suck on her lower lip. It was sensual. Hypnotic. Her thoughts dissolved like sugar in warm water. Her fingers slid over his shoulder, her palm resting on his chest, feeling the sharp beat of his heart through her touch.

His mouth was too much and not enough all at once.

Every time he sucked her lip, her stomach fluttered. Every time his tongue dragged over hers, slick and slow, her core throbbed—empty, wet, waiting. Her knees pressed together again, a silent attempt to ground herself.

It didn’t work.

Because he knew. He always knew.

Jake broke the kiss just long enough to breathe into her mouth.

“You’re squeezing your thighs pretty hard,” he whispered, voice thick and hoarse. “Did my kiss makes your pussy ache, baby?”

Her hands tightened on his skin.

This time, she kissed him. Deeper, with more tongue, more heat, more of her mouth claiming every soft part of him. The rhythm was slow, but the weight of it pressed deep, like she could feel his tongue between her legs even though he wasn’t touching her there now.

Their bodies writhed closer, chasing the warmth of each other’s chests, the friction of his thigh between hers, her mouth that wouldn’t stop making him need.

Jake pulled back from the kiss, lips slick, parted. His chest heaved beneath her palm, and his voice when he spoke came out like a growl filtered through a moan.

“You keep kissin’ me like that and I’m gonna fuck you like I did in that bathroom stall. Remember that, baby? In between classes… you were so needy and made me late for my lecture.”

Y/N chuckled breathily at the memory. Her thighs clenched again—this time around him.

She climbed into his lap, slow and sure, knees bracketing his hips. Her body sank down onto his thighs, bare heat pressed to the strain of him beneath his boxers. Jake’s head fell back with a hiss through his teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped.

Y/N leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his throat. She felt his Adam’s apple twitch beneath her lips, felt the vibration of his groan as she dragged her tongue up over it.

Jake’s hands gripped her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there like he didn’t know whether to worship or hold her down.

She kissed his jaw next—slow and adoring, lips dragging over the faint stubble, then behind his ear, where her tongue flicked just enough to make him shudder.

And through it all, he kept talking.

His voice was broken, breathless, ruined.

“Gonna bend you over this bed next. Hands flat, back arched, legs shaking. Gonna fuck you ‘til your voice is gone and your knees are too weak to close around me.”

She moaned softly into his neck.

“You like it when I talk like this, don’t you?” he whispered, nipping gently at her shoulder. “My pretty baby gets wet when I tell her all the ways I’m gonna ruin her.”

Her hips rolled forward against him—slow, aching friction that made them both gasp.

“Gonna take you from behind,” he panted, “one hand on your throat, the other between your thighs, makin’ you drip all over me. Then I’m gonna flip you on your back, press your knees to your chest, and fuck into you so deep you won’t remember what day it is.”

Y/N whimpered, her hands dragging up his chest, her mouth pressing kisses along his collarbone, her tongue tasting salt and desperation.

Jake was shaking under her.

“And when you come?” he breathed, “I’m gonna stay inside you. Keep fuckin’ you through it. Gonna keep you open for me and stretch you ‘til you don’t want anyone else. Not that you ever could, baby. No one else knows how to break you like I do.”

His voice cracked, just a little, at the end.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “No one makes me feel the way you do. You ruin me. Every time.”

Y/N lifted her head. Their eyes met. Her breath was ragged, her lips swollen, her heart thundering in her chest.

“You want to break me?” she whispered. “Then do it.”

Jake’s hands tightened on her hips. His next breath hitched into a growl.

They shifted together, both kneeling now on the motel bed, their bodies bare and flushed and starving. The room was quiet except for their heavy breathing, the low creak of the old mattress beneath them, and the far-off hiss of passing cars outside the window.

Jake kissed her again.

Hard and raw. 

Tongue and teeth and heat—his hand tangled in her hair as he dragged her mouth open and took. His tongue plunged deep, slick and possessive, curling against hers in slow, molten strokes that made her hips rock forward without thinking.

She moaned into him. Loud. Needy.

Jake swallowed the sound, then pulled back, lips wet and swollen.

“Turn around,” he rasped. 

Y/N obeyed, breath shaking. She turned slowly, body burning, and knelt on the bed facing the front of the motel room. The beat-up TV sat on top of the scratched old dresser, screen black and slightly dull; however, in the warped, glassy surface, she saw them.

Faintly, hazy with distortion—but there.

Her bare chest, belly, and thighs. The curve of her hips, the dip of her waist and the possessive hold that Jake kept on her. Her flushed face. The dark silhouette of Jake behind her.

And her body reacted.

Her cunt clenched, slick leaking down her thighs, the heat of it so sudden she gasped. 

Jake saw it all.

He slid in behind her, chest to her back, hands framing her hips like he was sculpting her posture to his taste. He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear.

“You like seeing us like this,” he murmured, voice honey-thick and wicked. “My girl… dripping just from a reflection.”

Y/N whimpered.

Jake’s hand gathered her hair—twisting it gently at the base of her skull—and made an imperfect ponytail with his fist. Her head tipped back into his grip, neck exposed.

He groaned softly.

“Pretty fuckin’ neck,” he whispered, and then—his mouth was on her again.

His lips dragged over the skin of her nape, slow and possessive. Then he licked her.

A long, wet stripe from the base of her spine to the crest of her neck. All tongue. Hot and firm and deliberate. Like he was tasting her. Claiming her.

She shuddered violently, hips twitching forward.

“Jake…”

“Shh,” he breathed, mouth still pressed to her skin. “Let me have this.”

He licked her again. Tongue flat, dragging slowly across the sensitive skin just beneath her hairline. His breath hitched.

“I could die like this,” he muttered.

Jake’s fingers slid between her thighs with the same confidence his mouth carried—like he already knew exactly how to ruin her.

He pressed in just enough to glide through her slick, then found her clit with maddening ease. Two fingers moved in tight, slow circles—firm pressure, the rhythm tuned perfectly to her body, like muscle memory.

Y/N moaned, low and broken, knees quivering on the mattress.

“Fuck,” she whispered, arching her back into him, “just like that.”

She turned her head—wanted to see him. Kiss him. She twisted just enough to catch his mouth again, pulling him in with lips parted and tongue already waiting.

But this time, she took the lead.

Jake didn’t resist. He groaned against her lips as she kissed him—hard, hungry. Her tongue slid over his, slick and confident, coaxing every sound from his throat. Then she bit his bottom lip, not enough to hurt—but enough to claim.

Jake’s cock twitched hard behind her, straining against the fabric of his boxers. He ground forward, hips rolling into the soft dip of her ass and lower back, pressing the thick, hot length of himself into her skin so she could feel exactly how desperate he was.

He groaned into her mouth, lips swollen, breath ragged.

“Christ, you kiss like you want to own me.”

“You already said I could,” she whispered.

Jake didn’t argue.

Her left hand reached down, covering the wrist of the hand still playing with her pussy. She didn’t stop him—just held him there, grounding herself in the motion of his fingers. Feeling every stroke, every circle as it sent sparks through her hips and up her spine.

The other hand twisted up and into his hair, fingers tangling tight, pulling.

Jake gasped, his mouth parting under hers, head tipping forward like his whole body was surrendering.

“Fuck, baby…” he whispered against her lips. “You feel that? You feel how hard you’ve got me? Just from your mouth—just from the way you taste.”

His fingers never stopped.

That steady rhythm—perfect circles, light press, then firmer when she whimpered. The slick sounds between her legs grew louder, wetter, and Jake groaned like it was a symphony he’d been dying to conduct.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured. “Fuck, I can feel it all over my hand.”

“Good,” she breathed. “You make me like this.”

He kissed her again, messier now. Tongue everywhere. Groaning into her mouth.

Her hips rocked in time with his fingers, and every press of his cock against her back made her body throb harder. Every kiss she stole made him weaker.

Jake’s fingers slowed—just slightly—then slipped away from her soaked, abused clit.

Y/N let out a gasp, her hips instinctively rolling forward, chasing the friction that had been building into fire under her skin.

Then she whined, high-pitched and desperate.  

Jake groaned at the sound—low and guttural, forehead pressing against the back of her shoulder.

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what that sound does to me.”

She whined again, back arching, her hand grabbing blindly for his wrist, trying to pull his fingers back down between her thighs.

“Jakey—please—why’d you—”

“I have to get these off, baby,” he rasped, pulling his hips back just far enough for her to feel the absence, but not forget it. His hand left her pussy, but he reached down immediately, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.

“Gonna lose my fucking mind if I don’t get inside you.”

He pushed the fabric down over his hips and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark at the tip, glistening with precum, aching for her. It slapped softly against his lower stomach before he wrapped a hand around the base, groaning at the contact.

“See what you do to me?” he whispered, his voice a growl in her ear. “Look at that. I’ve never been this fucking hard in my life. Never wanted anyone like I want you. Not like this.”

She whimpered, and his hand came up—fingertips trailing along her spine, soft, reverent, until they found her waist again.

Jake leaned in close again, his voice low, rough with hunger and awe.

“Down for me,” he breathed. “Face down. Ass up. You know what I like.”

Y/N obeyed without hesitation.

She lowered her chest to the mattress, arching her back, lifting her hips—slow and deliberate—until she gave him that perfect line, that sweet curve of her spine that he’d seen a hundred times. Her hair spilled around her shoulders, her hands gripping the sheets, thighs parted just wide enough to let him see everything.

Jake let out a sound—raw, desperate, worshipful.

“Jesus fuck, baby… look at you. You want me this bad?”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes dark and gleaming.

“I want all of you.”

Jake’s hand slid up her back, tracing the arch, possessive and trembling. The other wrapped around the base of his cock again as he stepped in closer, the flushed tip dragging through the slick heat of her folds, wetting himself with her arousal.

Then he found her entrance.

She was swollen, fluttering, dripping with need.

And he pushed in.

The thick head of his cock eased inside, stretching her open, filling her just enough to steal the air from her lungs.

Y/N gasped—sharp and high-pitched.

Her hands fisted the sheets, her head dropping between her arms.

He was inside her.

Not fully. Not yet. Just the tip.

But still, it was everything.

Jake groaned behind her, voice breaking.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “How tight you are around just the tip? She missed me, baby.”

Then—inch by inch—he pushed deeper.

Y/N felt it like a tide rolling through her.

The slow, overwhelming pressure of him filling her, pressing into spots only he could reach. The friction, the fullness, the way her walls fluttered with every slow slide forward—it was too much and not enough all at once. Her pussy clenched around him, wet and greedy.

He was hot and thick and so hard, the stretch sending shocks of both pleasure and pain up her spine. Her body pulsed around him, instinctively trying to pull him deeper.

Her mouth fell open.

But it wasn’t just her body reacting.

It was her heart, as well.

Because this was Jake—her Jake. The boy who kissed her forehead after she woke up from a nightmare, who licked blood from her thighs like a vow, and who said I love you with his tongue inside her and meant every syllable.

And now he was filling her completely.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from pain. From how much she felt.

He leaned over her, one hand braced on the bed, the other still gripping her hip like he couldn’t let go.

He bottomed out—finally—the base of his cock pressing flush against her soaked, trembling cunt. Her body took every inch, molded to fit him, welcomed him like he belonged there.

At first, Jake didn’t move.

He just held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her walls pulse around him—hot and slick and impossibly tight. His hands gripped her hips like he was holding on for dear life, and when he finally pulled back, it was a slow torture. 

Then he thrust back in.

Deep.

“Fuck… this pussy,” he panted. “So fuckin’ warm. So tight. Squeezin’ me like you never want me to leave.”

Y/N’s back arched, and she let out a shaky moan as his hips rolled forward again, another slow, deep stroke that dragged every nerve along her walls.

Jake leaned over her a bit more, his mouth hovering by her ear, his voice a growl softened by awe.

“Do you know how good you feel? How fuckin’ wet you are for me? God, baby—she’s greedy. She’s pulling me in.”

She whimpered, her thighs shaking.

“Jakey, feels so, so good—”

“I know it does,” he whispered, biting softly at her shoulder, hips dragging back again before plunging in deep, deeper. “I get it now. I understand.”

She gasped.

“Understand what?”

Jake groaned, kissing her nape, tongue running up the curve of her spine between thrusts.

“Why men start wars over girls like you.”

Y/N let out a breathless, stunned laugh, even as her body clamped down around him again.

“You’re insane.”

“Mmhm.” He smirked, dragging his cock all the way out until just the tip lingered at her entrance—then slammed back in with one smooth, slow roll of his hips. “Crazy. Absolutely fucking gone for you.”

She moaned again, and her laugh turned into a shiver.

Jake’s thrusts kept the same rhythm—slow, deep, deliberate. His hips snapped forward with weight, burying himself again and again in the tight heat of her cunt, groaning every time her body fluttered around him.

His hand slid up her spine, pressing between her shoulders to deepen that perfect arch.

“You were made for this,” he growled. “For me. This tight little hole’s mine, baby.”

He kissed her again—messy and open-mouthed against her back.

“Could fuck you like this forever. Never pull out. Just keep you full and dripping. Bet you’d love that.”

Jake’s pace began to shift—slow, deep strokes turning faster, sharper. His hips slapped softly against her ass, wet sounds echoing in the quiet, hot room, timed perfectly with her breathy moans and the creak of the bed frame.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

His bottom lip caught between his teeth, bitten and red, eyes locked on the way she moved for him. Met his thrusts halfway. Took him like she’d been sculpted just for this.

And Y/N noticed. Of course she did.

Even through the dizzying pleasure, she saw in their reflection the way his gaze stayed glued to her ass, saw the way he twitched every time she clenched around him.

And she grinned—breathless, wicked.

“I thought you were a boob guy,” she panted, voice laced with teasing. “What happened to all that chest worship, huh?”

Jake froze for a split second.

Then laughed—ragged and wrecked, the sound spilling out of his throat between groans.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he growled, snapping his hips forward harder, making her jolt with the sudden depth, “you bounce this ass like that and expect me to focus on anything else?”

Y/N laughed too—cut short by a moan as his cock hit that perfect spot inside her.

Jake leaned in over her, lips brushing her ear, one hand still gripping her hip, the other now sliding around her front—palming one of her breasts with a rough groan.

“I am a boob guy,” he rasped. “And an ass guy, and a pussy guy. I’m a ‘you’ guy.”

He pinched her nipple, rolled it gently between his fingers.

“You could breathe in my direction, and I’d get hard. Doesn’t matter what part I’m lookin’ at. It’s all mine.”

She gasped again, back arching deeper into him, ass pushing up to meet his thrusts.

He watched the motion in the reflection again—the way she pushed back onto him, watched her face tighten with every thrust. Her mouth open, eyes heavy-lidded, her skin flushed and glistening.

Jake’s rhythm had gone near-perfect—deep and sharp, his hips pistoning into her with that mix of strength and craving. But then he felt it.

Every time he slid out, her pussy fluttered around him, squeezing tight, as if trying to hold him in. And then—when he pushed back in, thick and deep—her muscles relaxed, like she was letting him in on purpose. Inviting him.

Jake choked on a moan, thrust stuttering.

“Baby—fuck—what are you doing to me?”

She smiled—he knew she did, even without seeing her face.

He looked in the reflection.

That wicked, breathless grin.

That soft bounce of her ass every time she clenched around him.

She did it again.

Tighter.

Then again—pulsing around his cock like her body was trying to pull him apart.

Jake snapped.

His hand shot up, grabbing a fistful of her hair, not rough enough to hurt, not really, but enough to make her feel it. He pulled her back hard, arching her spine into a curve so perfect it made his cock throb inside her.

She whined, voice high and sharp.

“Jake—ow—fuck. That hurts—”

He bent over her, his lips brushing her jawline.

“You love it.”

She did.

And so did he.

His free arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her upright against him—flush to his chest, his cock still buried deep inside her, now from a new angle that made them both gasp. The fullness. The depth. The way her walls clung to him like a second skin.

He kissed her again. Tongue-first. All heat, no hesitation. Her mouth opened to him instantly. Tongues collided. Teeth clicked. Her hand flew back, clawing at the side of his thigh, holding him in place as she rocked her hips back into his lap.

Jake moaned into her mouth, hips still moving, fucking up into her from beneath now, his cock dragging against her spot with every thrust.

“You milk me like that again,” he panted against her lips, “and I’m gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel it in your fucking throat.”

Y/N gasped, lips red and slick, eyes dazed and so full of him.

Jake started to move—hand still in her hair, cock still buried deep, ready to flip her into a new position and fuck her from a new angle.

“Wait,” she breathed, voice soft—breathless, but sweet. “Can—Can you… can you be on top of me?”

He froze.

Still half-sheathed inside her, his hips twitching with restraint.

She looked back at him, over her shoulder, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair messy from where he’d gripped it.

Her voice went softer, and her smile turned sheepish.

“I’m tired,” she said, barely louder than a whisper.

Jake blinked once, then a smirk makes its way onto his face. He stared at her—really stared at her. That look in her eyes. The slight tremble in her thighs. Her trust.

He felt it hit right in his chest.

“You’re just lazy,” he said, teasing but warm.

Her cheeks flushed deeper.

“Maybe.”

Jake chuckled, the sound low and loving.

“Come here then, lazy girl.”

He moved gently, slipping out of her to adjust their bodies. He guided her down onto her back, her body folding into the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a moment with the loss of him. The sheets were rumpled, warm, and damp from sweat and sex.

Then he settled between her legs. Face to face.

His hand found hers, fingers lacing. His other hand came up to brush the damp hair off her forehead, his expression suddenly soft—worshipful.

“You’re so beautiful like this.”

Then he slowly pushed back in.

Her soaked cunt parted for him, her walls welcoming him back like he belonged there. Every inch stretched her again, but now she could see his face. See his lashes flutter when he bottomed out. See the tension in his jaw, the part in his lips when her pussy clenched again.

Her mouth opened in a gasp. Her brows knit with pleasure. Her chest rose with every shaky breath.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, hips pressing deep, “I can feel all of you.”

Y/N whimpered, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper.

Jake’s hips rolled into her—deep strokes that made the bed creak and her breath stutter.

But he couldn’t stop looking at her chest.

The rise and fall of her breasts with every thrust.

The way her nipples were already pebbled, flushed, just begging for his mouth.

His hand slid up between them—palm warm and rough—and he groaned low in his throat.

Then he took one into his mouth.

He sucked hard at first, like he wanted to bruise her with his lips, then softened—his tongue circling her nipple, then flicking it in short, wet strokes that made her gasp and arch into him. He used his hand on the other, kneading, rolling the other peak between his fingers while his teeth grazed the one in his mouth.

Y/N moaned, high and ragged.

Her fingers flew into his hair, tangling there, holding him against her. She gripped tighter every time he sucked harder, tugging the way she knew he loved.

Jake groaned into her breast.

“Fuck, baby… your tits were made for my mouth.”

He bit gently—just enough to make her hips jump—and she let out a breathless, shaky laugh.

Then she started talking.

And it undid him.

“You feel so good, Jakey,” she whispered, eyes locked on his flushed, focused face. “So, so deep… I can feel you in my stomach.”

Jake growled around her nipple, thrusting deeper, slower.

“You’re fucking me so well, baby… you always know what I need.”

His hips twitched, rhythm faltering for a second. Her praise hit different—like she was stroking something raw inside him.

Her thumb brushed his temple as he licked across her chest.

“I love the way you move inside me. Like you’re made for it. Like you know I was made for you.”

Jake lifted his head, mouth wet, jaw tight.

“Keep talking like that,” he panted, “and I’m not gonna last.”

Y/N smiled, dazed and wrecked.

“Good,” she whispered. “I want you to fall apart. I want to feel you lose it inside me.”

Jake kissed her again—open, messy, tongue tangled with hers—while his cock thrust deeper, harder, the rhythm now desperate. His mouth moved from hers to her neck, back to her breast, worshipping, sucking, devouring.

His free hand slipped down between them, careful through the thrusts, until his fingers found her clit again—swollen, soaked, needy.

He rubbed tight, firm circles just the way she liked. Not too fast. Not too soft. Perfect.

Y/N cried out.

Her back arched. Her thighs jerked. Her eyes fluttered half-shut as she grabbed at his shoulder with one hand, her other still tangled in his hair.

“Jake—fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

His hips rolled deep, cock thrusting in fast, rough strokes that brushed right there, over and over—right on the spot inside her that made her toes curl and her whole body feel like fire under her skin.

His tongue flicked over her nipple again, teeth grazing, sucking, biting.

His fingers never stopped moving.

And her voice—God, her voice—just kept coming.

“You feel so good, Jake—so deep—you’re fucking me so good, baby—I can’t think—I can’t—”

Jake moaned into her chest, cock twitching inside her from her words alone.

“I—I love your cock—fuck, I love how good you fuck me—like I’m yours—Ah!”

“You are mine,” he growled, voice muffled against her skin. “Every inch. Every breath. Every fuckin’ moan—mine.”

“Faster, Jakey,” Y/N gasped, voice cracked and begging. “Harder—please—I need you.”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

His hips snapped forward with more force now, driving into her with heavy, wet thrusts that made the bed rock and her breath catch with every impact. His fingers on her clit moved faster—tight circles, perfect rhythm, slick with her arousal and the heat of how close she was to coming undone.

He kissed her breast again—open-mouthed, tongue dragging over her nipple as he groaned into her skin.

Y/N clutched at his back, nails pressing into the flex of his shoulder blades.

“No one else, Jake,” she breathed, words tumbling between gasps and moans. “There’s no one else who makes me feel like this. No one else I want.”

Jake’s body jerked at that—cock twitching deep inside her, his breath stuttering against her chest.

“I’d rather die than live without you,” she whispered.

His groan was guttural, primal, ripped straight from his chest.

“You mean that?” he rasped, voice shaking, hips pounding into her now, every thrust hitting so deep she could barely breathe.

“I need you,” she said. “I belong to you. I’m yours, Jake—only yours.”

His rhythm faltered for just a moment, like her words had broken something loose inside him.

Then he snapped.

His fingers on her clit moved faster, tighter.

His cock drove into her with the kind of force that made her body bounce into the mattress, thighs trembling with the overload of sensation.

“You’re mine,” he growled, kissing her throat, biting softly at her jaw. “No one gets you but me. No one ever could.”

Her hands flew back into his hair, dragging him down into another kiss—sloppy, deep, tongue-heavy.

She whimpered into his mouth, her thighs shaking, her body trembling beneath him as that coil in her belly tightened dangerously.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel you.”

Y/N shattered like glass struck by lightning. 

It hit fast and overwhelming—the first spasm of pleasure rolling through her like a shockwave. Her thighs clenched around his hips, her toes curled, and her walls tightened around Jake’s cock with a force that nearly made him come on the spot.

“Oh my god—Jake—Jake—” her voice was broken, high, holy, like prayer and desperation fused together.

He felt every squeeze. Every flutter.

His thrusts slowed immediately, deep and controlled, his cock dragging through the slick heat of her as her body convulsed around him. His fingers on her clit softened just slightly, keeping her there, guiding her through it, not rushing, not pulling away.

He kissed her cheek, her throat, her collarbone—open-mouthed and breathless.

“There you go, baby,” he murmured, eyes locked on her face. “That’s it. Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this. Just let it happen.”

She was gasping, eyes squeezed shut, back arching as another wave ripped through her.

Her cunt pulsed around him again—tight, wet, relentless.

Jake didn’t stand a chance.

The second he felt her come—the way her pussy clamped down on him, fluttering around his cock like she was trying to keep him there forever—he was gone.

He slowed even more, each thrust deliberate, letting her feel the weight and stretch of him through the peak of it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Y/N trembled beneath him, her moans tapering off into soft, overwhelmed whimpers as the high began to fade—but the glow stayed. Her whole body buzzed. Her heart raced. Her fingers gripped him like she’d sink without his skin.

His grip on her hip tightened, his jaw clenched, and he groaned into her shoulder, the sound deep and guttural and full of something breaking.

He was so fucking close, so, so full.

And it took every last ounce of strength in him to pull out—slowly, painfully—her slick, soaked walls dragging on him like a velvet vice, clinging as if to say, ‘don’t go’.

“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasped, pulling back inch by inch, every nerve ending in his body on fire. “I don’t wanna leave—shit—”

But he did.

Barely.

And the second he was out—his cock flushed and glistening, twitching with the need to release—he wrapped his hand around the base and stroked himself once—

Twice—

Three times—

“Fuck—Y/N—”

The first rope of cum shot out of him with force, landing right across her slit—thick and creamy and hot.

He groaned through his teeth as another followed—painting her pussy lips white, coating her clit in the warm, sticky mess of it.

More spilled over her entrance—so close to filling her, some of it already seeping inside just the slightest bit, thick drips collecting there, slicking her folds.

He watched it happen, jaw slack, breath ragged.

Her pussy, twitching from aftershocks.

His cum, marking her.

Not bred—but his, nonetheless.

He rubbed the tip of his cock along her soaked slit, dragging through the mess, smearing it across her clit, watching her shiver slightly beneath him.

The room was silent, save for the sound of their ragged breathing—his slower now, hers soft and shallow, like she hadn’t quite come back to earth yet.

Their bodies were still tangled, neither willing to move yet. The motel air was warm against sweat-slick skin, the sheets rumpled and half-slid off the bed.

Jake hovered just above her, propped on one trembling arm. His other hand rested flat over her ribcage, feeling the rise and fall of her chest under his palm.

Her breasts were flushed and glistening, nipples still wet from his mouth, the skin beneath them mottled with hickeys he’d sucked deep into her flesh—his signature, his need. Her collarbones bore more—dark blooms of red-purple where his tongue and teeth had lingered too long. The soft skin at her hips was red, raw where his hands had gripped her too tightly. Possessive. Worshipful. Maybe even a little cruel.

Her lips—God, her lips—swollen and bitten, shiny with spit from their messy, desperate kisses. They looked like sin, and he’d never wanted anything more in his life than to kiss them again.

Her hair spilled out over the motel pillow in wild, damp waves. A halo of chaos. A crown she didn’t even know she wore.

But it was her cunt that kept his eyes.

Red, puffy, glistening. Her pussy lips were flushed and swollen, the delicate folds puffy from how hard she’d been worked, how deep he’d fucked her. The soft pink of her inner lips peeked through slick-stained outer lips—raw, parted, like she was still open for him even now.

His cum was everywhere.

Thick, creamy streaks filled the soft creases between her folds. Some of it clung stubbornly to her clit, tangled in the ridges, glossy and warm, slowly dripping. Another trail had slipped lower—pale white against the flush of her used entrance, where it threatened to slide in, teasing the raw, fluttering rim of her hole.

Her pussy was still clenching.

Twitching—tightening around nothing in soft, slow pulses like it hadn’t yet realized he was gone. As if it was still calling for him, still missing the stretch of his cock. The emptiness only made the mess more obscene.

Her inner thighs gleamed with her slick—slick that had soaked her before he’d even touched her. Before she’d come. Before he’d been inside. It had poured out of her in waves, wetting her soft skin, dripping in thin rivulets down the smooth curve of her thighs, pooling beneath her.

Now, mixed with his cum, it looked even more filthy.

Even more beautiful.

Jake moved without a word.

He slid down the bed, between her still-trembling thighs, resting on his forearms like he belonged there.

Y/N laid open and flushed, her legs barely parted now, heavy with fatigue and aftershocks. But she didn’t resist when he gently eased them apart again. She knew what he was doing. And she let him.

He started at her thighs.

Slow licks first, his tongue dragging along the inside, tracing the sticky remnants of her arousal. He licked through the streaks of slick that had dried to her skin, then lower, collecting the creamy drips of his own cum that had spilled from her. His mouth worked without pause, lips pressing soft kisses in between every lick, every stroke of tongue.

Y/N sighed softly. A shiver rolled through her.

Then he moved up.

There was a bit of his semen clinging to the soft mound above her slit—just a smear, pale and glossy against her flushed skin. Jake leaned in and sucked it clean. Slow. Wet. His tongue flattened, dragging upward, collecting every trace.

He kissed it, then exhaled, hot and heavy.

Then he moves onto her outer lips.

Swollen. Gleaming. Still puffy from the stretch of him.

He mouthed over them first, soft kisses that turned into gentle sucks. His tongue worked in slow strokes along the edges, tasting her, cleaning her, owning the mess he’d made. His hands held her thighs gently now, thumbs stroking mindlessly.

Then his mouth found her clit.

He didn’t rush.

He circled first—just the tip of his tongue, light flicks over the sensitive nub, coaxing it rather than attacking it. Then he flattened his tongue and dragged it across—up, down, again—pressing just a little firmer when she gasped and arched her back.

Jake groaned softly.

She was still so reactive.

He sucked it gently into his mouth, just for a moment, rolling it between his lips before letting go. Her hips twitched. Her breath caught. He loved how she responded to his mouth.

He slid lower.

His tongue pressed between her folds now—slow, deliberate strokes that gathered her slick, his cum, everything in between. He traced the shape of her, the soft, delicate creases, licking through the aftermath like it was his favorite flavor.

And then he reached her hole.

Still red. Still open, just barely.

Still twitching.

Jake moaned, the sound low and desperate.

He leaned in, tongue circling the rim, gentle but unrelenting. He licked over it, around it, into it—just a little. Just enough to make her gasp and shift and say his name like she wasn’t sure if she could take more.

But Jake couldn’t stop. 

His mouth never left her—tongue dragging from the soft folds of her used pussy back up to her clit, where he paused.

Her breath hitched.

“Jakey…” she murmured, voice hoarse, barely more than a whimper.

But it wasn’t no.

It was more.

So he latched onto her clit again—deliberate now, tongue flicking fast and tight, then circling slow, then flicking again.

Y/N’s legs jumped.

Her thighs pressed inward, instinctively trying to close around his head—but Jake just wrapped his arms around them, holding her wide and open.

“You love this,” he murmured between strokes. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

She moaned—high and helpless.

“I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, tongue never breaking rhythm. “You will. You’re gonna come again, sweetheart. Gonna let me taste it this time.”

He sucked her clit between his lips again, harder now—drawing circles with his tongue while he held her in place.

She writhed under him, fingers twisting in the sheets, her hips stuttering against his face, overwhelmed and overstimulated and so fucking close.

Jake moaned into her, eyes half-lidded, cock still half-hard just from the taste of her.

“You’re so fucking good for me,” he murmured. “Letting me fuck you like that… letting me lick you clean. You’re gonna come just from my mouth, aren’t you?”

She nodded, breathless, gasping.

“Yes—yes, Jake—I’m close again—”

He buried his face deeper, tongue stroking harder, faster—one hand sneaking up to press flat over her lower belly, holding her down.

“Then fucking do it, baby,” he growled. “Come on my tongue. I want you shaking. I want you crying for me.”

And she did.

With a cry that broke halfway into a sob, her body arched, then locked, her legs trembling, cunt clenching in fluttering spasms as another orgasm crashed through her. This one was sharper—brighter, and painfully sweet. Her thighs trembled, her hips jerked, her hands flew to his hair, pulling him tighter.

Jake held on.

Held her.

Licked her through every wave, clench, and aftershock. Letting her calm down just enough for her squirming to become light twitching and her moans to become soft whimpers. 

And with that, Jake kissed her one last time.

A full-mouthed smack to her overstimulated, twitching pussy—his tongue already gone, but his claim still lingering in the sound. A parting gift. A promise. Something she’d remember every time she shifted her legs and felt the soreness he left behind.

She let out a shivery, exhausted laugh.

He grinned against her thigh.

Then he finally moved.

Jake dragged his body up the bed, slow and loose with post-release heaviness, skin damp with sweat and her scent. His hair was a mess—flattened where she’d held him, spiked where she’d pulled—but his eyes were soft, dark and warm when they found her face.

She was wrecked.

Her lips parted, lashes low, chest still heaving with the final echoes of that second climax. Her skin glowed with heat, her body limp and raw and safe.

He laid down beside her, then pulled her in—an arm looping around her waist, tugging gently until she rolled into him, face tucked under his chin, her leg sliding over his thigh like it had always belonged there.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Still with me?”

Y/N let out a soft hum against his chest.

“Mmhmm.”

Jake smiled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He ran a hand slowly down her spine, then back up to her shoulder, fingers tracing lazy circles into her skin. There was no need for more now. No pressure. Just her in his arms.

Quiet, safe, and his.

The room was dim now, shadows stretching long across the motel ceiling, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and fading adrenaline.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Jake held her close—her cheek resting just above his heart, her leg thrown over his hips, his arms a circle around her small, worn body like a vow made in flesh. She was warm. Quiet. Real.

Her fingertips traced his bicep in slow, looping lines. Barely there. Soothing. The kind of touch that wasn’t meant to stir—but to keep.

She spoke softly.

“What do we do now?”

Jake’s breath hitched. 

“We can’t run forever.” she added. Her voice was tired. 

He didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said.

Her fingers paused.

“We can’t go back,” he added. “Not to your place. Not to the city. They’ll be looking.”

Y/N nodded faintly against his chest.

“Then what?”

Jake looked up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. 

Y/N waited, heart pressed against his, her fingers still trailing slowly along his skin. She could feel the hesitation in the way his chest rose beneath her cheek. The pause in his breath. The heaviness starting to creep in again.

And then, finally—softly:

“I don’t know.”

He turned his face slightly, hiding in her hair, one arm tightening around her waist like he was afraid she might let go after hearing it.

“Just hold me,” he whispered.

Y/N didn’t hesitate and pulled him in.

Both arms around him now. Her leg tightening over his hip. Her fingers finding the back of his neck and threading into his hair, grounding him.

“I think I can be okay,” she murmured. “As long as you’re with me.”

He didn’t speak again.

He didn’t have to.

Because in that moment, with her heart pressed to his, her breath warm against his skin, and her arms wrapped around his body—that was the only answer either of them needed.

And in the quiet, with hundreds of questions but nothing left to say, they stayed together.

For now.

TAGLIST @yourislandgirl @splzq @rikiislovrr @hoonprksung @kyunlov

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ⸺ Chapter Three

author's note ⸺ Hello gang! So happy you guys are liking this series, I love it, and I luv u <3 pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, the good-ole-days, reader uses female pronouns, 4.2k, this is an 18+ series - mdni divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

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Sleep came quickly, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

Then—just as you were about to slip under completely…

Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Your eyes cracked open, pulse skipping despite yourself. For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.

But eventually, you did. 

You turned over swiftly, the sheets rustling as you reached out, fingers fumbling against the smooth surface of your nightstand. 

The cool metal of your phone met your palm, and you pulled it close, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim room as you blinked against the brightness.

Your thumb hovered over the screen for just a second before you swiped to unlock it. The notification stared back at you, crisp and clear against the dark backdrop of your bedroom.

Geto: How’s Friday?

Your breath left you in a slow exhale.

Not a lot of fanfare. No excessive punctuation, no embellishments. Just a simple question, efficient and to the point—exactly like how you remembered him.

Your eyes flicked to the top of the screen, where the time blinked back at you—10:42 PM. Wednesday. 

Two days.

A part of you had half-expected to wait another few days before he got back to you. Maybe the plans would fall through entirely, slipping through the cracks of life’s inevitable distractions. But there he was, responding just hours after you reached out.

You licked your lips, your fingers tapping out a quick reply.

You: Works for me. What time?

The three little dots blinked on the screen almost immediately.

Geto: I’m assuming you work until 5…does 5:30 work?

You: Yeah, that’s fine. Where where you thinking?

Geto: I’ll send you the location on Friday morning. Looking forward to catching up :)

You stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before you typed—

You: Sounds good. Me too.

Too much? Maybe. But before you could second-guess it, the message was sent, disappearing into the ether of late-night conversation.

The read receipt popped up almost instantly, followed by one more reply.

Geto: Dream sweet.

Simple. Unassuming. And yet, it left something warm curling in your stomach.

You set your phone down on the nightstand, exhaling as you sank deeper into the pillows. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city beyond your window, but your mind was anything but still.

It had been a long time since you last saw him. Since you last spoke like this, in small, measured words that somehow still felt significant. It was just dinner. 

Just a catch-up between two people with a mutual friend. 

Two friends-of-friends catching up…That’s all.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Morning came too soon, the alarm slicing through the quiet like a dull blade. 

A sharp inhale, a stretch, the heavy warmth of sleep still clinging to your limbs. 

But before you even shifted beneath the covers, your hand had already reached for your phone, fingers wrapping around its familiar weight.

The screen lit up. No new messages. No last-minute changes. Just the same notification from last night, waiting in silence.

You weren’t sure what you had expected…A follow-up? A confirmation? Something to make the evening ahead feel more real? Whatever it was, it wasn’t there.

The morning routine carried on as always—water rushing against porcelain, steam curling over the bathroom mirror, the muted sound of the city filtering in through the window. 

Everything was the same. Everything should have felt the same. 

But there was something about today, a small hitch in the rhythm, an offbeat in the usual melody of your day.

At work, tasks filled the hours like usual. Emails stacked into neat little rows, keyboards clicked in hurried bursts, voices blurred into the steady hum of office chatter. 

You answered messages, skimmed reports, lost yourself in half-distracted conversations.

And yet—before noon, your hand found your phone again.

A flick of the screen. A glance. Still nothing.

You weren’t sure why you kept checking. It wasn’t like you normally did this.

Your messages weren’t exactly unpredictable.

Gojo texted often, usually in long, chaotic bursts—half-thoughts, inside jokes, dramatized retellings of his latest workplace disaster. 

Your roommate’s texts were more routine—grocery lists, rent reminders, the occasional complaint about your neighbours. A familiar pattern, easy to follow, easy to expect.

But now?

Now, your fingers hovered over the screen for just a second longer than necessary before you locked it again, pressing it face-down against your desk, pressing your fingers into your temples briefly before forcing yourself to refocus.

Lunch came and went in a series of half-heard conversations. The scent of reheated leftovers hung in the air, blending with the ever-present bitterness of burnt office coffee. 

A coworker complained about their weekend plans, and another debated whether they had time to grab a latte before their next meeting. 

You responded when necessary, nodding at the right times, but your mind remained elsewhere—somewhere just outside of reach.

Then—without thinking—you picked up your phone again.

Still nothing.

You exhaled, locking the screen and setting it aside. You didn’t know what you were expecting to happen. It wasn’t as if anything had changed since the last time you checked. 

And yet, the absence of a message felt noticeable in a way that it shouldn’t have.

By mid-afternoon, the habit had settled in.

Your hand moved before you could stop yourself, unlocking the screen with a flick of your thumb. Waiting.

But the screen remained the same—quiet, still, steady.

And yet, despite that silence, tomorrow night loomed closer. Inevitable.

The weight of it settled in long before the day had ended. 

The thought of being alone with him for hours wove itself into the spaces between tasks, filling the pauses in conversation, curling around every absent glance at your phone.

At some point, the screen stayed dark long enough for a sense of finality to creep in. No more checking. No more reaching. It didn’t change anything.

Still, something simmered beneath your skin, restless and unresolved.

The feeling made no sense. 

Geto had never been a source of unease before. 

If anything, he was one of the easiest people to be around—steady, unhurried, a presence that never demanded anything from you. His words always measured, his energy effortless. 

He was a fixture in the periphery, present in the way a familiar song fills the background of a car ride, inextricably linked to something larger.

Gojo.

Geto had always been part of a pair—One half of a whole. 

His presence had been a condition of Gojo’s—the two of them moving through the world like a force of nature, colliding with everything in their path, dragging you along in their wake.

Conversations that turned into debates, nights that stretched too late, laughter that came easy, never isolated, never belonging to just one of them.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, there would be no Gojo.

The realization sat heavy, threading unease through the anticipation. This was new. Unfamiliar. 

The rhythm had changed, and you weren’t sure what to do with the space it left behind.

The walk home felt longer than usual. 

The city hummed around you, headlights casting fractured light against wet pavement, snippets of conversations floating past in bursts of sound. A car horn. A ringing phone. The hiss of a bus kneeling at the curb.

Inside your apartment, the quiet stretched. 

The overhead light flickered once before settling. A jacket shrugged off, shoes nudged aside, the soft creak of wood under your steps. The routine unfolded like muscle memory—bag on the counter, fridge open, fridge closed, a glass of water filled and left untouched.

Then—your phone, facedown where you had left it.

Fingers hesitated before reaching. The screen lit up, bright against the dim kitchen. Nothing new.

A slow breath pushed through your chest.

Tomorrow loomed ahead, fixed and inevitable.

A meeting set in place, agreed upon in neutral tones, as casual as a hundred other plans that had come before it. 

But still, something shifted under the surface, unspoken and undefined.

There was no reason for this weight in your stomach. No logic to the way your pulse had started counting down hours before the night had even arrived.

And yet—

Your grip tightened around the phone. The glow of the screen faded to black.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Friday Morning at 5:45am

The alarm cut through the stillness, its sharp trill pulling you from sleep. A breath, slow and steady, before your hand reached out, silencing it with a practiced swipe.

For a moment, you stayed there—burrowed beneath the blankets, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The weight of the day settled in, stretching out ahead of you in quiet inevitability.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up.

The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded toward the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickering to life above the mirror. Water rushed against porcelain, the steady rhythm filling the quiet as you rinsed sleep from your skin.

Back in your bedroom, the closet door yawned open, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, slacks folded with precision, dresses lined up like choices waiting to be made.

The usual routine would be easy—something simple, something safe. But today, your fingers lingered a little longer, hovering between options, the usual rhythm disrupted by something almost imperceptible.

It wasn’t like this was anything special. Just another workday. Just dinner after. Nothing to warrant the quiet indecision pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

And yet—your hand skipped past the standard choices, grazing over fabric with absent consideration.

The crisp button-down felt too stiff, the usual sweater too plain. A dress, maybe? No, too much.

Eventually, you settled on something in between—polished but not overdone. Something that fit seamlessly into the workday but still felt…intentional.

The fabric smoothed over your frame as you adjusted the hem, checking the mirror with a glance that lasted a beat too long.

Still, there was no real reason for this hesitation. No reason at all.

And yet—

The thought slipped away as your phone buzzed from the nightstand, breaking the quiet with a sharp vibration.

Your breath stilled.

You hesitated for only a second before walking over to it and picking it up.

Your fingers tightened around your phone before turning the screen toward you.

Geto: Morning. Here’s the place for tonight.

A location link followed, sitting there unassuming, waiting to be pressed.

Your thumb hesitated over the screen before tapping it. The maps app opened, the address pulling up with a smooth flicker. 

A small pin dropped into place, marking a street you didn’t immediately recognize—tucked between taller buildings, almost easy to miss. 

The image loaded, revealing a dark storefront, nothing but a sleek, unmarked door tucked beneath a flickering neon sign.

You swiped through the photos. 

Inside, the space stretched narrow, lined with moody lighting and dark wood, bottles glinting along an illuminated back bar. 

The kind of place that didn’t need to advertise itself—exclusive but not pretentious, refined but comfortable. 

And the food—unexpectedly elaborate for a bar, plated like something out of a fine dining restaurant.

Of course.

Something about it felt so distinctly him—lowkey but effortlessly cool, the kind of place you’d never have found on your own.

Before you could type out a response, another message drew your eyes to the top of your screen.

Geto: If you tell me which station you're at, I can meet you there.

Your breath stalled, pulse knocking against your ribs in a way that made no sense.

The words sat there, simple and unassuming, yet something about them sent a ripple through your chest.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

It was a thoughtful offer—practical, even. 

It would make things easier, and save you from navigating alone, from the awkward shuffle of stepping into a new place by yourself. A small thing.

Still, a strange tension crept into your shoulders.

Geto had always been easygoing, a casual presence that had never demanded anything from you. But that presence had always been conditional—always shadowed by Gojo’s loud energy, balanced by the familiar push-and-pull of their dynamic.

Now, without that buffer—without Gojo filling the space between you—it felt different.

Not bad, not uncomfortable, just… noticeable.

You smoothed your hand over the fabric of your skirt, fingers tracing absent patterns against the hem.

Maybe it was the anticipation humming beneath your skin. The awareness of the hours still stretched between now and tonight, every moment edged with something undefined.

Maybe it was the way Geto’s name looked on your screen—alone, unaccompanied, as if he existed in a separate context now.

Or maybe it was nothing at all.

You exhaled, slow and steady, before typing out a response.

You: It’s okay, I can just meet you there.

The message sent in an instant. Final.

You locked your phone, setting it facedown against the vanity as if that might quiet the small, unspoken weight in your chest.

Then, a breath.

‘Alright tine to get yourself together…’ You thought to yourself

The routine should have unfolded as usual, the same series of motions you could do half-asleep.

But today, each step carried a little more weight.

You reached for your makeup bag, fingers brushing over familiar products. Concealer smoothed over skin, concealer dabbed beneath your eyes—nothing too heavy, just enough. 

A sweep of blush, a touch more than usual. A careful flick of eyeliner, precise and steady, stretching just a little further than the way you usually wore it.

Your reflection stared back at you, almost unchanged—almost.

The brush glided through your hair in slow, deliberate strokes, smoothing flyaways, shaping strands into something more intentional. A little extra effort. Nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, just…more.

The soft chime of a notification pulled you from the mirror. Not Geto—just an email reminder, something about a report due by noon.

A quick glance at the clock on your wall let you know it was time to go.

You grabbed your bag, slipping your phone inside before second-guessing and tucking it into your jacket pocket instead. 

Shoes on, keys in hand, one last look around the apartment before stepping out into the crisp morning air.

The city stretched ahead, unchanged, unaware. 

But as your footsteps carried you down the shiny tiled stairs, something lingered in your chest—light but steady, like a held breath waiting to be released.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

The clock inched toward 5 p.m., the final minutes of the day ticking away slowly, yet with an urgency you could feel in your bones.

It had been one of the busiest Fridays you’d ever had—emails to answer, reports to review, meetings that bled into each other without any real break. The pressure was constant, a low hum beneath your thoughts, and yet… you were grateful for it. 

Grateful that there was no room for your mind to wander, no space for thoughts to spiral. 

If today had been any slower, if you’d had even a moment of quiet, you knew exactly where your thoughts would have gone.

To Geto. To tonight. 

To the pull in your chest that wouldn’t seem to loosen, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

You backed up your things a few minutes early, tucking everything into your bag with methodical precision. It wasn’t until you had everything in place, zipper pulled tight, that you realized you were practically holding your breath.

Five o'clock.

Finally.

You stood up, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, and made your way to the door. 

The office was quieting down, the buzz of energy that had filled the room all day beginning to dissipate as everyone else filtered out. You left without another glance back, fingers pressing the button for the elevator.

Outside, the city was as busy as always, people rushing by, their faces a blur. You slipped into the flow, a part of it, but somehow still detached. Every step took you closer to the subway, closer to the anticipation that built in your chest.

It wasn’t that you were nervous, exactly. No, that wasn’t quite right. You were just… unsettled. A kind of restlessness that had no real source.

You pulled your phone from your pocket and typed out a quick message to Geto:

You: On my way over.

The text sent, and within seconds, the three dots blinked back at you.

Geto: See you soon.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. It was almost a relief that he replied so quickly—something about it soothed the jittery feeling that hadn’t quite settled.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you descended the stairs to the platform, your feet tapping lightly against the ground in rhythm with the train’s arrival. 

But even as you joined the crowd and boarded the car, your mind drifted to that last time you saw him—the night that felt so far away and yet so close.

It had been just after graduation, the last time you were all together like that.

A night of drinking, good food, and laughter, shared memories of the years behind you, of the moments that had solidified your friendship. 

You leaned back against the cold train window, eyes closed for just a moment as you let the memories sweep over you.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

*1 year and 3 months prior — Graduation Celebration at KBBQ*

Graduation had come quicker than expected–It truly felt like a finish line that once felt distant was now suddenly beneath your feet. 

The ceremony itself had been a blur—flashes of caps in the air, the hum of applause, the stiff feeling of formalwear that barely felt like your own.

But this? This dinner, this night, this group—this was what felt real.

Somewhere between the first introductions and the years spent studying together, these people had become a constant. 

Not just classmates or drinking buddies, but something more—a tangle of friendships built over sleepless nights, library study sessions, and long conversations that stretched past closing hours at your favourite spots.

Gojo had been the first familiar face, but through him, the circle expanded. Geto, quieter but no less magnetic. Shoko, always ready with a sharp remark. Nanami, steady and unwavering. Utahime, initially wary of Gojo’s chaos but undeniably part of the group. Hibara, warm and easygoing, always pulling everyone together.

The group had settled into something comfortable, something natural. 

And tonight, for what might be the last time in a while, everyone was here.

The Korean barbeque restaurant buzzed with the warmth of lively conversations and sizzling grills. 

The sharp scent of spices and grilled meat filled the air as the plates kept coming, steam rising from the center of the table where everyone sat clustered around. 

The group was loud, a mix of voices competing with the hum of the crowd and the crackling sounds of the grill. Gojo's booming laugh punctuated the noise every so often, drawing chuckles from Shoko and Hibara, who were sitting beside from him.

You sat between Utahime and Geto, the cool air from the ceiling fans brushing your skin, just enough to keep the warmth of the meal from becoming too much. 

The grill tables were relatively small, so Geto was close, his knee brushing yours under the table as the group passed plates of food around. 

He didn’t seem to mind, just as you didn’t, the space between you both shrinking with each subtle shift.

Occasionally, Geto would lean in slightly when he spoke to you, his breath almost grazing your ear as he commented on the food or made a quiet remark about something Gojo had said. 

The closeness felt natural—effortless, and yet, in a way, it stood out. 

A part of you noticed how much quieter it felt when his voice dropped to a low hum as if sharing something just between you.

Across the table from you, Gojo made some outrageous comment, his animated gestures nearly knocking over his drink, and everyone burst into laughter. Your gaze met Geto’s in the midst of it all—his eyes holding yours for a fraction longer than anyone else’s. 

It wasn’t an obvious moment, just a quiet beat where his stare lingered, and you couldn’t help but notice the pull, the intensity beneath it, even if you quickly looked away to join in the laughter.

The evening stretched on, the conversation meandering between stories and jokes, but there was always something in Geto’s attention when it turned toward you. 

When plates of food arrived, he was the first to make sure your plate was full, his hand brushing against yours each time as he slid something onto your side of the grill. 

"Here," Geto said, his voice steady as he slid a piece of cooked meat onto your plate. 

He glanced at you, a quiet certainty in his expression, lips tugging into a small, effortless smile—like he knew something you didn’t.

"Thanks," you replied, your gaze briefly meeting his again before turning back to the others.

His eyes stayed on you for just a second longer than they should have, a quiet intensity hidden behind the casualness of his smile. 

There was no hurry in his movements as he leaned back slightly, his attention still fixed on you as you returned to the conversation.

Gojo, sitting directly across from you, noticed how Geto was looking at you. His eyes gleamed with mischief as a knowing smirk grew upon his lips. His hand tapped the edge of his glass as he made sure his gaze found Geto’s.

Before Gojo could say anything, Utahime cut in, her voice light as she dragged Gojo into her conversation.

"I always thought you were the one who thought you were above all the tests and exams, Gojo," she said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

"But look at you now. Obviously, you weren’t entirely ‘above’ it all, or you wouldn’t have graduated!."

A laugh bubbled up from you, easy and warm, the playful jab aimed at Gojo hitting the right note.

Geto’s eyes flicked toward you instinctively, a slight shift in his posture as he watched you laugh. 

For just a second, his gaze softened, lingering on the way your eyes crinkled and your mouth curved up. 

It was subtle, but the way he looked at you in that moment—unobstructed and full of quiet admiration—was impossible to miss, even if you didn’t notice.

Gojo rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his own chuckle, clearly unbothered by Utahime’s jab. 

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’m the only one keeping this table from sinking into the abyss of academic mediocrity and you all know it."

His words were light, but his gaze flicked over briefly to Geto again, catching something in the way he sat facing you, the way his attention never seemed to stray too far from you—and Gojo noticed, how could he not? 

The night went on, but the unspoken connection between you and Geto never fully slipped away. 

Every now and then, when you caught his eye again, there was something that was undeniably there—a spark that he didn’t try to hide, but never overtly acknowledged. It was quiet, comfortable, and real in a way that felt like it had always been.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

You stepped off the subway car, your shoes clicking softly against the platform as you shook off the last remnants of your thoughts.

The evening air outside felt cooler than you expected, the slight breeze tugging at your sleeves as you ascended the stairs.

 The weight of your bag settled comfortably against your shoulder, and with every step upward, the tension in your chest seemed to loosen just a little, like a knot unwinding slowly.

The train ride had felt long despite the short distance. 

Anticipation had gnawed at you the entire way, but now, with the weight of the day finally behind you, there was a space in your mind where you could let your thoughts breathe.

It was almost calming, knowing that once you stepped out of the subway station, you’d be heading straight to the bar to meet Geto. A casual evening with no expectations. 

Just the two of you.

You reached the top of the stairs, the sound of your footsteps fading into the background as you made your way toward the exit. 

The station was busy with the usual rush of people, but your eyes were focused on the small patch of city street ahead, imagining the two-minute walk to the bar, the dim lighting, the low hum of voices inside.

But as you turned the corner—

There he was.

Your steps faltered.

Standing just beyond the turnstiles, casually leaning against a pillar, one hand in his pocket, the other offering a small, easy wave. 

The half-lit fluorescents cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the familiar, effortless coolness of him, making everything around him fade just slightly.

Geto. Here.

His expression softened as he watched you stumble a bit over your own feet, and his smile grew just a little, as if he were waiting for you to get your bearings, to process the fact that he was standing here, in front of you, instead of across the table at the bar like you had expected.

"Hey," he said, his voice a touch smoother than usual, though it still held that casual tone that you recognized. 

taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @you-transfix-me; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe; @rwirxles; @yourname-exee; @pyruvic; @marianaz; @you-transfix-me; @simplyyyuji; @zoldyi **please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**

[dearieshima]

“THE DOLL… ITS ALIVE!”

✦SUMMARY

╰┈➤ Your boyfriend, as clumsy as he is, foolishly wins you a doll at the county fair that will forever change your life. #KINKTOBER2024

"Take it," he growled. "Take, every, last, inch!" His hips slammed into yours with every pronounced word of his command. "Gonna pump this pussy full. Flood your womb with my seed."

✦ C.W

╰┈➤ dubcon/noncon, murder, character death(?), groping, trueform!sukuna, double penetration, plushie humping, mental illness, face riding, aphrodisiac, brief cum eating, slight voyeurism, degradation, praise, missionary, 7k+ words, yuuji is aged up to 20+years, slight yuuji x reader, hair yanking, is this cheating?, rough sex, unprotected sex

If you could travel back in time, to that fateful night when your fingers first brushed against its soft, cursed fabric, would you change a thing?

It was October 5th. The sky had bruised into twilight, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of roasted chestnuts, damp earth, and the faint trace of winter creeping in. Yuuji, your boyfriend of six years, had been excited about the fall fair, dragging you there with promises of funnel cakes and dizzying rides. His enthusiasm had been infectious, and despite the chill creeping into your bones, you’d followed him willingly, smiling even as the cold bite of evening settled into your skin.

You had just stumbled out of The Gravitron, disoriented from the spinning madness, your body instinctively finding its way into his as you tried to steady yourself. His arm slid around your waist, a familiar warmth, but somehow, your eyes managed to focus on one singular object.

It was a plushie, nestled amongst a sea of cheap carnival prizes. It was a humorous parody of Sukuna Ryomen, The King of Curses, reduced in the form of a rounded plushie. It was small and unassuming, its plump shape clothed by his robes. His beady red eyes gleamed under the booth lights.

The legend of Sukuna Ryomen was no light-hearted tale. He was a god of destruction, a bringer of chaos, feared and revered. Some said he could twist reality itself and turn the world inside out with a flick of his finger. But here he was, reduced to a toy, the weight of his name no more than the weight of stuffing inside its fat body.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to win it. But it was. Yuuji, smiling like a fool, had thrown the basketball without a care in the world. The booth attendant handed it over, his frown contrasting Yuuji's grin, beaming as he turned to press the plushie into your hands.

The second your fingers closed around it, the world shifted. The fair’s noise faded, the laughter of children, the creak of rides, the announcer’s barks, all muted as if the world tilted and you were thrown into another realm.

A chill crept down your spine, despite the comforting warmth of Yuuji beside you. His presence felt distant, as though the cold night air had placed a barrier between you. It wrapped around you, thick and suffocating, but no one else seemed to notice.

Yuuji glanced over, noticing your faltering smile and the goosebumps rising on your bare arms. You were wearing a sleeveless black dress, and the night had begun to cool. Without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, its weight grounding you as if you were beginning to float.

"Come on, you need to eat something. It'll warm you up," he said, gently steering you toward the concession stand, the warm scent of fried food greeting you.

The smell of powdered sugar and warm dough made your stomach growl, and within a few minutes later, you both sat at a small, secluded table. You had forgotten you had pocketed the Sukuna plushie into your back pocket as you sunk into the worn bench. It gave a small dying breath.

Yuuji sat beside you, his smile softened. "Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah," you murmured, snuggling into him. "Tonight was amazing."

He chuckled, draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you closer, his body radiating warmth. "I’m glad," he said, resting his chin on the top of your head. "You’ve got quiet back there. Are you okay? Still cold?"

"Just a little," you admitted, tucking yourself tighter against him, your right ear against his throat, feeling the low rumble of his voice, warm from talking and the corndogs he’d eaten.

His thumb traced gentle circles on your arm. "Are you sure?" he asked softly. Then, cautiously, "is it... your mom?"

You hesitated, a brief flash of the sad woman crossing your mind, but you pushed it away. "No, it’s not that. I’m just tired." You forced a smile.

Yuji’s arm tightened slightly around you, his thumb pausing for a moment before resuming its soothing motion. He didn’t press further, his quiet concern clear in the way he held you. "Alright," he whispered, so softly you would have missed it if your ear wasn’t pressed to his throat. His chin came to rest against your head once more, and you both sat in comfortable silence, the world fading away around you.

A few minutes passed with you both looking at the distance before you both got up, preparing to return to the night. You felt self conscious as you might’ve ruined the end of the night with your own set of problems, but as you moved, a sharp pinch made you jump. It came from where the plushie you'd stashed in your back pocket. You laughed, swatting Yuji playfully.

"Yuji!" you accused, smacking him on the arm.

He recoiled, rubbing his arm. He was wide-eyed and bewildered, almost clueless as to why you had just hit him. "What? What did I do?" he pouted, rubbing his arm.

You rolled your eyes, realizing he may have been trying to lighten the mood. Appreciatively, you nestled closer to him as you both walked to the parking lot.

If you had looked closely, you might have noticed his hand still resting innocently at your waist, the other deep in his sweats, never having moved from its place since you stood.

October 6th

The next day, a low-grade fever crept over you. It wasn’t much, but it was still a fever.

You laid snuggled under the covers, an empty box of tissues on your nightstand and your Sukuna plush peeking out from behind its pile of crumpled tissues that marked your misery.

Minutes later, Yuuji entered the room, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’d already changed into his workout clothes, a gray tank top and black basketball shorts. His eyes quickly found you, curled up in bed, shivering slightly. He walked over and placed a hand on your forehead, wincing at the warmth. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“I don’t want to get in your way,” you replied, managing a weak smile. “I’ll be fine, I’ve got…” You groped around until your hand slipped beneath Yuuji’s butt to retrieve the badly treated plushie. “I've got Sukuna, King of Curses, to protect me.”

He sighed but smiled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Alright. Rest up. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” you said softly. “Love you.”

He paused, smiled over his shoulder, halfway out the door. “Love you, too, babe.”

And then he was gone.

The house fell silent except for the low murmur of the TV and the fading echo of Yuuji’s footsteps, followed by the creaking door. You were alone now, left to your thoughts.

You held the Sukuna plush above your face, playing absentmindedly with its four plump arms. It was strange. Sukuna was known to be the most evil man who lived, but he reminded you of Yuuji in a way. Well, in terms of looks, anyway.

You were drawed out of your thoughts when you heard a soft shuffling of slippers dragging across the wooden floor with a faint, sticky sound. Your mother entered, frail and unsteady, her eyes clouded, holding a bowl of steaming soup. “I made you something for your cold.”

You set the doll aside. “Mom, you really shouldn’t be cooking,” you said, gently taking the bowl from her trembling, bony hands and placing it on the nightstand.

Her brow furrowed, eyes darting nervously around the room. "Yuji said the same thing before he left, like I can’t take care of my own daughter. I’m your mother." Her voice cracked, then softened, taking on a childlike lilt. "I’m supposed to take care of you."

You opened your mouth, searching for comforting words, but before you could speak, her tone shifted, sharp and sudden. "I know you lived with my mom during your teenage years, but she’s not your mother. She’s not. I gave birth to you– I sat on that bed for twelve, fifteen hours. Not her! Me," Her voice crescendoed, then fell to a whisper, trembling. "Not her..."

You held your breath, knowing it was best to let her rant. Your mother, the saddest woman you knew, had given birth to you young, been through two divorces, and by the second, she was lost to drugs. When you were twelve, she overdosed, slipping into a coma, and you moved in with your grandmother. She never fully recovered, neither physically nor mentally. Her eyes were murky, as if her life was constantly flashing before her eyes, reminding her of what a shit parent she'd been to her only child. It left her desperate to be part of your life, and you let her move in when you were twenty.

“I know, mom. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry,” she grumbled, her voice thick with irritation. She moved to sit on your bed but stopped when she felt something soft beneath her. Lifting herself, she frowned and picked up the Sukuna plush she had nearly squashed. Her expression softened. “Oh, who’s this?”

“Yuuji won it for me at the fair yesterday.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “I remember how much you loved your dolls and plushies. You had them all around your bed. And that, that um, that one doll Botan bought you for your tenth birthday, the one you were obsessed with…”

“The black cat with the big eyes?” you said, the memory surfacing. Botan, her second husband, was a kind man, the kindest you’d known. He bought you the plush cat for your twelfth birthday because you always wanted a real one, but he was allergic. Your mother had thrown it away after they divorced, convinced he was cheating. She’d promised to buy you a real cat. A month later, she slipped into her coma.

“Yes, yes, the big eyed one,” she said, a glint of fondness in her eyes. “It scared me half to death one night when you left it in the kitchen. I came down for water, and all I saw were those two big eyes staring at me in the dark,” she chuckled. “But this one looks like Yuuji, how cute.”

Her smile softened, and she carefully placed the plush by your pillow before standing up. She reached out and ruffled your hair gently. “Alright, I’ll let you rest. Make sure you eat your soup. It was a lot of trouble making it.”

With a soft sigh, she turned and shuffled out of the room.

You glanced at the bowl on the nightstand. The soup was watery, mostly filled with large, uneven chunks of carrot, the chicken and noodles sparse. Still, you ate it, knowing it wasn’t the taste that mattered, it was the effort.

Finally, officially alone, your mind drifted again. Yuuji.

You had met in freshman year, bonding over shared pain. He had just lost his grandfather, and while your mom had left the coma by then, the damage she inflicted on you had already finished crumbling.

You had been together for so long, but the foundation of your relationship had always been built on trauma. Yuuji had begun to grow past his grief. Instead, it motivated him to live fully and seek, in his words, a “proper death.”

You, on the other hand, still lived in the past and grew nervous each day that he may leave you in his, in his new pursuit.

Though, Yuuji wasn’t the type to string anyone along. He wasn’t that kind of person. You were his first everything, and he was yours. He knew you were still suffering, and he grew an obligation to help your mother. Because of that, he stayed.

You felt embarrassed, and at the moment, you resentee your mother for making him feel that way; tapped.

You coasted back to the present, turning over and idly playing with Sukuna’s arms. He really did look like Yuuji. Was that the reason he picked it out for you?

You shook your head, rolling over on your side, tucking the Sukuna plushie in between your breasts as you drifted to sleep.

October 10th

Fuck, why did it look so much like Yuuji?

You positioned yourself on top of your plushie. Although soft, most of its design was embroidered onto the fabric skin, like the plushie's eyes, hard to the touch.

You both haven't fucked in ages, with Yuuji being busy as a college athlete.

You felt the plushie's softness envelop your lower half as you began to grind against it. The fabric was surprisingly responsive, almost as if it were alive beneath you. Your hips moved in a slow, sensual rhythm, building friction between your clothed sex and the plushie's plush exterior.

The plushie's soft, yielding surface seemed to mold perfectly to your body as you straddled it, its plush exterior conforming to every curve. You ground your hips against the toy faster, panting with need as delicious friction built between your clothed sex and the plushie's inviting surface.

Your nipples hardened into stiff peaks, poking against the fabric of your top. Unable to resist, you reached inside your shirt and grasped them, squeezing the sensitive buds between your thumb and forefinger. "Ohhh… mmm… yes..." you whimpered quietly, mindful that your mom was asleep just next door.

The plushie's embroidered eyes provided a delightful contrast in texture, their slightly harder surface perfect for grinding your clit against.

Lost in the sensations, you tugged impatiently at your clothes, desperate for more direct contact. Finally managing to throw your shirt aside, your fingers kneaded the supple flesh of your breasts, rolling and pinching your nipples until they ached deliciously. Unable to resist, you ducked your head down and captured one rosy peak between your lips, suckling greedily. The wet heat of your mouth sent sparks of pleasure racing through your body, drawing a needy whimper from your throat.

Rocking your hips faster, you chased the building pressure between your thighs. The plushie's surface rubbed deliciously against your clothed sex, the fabric of your panties growing damp with each passing second.

You circled your sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing yourself with feather-light touches before increasing the pressure. Each stroke sent jolts of electricity coursing through your veins, stoking the fire building low in your belly. Desperate for more, you slipped your hand into your panties, fingers gliding through the slick folds of your pussy.

You plunged two fingers deep inside your aching core, pumping them in and out in time with the sway of your hips. Crude squelching noises filled the room, mingling with your breathy moans and the rustling of the plushie's stuffing. You inner walls fluttered around your fingers, aching to be filled.

You bit your lip, muffling a scream as ecstasy crashed over you. Your pussy spasmed and clenched as you gushed, soaking through your panties and dripping onto the plushie below. The soft, plush fabric absorbed your juices, the toy growing warm and damp beneath you.

You let out a shaky moan, looking down at your mess. A minute passes by before you reluctantly get up on shaky legs, your body still trembling from the force of your orgasm.

You pad naked to the bathroom, where in the shower, you languidly soap up your curves, replaying the intense moment in your mind. After thoroughly cleaning yourself, you step out and dry off, feeling refreshed and satisfied.

You wrapped the plushie in a towel to contain the mess and carried it to the laundry room, tossing it in the washing machine along with some detergent, setting it to run a hot cycle.

October 18th, 9:20pm

You stepped into the dim kitchen, your thoughts fixated on grabbing a snack. Across the room, your mother lay motionless on the couch, the low hum of the TV casting flickering shadows as she slept. The silence settled, and you reached for the cabinet handle, but the moment you opened it, something tumbled out with a sharp thud against the sink.

Startled, you jerked back, your heart racing as you peered down, half-expecting a rat to scurry from the shadows.

But in the sink, drenched in the pooling water, was your Sukuna plush, its pink hair dark and matted.

October 24th

At last, Yuuji was beside you in bed, the soft sheets barely a barrier between your bodies. You lay facing each other on your sides, close enough to feel his breath on your skin. Your lips met in a slow, lingering kiss. Until he broke it.

"Mmm," Yuuji groaned, his body trembling with need. "I hate how it's staring at us."

You glanced over your shoulder, following his gaze. The Sukuna plush sat on the nightstand, its large red eyes fixed on the two of you. Turning back to Yuuji, a sly smile tugged at your lips. “Performance anxiety?” You purred, your voice low and sultry.

Before he could rebuke, your thumb caressed the side of his face, fingertips trailing down his jawline as you pulled him in for another searing kiss. Yuuji melted into your touch, his lips parting to allow your tongue to slide against his. He tasted faintly of sake from earlier.

Yuuji's hands roamed your curves, squeezing your hips as he deepened the kiss. His hardness pressed against your thigh, evidence of his desire. But then he opened his lidded eyes and caught sight of the Sukuna plush watching you both. Frowning, he broke away, drawing a frustrated groan from you.

"Really, Yuuji?" you whined, trying to pull him back.

"I don't know, something doesn't feel right about that guy," Yuuji muttered, reaching over to flip the Sukuna plush face-down on the nightstand. He paused before flinging it softly across the room all together.

Satisfied, Yuuji turned back to you, his eyes dark with lust. He tangled his fingers in your hair, tugging you into another passionate kiss. Your bodies molded together as the kiss grew more heated, hands exploring and caressing. He grabbed the sheets before raising them over your heads.

Halloween Night

You sat on the edge of your bed, slowly rolling the red stockings up your thighs. The fabric hugged your skin snugly as you adjusted them, pausing to glance at yourself in the mirror. Halloween has finally come. The costume party you'd been excited about for weeks was just hours away, and you’d decided to dress up as Little Red Riding Hood. Her dress was secured around you with needles, as you did last minute shopping and they were out of your size. You hid the pins with the cheap red cloak that draped over your shoulders, falling just past your waist.

You were paired with the lace-trimmed stockings you’d found online. The outfit was cute but with a hint of edge, just the way you liked it.

Nobara and Megumi were supposed to pick you up soon, and the three of you planned to make an entrance. Megumi was the wolf and Nobara was the grandma. Yuuji, on the other hand, had opted to stay home. He had a big game tomorrow and needed to focus, so he’d promised to hold down the fort and handle the trick-or-treaters, along with your mom if she wasn’t already resting in her bedroom. You had teased him earlier about his dedication, but he just grinned, saying he didn’t mind.

As you turned back to the bed, you frowned, realizing that one of your stockings was missing. Your eyes scanned the messy bedspread, then drifted to the floor. Maybe it had fallen off when you were getting dressed. You leaned over to check under the bed, and sure enough, there it was, and there it was, wrapped around your Sukuna plush like some kind of weird little hostage.

You frowned, reaching down to grab the sock when, out of nowhere, you felt a sharp smack on your backside.

"Yuji!" You yelped, startled, before whirling around to see him standing there, toothbrush in his mouth, a playful smirk on his face.

“Be safe, okay?” he mumbled through the foam, tapping the toothbrush against his lip. “And make sure you don’t split up with Megumi.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the Sukuna plush back onto the bed with a sigh. You couldn’t help but smile at that, shaking your head. Megumi was like the reluctant guardian of your little trio, always making sure you didn’t get into too much trouble. “Alright,” you said, glancing at the clock on your nightstand. 6:09 p.m. You still had a little time before they arrived.

“I’ll be back by eight,” you promised, pulling on your red boots and smoothing out your dress. “Don’t wait too long.”

Yuuji stepped forward, toothbrush now forgotten, wiped the foam from his face with the back of his hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, as he always did before you or he left. “Alright, just be careful,” he murmured, his voice a little softer than before.

You smiled, feeling a little flustered under his affectionate gaze. You headed toward the door, your hand resting on the knob, when his voice called out to you again, making you pause.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he added, grinning like a dork. “I love you.”

You turned slightly, looking over your shoulder with a teasing smirk. “I know,” you said, leaning against the doorframe, enjoying the playful banter between you two.

Yuuji pouted, crossing his arms. “Say it back! What if I die tonight?”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Die? From what? The neighborhood kids in bed sheets pretending to be ghosts?”

He gave you an exaggerated look of concern. “I might not have the candy they wanted! They could turn violent, y’know.”

Shaking your head, you walked back over to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, tasting the minty toothpaste. “Love you, Yuuji. And if you’re still up when I get home, maybe I’ll give you something sweeter than candy.”

8:25 p.m

You entered the door with thunder. You’d been carrying lots of food left over from the party. Knowing the college students like you both were, food was a valuable object. You could feel your stomach twist if you had to go one more day with instant noodles.

What bothers you more is that your boyfriend hasn'rvcome down the stairs to help you put the food away after you slammed the door, a sign of frustration.

“Yuuji!” You screamed, hearing your voice echo off the walls. Nobody answers back. You didn't bother with your mom. Usually around this time, she took her pills and was out for the rest of the night.

What bothers you more is the bowl of candy, untouched, still overflowing with vibrant wrappers, sat on the table, mocking the silence that filled the house.

You cursed under your breath, assuming he’d gone to bed early again. Irritation bubbled inside your throat, but as you ascended the stairs, ready to scold him, the bubbles in your throat exploded, replaced by a scream that tore through the quiet.

There, sprawled across the floor, was your highschool sweetheart, his lifeless body drenched in blood. The crimson pooled around him, staining the hardwood. But it wasn’t the blood that froze your heart.

It was the figure standing over him.

The hulking presence loomed over you, its naked form towering and imposing. Pink hair spiked wildly, framing a face that was both beautiful and grotesque. One side twisted and deformed, while the other was almost handsome. There was something else in his hair, a sort of white foam that looked like stuffing.

But it was those piercing blue eyes that truly captured your attention – cold, calculating, and filled with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

Four inhuman arms emerged from its shadowy frame, each marked with jagged black patterns that pulsed with dark energy.

And two massive twin shafts stood at semi-attention, donning the same black markings on his arms. The weighty orbs of his testicles swung heavily between his muscular thighs, swollen and churning with virile seed, ready to unleash their pent-up load.

You could feel its gaze boring into you, as if it was sizing you up like a predator stalking its prey. A distant, hazy recognition sparked in your mind – you had seen this creature before, in the darkest corners of your memory. And now, it was here, in the flesh.

He began to walk towards you but his feet snagged onto your boyfriend's body.

Sukuna stared down at the unmoving carcass indifferently, as if it was a mere log in the way of him reaching you. He simply pushed the body to the side with his foot, thighs carved as if made of marvel, and made his way towards you.

"No... No," You whimpered as he closed the distance between you.

As you stumbled back as it advanced, closing the gap between you with slow, powerful strides.

Your feet became tangled, an unavoidable result of the intense fear coursing through your veins. The room seemed to tilt and spin around you, and before you could react, you found yourself falling backwards.

Sukuna was quick to respond, his reflexes lightning fast compared to your panicked mind. One of his powerful arms shot out, grabbing at your flimsy dress held together by pins. The delicate fabric ripped easily as you fell, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable before the imposing figure of Sukuna.

His eyes devoured every inch of your body, taking in the sight of your lacy lingerie barely concealing your most intimate parts. The flimsy bra did little to contain your heaving breasts, your nipples clearly visible through the sheer lace. And your panties... They clung to the curves of your ass and the swell of your pussy, leaving very little to the imagination.

"Leave me alone!" You cried out, crawling on all fours. He grinned and reached down, gripping on your hair firmly, almost painfully so, as he yanked you closer to his throbbing cock.

The thick, musky scent of his arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin with a dizzying mix of terror. His other hand pressed the leaking tip of his cock against your trembling lips, smearing them with his salty precum.

"No...--" you whimpered before he forced his massive girth past your lips. Sukuna's cock stretched your mouth obscenely, the bulbous head pushing against the back of your throat. The bitter taste of his precum coated your tongue as he slid deeper, making you gag and splutter around his thick shaft.

The intoxicating taste of his precum flooded your senses, igniting an uncontrollable ache between your legs. With each passing second, your body betrayed you further, your pussy growing slicker as you found yourself eagerly sucking him of your own accord.

He watched you intently, a wicked grin spreading across his face as you lavished attention on the tip of his cock, lapping at it like a woman dying of thirst. A guttural groan escaped him as he wiped away the saliva that dribbled down your chin. Throwing his head back, he surrendered to the sensations, one hand tangling in his hair while the other gripped your head tightly. For the first time, he spoke. "That's it. Quit acting so shy."

His fingers dug into your scalp as he began to thrust forcefully, driving his cock deeper into your throat with each harsh movement. There was no mercy in his actions, only a primal desire to claim and dominate. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you struggled to breathe around his thick girth, but still, you couldn't bring yourself to pull away.

His grip on your hair tightened, holding you in place as he pistoned in and out of your throat. The wet, vulgar sounds of your sucking filled the room, mingling with his grunts of pleasure. He was close now, you could tell by the way his thrusts became more erratic, more desperate.

He halted inside you, his heavy balls slapping against your chin. Your nose was buried in his pubic hair, the musky scent filling your lungs. Sukuna held you there, letting you struggle and sputter around his cock before cumming down your throat. You had no choice but to swallow every last drop, your body shuddering as the aphrodisiac effects of his seed sent waves of unwanted pleasure crashing through you.

"Swallow."

After what seemed an eternity, he finally withdrew, allowing you to gulp precious air. Thin strands of saliva and pearly seed bridged your bruised, swollen lips to his glistening, throbbing shaft. He rested the weighty length across your flushed cheek, still pulsing and oozing aphrodisiac essence from the engorged head. It trailed down the thick veins of his cock, painting your face with his musky fluids.

You gazed up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, panting softly, a wild, desperate look in their depths. Something primal and hungry sparked within you. It finally came to you that this man, this... thing, was the king of all curses.

Sukuna's voice was a deep, velvety purr that seemed to caress every inch of your skin. "Just look at you, so utterly wrecked, so desperate for more of my cock, just from having it in your mouth." His fingers traced along your jawline with a feather-light touch, a mockery of tenderness.

"I wonder how utterly destroyed you'll look when my thick shaft is buried to the hilt inside your tight little cunt." His words dripped with a dark promise as his hands roamed possessively over your your.

Sukuna's iron grip on your hair sent searing pain through your scalp as he yanked you down the hallway, your screams echoing off the walls. As you entered you and Yuuji's shared bedroom, you passed Yuuji's crumpled form, catching a glimpse of his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. A flicker of hope ignited within you - perhaps there was still a chance to be spared from being ravaged by this beast.

But Sukuna remained utterly unmoved by Yuuji's condition. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent you tumbling onto the bed, your body bouncing slightly on the rumpled sheets. You immediately scrambled backwards, putting as much distance between yourself and the demon as possible.

Your efforts were futile. In a blur of motion, Sukuna lunged forward and seized your ankle in an iron grip. You thrashed and kicked, but he easily captured your other leg and effortlessly wrenched your legs apart, positioning himself between your thighs.

Sukuna's hands roamed possessively over your soft curves, his touch both tender and rough. "So soft, so delicate. Like ripe fruit, just waiting to be devoured," he purred, fingers digging into the pliant flesh of her thighs. "I remember when you used to play with me, moving my limbs however you wanted. Did it excite you, having that control?"

You shivered. His words transported you back to the weeks before, when you would idly move the stuffed limbs of your Sukuna plush. How was he alive? Big?

Newer flashes of memory surfaces, ones of where you carelessly tossed him, or accidentally sat on him. Yuuji performed all of those actions, and now he laid unmoving on the floor. What if Sukuna sought revenge for those thoughtless acts?

Sukuna's hands roamed hungrily over your curves, tracing the flare of your hips, the taper of your waist, before roughly palming the heavy weight of your breast, pushing them together. With a sharp tug, he rent your bra asunder, the flimsy fabric tearing like tissue paper. Your breast spilled free, soft and yielding as they followed the curve of your sides, like melting butter on a hot pan.

Sukuna's fingers sank into the pliant flesh, kneading and squeezing with bruising force. He enveloped your entire breast in the hot, greedy clasp of his palm, thumb flicking mercilessly over the pebbled peak. You grunted as his roughness.

Suddenly, a wet heat engulfed your nipple. You gasped, realizing a mouth had formed on Sukuna's hand. The tongue swirled and lashed the sensitive bud, suckling hard and drawing the tender flesh deeper. Jolts of painful pleasure shot straight to your core as it's teeth grazed the delicate skin, nipping sharply before his tongue soothed the sting.

Sukuna's other set of arms slid between your thighs, a finger brushing against your clothed sex. He could feel the scorching heat emanating from your core, the dampness seeping through the thin fabric. A wicked grin spread across his face as he realized just how affected you were by his touch.

"Mmm, already so wet and ready for me," Sukuna purred, his voice a deep rumble.

In one swift motion, one hand clasped together your ankles in one palm, spreading your legs wider. The other clamped down on your panties, bunching the fabric in his fist.

With a sharp yank, Sukuna tore your panties clean off, baring your glistening sex to his hungry gaze. His eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight of your slick folds, already flushed and swollen with arousal.

Sukuna's tongue slid out, licking his lips as if he could already savor your sweet nectar. In one fluid motion, he laid on the bed, positioning you above his face. Your dripping sex hovered inches from his mouth, the intoxicating aroma of your pussy filling his nostrils.

He gripped your hips firmly, holding you open and exposed for his hungry gaze. You could feel the scorching heat of his breath caressing your sensitive flesh. Sukuna's fingers dug possessively into the meat of your thighs, keeping you spread wide.

"I'm going to feast on this pussy," he growled, his lips grazing your inner thigh. "Ever since you came on my face, I haven't been able to stop thinking about tasting your essence. Sweet, compared to how slutty you were."

You have barely any time to remember before he yanked your hips closer, burying his face between your legs. He dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit, savoring the first taste of your arousal. You cried out, fingers tangling in his hair as he moaned against your flesh.

"Fuck, you're so sweet," Sukuna rasped, his voice rough with desire. "So fucking sweet."

He dove back in, sealing his lips around your clit. At the same time, he thrust his tongue deep inside your tight channel, fucking you with the slick muscle.

"Ah!" You cried out, your thighs clamping around Sukuna's head as you tried to squirm away from the intense pleasure. Sukuna growled, the vibrations making you see stars.

His strong hands gripped your doughy hips, holding your frame firmly in place. With a sharp smack, he struck your pert ass, the crack echoing through the room. A vivid red handprint bloomed across your rear. "Interrupt me again while I am feasting and I will have you writhing and screaming on my tongue for hours on end."

"'M sorry... 'M sorry!" You whimpered, though your mind felt foggy, thoughts scattering like startled birds.

His tongue continued to swirl and tease, leaving hot, wet strokes over your quivering flesh. He zeroed in on your throbbing clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before his lips secured around it again. He suckled hard and fast, sending jolts of electric pleasure racing through your core. He alternated between flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit and taking it between his lips.

"Mmmph! Oh, oh god!" You moaned, your back arching as you rode his face. Your hands fisted in his hair, pushing him closer. "Please don't stop... Please don't stop!"

Sukuna showed no signs of slowing down, his tongue plunging deep into your soaked folds, stroking along your velvety walls. He plunged two thick, calloused fingers knuckle-deep into your tight, slick heat. Your velvety walls clenched greedily around the intrusion.

Curling his fingers just so, Sukuna rubbed insistently against that spongy patch of nerves, stroking and massaging until your hips were shaking against his face. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth as he feasted on your weeping sex.

You babbled incoherently, hands fisting in his dark hair. Your thighs clamped around his head, trapping him against your spasming core. "Ah... Ah!"

With a final, well-aimed thrust, he sent you flying over the edge into pure bliss.

Your back arched off the face as a silent scream tore from your throat. Your pussy clenched around his fingers like a vice, gushing your sweet nectar onto his tongue and chin as he eagerly lapped it up. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you, leaving you boneless and panting. Slowly, he pulled his sticky fingers coated in your essence and brought it to his softened lips.

As he licked his fingers, he gazed at you with renewed hunger, as if the taste of you had an aphrodisiac effect too. He knew you were completely at his mercy now.

In one swift motion, he pounced, his powerful body pressing you down into the mattress. With a firm grip on your ankles, he hoisted your legs up and back until they were folded nearly in half, your knees nearly touching your shoulders. The lewd position left you completely exposed and vulnerable to his desires.

"There, now you're open and ready for me," he growled, the bulbous head of his thick, veiny cock prodding insistently at your tight little entrance. You let out a sharp gasp as he began to push inside, your slick walls stretching obscenely around his girthy intrusion. It felt like you were being split in half as he slowly sank deeper, igniting a raging wildfire in your core.

"Ah! S-Slow down! It's too much!" you cried out, your fingers digging into his muscular chest to push him away. Your body betrayed you, inner muscles fluttering and clenching needily around the hard shaft impaling you.

He paused.

Then a ungodly grin spread across his face. With a flex of his powerful hips, he withdrew almost all the way until just the tip remained inside your quivering heat. You felt something else prod your entrance and your heart dropped.

With a brutal thrust, he slammed back into the hilt, heavy balls slapping lewdly against your upturned ass. He had managed to stuff his second cock into your tight hole.

Your back arched off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat as he stretched you to your absolute limit. Electric pleasure crackled through your nerves with each deep, punishing stroke as he set a ruthless pace, pounding into your sopping cunt with animalistic abandon. Obscene squelching noises filled the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh and your wanton cries.

"Let this be a lesson to you, girl," he groaned, relishing the way your velvety walls gripped him like a vice. His hand gripped your cheeks, puffing out your lips. "Tell me what to do with my cock, and I'll return it twice-fold."

He could feel every inch of your tight heat clenching around his throbbing shafts as he pounded into you mercilessly. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, driving him wild with lust. He wanted to ruin you, to claim every part of you and make you forget about any other man.

He grinned at the thought. "Your boyfriend would lose his fucking mind if he saw you like this," he growled, voice rough with lust. "Stuffed full with two cocks, moaning like a bitch in heat, surrendering to me so easily. Are you ashamed?"

He reached down to roughly grope your bouncing tits, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He pinched and tugged at your sensitive nipples, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. The synchronized sensations of his hands on your breasts and his cock pounding into your dripping cunt were driving you wild, pushing you closer and closer to the brink.

"No," he chuckled. "No. I don't even think you have a single thought in that pretty little head besides how good it feels to be used like a cheap whore."

His lewd words only stoked the flames of your desire higher, your inner walls gripping his plunging shaft even tighter. You could feel the pressure mounting deep within you, winding itself into an knot.

"Take it," he growled. "Take, every, last, inch!" His hips slammed into yours with every pronounced word of his command. "Gonna pump this pussy full. Flood your womb with my seed."

Abruptly, he altered the angle, the bulbous head of his manhood grinding against your G-spot with every powerful thrust. That extra stimulation was the final push you needed to tumble over the edge. A guttural moan tore from your throat as your climax hit you like a freight train, your body quaking and spasming as rapture overwhelmed your senses in relentless waves.

His cocks pulsed and throbbed inside you as he neared his own peak, stretching you deliciously with each twitch. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against yours. You felt the first hot spurt of his release paint your inner walls, followed by another and another, until you were both gasping and trembling from the intensity of it all.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight pinning you to the bed as you both struggled to catch your breath. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your mingled panting filling the room. After a long, blissful moment, he rolled off you, his semi-erect cocks slipping out with a lewd squelch. Immediately, his thick seed began oozing from your well-fucked pussy, trickling down to your quivering asshole.

Your eyes fluttered and rolled to the back of your as exhaustion overtook you. Sukuna gazed down at your ravaged body, admiring the finger-shaped bruises and glistening sheen of perspiration coating your skin.

He leaned down, licking a long stripe up your pussy, savoring the mingled taste of your juices.

His eyes suddenly flicked to the shadowy corner. "Uraume, you little pervert," he grinned.

Uraume stepped out from the shadows, a wicked grin on their face. "I couldn't resist coming to welcome you back to the world, my lord Sukuna." Their eyes roamed over your cum-splattered body, and followed the trail of stuffing on the floor.

"I was wondering when you would come back from that humiliating curse."

Sukuna sat up, not bothering to cover his nudity. "This girl happens to be a descendant of one of my brides. I take great pride in my women."

"Yes, I can see," she said, eyeing Yuuji's body. "She served you well, my lord.”

[7nuh]

I HC Scarletella is smart enough to figure out MC's language and I'm currently brainrotting over an AU wherein he attempts to adapt a normal, human life. As normal as he can pretend to be, though, while getting closer to you. MC is a completely unassuming person by day and a serial killer by night who is freaked out by this random tall and mute redhead suddenly appearing in the oddest places. Simple coincidence doesn't explain any of it anymore. MC starts seriously considering murdering him too lest he foil their secret hobby, only to realize he may just be as fucked up as them...

[mountaesan]

of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho 

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge  notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin. 

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame. 

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor. 

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen. 

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit. 

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold. 

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement. 

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!” 

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead. 

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop. 

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms. 

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. 

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles. 

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.” 

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.” 

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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[jane-the-good]

CALEB: nightly rendezvous

WORD COUNT: 3.7K

SUMMARY: You and Caleb open a box of momentos together. It reminds you both how valuable your memories are.

NOTE: I’d like to note that I wrote this before I got the deceptive solitude card. I am actually a psychic and a witch, so yeah 😌🔮

WARNING: it’s like 69% smut, unprotected sex, fingering, angst, Caleb loves to praise

AO3 caleb masterlist

I also made a CALEB sweater if that’s your thing ♡

The door clicks shut behind you with a familiar, unhurried ease, as soon as you step in to Caleb’s apartment. The warmth of the space meets you in a sigh, slipping over your skin and settling. The day’s travel cling faintly to your limbs, a dull ache in your calves, the slight stiffness in your shoulders, but here, you feel lighter. Safe. The city hums beyond the windows, its neon sprawl muted by rain-slick glass. Out there, the world is sharp with angles and noise. In here, the edges soften.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with an absent motion, sending a glance your way. His eyes, heavy-lidded from the long day, still catch the light with a quiet warmth, the easy familiarity of someone who has seen you weary and half-wild, and stayed.

You stretch, slowly, the movement pulling tension from your back. With a low sigh, you toe off your boots by the door. "I’m so ready to crash," you murmur, rubbing at the knot in your neck with tired fingers.

Caleb’s mouth quirks faintly, the ghost of a grin as he steps toward the bedroom. "Yeah." His voice is low, rougher at the edges, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You follow him down the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your steps, a sound that belongs to lived-in spaces. The room is dimly lit, the amber glow from the bedside lamp spilling over the dark walls in uneven patches. Shadows stretch long and lean across the ceiling, pooling in the corners. You shrug off your jacket, the fabric slipping easily from your shoulders, and toss it over the chair in the corner. With a sigh, you sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers working the buckle of your belt. The scent of him lingers in the air, clean, familiar, a little nostalgic, it sinks into everything around it, the blankets and the collar of your shirt.

A box, plain and unassuming, sits near the dresser, half-tucked against the wall. You wouldn’t have thought much of it, just another thing left out of place, except you know this box. You saw it once, back when the investigation was still open. When he was still presumed gone.

Your hands still, fingers slipping from the leather of your belt. The breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, as if the room has drawn in too close around you.

“You have this?" you ask softly, nodding toward the box.

Caleb’s fingers pause on the hem of his shirt. He glances over his shoulder, following your gaze. For a beat, he doesn’t say anything. Then he exhales quietly, walking over to it. His movements are slow, almost tentative, as though approaching the box might make it vanish.

He crouches beside it, brushing his fingers along the lid. The touch is light, almost reverent. "Yeah," he says, barely above a murmur. "They…sent it back after everything was cleared." His voice is quiet but steady, though there’s a fragile edge to it. He’s holding something back. His fingers linger on the corner of the lid, but he doesn’t lift it. Instead, he glances at you, his eyes soft with something vulnerable.

He stops, wetting his lips briefly, then meets your gaze. His voice dips lower, more careful now. "I didn’t want to open it with out you."

The admission hangs between you, gentle and raw. Your chest tightens with something warm. Without a word, you move to the floor beside him, knees brushing. The faint warmth of his skin against yours steadies you both.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence presses close, not heavy, but dense. The room itself is holding its breath. The walls seem nearer somehow, the dimness deeper. The amber light catches faintly in Caleb’s eyes, but his expression stays unreadable, carefully still.

When he finally peels the lid off, his hands are slow, deliberate. Fingers steady but unhurried, as if each movement is an acknowledgment, of the weight in the box, of the time it spent missing. The cardboard gives a faint creak, the sound small and splintering in the quiet. And then it’s open.

The contents are unremarkable at first glance, just a collection of objects, but you know better. They are fragments. Keepsakes of a life once presumed lost. The edges of old photographs, corners softened with age. A silver lighter, worn smooth from use. A cracked leather watch strap, still knotted at the last size he wore it. The pieces of him that remained, even when he didn’t.

At the top of the pile is a battered tin box, the edges slightly dented. Caleb’s lips curve faintly. "My first rock collection," he mutters, flipping it open. His fingers brush over the small stones inside, some still scratched with the childish initials you both once carved into them.

You laugh softly, leaning into his side. "You used to insist they were ‘rare geological specimens.’ Even though we found them next to the school parking lot."

He huffs a quiet chuckle. "They were rare to me."

He sets the tin aside and pulls out a faded photo, edges fraying slightly. The two of you are in it, maybe ten or eleven years old, perched on the hood of a rusted old car at the edge of town. Your legs are dangling over the bumper, his arm slung over your shoulders because he never wanted to let go. You squint at the sun in the photo, laughing mid-blink.

"God," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the worn image. "We were just kids."

Caleb’s voice lowers, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. "I remember thinking back then… I always want be able to make you laugh like that."

You glance up at him, heart catching at the tenderness in his eyes.

There are more trinkets, a worn pocketknife he swore made him invincible at fifteen, a concert ticket from the first time you ever snuck out together, and a leather bracelet you gave him one summer, back when you were still figuring out how to say you cared without saying it.

His fingers linger over the bracelet. "You made this," he murmurs, voice nearly too soft to hear.

"Yeah," you reply, your throat tight. "You never took it off."

He exhales slowly, turning it over in his fingers. “It’s too small now," he says, voice rougher. "Even when I couldn’t wear it, I still wanted it with me.”

Your chest pulls tight, a knot of breath caught somewhere it shouldn’t be. You blink hard, but it doesn’t soften the sudden burn in your throat. The bracelet sits in Caleb’s palm, smaller than you remember. Once, it fit him perfectly, clung to his wrist with easy familiarity. Now, it looks almost fragile against his hand, a delicate thing. A reminder of how much he’s grown. Of how much you both have.

Your gaze drifts to his arm. If he were wearing it now, and how he wouldn’t feel it. The thought twists low in your stomach, sharp and quiet.

You reach over, slow and steady, and brush your fingers over his hand, closing it gently around the bracelet. His breath falters, just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, his fingers slipping between yours, threading them together. His grip is firm, almost unyielding. Afraid that if he lets go, the moment might fracture. Holding on to you is the only thing keeping him tethered.

His eyes meet yours, and the weight of everything hits you both all at once. The years. The grief. The countless moments of holding on when it would have been easier to let go. And still, here you are. Still steady, still the same.

"You were always the one," you murmur, voice almost trembling. "The one who kept me steady, even when you were barely holding on."

He shakes his head slightly, his fingers tightening around yours. "No," he says softly. "You kept me going. You were always my reason."

Your breath catches. The words hang there, heavy and certain. And when he leans in, there’s no hesitation. No room for second thoughts. His lips meet yours, slow at first, a quiet, steady thing. But then he shifts, cupping your jaw, and something deeper flickers through the kiss. It grows more urgent, more searching. His hand slides along your waist, tugging you closer, and you go willingly. His warmth seeps into your skin, chasing away the ache that’s been sitting within you.

You tilt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. His breath catches slightly when you tug, and he answers with a low sound, deepening the kiss. His hands splay against your back, holding you flush against him. It’s familiar but heavier somehow, like trying to remember how to breathe again after holding it in for too long.

When you finally break apart, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless. His thumb brushes along your cheek, lingering as though afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

"Still the same," he murmurs softly, voice barely above a breath. "Still my person."

You smile faintly, closing your eyes and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And you’re still mine.”

The rough carpet scratches against your knees, but you hardly notice. Neither of you do. Not when Caleb is pressed against you, his hands dragging slow and deliberate over your skin. The dim light from the dark sky spills through his floor-to-ceiling windows, the endless stretch of clouds below before you’re floating somewhere between the stars. The entire city of Skyhaven hums faintly below.

His fingers trace along your back, dragging slow circles over your skin, dipping lower, lower. You shiver beneath his touch, your breath catching when he cups your ass, his grip firm, possessive. His mouth trails along your jaw, warm and damp, lips parting just slightly as his teeth graze your skin. You gasp, your head falling back as he nips at your throat, the sharpness of it making you squirm.

“I thought you were so exhausted?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough against your neck.

You blink, dazed. "Hm?"

He exhales a soft chuckle against your skin. “You were begging to come home"

You arch into him, your fingers curling into his shirt, searching for anything to ground yourself. His mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath warm as he whispers, “Did thinking of me do this to you?"

You lift your gaze, and his smile is devastating, lazy, beautiful, and so damn sure of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly what he does to you.

"Caleb," you breathe, a warning, but it falls apart the second he slides his fingers between your thighs.

He chuckles softly, his lips dragging along your jaw, warm and unhurried. “So sentimental," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower. "I knew you would be." His breath ghosts over your skin, making you shiver. "I thought maybe you’d just look through our memories, let it remind you how much I mean to you." His fingers curl inside you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. "But I’m very glad you decided to be… passionate about it instead."

You barely manage a breathless laugh, but it catches in your throat when his fingers sink deeper, moving with slow, devastating precision. Your thighs tremble against him as he lazily teases you, making your legs jerk.

"You manipulative asshole," you gasp, your hips arching into his hand, desperate for more.

He smirks against your throat, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin, his voice low and teasing. "Mm, you’re not complaining." His words hum against your pulse, warm and smug. "you’re actually clinging to me like you might just float away."

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers tightening at the roots, pulling just enough to make him groan. You’re trembling now, heat pooling low in your belly, each stroke of his fingers leaving you weaker, breathless, before he lessens the pressure.

"Caleb," you plead, voice cracking around his name, needy and ruined.

His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with affection, with want. "I love hearing you say my name like that."

He only smiles against your skin, biting down gently on the curve of your neck, teeth dragging over the delicate flesh just enough to make you gasp. “We just got home." His voice is low, almost mocking, his fingers barely moving, a slow, deliberate torture that makes your hips buck in frustration.

"You’re infuriating," you moan, rocking into his hand, desperate for more. The ache is building, sharp and restless, but he gives you nothing more than a teasing graze of his fingertips, just enough to keep you trembling on the edge.

"You were the one who distracted me," he cuts in smoothly, his voice rough with amusement. His lips trail along your jaw, pressing slow, lingering kisses against the sensitive skin. “Always tryin to twist it on to me" His teeth scrape against your earlobe, making you shiver. His breath is hot and smug, ghosting over your skin, knowing exactly how weak you are for him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you,” he rasps, his hand sliding lower, parting you with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace over you with lazy, infuriating precision, light, feather-soft strokes that make your thighs clench around his hand. He dips just enough to tease your entrance before retreating, denying you what you so clearly crave.

“You always do," you grit out, voice barely more than a breathless whimper. Your nails dig into his shoulder, clinging to him, hoping he’ll take pity on you, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Mm, not always," he murmurs, nipping at the hollow beneath your jaw. “always is too permanent." His lips curve into a smirk you can feel against your throat, the kind that makes you burn with equal parts lust and frustration.

Testing the limits of your patience, he drags his fingers through your slickness, barely applying pressure, just enough to feel how wet you are for him.

“Is this what happens when you think about me?” he muses, almost mockingly. “How lucky I am."

You shudder when he presses harder, dragging his fingers with more purpose, making you sob softly into his neck. He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes. His gaze is dark, but there’s warmth in it, something reverent, something awe-struck. He’s still not sure you’re real. He doesn’t want to miss a second of watching you fall apart.

"Let go for me, love," he whispers, voice thick with need. "I’ve got you."

The words undo you. You come with a sharp gasp, your body shuddering violently as you clench around his fingers, pulsing helplessly. The pleasure crashes through you in dizzying waves, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your nails bite into his shoulders, and he groans at the sharp sting, feeling the way you shake in his arms, the way you whimper his name as if it’s the only word you know.

His lips find yours, slow and deliberate, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your mouth. He kisses you through the aftershocks, his tongue sliding over yours with languid strokes. He’s savoring the taste of you, the way you melt and sigh and give yourself over so completely. His hand stays between your thighs, fingers still slick with your release, teasing lazy, featherlight circles that make you twitch with oversensitivity.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s already moving. His hands grip your thighs, guiding you with ease as he shifts his pants and pulls you onto his lap. You let out a startled gasp when your knees bracket his hips, the sudden press of his hard length against your slick heat making you shiver. His fingers dig into your waist, firm and possessive, holding you steady as he drags your hips against him, making you feel every inch of him.

The roughness of the carpet scrapes against your knees, a faint burn against your skin, but you hardly notice. It’s nothing compared to the stretch of him as he slides you onto him, slow and steady, filling you so perfectly, so completely, that you can’t help but whimper into his mouth. He groans softly, his lips still pressed against yours, swallowing the broken, needy sounds you make.

His fingers flex against your hips, anchoring you in place as he grinds deeper, making you feel the full, maddening weight of him. Your forehead falls against his, your breath coming in short, uneven pants, and he brushes his lips over yours again, slow, almost tender, a delicious contrast to the way he grips you so tightly, unable to bear letting you go.

He groans against you in a gentle laugh.

Your heart thundering against his skin.

His hand cups the back of your neck making your head lean back.

You glance up, and the moment your eyes meet, something in his expression shifts. The tenderness there hits you so hard it makes your throat tighten. His gaze is reverent, holding you. You’re something precious, something infinite.

"You’re everything to me," the words sure and unwavering.

“more than your rock collection?”

He huffs a soft laugh, his hands tightening ever so slightly at your hips. “infinitely more than my rare geological specimens."

“hm.” you press, your lips twitching into a grin.

He leans in, brushing his mouth against your temple. “much more," he murmurs. “You always have been.”

Your chest tightens, and your hands frame his face, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss is slow and aching, all warmth and devotion, as if you have all the time in the world.

"Goodness," you breathe against his lips, a teasing lilt.

He grins faintly, then lifts your other leg, wrapping it around his waist. The angle makes you gasp and him press deeper.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

He grips your hips with purpose, pulling you down as he thrusts up into you, slow and deliberate. Each movement is measured, dragging pleasure from you and savoring it, he wants to feel every shiver, every pulse you give him. The windows beyond blur into a smear of dark sky and scattered starlight, but you barely notice. Your head tilts back, a helpless moan slipping from your lips as your eyes flutter shut. You can’t help it, your eyes roll back, your body arching into his as he fills you so perfectly.

With a low growl, Caleb sits up suddenly, his arms sliding around your back. He moves fluidly, effortlessly, flipping you both over in one smooth motion. The breath leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, but he’s already there, settling over you, his chest pressed to yours, his hands framing your face as he gazes down at you with a hunger that makes your skin flush.

His hips drive into you with more force now, deeper, rougher, pulling a strangled whimper from your throat. You cling to him, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave angry red trails. You sob softly against his shoulder, the sound raw and pleading, your voice barely a breath."Caleb," his name fractured, wrecked with longing.

He groans at the sound, his breath a hot rush against your neck. "God, I love hearing you say my name," he rasps, his voice gravel-thick, ruined with need. His lips trail down your throat, tasting every inch of skin, his teeth grazing lightly over your pulse.

One hand slides between your bodies, his fingers slipping down, finding you exactly where you need him. His thumb presses firmly, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have you gasping into his mouth, trembling beneath him.

"Please," your hips grind against him, your body chasing the edge.

"You’re so good to me," he rasps, his voice wrecked in worship.

You shatter with him still inside you, your body breaking against his. The world contracts, narrowing to the sharp, sudden pull of pleasure splintering through you. His fingers keep working you through it, relentless, drawing every last tremor from you until you’re nothing but a trembling, gasping mess in his arms. You barely register the low, guttural sound that tears from his throat as he follows, his body going taut, breath stalling before he spills into you. His hips falter, then press deep, trying to anchor himself inside you, leaving is the last thing he wants.

You clutch at him, hands fisting in the fabric at his back, breath ragged and uneven. His arms cinch around you, fierce and desperate, as though he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. But you stay. You let him hold you through it, the aftershocks, the trembling, the quiet unraveling, until all that’s left is the sound of your breathing, tangled and slow, steadying together.

"I’m so thankful I get to love you," he murmurs softly, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead.

The dark sky presses in through the windows, quiet and endless, but in his arms, you are grounded. Held.

You press your cheek against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat ground you. "I’m grateful to be yours," you murmur softly. "You love so effortlessly."

His fingers trail slowly down your spine, soothing, reverent. He kisses your temple, lingering because he might never let go.

The box of memories rests beside you, forgotten but not discarded. A quiet remnant of the past, left open, but no longer reaching for you. It lingers there, neither heavy nor sharp, simply present. But right now, it’s his hands you feel the most. The warmth of them, steady and familiar, pressed against yours. The way his thumb drags slowly over your knuckles, tracing thoughtless circles in muscle memory.

And the way he holds you now, he wants to remember this forever

[nylqnder]

PLEASE TAKE ME HOME QUINN HUGHES

pairing: bsf!fem!reader x quinn hughes

summary: after a crushing loss, quinn seeks comfort from you, leading to him finding support and solace in a way he didn't expect.

warnings: quinn being self-critical + kind of being existential, a lil kiss, cuddling

wc: 2.4k

notes: love me some best friends to lovers content!!

Quinn sat in his stall, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, and his head heavy in his hands. The locker room was quiet, almost unbearably so, with only the muted rustling of his teammates shedding their gear, each one lost in their own thoughts. The chill of sweat against his skin, the echoing silence, and the sting of the 7-3 ass whooping they’d just received at the hands of the Oilers gnawed at him. He ran his hands over his face, wishing the exhaustion could just be scrubbed away like a smudge of dirt, but it clung, deeper than fatigue.

Tocchet’s words still hung heavy in the air. His tone wasn’t biting or enraged, just… disappointed. Somehow, that made it worse. The sharpness of anger would’ve been easier to deflect, easier to set aside, but this, this gnawing sense of having let someone down, that was harder to shake. As captain, the weight of each loss bore down on Quinn with a fierce gravity, like an invisible pull he could never fully shrug off. He wore every defeat like an extra layer under his skin, something that followed him home, creeping into the quiet spaces of his life that should have been a refuge.

But tonight, even the thought of his empty apartment was unbearable, the silence there too vast, the dark windows only offering his own tired reflection in return. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, with the image of his own disappointment staring back at him.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering uncertainly over your name. He knew he should probably wait until he’d collected himself, until he could find something to say that didn’t carry the weight of the evening’s defeat. But in that moment, the thought of a connection, of hearing from someone who could pull him out of his head, outweighed his hesitation. Before he could overthink it, he pressed send.

Quinn's message was simple, just asking if you were home. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted — to talk, to sit in silence, to have someone tell him that tonight wasn’t the end of the world. He just knew that you’d understand, that you’d get it without him having to explain.

There was a comfort between you and Quinn that had been there almost from the start. As he settled into life with the team, through rookie struggles and the relentless grind of the season, he had a way of just being around that seemed natural, easy. Somehow, even as his responsibilities grew, and the demands of his role pulled him in every direction, he kept finding his way back to you. And you, too, found yourself drawn to his quiet, unassuming strength. He wasn’t loud about it, wasn’t looking for anyone’s approval — just steady and dependable, with a rare kind of sincerity you didn’t encounter often.

And lately, maybe without realizing it, that connection felt like it had deepened into something neither of you had put a name to. Moments hung between you two, ones that felt heavier than friendship but never quite crossed the line into something more. An extra beat in his gaze, the way you’d linger just a bit longer than necessary after a game, the silence between you comfortable and somehow charged all at once.

When your reply came, just a quick “I’m here, come over,” Quinn didn’t waste any time. He left the locker room without the usual goodbyes, without waiting for the sting of his teammates’ sympathetic glances or their vague attempts at consolation. Tonight, he needed to get out of that space, out of his own head, and into a place where things felt real again.

Rogers Arena was quiet as he made his way out, the late-night staff offering tired nods as he passed. The cold night air outside cut through him, biting against his damp skin, but he welcomed the jolt, the way it woke him up a bit. He barely remembered the drive, just that he kept glancing at the clock, willing time to move faster, each stoplight feeling like a barrier between him and something he desperately needed.

Finally, he was standing outside your door, hands stuffed in his pockets, nervous energy buzzing through him. He barely managed a steady knock, his heart feeling oddly tight as he waited. The lock clicked, and when you opened the door, he felt his breath catch.

You stood there in his oversized hoodie, sleeves brushing your fingers, and a pair of sleep boxers. Your hair was pulled into a messy updo, and even though it was just a lounging outfit, you looked effortlessly good. The sight of you felt like a balm against everything heavy he’d been carrying, a reminder of warmth and familiarity that he hadn’t realized he was craving.

“Hey,” you said softly, a gentle smile spreading on your lips as you took him in.

“Hey.” His voice came out rougher than he intended, but he didn’t try to cover it up. There was no point in hiding here. He took a step inside, feeling the warmth of your apartment surround him, smelling faint traces of your perfume mixed with the lingering scent of dinner.

You closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for a moment as you watched him kick off his shoes and shed his jacket. There was a quiet understanding between you, no questions asked, no need for explanations.

Quinn barely made it to the couch before his legs seemed to give out, and he sank down, letting out a long, defeated sigh as he fell back against the cushions. He rubbed his temples, trying to will away the exhaustion, but it clung to him like a second skin. You moved to the kitchen, grabbing the pizza box and setting it on the coffee table in front of him.

“Leftover pizza,” you offered with a smile, lifting the lid to reveal a few slices from earlier that night. “It’s cold, though. I can nuke it for you if you want.”

Quinn raised a hand, a small smile ghosting across his lips as he shook his head. “Nah, it’s better cold,” he replied, reaching forward to grab a slice.

You gave him a mock grimace. “Criminal. Criminal behaviour.”

He chuckled softly, the sound a small relief against the weight he carried. “You are the only person in the world who doesn’t like cold pizza,” he commented, taking a bite without another word, the simple act of eating grounding him a little, offering a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.

The sudden voice of P.K. Subban echoed through the apartment, ESPN returning from a commercial break. The panel began dissecting their recent loss with a precision that felt almost cruel. Not wanting Quinn to relive the events of the game, you grabbed the remote and quickly hit the mute button, casting a quick look at Quinn, who was staring at the screen. His face was unreadable, a tight mask that betrayed none of the frustration you knew had to be simmering beneath the surface.

“You watched the game?” Quinn asked.

You sat down beside him, folding your legs underneath you. “Of course I did. I watch every game,” you replied, giving him a small smile, hoping he could see that you meant it—that no matter the outcome, you’d be there, watching, supporting.

Quinn looked down at the pizza slice in his hands, the corners of his mouth tugging in what might have been a grateful smile. But it was fleeting, quickly replaced by a frown, as if the memory of the game was sneaking back in, clawing its way into his mind.

Seeing that he was still tense, still haunted by the weight of the night, you knew you had to shift his focus before it consumed him entirely.

“Hey,” you said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “How about we watch something?”

He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You thought for a moment, before thinking of a show that you knew would hopefully take his mind off of hockey entirely. You switch the TV to Disney+, scrolling until you find 9-1-1.

Quinn let out a small, amused huff, shaking his head. “9-1-1? Seriously?” he asked. “I’ll never understand how you like these unrealistic shows. You know real emergency response isn’t like that, right?”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, I know, Captain Serious. But not everything has to be realistic to be entertaining. Just… relax, okay?”

Quinn sighed, finally letting his shoulders loosen a bit as he settled further into the couch. As the show unfolded with its usual chaos — an explosion followed by impossible rescues, and moments of high drama — you saw the tension in Quinn's shoulders slowly ease. Every now and then, he’d shake his head in disbelief or give a low chuckle at some particularly wild scenario, his reactions a mix of amusement and bemusement. You nudged him playfully during one of the more absurd scenes, catching the way the edges of his lips curled up despite himself.

As the episode continued, Quinn seemed to sink further into the couch, the weight of the night slowly lifting as the ridiculous plotlines distracted him. His arm drifted to the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he got more comfortable. You noticed how his head was starting to lean closer, almost unconsciously finding a spot near your shoulder, like he was drawn to that gentle connection.

Instinctively, you reached up, letting your fingers thread through his hair, running gently along his scalp. You felt Quinn still for a moment, almost as if he were surprised by the gesture before leaning into you, his eyes drifting closed as he melted into your touch. The tension from the evening faded with each soft stroke, each gentle sweep of your fingers through his hair.

As the episode played on in muted background chaos, you felt Quinn’s breathing even out, his head settling against your shoulder. He sighed, the sound soft and vulnerable in a way that made you ache for him. You knew he needed this — a moment to be just Quinn, not the captain, not the defender, not the one who had to carry the weight of every win and loss. Just Quinn, here with you, without expectations or demands.

You paused the show, shifting slightly to look at him, and Quinn opened his eyes. He looked at you with a mixture of gratitude and weariness, his blue eyes soft in the dim light of the room.

“You know,” you began quietly, “you played so well tonight. No matter the score, you were incredible.”

His shoulders tensed slightly, and he looked down, his lips pressed into a hard line. “Thanks, but…” He hesitated. “I don’t know. It just feels like… I’m losing it lately. Like every mistake is a reminder that maybe I’m just not good enough to lead us right now.”

You reached over for the remote, muting the TV, focusing fully on him. “Hey.” You tilted his face up toward yours, catching his tired eyes. “I’m a little sick of you being so hard on yourself. You’re so good, Quinn,” you whispered, your hand gently tracing along his jaw before you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his right cheek.

His eyes closed as if the touch eased him, just for a moment.

“And the guys…they respect you more than you know.” You moved to his left cheek, brushing a light kiss there. You could feel the faint stubble, smell the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne.

“And the fans? The fans think the world of you, Quinn,” you murmured. Before you knew it, you’d leaned in to press a quick, soft kiss to his lips, pulling back almost immediately, your eyes wide with a bit of shock at what you’d just done. A flush rose to your cheeks as you took in the shock on Quinn’s face, his eyes wide and lips slightly parted. For a heartbeat, the room was silent, the air heavy with a newfound tension.

But then, without warning, he leaned forward, capturing your lips in a passionate, unguarded kiss. His hand slipped around to the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer. This kiss was different — fierce and sure, a release of all the feelings that had been building between you for so long. The room felt electric, everything else falling away as you lost yourself in him.

When you finally broke apart, your foreheads resting together, Quinn’s gaze was soft, yet intense.

“I’ve… I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as if he were afraid to break the spell.

Your heart was pounding, a mix of exhilaration and disbelief swirling in your chest. For a moment, the heaviness of the night, the loss, the disappointment—all of it seemed to dissolve in the warmth between you. In the quiet of your apartment, where it was just the two of you, there were no expectations, no pressure.

Quinn pulled back just enough to study your face, his hand still gently holding the back of your neck. His gaze softened as he took you in like he was memorizing every detail. “Being with you like this…” he trailed off, his words faltering before he managed to smile. “It makes everything feel… less heavy.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t always have to be strong, Quinn. I want to be here to help carry the weight, too.”

A faint glimmer of relief crossed his face, and he nodded, as though accepting your words for the first time. He let out a deep, steadying breath, his thumb coming to your cheek, sweeping gently across the rouge that had formed. Slowly, he eased back onto the couch, pulling you down with him, your head resting against his chest as his arm wrapped securely around you. Together, you drifted into a peaceful quiet, the weight of the night finally slipping away.

The game, the expectations, and the pressure melted into the background. All that remained was this — an anchor, a place to land, the soft beat of his heart steady under your ear. And for the first time in a long while, Quinn felt lighter, not pulled down by the weight of his own expectations.

[enhaflixer]

pjs - Signed, Sealed & Undone. - TEASER

A TIME TRAVEL CONTRACT MARRIAGE FIC - PART 1 NOW OUT

Synopsis: Fake marriage proposals are a tired billionaire trope.

But when Jay Park—former golden boy of Park Industries, now chaebol exile—comes back from disgrace (and back in time), he’s got one goal: rewrite the past before it destroys him.

When you, an unassuming journalist with nothing to lose, get an offer of a lifetime, you’re sure it’s a mistake.

A contract, a relocation to Seoul, and one fake wedding later, you’re still trying to convince yourself none of this is real. The only problem? Neither of you seem to remember where the performance ends and something devastatingly real begins.

Release Date: Part 1 - Saturday, 8th March, Part 2 - Monday 10th March

WC: 24K (in two parts) CW (18+ MDNI) : fake marriage, slow-burn romance, power dynamics, corporate intrigue, arranged marriage trope, emotional angst, unresolved sexual tension, longing glances across boardrooms, contract loopholes, financial manipulation, morally gray billionaire!Jay, forced proximity, family expectations, betrayal, public displays of affection (for the cameras, obviously), enemies-to-allies-to-lovers, suppressed feelings, business politics, one bed trope (but make it corporate), dramatic confessions, late-night whiskey-fueled arguments, high society drama, backhanded compliments as flirting, dramatic departures followed by even more dramatic returns, lingering touches that mean too much, feelings clause not included in the contract, deep intimacy, power dynamics in a romantic context, possessive tendencies (but soft), light dominance/submission themes, clothing being undone at a painfully slow pace, tension so thick it could shatter glass, breathless dialogue, interrupted kisses that lead to frustration, and the inevitable realization that this was never fake at all.

-

The restaurant is the kind of place that feels expensive without trying too hard—muted lighting, soft instrumental music, waiters who appear at the exact moment they’re needed and disappear just as seamlessly.

The man across from you looks just as effortless. Perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a watch that probably costs more than your entire yearly rent, and the kind of composed expression that belongs to someone used to negotiations worth billions.

Except this isn’t a business deal. Not a normal one, anyway.

You place your fork down carefully. Your appetite? Completely gone.

“Say that again,” you say, voice deceptively calm.

Jay Park doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look remotely fazed. He just meets your gaze, cool and steady.

“I’m proposing a contract marriage,” he repeats. “Two years. No romance, no physical obligations—just a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You want me to pretend to be your wife.”

“Yes.”

He sips his wine like he just asked you to pass the salt, not to legally bind yourself to him.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. And I’m supposed to just… what? Pack my bags, move to Seoul, and play billionaire housewife for two years?”

“Essentially,” he agrees.

You stare at him. Waiting for the joke. Waiting for any sign that this is some kind of elaborate setup.

Jay just waits. Calm, patient.

“Why me?” you demand finally. “You could have literally anyone. Supermodels. Heiresses. Actresses who’d sell their souls for a contract like this. Why me?”

His fingers drum lightly against the stem of his glass. “Because you don’t belong in my world.”

“And that’s… a good thing?”

“It makes you the safest choice.”

Something in his voice shifts—not softer, not exactly, but more deliberate. Like he’s revealing something he hasn’t admitted out loud before.

“You have no business ties. No family connections. No ulterior motives,” he continues. “You see me as a person, not a position.”

There’s a weight behind his words, something you can’t quite place.

And maybe it’s that—or maybe it’s the way he looks at you then, measured but expectant—that makes you lean back and let out another stunned laugh.

“So basically,” you say, still trying to process, “I’m the only woman who wouldn’t try to seduce you.”

Jay’s expression doesn’t change. But something flickers in his eyes. Something unreadable.

“You tell me,” he says smoothly.

And just like that, your heartbeat does something inconvenient in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I don’t immediately run out of here. What exactly do I get out of this?”

Jay sets his glass down. “Financial security. A settlement large enough to erase any concerns about money. Complete independence once the contract ends. And two years of experiencing a world few ever get to see.”

A world full of billionaires and ruthless business tycoons. A world where every move is calculated and loyalty is currency.

A world you have no place in.

You exhale sharply. “And if I say no?”

Jay tilts his head, considering. Then, for the first time since this conversation started, he smiles.

Not his polished corporate smile. Not the carefully practiced, media-friendly expression you’ve seen in articles about Park Industries.

No—this smile is something else entirely.

“Then you finish your drink, walk out of here, and spend the rest of your life wondering what if.”

Your breath catches.

Oh, hell.

You might actually be considering this.

-

Taglist: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @annybah @zzhengyu @naurwayyyyy @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee

[zarnzarn]

the angsty prequel to this (ik there's plotholes now but shh I'll fix it in a bit) that i accidentally made after getting possessed and writing for 3 hours straight for what was supposed to be a short hc post jfc. angst ahead (brain damage talk, temporary mcd), but there's a happy ending!

-

zeus saying he's going to make athena's "kingdom fall" doesn't make sense unless you consider. the lightning bolt she takes to the face gives her brain damage.

no one notices at first. Athena brushes it all off, goes to odysseus, oversees their long-awaited reunion. stays in their house after- because it's not like they'll be around forever, after all. and she can do her work just as well from down here- there's no need, to be honest, to go back to Mount Olympus. anyone who needs her comes to Ithaka, and she's content, for the first time in a very, very long time.

and then one day odysseus comes across her seizing on the floor.

she doesn't know the details of what happened- only remembers the first terrified scream of horror, remembers warm hands on her face and being carried to a bed, remembers Penelope's voice shaking as she drags a wet cloth across her forehead. comes to confused and mute minutes later, wandering around and stumbling into walls, unresponsive to the voices begging her to stop, to rest.

finally, she reaches a familiar room with a familiar face, and she touches Telemachus on the cheek lightly before collapsing onto the nearest chair. panicked voices chatter above her and calloused palms lift her face up to meet her own grey eyes, worried and scared, and it finally dawns on her that something has gone terribly wrong.

(later she will find out odysseus held her and sobbed the whole night, knowing more than anyone else what had happened to her and what it meant; he'd taken the throne at thirteen for the same reason, after all)

(later she will find out that penelope wrote to every ally they had within the hour for healers and literature; letting more than half their cleverly planned schemes fall through in exchange for it as she begged)

(later, she will find out that telemachus went running barefoot through the market, banging on doors and shouting for the healers and making the alarmed roused villagers sing prayers for her even though it was the middle of the night)

she recovers under the attention; court abandoned in favour of emergency, odysseus proclaims when he bullies her into placing her head in his lap so he can massage her aching head, not having left her side for six straight days in a row. penelope comes in every few hours, feeding her the olives from the wedding bed she lies in, unable to move, and brushes out her hair. telemachus barely shows during the days, but he comes in every evening without fail, curling up by her side and hugging her tight.

but it happens again. and again and again, and each time she regains consciousness in one of the royal family's arms, no matter where she was at the time. she never remembers it, only has the disgusting taste in her mouth and dried spit on her chin and tears in the eyes of those around her to know it happened.

she loses time as well- has no idea how long it's been happening until she becomes aware of the sound of Odysseus' calm, steady voice dragging her out of a trance, gentle fingers tracing her palm as they stand next to an unassuming tapestry. she'll be walking one moment and be lost to everything around her the next, staring at nothing.

Odysseus has done this all before, she realises one day, when he seamlessly pulls her out of another relapse and ropes her into a cheerful, easy conversation about goats that Athena keeps having stilted replies to.

"Do you know how to do this because-" She murmurs, and his eyes go wide and then grieving.

"Yes," He murmurs sadly, and Athena feels guilt settle in her belly at making him go through this again. He massages at her temples, and she closes her eyes, listening to the smile in his voice. "But there is no hardship, Pallas Athena. The sadness is that you have to go through this, not for the taking care of a cherished one."

"And anyways, Laertes suffered madness in the wake of a terrible fever and the stress of a famine," Penelope says without looking up from the newest scrolls they'd received. Athena feels the guilt worsen at the sleep bags under her eyes, when she knew the reason and just didn't have the courage to- "Your sudden collapses could be due to this one witch curse we found, or perhaps a-"

"It was Zeus."

The room falls silent as two heads slowly turn to look at her.

"What?" Odysseus says quietly, with barely withheld rage.

Athena takes a shuddering breath. "I am sorry, my Penelope, that I didn't have the courage to tell you before." Penelope leaves the desk to cross the room to her, and Athena feels tears prick at her eyes as the queen takes her hand. "But when I petitioned the court of Olympus, Zeus did not take kindly to everyone agreeing to me over him- and such was his punishment. To make-"

Her breath hitches in a sob and she notes with surprise that she's crying. Penelope and Odysseus are both crying with her, staring down in horror.

"To make my kingdom fall, he said," Athena whispers, shoulders jerking oddly as she forces it out, acknowledges what he'd done. "But my kingdom is the mind and-"

Odysseus lets out an animal cry of sorrow and descends on her, pulling her to his chest as she breaks down into shivering tears, the fear running through her as she realises the scale, the enormity of the consequences. Penelope stands by the bed and trembles with anger for a full minute, before she crumples too, crawling into their bed and pressing Athena tight between them.

"I forget things," She confesses in a whisper, shaking. "I blank out during fights, cannot recall certain strategies- I- I do not know how much worse-"

"Easy, darling, easy," Penelope whispers in a rush, stroking her face. Odysseus really is so lucky to have her as a wife, she thinks disjointedly, pressing into the gentleness. "Don't say that. It won't get worse."

"And even if it does," Odysseus continues, pressing a kiss to her cheek, where the lichtenberg scars cross her right eye, to her brow. "We will write down everything you know, copy it a hundred times and keep it safe. So you will never forget."

"And we will find you a Lytrakas owl, to keep you safe when we are no longer here to do it," Penelope murmurs, lips brushing Athena's neck as she speaks. She relaxes finally under the combined reassurances, at the solutions and possibilities that would work, finding a content she has never achieved before in their embrace. "We will keep you safe, our goddess."

And they do. When she teaches the children of Ithaka sparring, at least one of them is there, ready to intervene smoothly if they sense something wrong. They make the books they promised her, and she sends it to her realm, so she doesn't lose them. They cannot come with her when she has to travel- she wouldn't ask it of any of them- but Telemachus is always humming a hymn when she's away so she remembers where to return. When she dissociates in the middle of talking, Penelope guides her over to the loom so she can weave until she feels better, muscle memory kicking in enough for it to help the gradual lift of the fog.

Odysseus always somehow knows when she's about to have a seizure, in the forty years after that they spend together. In all her time in Ithaka, she never woke up from one without the familiar gravely cadence of Odysseus singing under his breath above her, head in his lap and Telemachus perched on her thighs or Penelope by her shoulders.

-

But it can't last forever.

Odysseus kicks her out of the room when he dies, Penelope's breath already slowing on the bed behind him, peaceful in the way that means she won't survive the night. They all know Odysseus will go with her, and Athena feels herself tremble as Odysseus gently guides her outside.

"You are not watching us pass," He tells her firmly, as she opens her mouth to scream at him. He's an old man now, but his eyes are the same, and the different versions of him flash in front of her eyes as he gives her a crooked smile. "I will not have you watch, are you crazy?"

"Odysseus," She chokes out, gripping tight onto her spear.

"My beautiful, wonderful goddess," Odysseus murmurs adoringly, leaning up to press their foreheads together. She sobs. "Thank you. For everything. And know-" His breath hitches. "-know that, for the rest of your existence, remember it- that you were loved."

"How can I ever forget?" She smiles back through the tears. "I will never be the same."

"My Athene," He whispers, swaying them back and forth. She closes her eyes, trembling, and pulls him into their last embrace, last touch.

"You will always be my favourite," She confesses, half-laugh, half-sob.

Odysseus smirks at that, a trace of smugness, then turns to a sobbing, chuckling Telemachus, who's also been kicked out, pulls them both in a hug. "We will meet again, my son," he murmurs. "But Penelope is waiting for me now. Goodnight."

He closes the door, two bright last flashes of smiles aimed at them as it shuts and Athena and Telemachus both fall to pieces.

Telemachus takes twice the care of her than his parents did, somehow juggling ruling the kingdom and spending as much time as he can with her as he can. His wife is sly and mischievous, more fox than owl- but Athena loves her too, just as she loves their children. Telemachus goes with a smile on his face and an arrow in his heart, having taken an arrow for someone else, holding Athena's hand as he laughs for the last time.

It is horrible and she wanders around desolately for days, grieving. But then she sees bright eyes spying on her from behind a bush, carefully watching her to see if she's alright and Athena smiles and goes back to continue the legacy.

-

For 500 years, Ithaka does not fall- when it does, she makes sure the grey-eyed children all make it off the island, scattering on the mainland as at last, her job is done.

Which means there is nothing left for her here, and it is time to go back to Mount Olympus.

She's met with teasing quips and pointed comments, but general ignorance, no one bothering to ask where she was. After almost six hundred years of care, it feels untethering and strange, but the grief of losing Ithaka makes her relieved for it, even if she has to lie down sometimes, press her face into the roots of the olive tree scattered about in her realm and pretend there are three sets of hands in her hair, a familiar voice humming above her.

How did you do it, she wants to ask Penelope. How did you survive knowing what you were missing, she wants to ask Odysseus. Will you sit with me one last time, she wants to ask Telemachus.

Eventually, she can no longer bear the quiet, and one evening she sets out and crosses the pantheon floor to go gently sit down in Apollo's room.

Artemis is there, slouched on the floor with mud in her hair and an arrow in her eye as Apollo chides her. They both look up when she comes in, bowing and worriedly asking if something was wrong.

"Nothing," she says, ignoring the pang of sadness that that would be the only reason she was here. But the idea of leaving back to the books written in Odysseus' horrible chickenscratch penmanship is worse, and she takes a tentative seat in the corner. "Continue your work."

They do so hesitantly, conversation slower and interspersed with bouts of asking her if she wanted ambrosia or a new dish or something while she was here. She declines.

She feels awkwardness radiating off all three of them as she leaves an hour later, but it doesn't stop her from coming back again, stubborn. She will hold a conversation this time- it has been two decades since Ithaka, but that is nothing to her, and she cannot have forgotten how so soon.

Apollo seems to have prepared for the same thing this time, lighting up with a pleased grin like he wasn't sure she would come. "Enter!" He says cheerfully. "Come here, give me your wisdom on this piece I've been composing- I know, I know, owls are not songbirds, but just see if you can help, it's driving me mad-"

Athena closes her mouth and listens to the melody quietly. Thinks about how Telemachus' third daughter would have spun it, added her Ithakan folk style to it, interspersed the perfection with carefree, imperfect beats.

"May I?" She asks, holding her hands out, and Apollo's mouth drops, even as he scrambles to hand her the lyre. She concentrates, trying to pull the melody out from the strings. "Here," she says, manifesting her spear and shield and handing it to an increasingly wild-eyed Apollo. "Bang them together. Create a tempo."

They create something of a passing song in the next few hours until Athena's headache makes its way to the forefront and she has to retreat. Apollo accompanies her across the floor to her room, pressing herbs onto her even as he chatters a mile a minute, excitedly going on and on about new ideas and begging Athena to come by again. She smiles, briefly, and promises to return when she is free, going back to her pallet under the olive trees.

(She cannot bear to sleep anywhere else.)

The next day, Apollo is busy creating new songs and she knows better than to disturb him. She turns and goes to his twin's realm instead, shedding her armour for bark and a bow. Artemis and her women look as equally terrified as Apollo did at the start, looking at her like she's lost her mind, but they all straighten up when Athena raises an eyebrow and silently descend on the night.

"You must teach me!" Artemis enthuses at the end of it. She does not do anything other than scowl often, but she looks more like her twin than ever now, as she beams up at her. "I never knew there were so many strategies, how much smoother-"

"Peace," Athena chuckles, amused. "I will teach you, sister. Next fortnight?"

"Aye," Artemis says, hair matted and covered in filth, eyes sparkling.

"Here," Athena says, taking out her own ribbon- one of the many she has from Penelope, braided in her hair from all those years ago- and turns Artemis around to tie her mess of a mane out of her eyes. "Do not impede your vision in the name of wildness."

"Okay," Artemis squeaks quietly, and Athena snorts and squeezes her shoulder as she departs.

She sits in Aephastus' forge next, watching him create weapon after weapon, with the best of each round being blessed onto a blacksmith in the mortal world.

"Come to see if my work is up to par, Pallas Athena?" Aephastus says self-deprecatingly, a flash of resigned hurt in his eyes.

"No. I wish to learn," Athena decides suddenly, pushing herself up and removing her helmet at the blast of heat that comes from the forge as she nears. "It is shameful, I think, that I know not how my own tools are made."

Aephastus stares at her with surprise, then his kind eyes crinkle into a smile. "Only if you let me replace that," He nods to her admittedly rather dented helmet. "I have been wanting to fix your armour to something respectable for centuries."

Athena laughs.

Of course, once it is done, she has to use it. It fills her with excitement she had almost forgotten, the idea of a good, difficult spar, and she barges into Aphrodite's realm and bangs on the edge of the bed with her new spear, making the occupants screech and jump in fright.

"Good evening," She nods at Aphrodite, who looks to the side and then back at her as if she'll find an explanation somehow, stunned. She turns to her brother, and tries on a grin. "Ares, my brother. Would you care to spar? Aephastus has gifted me this new set and I find myself eager to test it out."

"...Are you fucking possessed?" Ares asks her, flabbergasted, and she clicks her tongue and smacks him upside the head.

"Yes or no?" She says, crossing her hands.

"Y- yes, yes!" Ares blurts out, straightening up. He looks something approaching disbelieving excitement, a small, tentative grin appearing on his face. "You are... not joking, right?"

"Do I look like I joke?" Athena jokes, smiling. Ruffles his hair in a bout of fondness. "You are the only one who will actually give me a good fight, as erratic as you are. I look forward to it."

"What did I FUCKING MISS?" Aphrodite shrieks after her as she goes. "Wha- Athena, get back here, you better have not fallen in love while I wasn't looking-!"

But Athena's not ready to face Aphrodite just yet, so she takes advantage of their height difference and strides back to her realm as her sister chases her, shouting.

The next day, they meet in the arena, and Athena feels herself freeze up as soon as she steps in. Sees the lightning scorch marks on the ground she had almost forgotten, and cannot move.

"ATHENA!" Ares booms, snapping her out of it. "TODAY YOU WILL MEET YOUR DEFEAT AT MY HANDS AT LAST!"

"WHY ARE YOU SO ANNOYING," She shouts back automatically, and Ares bursts out in a peal of laughter, surprised out of him. She knows he has three aspects- the boyish glory-seeker, the soldier filled with bloodlust, the hardened warrior- but Athena thinks the first one suits him best.

He readjusts his grip on his sword and grins. "Begin!"

-

She continues this, finding a strange happiness she never had before in meeting all the other gods, major and minor. She'd never known how intimidated they all were by her, but they open up readily enough, bringing her peace for a little while as she sits with them.

(She avoids Aphrodite, who is getting increasingly more frazzled by the day as she fails to find a hidden lover that does not exist and then switches to trying to find Athena a companion when it is clear that there is no one, in a comic game of chase around the realms that is a great source of amusement to everyone else.

She avoids Hermes too, because it hurts too much to see him. But she leaves him a book of riddles once in a while, when he's away, and he always takes it.)

Hera walks in her room one day, with her train of peacocks and attendants.

"God-Queen," Athena bows, setting her weaving down.

"Athena," Hera nods back. "I hear you have been visiting your siblings."

Athena nods, confused. "Yes?"

Hera studies her and Athena shifts, wondering what she's seeing. "The Pantheon is no longer silent, you know. The Olympians meet in the court almost every day, sharing their gifts with each other. Something I have found out is because of you."

Athena has no idea where this is going.

Hera shifts closer, opening her mouth to say something, then her eyes catch on the weaving, widening in shock. "What is that?"

Athena looks down, also unaware of what exactly she'd made. Then her heart skips a beat in fear.

"No, no, no, no," Athena snaps to her feet, shaking her hands out in dismissal, trying to stop the impending damage. "This is not what you think it is."

Hera's eyes are getting wider and wider, a manic grin on her face. "Athena! A wedding veil? Do you-"

"No!" Athena interrupts. "No, Hera, it's nothing like that, please-"

"Nonsense!" Hera says, grabbing it from her and holding it to the light, grinning wider than Athena has seen from her in years. "You must have made it for a reason. Do not worry daughter, I know you are shy, I will handle it all."

"Hera, it really is not like that!" She pleads. "I was simply weaving- I made a fisherman's garb the other day as well, it does not mean I want to get out into the sea!"

"Have you made the rest of the outfit as well?" Hera says excitedly, ignoring her as she moves to the wardrobe to rifle through. "Oh, Athena, how beautiful! Is this what you would like to wear?"

She pulls out a men's wedding outfit and Athena stops protesting to stare in disbelief. When had she made that?

"I must go announce this to the others," Hera squeals, bangles jangling. "Oh, I had almost given up on you, dear, but you have made me so happy today! I would have arranged something for you so long ago, why didn't you tell me you were interested?"

"Because I am not," She groans, pulling her hands down over her face. "Hera, please, I do not even have anyone-"

"Easily remedied," Hera dismisses her with the wave of a hand as she strides off. "Oh Aphrodite, you won't believe what I just found in your sister's closet! Look!"

A deafening din rises from the crowd there and Athena is forced to tackle Hera to the ground.

She laughs, surprisingly, and tosses the outfit over to Aphrodite, who snatches it up with a scream of excitement. Athena is immediately flanked by a crowd of screaming gods, each talking over the other, and Athena has to bellow at them all for two hours before the misunderstanding is cleared.

"Oh, but you really have outdone yourself with this one," Aphrodite gushes appreciatively as she lands next to a panting Athena. She turns it back and forth. "So soft, and such patterns! The Ithakan style, yes?"

Then her smile drops like a stone as she hears her own words and freezes, and Athena's stomach swoops, heart skipping a beat as she stops breathing. Aphrodite turns to her slowly, cold horror in her eyes, realisation solidifying at the terrified, raw, pained expression on Athena's face.

"The Ithakan style," She repeats in a whisper, horrified grief creeping into her voice. "Athena-"

Athena snatches the outfit from her and closes herself off in her realm, breathing hard in the dim blue light of the olive tree orchard. She suddenly realises she's holding the robes against her chest and unfolds it hurriedly to look at them.

It is the Ithakan style. It is, in fact, a mix of Penelope's and Odysseus' wedding outfits, in her size.

She throws it into a trunk and screams.

-

She does not know if Aphrodite tells Hera, but the latter does not stop coming by every day to pester her for details of an imaginary wedding.

So now she has three gods to avoid.

-

But of course, the effects of her affliction cannot be hidden forever. She gets up one day from the Pantheon floor to retrieve the threads from her room to be used in the game they are playing, and feels the room swim in a familiar, hated manner, and she only has a moment to feel dread before she tilts sideways and falls.

When she regains consciousness, she feels for a moment the delicate hands on her cheeks, the weight of a young man on her belly, the gravely singing above her- and then it dissipates and she becomes aware of shouting all around her.

"Can you hear me? Athena, can you hear me?" Hera says, shaking her. "WILL SOMEONE FIND APOLLO?"

Athena moans and pushes off the hands on her body, bruising in their panic. She pushes herself up, ignoring the dizziness. "Do not bother."

"Athena, what on Gaia was that?" Ares demands, ashen. "Have I injured you? What-"

"It is of no concern," Athena snaps, getting to her feet and glaring at them, mortification blazing through her. "All I need is rest. Goodnight."

They shout after her, but she's already at her room, closing the shields back up. It nearly knocks her out again to do so, and she barely drags herself to her bed before she collapses.

"What are you staring at?" Hypnos asks her the next day, confused. Athena blinks and realizes she's standing between the thrones, facing an odd patch of wall and losing time.

"Nothing," She sighs, and hefts her spear and walks away.

She fends off all other questions, curt and snapping, and the others uneasily let it go. She has not forgotten her purpose, after all, and will not do anything less than a perfect job, even with this impediment.

Yet-

"Athena," Aphrodite shakes her, and Athena blinks as she comes to herself. It is night, Pantheon bathed in blue and both of them in their nightclothes. Aphrodite is crying and Athena's face is wet.

"What-?" She murmurs.

"You were calling out for Odysseus," Aphrodite whispers, sounding stricken. "Asking him to stop hiding from training. Then laughing with nothing and telling Penelope to stop tormenting your allies."

It hits her straight in the sternum, making her gasp with grief that hits her so hard it feels new, and oh, she misses them, she misses them, she misses them so.

She sobs, and Aphrodite brings her close, holding her as she shakes.

"What is happening, sister? Why is this happening? Please, tell us," Aphrodite pleads. "We only want to help." She pushes her back to stare at her. "It cannot be just for them- something else happened to you."

Athena cannot reply for weeping, and Aphrodite's face crumples on seeing her tears. "You loved them." She says, her own voice catching tears. "You loved them so much, didn't you? That's who the dress was for. Them."

Athena sobs louder and doesn't reply.

-

Zeus' eldest daughter has not talked to him for over eight hundred years.

He still burns with anger some days, on remembering her insolence, her disrespect for his orders. Yet, now it has cooled off and he rather misses her quiet presence, her wit. She is angry with him in turn, cold and formal when they talk, never meeting his eyes.

"How fares Athena?" He asks casually one day. Hera stops removing her earrings and looks up at him sharply- she's been frosty with him since that day as well, disapproving of his actions. "I have not seen her in quite some time."

"That is of your own design," Hera replies blandly. "She spends time often with her siblings now. I am quite proud of her for it, actually- it is no mean a feat to get the entire Pantheon to sit down and indulge in few games without bloodshed."

"Games?" Zeus frowns. "With the others? Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?"

"Well, if you left your realm ever, you would know." Hera says distractedly, shrugging as she takes off her necklace. "They gather in the courtroom, usually."

The wind blows in, blows out.

Zeus ponders on this in silence, thinking of what to do next. Perhaps he should extend the first hand, since she had followed all the rules. He remembers her on the ground, beaten and burning, one hand extended to beg him to let that insolent hero she had pinned all her hopes on leave Ogygia. Frowns again in discomfort at the memory.

Her gamble paid off. Even as the Greek Pantheon declined in power, the story of her hero persisted to give the gods power, to keep them remembered.

Wise Athena, he thinks fondly. Smarter than him, he can admit now.

Zeus is just about to ask Hera if Athena would appreciate a spar when the rustle of fabric past the door of their realm catches his attention.

"Who is there?" He calls out, and Hera turns as well to look. No one enters and they both look to each other with a frown.

Quick footsteps sound out and both of them push themselves to their feet immediately, armed and tense as they rush to the door.

"Athena?" Hera calls out, confused, as they look down over the empty courtroom, Athena pacing erratically silently alone in the middle, no lights on. She does not reply. "Athena!"

Zeus feels foreboding creep up on him as they carefully walk down. "What are you doing up, Athena?" He calls out, voice authoritative. Hera glares at him, and he amends his tone, gentling it. "Is something the matter?"

Athena does not stop walking, at that same hurried pace, turning around at the end of the hall and continuing back towards them, ignoring his words. Zeus feels irritation spark, but the sudden glimpse of his daughter's eyes makes the words die on his tongue, unseeing and glazed over. She does not have her armour on, and her hair is tangled and open, he suddenly realises, along with the growing certainty that something is wrong.

And then Athena drops to the ground and starts seizing.

"ATHENA!" They scream as one, and all the gods of the Pantheon come awake, lamps catching fire as they all come stumbling out of their rooms and realms. Zeus reaches out and holds her hands down as she starts clawing at herself, drawing blood. The others start shouting and crying around them, Athena's head snapping back and forth gruesomely, eyes bleeding ichor. "Athena, gather yourself!" He shouts at her. "Cease this- cease this at once, you are stronger than this!"

"She cannot hear you!" Hera cries, falling to her other side, trying to straighten Athena out from the fetal position she is curling into with painful, stuff jerks. "She never does- she doesn't-"

"This has happened before?" Zeus bellows, outraged. His answer comes in the form of Ares pulling her weapons off her body, the ones who can't help holding onto each other and hiding their faces in each other's shoulders or staring at Athena with fear as they sob.

Her arm slips Zeus' grip and swings at him erratically before he can grab it again. It nearly knocks him down, so powerful in its animal madness that he actually feels his aspect waver to half its size for a moment- but he is her father and he pulls himself together enough to stay standing, pinning her down again.

"No, let her go!" Apollo shouts as he sits down besides them in his night robes, flipping through an old book of some kind, barely holding in his own panic and fear. "Don't hold her down, give her space."

Zeus grimaces but lets her go, feeling nausea and fear rise within him as she writhes and twists, unhearing of Hera's desperate sobs for her to stop. "What is happening to her?" He demands, unable to watch. He is furious, lightning blazing in his hands as he itches to find the culprit, to find who dared to do this. "Who did this to her?"

"I do not know," Apollo says horrifically, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking up to her and then back down to the book. "But I found this in her realm- she apparently is aware of it, this is some sort of book of instructions on the affliction-"

"Give me that," Zeus growls, snatching it away, and flipping through it. "Go get a bed," He instructs, the other Olympians springing up to do so immediately, desperate to help. "Olive- olive branches, she wakes to branches. Get water- no, get ambrosia, get a cloth to wipe her face. A change of clothes. A cold compress, if she has fever. It will stop on its own, let it run its course- Muses, what is this?"

"A lullaby," Euterpe says, pulling the book down to scan it. "From old Ithaka, if I'm not mistaken."

The gods all stop and stare at her. "Ithaka?" Zeus repeats, flipping to the front of the book. "Who has written this-"

"PENELOPE!" Athena screams suddenly, making them all jump in fright. Her back arches to a painful degree, spit running down the side of her mouth as her eyes roll back in her head. "PENELOPE, TELEMACHUS-"

Aphrodite puts her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut, just as Athena takes a deep breath in and screams louder than before, "ODYSSEUS!"

(In life, he had only failed her once. But now he is dead, and cannot come.)

"Odysseus, please," She moans, in the old Greek that has not been used in decades. "You promised to help, please- Penelope, where are- where is- Telemachus, please-"

Zeus feels his heart break as proud, strong Athena breaks down on the floor, calling for mortals clearly much dearer to her than they thought. But it's not the end of it- he flips through the book again, desperately searching for something to stop this, a cause, an enemy- and then he sees his own name.

Curse proud Zeus, may his life never be happy, may his legacy forever be tainted, Odysseus has written, the letters harsh and burning with fury, even though the curse means nothing from a mortal, even though he risked the ire of the gods writing it. Below it, in what must be Penelope's neat handwriting, an equally furious and clipped diagnosis is penned- brain damage, extensive but occasional, caused by a lightning bolt to the face, that targeted her realm's power and left her with seizures, memory loss and dissociation.

A lightning bolt to the face.

Zeus stands there numbly, as the Pantheon scrambles and chatters worriedly around him, hesitantly singing along to the lullaby in the book as Athena continues to shake, unresponsive. His fault. It is his fault that she is like this, that she is left reduced to calling for dead mortals, crying blood over her siblings' feet.

He did not mean to, he thinks, feeling small and pathetic and monstrous. He did not mean for this to happen- only wanted to teach her a lesson, keep his pride; had not meant for her realm to sustain damage for so long. He thought she'd healed. He thought she hadn't been hurt, past the scar on her face that he'd felt vaguely guilty about, from time to time.

How stupid he was.

"Athena," He whispers, aching to reach out, but she screams again and it's drowned out completely. His daughter. All his own, no longer his- because she was never angry at all, these past years; she simply no longer saw him as her father. And why should she, when he has done the unforgivable, when he has done what no other had managed to do, and broken her.

What has he done?

"We are here," Hera says desperately, taking Athena's head in her lap. Ares sings creakily next to her, offtune and shaking. "We are here, love."

"Odysseus," Athena wails, unseeing. "Penelope, Telemachus."

Zeus steps back to let the others rush in, each providing their own solutions, some calling to Athena entreatingly to guide her back to herself. He is not needed here- he does not deserve it, and knows not what more damage he will wreak.

I am sorry, he wants to tell her, as froth escapes her mouth like a rabid dog. I am so sorry, I beg forgiveness, my daughter, please let me fix it.

But she cannot hear him and Zeus raises his head to look for Hermes instead. The messenger god is standing at the very back, well out of view, with a blank face as he meets Zeus' gaze. He feels a surge of fury at the lack of caring, before he remembers that Athena's hero and his son were descendants of Hermes- and sees past the facade to see the other's gods multiplied distress at that fact, unable to come forward to help without possibly making it worse with the likeness.

Zeus inclines his head and then tilts it towards Hades pointedly. Hermes twitches in surprise, then nods determinedly, running off.

Zeus exhales and looks back at Athena as she finally calms, breathing hard. Shoulders slump in relief, frightened muttering taking its place- this wasn't supposed to happen to gods, to Olympians.

Zeus steps forward and brushes her hair out of her eyes as Athena loses consciousness, as they pull her onto a makeshift palanquin and prepare to take her to her room.

"I am sorry," He whispers to her, but it is far, far too late.

[g1rld1ary]

christmas eve - sirius black x fem!reader

wc: 2405

cw: pure fluff, swearing, you meet sirius' friends on Christmas eve

me: happy christmas eve chickens!!!! hope u r all staying safe and happy and enjoying the holidays!!!! xxxx

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If you had been asked in school if you would ever fancy Sirius Black, you would have said never in a million years. Sirius Black was a loud-mouthed, annoying, entitled son of a bitch. However, many years later, you would only say your boyfriend was a son of a bitch — you hated that woman.

If either of your respective groups of friends had been asked the same question, you were sure they would have given identical answers. In school you were quiet, polite and stayed under the radar. And Sirius was, well, Sirius. There was no way the two of you would ever get along.

Admittedly, you still didn’t exactly look the pair. Sirius and his dark silky hair, electric silver eyes and intimidating worn leather jacket, and you with your muted colour palette and unassuming appearance. Yet, you thought you went together pretty well. Still, you could both understand that even time and maturity didn’t make your get together more expected. In fact, you were probably the last person the marauders expected to show up to their Christmas Eve dinner.

When Christmas Eve finally came, Sirius and James were busy setting up his and Lily's dining room for the perfect holiday event. Decked in horrendous matching Christmas jumpers with terrible puns stamped across the front, each boy broke into laughter whenever they caught a glimpse of the other’s across the table as they lay down the fancy cutlery. Remus and Lily, cooking in the other room, had opted for more neutral red and green jumpers as a tribute to the season.

“Come on, mate, we’re brothers yet you’ve kept this girl hidden for months now, can’t you just tell me?” James begged, arranging the centrepieces to be spaced how he knew Lily liked.

“Patience, Prongsy, you’ll meet her soon enough. Promise you’ll be nice to her?”

“When have I not been nice?” James cried, hands up in mock offence. Sirius just shook his head, turning to arrange some pillows.

James cast him an inquisitive look, protective wasn’t usually Sirius’ style, which meant that something about you was really different. He’d been considering that for a while, and his suspicions were only confirmed with every passing day.

There were three main reasons that James thought Sirius was (for lack of a better word) serious about you. Firstly, Sirius was healthier. With the family he was born with, it wasn’t surprising that Sirius had a host of trauma and mental health issues. And though he’d tried therapy and meds a handful of times the habit had never really stuck and he’d always had a level of discomfort in his own body. Lately, though, Sirius had seemed more relaxed and in control. James wasn’t stupid, he knew that a partner couldn’t fix anyone, but he was absolutely more inclined to approve of one who made his best friend feel like himself again.

Secondly, Sirius was more private. Sirius had always had an outrageous sense of humour, uninhibited when it came to sex jokes or sharing conquests. But recently James had noticed that while Sirius still made jokes they were aimed at other people, he’d almost completely stopped talking about his own sex life. Of course, when prompted he would boast about how sexy his girlfriend was and how incredible and active your sex life was, but it was never Sirius bringing it up, or making gross comments about your body and what you could do with it.

Finally, Sirius was gentle. He’d always been charming, but the unfiltered adoration in his eyes when he spoke about you took James aback — he’d never seen it in his brother before. It was so pure and well-intentioned that James knew in his core that Sirius was head over heels and the fall was not coming to an end any time soon.

As the clock ticked by the gang all trickled in, the dining room filling with warmth and laughter. At five minutes past nine, you rang the doorbell.

“Is this the girlfriend?” Lily clapped with delight, jumping up and down with Mary.

“I’ll let her in. Play nice,” Sirius said with a stern sweep of the room, satisfied when his friends all played along, nodding solemnly.

Standing on the Potter’s doorstep you were ball of anxiety. You hadn’t seen any of the marauders — apart from your boyfriend — since you finished school, taking a muggle job. Thankfully Sirius opened the door, greeting you with his toothy smile.

“Hi, lovely,” He said, engulfing you in a bear hug. You giggled, wrapping one arm around him, the other holding up a purple umbrella.

“Hi,” You smiled back, “Sorry I’m late, all the houses look the same.”

“What are you talking about? You’re right on time.” A lie, but a kind one so you let it be. You shook the water off your umbrella before stepping inside.

Safe in a warm home you leant up on your tiptoes to plant a kiss on Sirius’ lips as he slid the coat down your arms, hanging it up on a hook beside you. You were half-tempted to just stay in his arms for the rest of the night and abandon the dinner altogether, but you figured that wasn’t possible while you were inside someone else’s house. It seemed like Sirius had the same idea, pulling away with a groan.

“Come on, everyone’s waiting to meet you.” You followed him out of the entryway, calming yourself with a breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present my girlfriend.” Sirius revealed you dramatically as you waved shyly, shifting in your small brown heels.

“Uh, hey—”

“Holy shit, it’s you?” Marlene slammed her hand on the dining table. You jumped slightly, squinting to figure out what was going on. Your mouth dropped open as you connected the dots and looked up at Sirius.

“Do they not know we’re dating? Sirius!” You scolded him, smacking him on the bicep. Sirius floundered for a moment, struggling to summon the charm that usually got him out of trouble.

“In my defence,” He preached, “Would they have believed me?”

“I would not have,” Peter put in helpfully. You laughed, putting a hand to your forehead in exasperation.

“I guess I don’t blame you. It’s nice to see you, Peter, by the way. Long time no see, I’ve heard so much about you all.” The group all shared a look, something akin to guilt growing that they hadn’t seen someone they graduated with for years.

“And we know nothing about you,” Lily said with an expectant look to Sirius, “Since your boyfriend was so insistent on keeping you hidden away from us.” Sirius just shrugged, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Oh, baby, are you ashamed of me?” You teased with a dramatic pout.

“What’s there to be ashamed of? You’re perfect.” Sirius swooped down to press a kiss on your cheek. You grinned subconsciously as Mary and Marlene mirrored your expression. Sirius had dated a lot of people but they’d never seen him be so gentle.

“Is anyone else scared of Sirius being a normal human being?” James stage whispered and the others all agreed, joking at their friend’s expense.

“Enough gossiping about me you heathens, I’m helping Lily serve up some food. Right, Lils?” Sirius made a summoning motion and Lily followed him, a small smile still on her lips. He’d chosen wisely, Lily was the least likely to tear him to shreds about his behaviour.

You sat shyly on one of the couches in the Potter’s living room, studying your nails as you tried to come up with conversation.

“So, are you working, studying?” Remus asked kindly, putting you out of your awkward misery.

“How’d you and Padfoot meet — again?”

“How’d a twat like Pads score a girl like you?”

“I’m working, I run a muggle bookshop. Sirius came in one day by chance and just kept returning until eventually we started going out.”

“Sirius reading?” Mary asked incredulously, drawing laughter from you. You nodded happily, glad to talk about your boyfriend.

“Surprising I know, but he’s been really into it over the last few months!”

“Can I just defend myself and say that I was shopping for Remus’ birthday gift the first time,” Sirius popped his head through the door, “I didn’t start reading until I wanted to get her to like me.” You shook your head with a smile, rolling your eyes playfully.

“I was going to say I couldn’t imagine Sirius perusing a book store for fun, but it makes a lot more sense when you say it’s for a girl,” Marlene teased, popping up to help Sirius bring the dishes to the dining table.

“Hey! I’m an intellectual now, you arse.” Sirius pulled out your chair for you as the group migrated to the dining table.

“Yeah, okay, Padfoot,” Remus snorted and Sirius scoffed in false annoyance before you all fell silent, devouring the meal.

You ate and shared stories for hours and you felt strangely at home among the group. At some point Sirius, sitting beside you, threw an arm over your shoulder and you cuddled into his warmth.

You loved learning about the Marauders, you only remembered fragments from school since you were never close with any of them. James being an auror made perfect sense when you remembered his amazing DADA performances, and Remus becoming a teacher was a wonderful sequel to his long tutoring sessions in seventh year. Lily expecting a baby so young had shook up their home life but the house had clearly started getting child-ready even though it was months away. Regardless, the group welcomed you warmly and you felt immediately at home.

“I just can’t believe that you of all people are together. I mean after all this time, how you both were in school… what are the odds?” Peter asked, reaching over the table to take another scoop of vegetables. You bit your lip and tried to control the heat creeping up your neck.

“I think we balance each other out,” You reasoned, “Sirius is such a… distinct character that he needs someone boring like me to bring him down.”

“You, boring? You’re the daughter that everyone wants!” Marlene laughed, sipping a red wine.

“I couldn’t function without her.” Sirius laced your fingers together, gaze heavy on you. “She reminds me to take care of myself, go to bed before three A.M., and of course, is hot and sexy as fuck.” That was the Sirius his friends all knew, but the school-era immaturity was gone. No longer was it the ladies-man Sirius Black trying to get into someone’s pants, instead, it was Sirius making a dumb joke with someone he loved.

“Sirius!” You cried, covering your face with both hands, including the one Sirius had attached to yours. Times like these you could feel the differences between you — Sirius was known for his crude humour, you would never bring up how sexy you thought Sirius was, joke or not, especially not in front of people you didn’t really know.

The night progressed with more reminiscing and storytelling, and you listened enraptured as they told story after story of pranks and parties, a life you were unaware of being led right beside you at school. You all ended up tipsy, an embarrassing stack of empty wine bottles building up at the end of the table.

As you were told was a common occurrence, the group all decided to just stay over at the Potters, pulling out mattresses and spots on the sofa with practised speed. You took the place they gave you, grateful to still be welcome.

Swaddled in blankets, Sirius was the first asleep, dead to the world in a matter of moments. For someone who stayed up half the night, he really did pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Whenever he was with you, anyway.

Someone across the room called your name in a whisper, wand faintly illuminated. You sat up to look their way, finding the rest of Sirius’ friends looking at you.

“We just wanted to say we really like you, and we’re really happy for you and Padfoot, even if we were weird at the start,”” Mary said and you couldn’t contain your grin.

“And why weren’t we friends in school? We would’ve gotten along great,” Remus added, rubbing tired eyes.

“I would have been putting a target on my own back,” You confessed, “You were all in the same house, confident in yourselves and could defend yourself against the bullies. I was alone in my house and deeply insecure. Even if we were friends I would’ve gone back to my common room at the end of the day and been vulnerable. It was easier to just be alone.”

“You thought that through.” James nodded appreciatively but you just shrugged, a fact was a fact.

The conversation moved away from you for a while, whispers and stifled giggles bouncing across the room.

“You know that Sirius is in love with you, right?” James blurted out of nowhere, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“What?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He looks at you like he’s your whole world. He raves about you all the time; how great you are, how he’s so glad he met you. He’s my brother and I know him better than he knows himself; he’s mad for you.”

You took a moment to let that sink in. You hadn’t put too much thought into whether Sirius loved you, you’d always just been happy with the way they were going.

“Oh,” You hesitated. “I hadn’t considered that. Well, um, I should probably get to sleep, I have a lot of family to see tomorrow.” It was a poor excuse, you knew, but that was a big word.

You bade the group goodnight once more before snuggling into Sirius, and he instinctually wrapped his arm around your waist. As you drifted off to sleep, the thought crossed your mind that maybe, love wasn’t so out of the picture.

[horny-marbles]

Bite the Hand Part 2 (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader)

PART 1

CW: toxic relationship, mentions of abuse, home invasion?, dubcon, degradation, oral (f receiving), creampie

word count 3.8k

You used to wait by the door.

Phone clutched in your hand, heart pounding with every tick of the clock past midnight. He’d come back eventually—blood-soaked, silent, maybe drunk on adrenaline, maybe just quiet. You never really knew which version of Brian you were getting anymore.

There had been warmth once. Jokes in the kitchen. His hand on your thigh while you watched movies, thumb absently stroking soft circles into your skin. But soon enough, that same hand only ever grabbed you when he wanted to fuck, or shove you out of the way on his way out again.

“Stay the fuck put. Stop fuckin' asking questions.”

It became a mantra. Orders barked more than spoken.

The ski mask might’ve stayed in the closet most days, but the man behind it was gone anyway. The glint in his eyes wasn’t the same. The charm he wielded like a sword had dulled, used only to keep you docile between missions, between arguments, between the cruel grip of his hands on your ass when he needed something to feel real.

So you fought.

You fought like hell.

Hands, mouths, nails. Screaming. Spitting. Biting words that bled out worse than any knife wound he’d ever stitched. It always ended the same: bruises in the shape of apologies, cum on your thighs, his hand around your throat like a leash he didn’t even bother hiding anymore.

That last night was a war.

Screaming. Shattered glass. His voice like fire, yours like broken glass.

“You’re a fucking psychopath!”

“And you’re a useless, whining fuckin' whore!”

It ended in sex, as always. Violent, degrading, nothing new. You cried after. He didn’t even glance at you.

You left in the morning. Packed your shit in the middle of the night, shaking like a leaf, and ran.

You got out. Somehow. Slipped under the radar, out of Slender’s reach, far from the forest, far from the last hideout you were forced to follow Brian into, far from him. You found a shitty little apartment with leaky pipes and windows that didn’t close all the way, and for the first time in too long, you breathed. Started piecing yourself back together with shaky fingers and cheap coffee.

But nights were the worst.

Some nights, you missed him so bad it felt like a wound that won’t clot. Not what he became—the cold, vicious thing with blood under his nails and emptiness in his eyes. No. You missed the man who used to rub circles into your back when you cried. The one who used to smile at you with a brightness in his eyes like he was looking at the sun. The one who used to say your name like it meant something. Even if he was dead and gone, buried under Hoodie’s boots.

Present day felt like trying.

Clocking in, clocking out. Laughing at coworkers’ jokes even when your chest felt hollow. You went out for drinks sometimes, flirted with people you didn’t care about just to feel seen. Most nights, though, it was you and the walls of your shitty apartment, the hum of the fridge, the muted buzz of some late-night TV show you weren’t really watching.

The bar reeked of spilled beer and half-assed regrets tonight. You were three drinks in and still hadn’t laughed at anything your coworker said. He wasn’t funny, not really. But he was nice. Nice in that bland, unassuming way. The kind of man who asked how your day was, who didn’t look at your mouth when you spoke.

You wondered, in a slow, grim sort of way, what Brian—or Hoodie—would’ve done if he saw you there. Probably would’ve broken the guy’s nose on the curb and made you clean the blood from his knuckles with your sleeve.

The thought made you sick.

By the time you stumbled home, sobering up with every step, the streets were mostly empty—just the wet hiss of cars passing on the avenue, neon signs flickering like dying stars. Your boots echoed up the stairwell to your floor. Fifth. No elevator. You were sweating by the time you reached the landing.

Then you saw it.

Your doorknob, on the floor. Jagged metal, splinters around the frame. Like it had been ripped off.

Your stomach plummeted, a hot wave of nausea curling at the base of your throat.

A crowbar. That’s all you could see in your mind. Black steel. Splattered red. The way Brian used to drop it in the doorway when he got back and the clatter would resonate like a bad omen.

You pulled your pocket knife from your bag with a shaky hand. It was laughable, really. As if a blade that size could stop him. But still—you held it close. White-knuckled.

The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

You stepped over the doorknob, cautious. Careful. Like maybe if you were quiet enough, time would rewind. Undo the lock. Send you back to that bar with that forgettable man and his easy smile.

Your kitchen was untouched. So was the living room. No drawers open, no mess. But the bedroom door—the light was on. A single band of gold stretched out beneath it. Still. Warm. Wrong.

You padded toward it slowly, breath caught between your teeth. Every step like walking deeper into a grave you’d dug yourself. “Who the fuck would break into this shitbox?” you thought, almost laughing to yourself. What was there to steal, the inflatable mattress you slept on? The secondhand TV with a line through the screen?

But the lie died in your throat.

You knew.

That smell hit you first. Cigarettes. Metal. The cold scent of rain on asphalt and that fucking cologne that was burnt into every synapse and olfactory nerve in your body.

You didn’t even get the chance to open the door.

An arm snapped around your neck from behind, tight like a vise, forearm digging into your windpipe before you could scream. Your knife hit the ground with a soft clatter. Another hand was on your wrist, twisting it back—pain bloomed hot, immediate. Your body jerked in his grip, but it was useless. He had you.

You gasped, legs kicking, vision tunneling. You knew that grip. Knew how he held you when he wanted to hurt you just enough to make a point.

Your back slammed into his chest. Solid. Broad. So familiar it made your ribs ache.

His breath was on your neck, slow and quiet. A whisper.

And this exact moment was the part where you remembered that missing him was a disease, and he was the plague.

“You think you can fucking leave me?”

His voice was a razor at your ear, dragging slow. Gritted, low. The kind of voice people hear in nightmares and still wake up wet.

“Leave me? ” His arm flexed, pulling your back flush to him, tighter, until you couldn’t breathe right—until your body remembered him without your permission.

The curve of your ass pressed against the shape of his cock, already hard, thick through his jeans, and your spine arched like it always had, like instinct. Like obedience.

You hated yourself for it.

“Still want me,” he muttered, voice frayed. “Say you fucking don’t, but look at you—fuck, look at you.”

You tried to wrench free, heart jackhammering, but his free hand slid down your front, fingers splaying over your stomach, holding you there. Trapping you in that tension, in the horrible, undeniable reality of your pulse pounding in your pussy.

“You thought I wouldn’t find you?” he spat, the words venomous, but shaking underneath. “That I’d just fuckin’ forget you?”

He ground his hips forward slow, deliberate, and you felt every inch of him—hot, insistent. Your breath hitched, traitorous, and the noise you made was somewhere between a whimper and a sob.

“Stupid fuckin' skank,” he snarled. “Ran away like a coward, just to come back to this. To me. Like you always do.”

“I hate you,” you choked out, voice raw, spit pooling on your tongue like blood. “I fucking hate you—”

“Yeah?” He laughed, bitter, sharp. His lips ghosted just behind your jaw, not a kiss, just breath, heat.

“Then why’s your pussy beggin’ for me right now?”

Your legs nearly gave out.

And still—still, he held you like something sacred. Something ruined, but his.

“I fuckin’ missed you,” he murmured like a sin, and something ugly shattered in your chest.

Because you’d wanted to hear that more than anything, once. Before the blood, before the bruises. Before he’d torn your love out by the roots and left you bleeding for it.

And still, your body leaned into him like it hadn’t gotten the message. Like it didn’t know better.

His hand slid down your front like it had every right. Like he owned the air in your lungs and the ache in your spine. You struggled, but it wasn’t real, not yet—not with the way your hips tilted back to meet his touch.

But the silence that followed was loaded, poisonous.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

The growl in his throat rattled through your back as his fingers hit bare skin under your skirt. He yanked the fabric up to your hips and let out a humorless laugh. Low and sharp. Almost like he was surprised. Almost like it hurt.

“No panties? What—were you planning to get fucked tonight?”

You choked on a curse, head lolling back against his shoulder, teeth bared.

“Fuck you.”

“Slut,” he said flatly, fingers dragging through your folds. Your thighs jumped.

He hissed. “Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin’ soaked.”

A wet, obscene sound filled the air as he spread your lips apart, rough fingers sliding through the sheer mess between them.

“What were you gonna do, huh?” he muttered, voice brittle with fury. “Let some loser from work take you home? Let him stick his tongue in my pussy?”

He pinched your clit between two fingers, hard, and you gasped so sharp it burned your lungs.

He shoved you forward, finally releasing your neck. You stumbled, dizzy, and landed on the big lumpy bean bag chair you bought on clearance months ago. It barely held your weight, but it was yours. It was supposed to make this place feel safe.

He made it feel like his.

Brian was already on his knees, hands dragging you toward the edge. You barely had time to brace your hands before two rough palms were spreading your thighs open in front of his face, legs tossed over his shoulders like luggage.

“You look so fuckin’ stupid in this place,” he sneered, jerking your skirt up further until the waistband was biting into your ribs. “Tryna play house without me. What, you think shitty furniture and cheap drinks could make you forget me?”

His mouth was on you before you had time to bite back. Slurping right off the bat like a man half-starved, like it had been years since he’d had a taste and he was desperate to memorize it again. His tongue was hot and thick and messy, slathering you in spit, curling and flicking against your clit with rhythmic cruelty.

You tried to stay still. You tried to stay angry. But your hips jerked up with every suck and swirl like you were being strung up by nerve endings alone.

He smacked the underside of your thigh, hard, loud, the sound cracking off the apartment walls. Then again. And again.

“Don’t fucking run from it,” he growled against your pussy, lips slick, stubble soaked. “You want this so bad you didn’t even bother to put panties on.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, but it cracked halfway through, pathetic.

He moaned—moaned, the sick bastard—and dragged your clit between his lips like a cigarette he couldn’t quit.

One hand gripped your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The other, shoved under your shirt, groped your tit like he owned it—like he missed it. Rough fingers tugged at your nipple, just shy of cruel.

“This pussy’s been lonely,” he muttered, licking up the mess he made, nosing deep like he wanted to smother himself in it. “But not as fuckin’ lonely as me.”

You hated the way that landed. Hated the ache between your ribs worse than the one between your legs.

You were barely breathing—panting, shaking, trying to keep some shred of dignity while he tongued you like salvation and slapped your ass and thighs like punishment. Your hands clawed at the bean bag, nails tearing into cheap fabric, and just when your hips started to tremble, he pulled back just enough to look down at you—at the trembling mess he’d made of you already, scoffing.

He spat, a thick, stringy glob right onto your cunt, the spit mixing with your slick in a hot, filthy sheen.

“Fuckin’ nerve,” he muttered, rubbing it in with the pads of two fingers, slow circles on your clit before dragging them lower. “Tryna give my pussy away like it’s up for grabs.”

He smacked it, just enough that you yelped, hips jolting. “Oh?” he said, voice all mock-innocent, cocking his head. “She got somethin’ to say?” Another slap, harder. Then those same fingers slipped inside, knuckle deep.

Your eyes flew open as your back arched against the bean bag. Brian just laughed, like the way you bit back a gasp, a reaction, was comedy to him. Stumbled forward a bit like he couldn’t help himself, crowding over you, chest to chest now, breath hot against your cheek.

“Tight as a fuckin’ fist,” he whispered, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sluttin’ it out for nothin’. You leave me, and then what—dry spell?”

His fingers piston into you hard enough to make the bean bag shift under your spine.

“No one want this pussy?”

He curled his fingers just right and your mouth fell open with a moan.

You finally got air in your lungs, finally started to say, “Go fuck yourse—”

But he kissed you.

Hot, messy, all tongue—he shoved it into your mouth like he wanted to fuck your throat with it, your own taste still thick on his lips. And as your hips twitched and writhed, his fingers just kept going, relentless, pounding into that spot that made your stomach seize and your eyes roll.

You whimpered against his mouth. Moaned into it. Tried to bite him, but it was weak, pathetic—and he felt the way your walls started throbbing and clenching around his fingers.

“Mhm,” he hummed into your mouth, a deep, low vibration that sent you spiraling. “There it is, baby. There she fuckin’ goes.”

He broke the kiss, pulled back just far enough to watch your face fall apart. “Let it fuckin’ happen,” he muttered, teeth grazing your lips, hand slapping your thigh. “Come on, baby—fuckin’ show me how well I know you."

And you did. Convulsing around his fingers, slick spitting out like a fountain, your body betraying you in the worst fucking way possible. Proving him right, as if you had to autonomy.

You felt him shifting, leaning back. A low grunt. The slick sound of skin meeting skin. You opened your eyes—squinted—and saw him on his knees, pants shoved down just enough, one hand working his cock in slow, filthy pulls while the other kept those two fingers inside you, curling again, fucking up into that oversensitive spot.

“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes lidded, teeth gritted like he was pissed. “Fuckin’ creamin’ on my fingers and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your back arched. You gasped out, “B—Brian,” like it hurt, like you hated yourself for saying it.

His jaw flexed, forearm tensing under your nails. You didn’t even realize you were clinging to him that hard, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself against the second wave tearing through your gut.

“Say that shit again,” he growled, voice all gravel and heat, hand speeding up on his cock. “Go on. Let me hear you.”

You bit your lip, tried to turn your head—but he caught your chin, thumb still wet with your slick, and forced you to look.

“Don't piss me off, sugar. Say it.”

You sobbed out a moan and broke right the fuck down.

“Brian,” you whispered again, breath catching, heat curling low in your belly. “Brian—I can’t—”

“Couldn’t even last two fingers,” he muttered, breathless, his voice dark with disbelief. “Fucked you dumb with my fuckin’ hand—and now you’re sayin’ my name like you never stopped wantin’ me.”

You tried to push him off, weakly, voice hoarse. “You’re such a fucking—"

“Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut the fuck up—look at yourself, whore.”

He pulled his fingers out with a cruel little twist, and before your brain could catch up, he grabbed you by the back of your neck, shoved your legs open wider with his knees, and sank into you in one deep, brutal thrust that split you open and knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, hands scrabbling at the bean bag, thighs twitching as he bottomed out.

He fucked you like he was trying to kill you, like his dick could carve a place for himself in your guts where no one else could reach. Deep, hard strokes that punched the air out of your lungs, your legs cracked wide open over his hips. Skin slapping, obscene squelches from your soaked cunt, his low grunts in your ear twisting your stomach into knots.

“Shit,” he hissed, grinding his hips in a tight, mean little roll that hit something wicked inside. “God, I missed this sloppy fuckin' pussy."

Your hand fisted into his hoodie, teeth grit like you could fight off another orgasm. But then he leaned in. Pressed his chest to yours, nose to your cheek, and murmured, “Touch your clit.”

You froze, choking on half a moan. “What—?”

“Run that clit for me, baby,” he snarled, giving a particularly mean thrust that had your thighs twitching. “C'mon, show me how fuckin’ bad you missed this.”

You hesitated. He reached down and smacked your ass, lip curling.

“Do it.”

And you gave in, because how could you not? No matter how much you hated it and denied it, no matter how your chest stung every time you met his eyes, your body spoke for you.

Your fingers trembled as you found your clit, slick and swollen and sensitive. You rubbed it fast, desperate, on the verge of tears, your cunt pulsing around his cock with every thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, Brian—”

He moaned low, watching your face scrunch up, watching your eyes go glassy, lips twitching in a sharp smile. “Atta fuckin' girl. Too good? You gonna cry for me, sweetheart?”

You did. Tears welled up and spilled without permission. It was too much, the stretch, the heat, the shame, the fucking relief.

“You still mine?” he growled into your ear.

And your body gave him the answer.

You came with a broken gasp, cunt clamping so tight around him he groaned and bit your shoulder, still pounding into you, not letting up even as you trembled beneath him, twitching and overwhelmed.

The kind of rhythm that left you sobbing, drooling, grinding back because your body needed more even when you swore you were finished. Deep, dragging thrusts that filled you up and pushed the air from your lungs, again and again, his hips flush with yours, one hand tangled in the sweat damp hair at your nape while the other braced on your thigh, pushing it back to fold you open for him.

He buried his face in the curve of your leg, stubble scraping your skin, lips parted, panting. You felt the heat of him everywhere—his groans vibrating into your calf, his hand shaking as it held you still, his cock stretching you wide enough to split your soul.

You were babbling. Couldn’t form a single sentence. Just broken gasps, high-pitched moans, and his name, like it was the only thing you had ever known.

“F-fuck, please—Brian—please, I—”

“Please what?” His voice was strained, all grit and poison and possession. “You want my fuckin’ cum? Huh? Say it. Say you want me to fill this pussy like nobody ever did.”

You gasped like you’d been burned. “Yes—yes, please—fuck, I need it, I need it—”

He grunted, fucking into you harder, biting down on your calf deep enough to make you jerk, arm snaking around to press flat against your lower belly like he was feeling himself through you. His breath hitched, voice tightening.

“Tell me whose pussy this is.”

Your brain short-circuited. You tried to speak, choked on it.

“Say it, baby. Say it or I’ll pull out, leave you full’a nothin’.”

“No—please! It’s yours, yours, Brian—!”

He snarled, and buried himself all the way inside, hips flush to your ass, cock twitching. You felt the warmth of it, thick spurts of cum filling you, and he groaned into your leg like it physically hurt to let go. His whole body trembled, breath ragged and shaking as he held himself there, deep, biting into your calf to muffle it, to anchor himself while he came, grinding in with a low, broken, “Fffffuck…”

You collapsed. Just collapsed. Face pressed to the side, mouth open, tears in your lashes, body throbbing with every twitch of his cock inside you. Your thighs were soaked, cunt aching, spent—but he was still holding you down like he couldn’t let you go just yet.

And he didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t move. Just breathed, his body molded to yours, his cum leaking out around the base of his dick—warm, messy, filthy. His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, too soft for what he’d just done to you. Like he hated how much he meant it.

“…No one will fuck you like me,” he muttered finally, voice raw and thick with something that wasn’t quite smug. “Nobody knows you like this.”

[kooffeecup]

STILL YOUR'S

meeting your ex-boyfriend six year's later after leaving him for another man wasn’t something you were expecting!

pairing : biker jungkook x reader

genre : angst, smut, fluff ( mention of cheating )

still your's :

The wind suddenly started blowing and the rain started hitting your skin hard. You could feel your hairs sticking to your forehead. You felt cold, wet and uncomfortable.....

You feel cold as you were trying to fix your car in the heavy rain. Not until you see a bike coming over and stopping just in front of you. The men come closer. It was hard to see his face due to heavy rain and darkness. And when you finally take a good look at the person, you go numb.

"Jungkook?"You spoke his name in utter disbelief. You couldn't believe the person in front of you was your ex-boyfriend, the one you had left for another man.

The rain was pouring mercilessly now, the droplets of water adding a poignant atmosphere to the unexpected encounter. Jungkook's eyes met yours, there was a mix of surprise and hesitation etched on his face.

He slowly dismounted from his bike, the rain now making his clothes cling to him, outlining his muscular physique that you remember vividly from the past. The sound of the raindrops hitting the pavement seemed to mute everything around you except for the thudding of your heart against your ribcage.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of accusation. His eyes roamed over your form, taking in your soaked appearance.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to explain yourself. The memories of your past with him flooded your mind, the laughter, the arguments, and the love that had once bound you together. "My car broke down," you managed to say, pointing weakly to the abandoned vehicle down the road. The wind picked up, a gust making you shiver from the cold.

Jungkook's eyes flicked from you to your car then back to you. There was a momentary battle of emotions on his face, something between irritation and concern. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing the strands back off his forehead. "Get on," he said bluntly, gesturing to the seat behind him.

You blinked, unsure if you'd heard him correctly. Get on? You glanced at the bike, the small space behind him offering little protection from the rain, but it was still a better option than waiting alone in the cold. Without a word, you stepped forward and sat on the back of the bike. Jungkook climbed in front of you, setting his feet on the pedals before glancing back at you.

"Hold on," he warned.

You wrapped your arms around his middle, your body pressed closely against his back. The familiar scent of him, mixed with the freshness of the rain, assaulted your senses, bringing back a rush of memories. As he began to pedal, the rain continued to lash down, the wind biting at your exposed skin. For a few moments, you both rode in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic beat of the bike wheels against the wet road.

The bike swayed slightly with every turn, and you found yourself clinging tighter to Jungkook, your cheek brushing against the wet fabric of his jacket. You could feel the warmth of his body against your cold skin, and it stirred something within you, something you thought you'd buried long ago.

He navigated the rain-soaked streets with expertise, his focus solely on the road ahead. You tried to keep your thoughts in check, but your mind kept drifting back to the past, recalling the moments you'd shared with him - the good and the bad.

The bike came to a sudden halt, and Jungkook motioned for you to get off. You looked up to see that you were standing outside a small, unassuming apartment building.

The rain continued to fall as he led you towards the building, his hand lightly on your elbow to steady you. Once you were both under the cover of the doorway, he quickly unlocked the door and gestured for you to enter.

Inside, the apartment was warm and surprisingly cozy. The living room was simply furnished but distinctly male, adorned with a couple of gaming consoles and some gym equipment.

“ What is this place “?  You ask nervously. 

Jungkook shut the door behind you, the sound of rain now muffled by the walls of the apartment. He moved past you, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floor.

"It's my place," he replied simply, his voice betraying no real emotion. He shrugged off his jacket, revealing a tight t-shirt underneath, clinging to his toned body.

His words echoed in your mind. His place. You watched as he hung his jacket on a hook near the door, his movements casual, as if hosting his ex-girlfriend in his home at 3 AM in the rain was a normal part of his routine.

"You're soaked," he commented, turning to look at you. His eyes raked over your form, your clothes drenched and sticking to your body, making you feel vulnerable under his gaze.

You were suddenly aware of how you must look, your mascara probably smudged, your hair dripping down your face. Despite your best efforts, a shiver ran through you from the cold, and you wrapped your arms around yourself.

"Wait here," Jungkook said, disappearing down a narrow hallway. You stood there, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling oppressive. You took the opportunity to study your surroundings. The space was tidy, a reflection of Jungkook's disciplined nature.

A few moments later, he reappeared holding a dry towel and a pile of clothes. He offered them to you wordlessly - a pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

You took them, the warm fabric a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into your bones. "Thanks," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Before you could protest, Jungkook nodded towards a door down the hall.

"Bathroom's there if you want to change," he said, his eyes flickering over you again. "I'll find you some blankets." With that, he turned and walked back down the hall, leaving you standing there, feeling more exposed than ever before.

You made your way to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The small space was clean, the countertops bare except for a few toiletries. You quickly removed your wet clothes, your skin goose-bumping visibly in the cool air.

You dried yourself with the towel, the feeling of it against your skin offering a strange sense of comfort. You slipped on the clothes Jungkook had given you, the material soft and warm against your body. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves falling over your hands, adding an extra layer of coziness.

You took a few moments for yourself, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your makeup was smudged, your eyes looked tired, and your hair was a tangled mess. But there was something else too. A hint of vulnerability you weren't used to seeing in yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself to face Jungkook again. You opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The sound of rain continued its steady rhythm outside, a constant background noise that seemed to emphasize the intimacy of the situation.

Making your way back to the living room, you found Jungkook sitting on a couch, sorting out some blankets. He looked up as you entered, his gaze lingering on you for a moment. He didn't say anything, just gestured for you to sit on the other end of the couch.

You obeyed, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch, your hands gripping the soft fabric of the hoodie. The silence between you was deafening, filled with unspoken words and unsaid apologies. But there was something else too - a tension, a thread of electricity that seemed to crackle between you.

Jungkook finished arranging the blankets and looked at you, his expression inscrutable. "You can sleep here," he said, gesturing towards the couch. "I'll take the spare room." Part of you wanted to object, but the exhaustion of the night was catching up with you. Without another word, he got up and started towards a door down the opposite end of the hall.

You watched him disappear into the shadows, your heart beating a little faster. You settled into the couch, drawing a blanket over yourself. The events of the night ran through your mind in a loop. The broken down car, the rain, Jungkook's unexpected appearance, and now the strange situation you were in.

Despite the awkwardness, however, part of you couldn't help but feel a familiar sense of comfort. Lying there, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of Jungkook, you found yourself drifting off to sleep, the sound of the rain lulling you into a dreamlike state.

As you slept, your dreams were a jumble of memories - moments with Jungkook playing out like a movie. The sound of his laughter, the feel of his hands in yours, the warmth of his embrace. It was as if the years that had passed had faded away, leaving only the raw, intense emotions you had once felt for him.

You stirred in your sleep, a soft moan escaping your lips. In your dreams, you were reliving a moment from the past, a time when everything between you and Jungkook was simple, or as simple as two young people in love could be.

The images were vivid, almost tangible. You could almost feel his touch, the way his fingers would trail over your skin, igniting a fire within you. The memory was so real that when a noise snapped you out of your dream, you bolted upright, disoriented and confused.

The room was still dark, the rain had let up, leaving behind an eerie quiet. You blinked, your mind clearing slowly, and as you looked around, you realized that the noise hadn't been from your dream. It was the sound of footsteps, approaching softly from the hall.

Sure enough, Jungkook appeared from the darkness, a silent shadow in the dark room. He was shirtless, his sculpted chest and abs on display under the dim lighting. Your throat dried as you took in his appearance. He was more muscular than you remembered, the years having chiseled away any residual boyishness.

He halted at the end of the couch, his eyes fixed on you. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the wariness in his gaze. Neither of you said anything for a moment, the silence charged with unspoken words.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and gravelly. "Did I wake you?" He moved closer, his eyes never leaving your face. You could see the hint of stubble on his chin, giving him a rougher edge than the boy you once knew.

"Yeah," you managed to say, your voice thick with sleep. You sat up straighter on the couch, pulling the blanket closer to cover yourself. His proximity was overwhelming, his scent filling your nostrils and clouding your thoughts.

He perched on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes roaming over you. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by your shallow breaths and the sound of the ticking clock. He was close enough that you could see the golden flecks in his brown eyes, the tiny bead of sweat on his temple.

"Why did you come here?" He suddenly asked, his voice cutting through the silence. The directness of his question caught you off guard, the vulnerability you'd felt in your sleepy state instantly replaced by defensiveness.

"My car broke down," you answered automatically, your voice more defensive than you intended. He huffed out a cynical laugh, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

"And where were you going at three in the morning?" He pressed on, his gaze unwavering. You fidgeted under his scrutiny, the weight of his question making you feel like a child caught in a lie.

"Home," you answered honestly. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, a crack in the impassive facade he'd been keeping up. He sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his bicep flexing as he adjusted his position

"Home," he repeated, his tone flat. There was a bitterness in the word, a hint of something left unsaid. He studied you intently, his gaze roaming over your face, down the length of the hoodie you were wearing.

There was something about his look, something that made your skin flushed. The air between you was thick with tension, and you fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. He shifted on the coffee table, the movement drawing your eye to the definition in his abs, the way the muscles tightened as he moved.

"You don't wear stuff like that at home," he said suddenly indicating the dress you wore earlier , his eyes dropping to the hoodie you wore. You felt exposed under his gaze, the way he seemed to see right through you, to the layers upon layers of emotions you'd tried to bury over the years.

“ I have changed “, you said, looking away from him.

He huffed out a non-committal sound, not completely convinced. The air was still charged with tension, each passing moment stretching it tauter. He leaned forward a bit, his forearms resting on his knees, the movement only drawing your attention further to his physique.

"Why did you marry him?" The question took you by surprise, the bluntness of it stealing your breath. You had expected anger, maybe resentment, but the question was laced with a quiet sadness, a vulnerability he was trying to hide.

“ What? “ you asked softly. 

"You heard me," he said, his voice firm but lacking the edge it had earlier. "Why did you choose him over me?" The question hung in the air between you, the weight of it palpable.

“ Jungkook, “ you breathed.

"It's a simple question," he retorted, his eyes still fixed on you. "Why did you choose another man over me?" The pain in his voice was thinly veiled, a ripple beneath a veneer of indifference

“ I'm sorry “, you muttered and looked away not being able to look into his eyes which were radiating nothing but pain.

He let out a humorless laugh. "Sorry? You're sorry?" His voice was strained, a hint of anger and hurt seeping through. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement a restless release of tension.

"It's been six years, Y/N," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. The use of your name felt like a punch in the gut. "And all you have to say is that you're sorry?" The hurt in his voice was impossible to miss, his usual reserve starting to crack.

You bit your lip, feeling the lump in your throat that threatened to spill out as tears. You hadn't expected this conversation, hadn't prepared for the raw, uncensored emotions that were now on display.

"What do you want me to say then?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The tiredness of the night, the emotional rollercoaster of seeing him again, all of it was taking its toll on your defenses.

He pushed off the coffee table, the sudden movement making you flinch. He started pacing, his steps restless and agitated. "I want you to tell me why!" He suddenly shouted, the sound of his voice bouncing off the walls in the silent apartment.

The outburst took you aback, your heart jumping in your chest. Seeing him like this, so unrestrained with his emotions, was a stark contrast to the stoic, controlled man you had once known.

"Six years!" He continued, his steps getting faster, his anger fueled by something deeper, something you hadn't quite tapped into yet. "Six years spent trying to get over you, to move on with my life. And there you are, married, happy, while I'm-" he cut himself off, his hands balling into fists.

He finally stopped pacing, standing in front of you, his chest heaving with every breath. The air between you was still charged, but the tension had shifted. It was now tinged with longing, with a desperate need that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression pained, as if trying to gather himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, the anger replaced by a raw honesty. "I spent years believing that you still loved me," he said, his eyes fixed on you. "I thought you'd change your mind, remember how good we were together and come back to me."

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the silence. "But you didn't. You went on with your life, found someone else, while I was here, stuck in the past, waiting for you.

"And now you're here," he continued, his voice hoarse with all the unsaid words. "Sitting on my couch, wearing my hoodie, as if no time at all has passed."

The irony wasn't lost on you. Here you were, wearing his hoodie, feeling more at home in his apartment than you ever had on your  own. The years had melted away, replaced by a feeling of familiarity and longing.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. The sudden proximity, the heat of his palms burning through the fabric of the hoodie, sent a jolt through you.

"Why?" He asked again, but this time the question was different. It was laced with a plea, a desperate need for understanding. His eyes were fixed on you, filled with a myriad of emotions, anger, pain, desire.

You looked down at him, at the man you had loved and left behind. His eyes were searching, his touch tentative yet firm on your thighs. In that moment, everything else faded away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet of the early morning.

You reached out, your hand cupping his cheek. His skin was rough under your palm, stubble scratching at your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a small sign of surrender.

You broke down, not being able see is pain. Feeling immense pain in your heart. “ I'm so sorry “, you muttered. 

He placed his hand over yours, holding it tighter against his face, as if afraid you would pull away. His eyes flickered open, a myriad of emotions swimming through them, pain, anger, and an underlying current of longing.

"Why did you choose him?" He asked again, the question repeated like a mantra. But this time, it was softer, less laced with anger and more with a deep, unquenchable need to understand.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing bigger with each passing moment. How could you explain, without hurting him even more? How could you put into words the decisions and events that had led you down a different path

“ My–my parents forced me “, that's it, you said the truth you have been hiding so well. The reason feels pathetic, cliche but this is what it is. The actual truth.

The statement seemed to hit him like a ton of bricks. His grip on your hand tightened, and his expression hardened. "Your parents?" He repeated, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

You nodded, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. It was something you had never discussed before, a part of your past you had tried to bury, but here you were, forced to bring it out into the open.

"What do you mean, your parents forced you?" he asked, his voice softer now, filled with a hint of disbelief. "You're a grown woman. They can't force you to marry someone."

'' It wasn’t that simple ", you said.

He huffed out a cynical laugh, the irony not lost on him. "So you just caved in? Let them dictate your life?" His words stung, and you felt a pang of defensiveness rise in your chest. You couldn’t speak at this point. You felt a lump on your throat. You shook your head. .

"Then what?" he pressed on, his eyes searching yours for answers. "What could they have possibly said or done to make you marry someone you didn't love?"

" I didn’t know my marriage was fixed. I got to know the wedding day. They told me it was someone else's wedding but turned out it was mine ", you out.

His eyes widened at your confession, shock and confusion etched on his face. "What do you mean you didn't know?" He asked, bewilderment coloring his voice. "You didn't know you were getting married until the day of?"

" Yes...they took me there and blackmailed me. There were so many people. I wanted to run away but... ", you take a deep breath.

"But..?" he prompted, his grip on your hand painful now. The hurt in his eyes was evident, the realization of what you had gone through hitting him like a wave “ 

" But I didn't want to embarrass my parents. There were so many people dad said he will kill Himself if i say no "

His expression was a mix of disbelief and anger, his jaw clenching as he tried to process your words. The idea that you had been forced into marriage, that you had sacrificed your own happiness for the sake of your parents' reputation, seemed almost inconceivable to him.

"So let me get this straight," he said, his voice strained. "You married a man you didn't even know because you didn't want to embarrass your parents?"

You could only nod under his hurtful gaze. 

He let out a humorless laugh, a bitter sound that echoed the pain he was feeling. "You gave up your life, your future, because of what? Fear of public humiliation? To please your parents?"

The hurt in his eyes was palpable, the knowledge that you had chosen a loveless marriage over a life with him seemed to rip open old wounds.

"You chose them over me," he said, his voice low but filled with an undercurrent of anger. "You chose to please them, even if it meant destroying both our lives."

You flinched at his words, the truth of them hitting you like a physical blow. You had never seen him this way, so filled with anger and pain. But you couldn't deny the truth in his words. You had made a choice, and it had cost you the man you loved.

His hand moved on your thigh, his touch changing from pleading to possessive. He was clinging onto you like a lifeline, his grip on your hand unyielding. "Were you happy with him?" He suddenly asked, his voice rough with suppressed emotions.

You swallowed, the question hitting you like a punch to the gut. The truth was, you weren't happy. You had tried, gods knew you had, but it had never felt right. You had never been able to shake the feeling that something was missing, that you were living a lie.

"Answer me," he said, his eyes burning into yours. He needed to hear it, needed the confirmation of what he suspected to be true.

"No," you whispered, the word barely audible in the still room. "I was never happy with him." The admission was like a weight lifted off your chest, a truth you hadn't allowed yourself to acknowledge until now.

He closed his eyes at your confession, the pain evident on his face. His fingers gripped your thigh tighter, as if he was afraid you would disappear if he let go. "Why?" he asked, his voice rough. "Why didn't you come back to me?"

“ I tried but i Couldn't " ,you cried out.

His eyes snapped open at your confession, a flicker of hope igniting in them. "You tried?" he asked incredulously, his grip on your thigh loosening a fraction 

“ You nodded again, “ But the day I tried to run away He found out about you. He was abusive, he is a cheater. Every night he used to bring different girls to our house. I didn't really care, I didn't love him. Hee used to beat me”,you said... Looking straight into his eyes. Trying to show your genuineness. .

His face hardened at your words, the anger in his expression replaced by a cold fury. "He...he used to beat you.." he repeated, his voice thick with suppressed rage 

The idea that someone would lay their hands on you, the woman he loved and had lost, was unacceptable to him. He had always seen you as strong and independent, and the idea that someone had violated that had his blood boiling.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice strained. "Why didn't you call me, or reach out? I would've come for you, I would've gotten you away from him."

"I didn't want to burden you," you muttered, the admission coming out before you could stop it. The need to protect him, even after all these years, was still ingrained in you.

He let out a bitter laugh at your words, his eyes narrowing. "Burden me?" he echoed. "You think I would've cared about that? I would've dropped everything and come for you, and you know it."

The rawness in his voice was undeniable. He meant every word, and the knowledge that you had chosen to suffer in silence rather than reach out to him cut him deeper than he'd ever let on.

"Do you have any idea," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, "how many nights I spent staring at my phone, hoping you'd call or text? How many times have I considered  reaching out to you, just to see if you were okay?"

You were silent, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. You had thought cutting him out of your life would spare him the pain of seeing you with another man, but in doing so, you had caused him even more suffering.

"And now," he continued, his voice gaining strength, "you show up at my doorstep, wearing my hoodie, smelling like you, looking like you...and tell me you stayed in a loveless, abusive marriage because you didn't want to embarrass your parents?"

The anger in his voice was laced with something else now, a raw, visceral hurt that had been bubbling beneath the surface. He seemed to be at a loss, his grip on your thigh loosening as he grappled with the storm of emotions raging inside of him.

"You've always been too damn stubborn, you know that?" he suddenly blurted out, his words tinged with anger and anguish. "Always trying to shoulder everything alone, never letting anyone in, even the person who loves you the most."

The mention of love hit you like a physical blow. He was talking about himself, you realized. The person who loved you the most, the one person you had pushed away, leaving him to suffer in your absence.

"I would've helped you," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "I would've protected you. Hell, I would've killed him for putting his hands on you. But you didn't give me a chance, did you? You just shut me out and married a man you didn't love."

His words were like a slap in the face, a brutal honesty you had tried so hard to avoid confronting. He was right, you had shut him out, choosing the easy way out over a life with the man you loved.

"God, the thought of you with him..." he continued, his jaw clenched as if physically repressing the thought. "Of him touching you, kissing you...it makes me sick."

The jealousy in his voice was undisguised, the thought of another man having you, touching you, when he had been deprived of that privilege for years, was intolerable to him.

He suddenly pushed himself off the floor, standing up, his movements filled with pent-up frustration. He raked a hand through his messy hair, tousling it further, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I should've fought for you," he said, his voice tight. "I should've forced you to talk to me, to listen to me. But I didn't. I let you walk away, and now....now, it's too late."

The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, the finality of them echoing through the silence. Too late. The idea that the window to repair what had been lost, to regain the love and happiness you had once shared, was closing, was a harsh truth to swallow.

A long, heavy silence fell between you, the only sound the ticking of the clock and your ragged breathing. He continued to pace back and forth, a restless tiger caged in a too-small enclosure. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions, anger, hurt, yearning, warring for dominance.

You felt a tear escape, trailing down your cheek. He had always been so passionate, so intense with his feelings, and seeing him like this, vulnerable yet unyielding, was a painful reminder of what you had given up.

He stopped his pacing, his gaze flickering to the tear on your cheek. His eyes darkened, the sight of your crying fueling his anger and his anguish. He moved closer to you again, his steps measured, as if drawn to you against his own will.

He reached out, wiping the tear off your cheek with his thumb. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through you. The gesture was tender, at odds with the raw anger that still simmered beneath the surface.

"Don't cry," he whispered, his voice strained. "Don't you dare cry. Not after everything you've put me through." His thumb lingered on your cheek, his touch gentle yet possessive.

His proximity was overwhelming, the scent of his skin, the familiar warmth of his body sending your senses into overdrive. You were suddenly hyper aware  of his presence, the way his body leaned into yours, the slight hitch in his breathing.

He suddenly leaned closer, his words a whispered demand in your ear. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice low and filled with a mixture of anger and possessiveness.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his proximity. His breath was warm against your skin, his body, which was almost touching yours, a source of heat and comfort that you had longed for for years.

You knew he was talking about your husband. The man you had married, the one who had hurt you, the one who had taken your place. You swallowed, the name on your lips feeling like a betrayal.

"His name is..." you began, the words sticking in your throat. Saying his name in front of Jungkook felt like a sacrilege, as if you were giving him a place in your life that Jungkook had once occupied.

"Say it." He prompted, his voice stern. He was determined to get an answer, to acknowledge the reality of your marriage, however much it pained him.

“ Minho ", you muttered. 

His reaction was immediate. The name, uttered in your soft voice, seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His body went taut, his fingers that were gently caressing your cheek suddenly gripping your jaw, almost painfully.

"Minho," he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. He was looking at you intently, his gaze fixated on you as if trying to burn the name into his memory, as if by doing so he could somehow make it less real.

His grip on your jaw didn't loosen, he held you fiercely, possessively, as if trying to anchor you to him physically as well as emotionally. The pain and anger were still there, but slowly morphing into a desperate need, a raw need to possess you, make you his again.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension in his muscles as he held you in place. His eyes were darkened, the usually sparkling irises almost black with a mixture of fury and desire.

"Did he touch you like this?" 

His voice barely above a murmur. His fingers, still on your jaw, moved lower, tracing the line of your neck, lingering on the pulse point at your throat.

You shivered at his touch, your body responding to him involuntarily. No, you wanted to say. No, he never touched me like this. But the words stuck in your throat, replaced by a whimper that escaped your lips against your will.

His eyes flickered at the sound, a low growl escaping his lips. He understood, without you having to utter a word, that Minho had never touched you like he was touching you now. The knowledge seemed to fuel his need, his fingers trailing lower, tracing patterns on your collarbone.

"Did he kiss you here?" he suddenly asked, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His hot breath ghosted over your skin, his lips almost touching, yet hovering a mere centimeter away.

You couldn't form words anymore, your mind foggy with a wave of sensations that were overwhelming in their intensity. The proximity of his lips, the heat of his body, the possessive touch of his fingers - it was all too much. You let out another small, needy whimper, your eyes fluttering shut. No.

He chuckled, the sound a low, rough rumble that sent shivers down your spine. He was well aware of the effect he was having on you, the way your body had responded to his touch, the way your breath hitched and your pulse sped up.

He tilted your chin up, bringing your face closer to his. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and you could see the struggle in them. He was fighting a battle within himself, torn between anger, hurt, and the deep, raw need to claim you as his again.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. When you met his gaze, he leaned even closer, his lips hovering above yours, a breath apart.

His breath was hot against your skin, the faint scent of his cologne filling your nostrils. The proximity was electrifying, the anticipation of his kiss almost too much to bear. But he didn't close the gap, he was drawing it out, making you desperate for his touch, his lips.

His breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. He was barely holding onto his restraint, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he was forcibly restraining himself from capturing your lips in a wild, almost feral kiss.

"Tell me," he murmured, his lips just barely skimming yours, "did he kiss you like this?" His fingers moved lower, tracing the soft skin of your décolletage, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You were completely flustered, your mind refusing to form coherent thoughts. He was so close, his body pressed against yours, his touch igniting a fire within you that had been dormant for years. But that question, that simple question sent a wave of shame through you. You knew the answer, and it pained you to admit it.

You shook your head, the gesture small but significant. No, he never kissed me like this. As soon as the word left your lips, he captured them in a bruising kiss, claiming your mouth with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation.

The kiss was fierce, primal. He claimed your mouth like a man starved, every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth, filled with a passion that was bordering on feral. Your body reacted instinctively, arching into him, your hands coming up to bury themselves in his hair.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound rough and guttural. His hands, still on your body, roamed over your curves, caressing, possessing, as if he was trying to reacquaint himself with every inch of you.

The kiss was relentless, as if he was trying to erase any trace of another man's touch from your skin. He was devouring you, taking what he perceived to be his, unapologetically, passionately.

Your mind was swimming, your thoughts consumed by the pleasure of his kiss, the taste of him in your mouth, the feel of his hands on your body. It was all too much, the years of separation, the pent up emotions, the need, the desire, all coming to a head in that moment.

He finally pulled back, panting heavily, his eyes wild, his lips wet and puffy from the intensity of the kiss. He didn't let you go, keeping you close, his body still pressed against yours, as if he was afraid you would slip away again.

His chest was heaving, his heart pounding against your own. You felt his hardness, evidence of his desire for you, pressed against your hip, and it sent a thrill through you, a wave of need and want that was almost primal.

He watched you for a moment, his gaze flickering across your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your half-lidded eyes, your swollen lips. The sight seemed to excite him even more, and he pulled you even closer, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"You're mine," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "You've always been mine. I don't care if you married him, if he touched you, I don't care. You're mine." He repeated the words as if he was trying to convince himself, his possessiveness bordering on possessive.

Your heart ached at the possessiveness in his words, but deep down, you found it comforting. You had missed the way he claimed you, the certainty in his voice, the way he made you feel desired and wanted, even after all these years.

He suddenly dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear. He sucked gently on your flesh, his teeth grazing the area, leaving bruises in his wake.

He continued to lavish attention on your neck, his lips, teeth, and tongue working together to drive you crazy. "You have no idea," he mumbled, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. ""No idea how many nights I've dreamt of this, of having you in my arms again."

His words were making it difficult to form coherent thoughts. His lips were hot, his tongue was torturous, the scrape of his teeth on your skin a delicious blend of pleasure and pain. You were trapped in a haze of sensation, unable to do anything but feel, but experience the onslaught of his affections.

He suddenly moved lower, his lips trailing over your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, still covered by your shirt. You arched your back involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips as he found a particularly sensitive spot. He chuckled, the sound low and filled with satisfaction.

This is wrong, Jungkook,“, you say but the truth is you don’t care anymore. HHis fingers found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and tracing patterns on your stomach. He didn't reply, his focus entirely on your body, on each gasp and shiver he caused.

You were rapidly losing control, your body responding to his touch with a mind of its own. His fingers were slowly, torturously, inching higher, trailing up your ribcage, sending sparks of pleasure through you. But his words echoed in your mind, this is wrong.

You knew it was wrong, but your body didn't care. It had been starving for his touch, his attention, for what felt like an eternity. You wanted him, you needed him, and all thoughts of right and wrong had flown out of the window.

He suddenly pushed your hoodie up, exposing your bare stomach to his gaze. His hands gliding over your skin as if memorizing every contour, every dip and curve.

You gasped as his hands found the edge of your inner, his fingers lingering there for a moment, as if asking for permission. You were so far gone that you didn't think, you just acted, arching your back in a silent invitation.

He quickly removed the rest of your hoodie, discarding it on the floor. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in the sight of you in just your inner and pants. He let out a low, guttural sound, his fingers tracing a path from your stomach upwards, over the fabric of your bra.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "God, you have no idea how long I've waited to see you like this again." His hands moved down to your hips, his grip firm as he pulled you flush against his body.

You could feel every hard plane of his body against you, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip, igniting a fire within you. You were both breathing raggedly now, the air around you thick with tension and need.

He suddenly lifted you up, as if you weighed nothing, setting you on the edge of the desk. You gasped at the sudden movement, your hands automatically gripping the edge to keep your balance. He stepped between your legs, his body pressing against yours, trapping you against the desk.

His lips found your skin again, his teeth grazed your shoulder, his tongue traced the valley of your throat. His hands were everywhere, roaming over your body, caressing, claiming. You were lost in a sea of sensation, your mind overloaded with the sheer intensity of his touch.

"I swear to God," he muttered into your skin, "if you had let him touch you like this, I would've lost my mind." His hands were on your thighs now, moving higher, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

You could only respond with a small, needy whine, unable to form coherent words. His touch was driving you wild, each graze of his fingers sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You were completely at his mercy, your body arching into his, desperate for more.

He pushed your legs open wider, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips finding your earlobe. "Tell me," he whispered, his voice a rough murmur, "tell me he never made you feel like this. Tell me he never made you shiver and moan and beg like this."

You couldn't deny it, even if you wanted to. No, Minho never did this to you. He was too formal, too cold, he never made you feel the way Jungkook did. You shook your head, the movement making your hair brush against his cheek.

"That's right," he murmured, his lips moving down your jaw. "That's my girl." His hands pushed up your skirt, his fingers trailing over your inner thighs, getting close to the place you needed him the most.

You were a bundle of nerves, each touch sending waves of pleasure through you. You were so close to begging, so close to pleading for more, but you knew he wanted to hear it. He wanted you to admit that you wanted him, that you had missed him just as much as he had missed you.

You tried to speak, but all that escaped your lips was a strangled moan. His fingers were so close, but not quite there, teasing you, driving you insane. "Jungkook, please," you finally managed to gasp out, your voice shaky, breathless.

His reaction was immediate. At the sound of his name, pleading and desperate from your lips, something snapped inside him. His fingers moved, finding the edge of your underwear, slipping beneath the fabric. You couldn't help but arch your back at the feeling, a gasp escaping your lips.

"God, you're so wet," he groaned into your ear, his fingers finding the most sensitive spot, rubbing gently, coaxing a gasp out of you

You were coming undone, your body responding to him in ways you didn't remember it could. You felt like you were on fire, your skin burning under his touch, your mind hazy with pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, and you could feel his breath in your ear, ragged and hot, his voice a low growl. "You're mine. You always will be. I don't care who you marry, who you lie with, who you kiss. You're mine, and I am never letting you go again."

His words were possessive, almost feral, and they only heightened your pleasure. You were lost in a whirlwind of sensations, the feeling of his body against yours, his touch on your skin, his words in your ear. You were his, completely and utterly

His fingers moved, his touch rougher now, more desperate, as if he was trying to claim every piece of you, every thought, every feeling. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice low and urgent, "say my name. Say I'm the only one who makes you feel like this."

"Jungkook," you gasped, your voice a shaky whisper. "You're the only one. No one else. Only you." The words were torn from you, a confession that you had been holding back for so long.

He let out a guttural sound, the sound filled with a mixture of triumph and satisfaction. "That's right," he murmurs, his lips moving back to your neck. "You're mine. Always have been, always will be."

His mouth found yours again, the kiss demanding, possessive. His tongue tangled with yours, his hands roaming over your body. You were completely overwhelmed, the room filled with the sound of ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric 

You felt him suddenly pull your legs further apart, positioning himself between them.

His body was pressed against yours, his hardness a stark reminder of his desire for you. His hands were on your hips now, holding you in place as he rocked against you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

"I'm going to take you," he mutters, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "I'm going to make you scream my name until you forget who you are." His hands moved to your buttons, roughly undoing them, his movements impatient, urgent.

You let him, too gone to resist, too lost in the feeling of his body against yours. The room was filled with the sound of buttons popping, fabric tearing, and your own gasps and moans.

He was stripping you bare now, his eyes darkened with desire, his touch relentless. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice thick with need. "And I'm going to show you that every night, until you never even think about pretending to be another man's wife.

You barely registered his words, your mind overcome with sensation. You were burning up, your body a pool of molten pleasure. You wrapped your legs around him, a silent plea, a silent invitation.

He reacted to your movement instantly, his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing against you. "You want me," he growled in your ear, "you need me. Say it." His voice was rough, filled with domination, a stark contrast to the gentle, kind boy he had been years ago.

You didn't hesitate, the words slipping out of you in a gasp, "I need you. I want you. I've always wanted you." And it was the truth, the raw, primal truth that you had kept buried for so long.

He didn't waste a moment. His lips captured yours again, his tongue claiming your mouth. His body moved against yours, his hardness rubbing against you in just the right way. You were on the brink of losing control, and he knew.

He suddenly pushed you down onto the desk, your back hitting the wood with a thud. His body followed, covering yours, trapping you beneath him. His lips found your neck again, his teeth scraping across your skin. "I'm going to give you everything," he growled, his voice low and rough, "everything that other men  couldn't give you, everything you've been craving."

You could only respond with a moan, trapped under his body, overwhelmed by his presence, his touch, his scent. He was wild, untamed, animalistic in his need for you, and you were helpless to do anything but surrender.

His hands were everywhere, roaming over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. They found your undergarments, a thin, lace fabric that was all that separated you from him. He paused, looking down at you, his eyes smoldering. "These," he muttered, "these need to go."

You could only nod, your mind too hazy with pleasure to form words. He didn't wait, his hands impatient, rough as they tore at the fabric, ripping it away from your body, discarding it on the floor. His hands were immediately back on your skin, roaming over your exposed skin, as if trying to claim every inch of you.

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands gliding up your thighs, his touch gentle despite the desperation in his voice. "I've dreamed about this, about having you like this, for so long."

His lips found your stomach, trailing kisses down your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. You arched your back involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders.

His hands were on your hips now, holding you in place, as he worshipped your body with his mouth. He was gentle, yet possessive, his touch rough but reverent, as if he was trying to convey all the months, all the years of waiting and longing in his kisses.

"Please," you finally gasped out, your voice a strangled plea, "please, I need you." You were burning up, desperate for more, your body begging for release.

He didn't respond with words. Instead, he shifted his body, positioning himself between your legs. You could feel him there, hard and ready, the tip of him just brushing against your entrance. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, his gaze filled with a mix of need and something else, something more primal, more intense. "You're mine," he muttered again, his voice rough,

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his possessive tone only adding to the intensity of the moment. You were both too far gone, too deep in your need and desire to resist any longer.

He gripped your hips tightly, his eyes locked on yours, as if asking for permission one last time. His restraint was hanging by a thread, his body taut with tension, ready to snap at any moment.

You met his gaze, your eyes dark with desire, your body burning with need. "Yes," you whispered, your voice a needy gasp. "Please, Jungkook, take me."

His name on your lips was his undoing. He let out a guttural growl, his control snapping. In one swift movement, he pushed into you, filling you 

You gasped out loud as he filled you, the feeling so overwhelming, so intense.

Your body arched against his, your hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring you to reality. This was more than you'd ever felt, more than you'd ever imagined. It was everything and nothing at the same time, a raw, intense need that consumed you both.

He started to move, his pace wild, his movements desperate, as if he was trying to claim every part of you, to erase any hint of the other man in your life. His lips found your neck again, his teeth grazing your neck.

His movements were relentless, possessive, as if he was trying to make up for lost time, for the years you'd spent apart. Your hands were on his back, your nails digging into his skin, leaving trails of red, marks of your own to claim him as yours.

The room was filled with a chorus of ragged breaths, moans and muttered curses. The desk creaked beneath you, the force of his movements enough to rock it against the wall. He was wild, untamed, a stark contrast to the boy you had grown up with.

And yet, beneath the wildness and possession, there was something else, something tender and gentle. You could see it in his eyes, in the way he murmured your name against your skin, his voice thick with emotion, as if he couldn't believe you were finally back in his arms.

"You're mine," he muttered again and again, his breath hot against your ear, as if he couldn't say it enough, as if he needed to remind you, and himself, that you belonged to each other.

"Yours," you echoed, your voice a shaking gasp, your body arching in response to his touch. "I'm yours, Jungkook. Only yours."

He groaned at your words, the sound deep and guttural, as if they had unleashed something feral in him. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough, his movements getting wilder, more desperate.

"I'm yours," you repeated, your voice a breathy moan, your thoughts swirling in a haze of pleasure. "Only yours, always yours."

He didn't reply, his mouth finding yours again, his kiss deep, possessive, as if he was trying to claim you, body and soul. His movements started to lose their rhythm, becoming wild, frantic, as if he was reaching the edge of his control.

"Don't stop," you gasped against his lips, your hands clinging to his shoulders, your body burning with need. "Please, don't stop."

His pace quickened, his movements wild and desperate, as if he was chasing something, pushing you both towards the edge. "I'm going to make you forget," he growled in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, "make you forget everything except me. Only me."

You were on the verge of losing control, your body a maelstrom of sensations, your mind a blur of pleasure and need. You were teetering on the edge, about to free-fall, and you knew he was right there with you.

"Jungkook," you moaned, his name a desperate plea, a prayer on your lips. "Please, I can't...I need..." You didn't even know what you were asking for, what you were pleading for. All you knew was that you needed him, needed more, needed all of him.

He understood, his own control hanging by a thread. "Let go," he whispered, his voice a rough, urgent plea. "Let go, baby. Let go for me."

You didn't know how to respond, your body already on the edge, ready to snap. His words, the raw, possessive need in his voice, were the final push you needed. Your body convulsed, your back arching off the desk, your hands clutching  onto him, as if he was your lifeline, the only thing keeping you grounded in the storm of sensations. He followed you over the edge moments later, your name torn from his lips in a guttural

You were lost in the onslaught of sensations, your body trembling, your mind blank. Slowly, the room came back into focus, the sound of your ragged breaths filling the room, intermingled with the sound of his own breaths, just as ragged, just as spent.

He was still holding you, his body pressed against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart rate slowly returning to normal, the rapid beat slowing down, the rhythm evening out.

You felt wrung out, spent, as if you had run a race you didn't realize you were in. You were wrapped up in each other's  arms, your bodies intertwined, your hair and clothes messy, as if you had been caught in a whirlwind..

He didn't pull away, his embrace still protective, still possessive. His fingers traced slow, gentle circles on your skin, as if he was mapping out every inch of you, as if he couldn't bear to let you go.

"You're mine," he repeated, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "You've always been mine. And tonight, I won't let you forget it."

You didn't respond, your mind still murky from the intensity of what had just happened. You were too spent to argue, too sated to do anything but lean into his embrace, letting him hold you.

He seemed to sense your fatigue, your body's need for rest. He shifted his weight, lifting you gently into his arms, as if you weighed nothing at all. He carried you over to the couch in the corner of the room, settling down with you cradled in his lap.

You let him tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his arms around you, his presence soothing, comforting. You were too exhausted to speak, your body and mind in a state of blissful exhaustion. All you could do was nuzzle into him, seeking the comfort of his warmth, his touch.

He didn't speak either, content to just hold you, his fingers tracing light patterns on your back. You could feel his breath against your hair, a steady, soothing beat. The room was quiet, the only sound was the  soft rustle of fabric and your combined breaths, evening out in synchronization.

Eventually, your eyes started to flutter closed, the exhaustion taking over. His arms tightened around you, as if sensing that you were drifting off, as if he was desperate to keep you close, even in sleep.

"Sleep," he whispered, his voice a gentle command, a tender plea. You felt his lips brush against your forehead, a soft, affectionate gesture. "I'll watch over you. Rest."

You were too tired to protest, your body succumbing to the call of sleep. Your eyes closed, your breaths deepened, and you felt yourself falling into the welcoming arms of oblivion. The last thing you heard was his voice, a comforting murmur.

He held you close, his arms never letting go, his body a solid, protective presence. He didn't move, didn't shift, just stayed there, holding you as you slept, watching over you like a silent guardian.

The night slowly gave way to dawn, the faint light of the morning sun seeping through the window, casting a soft glow on the room. Yet, he stayed, his embrace unwavering, his watch over you unbroken. You slept deeply, undisturbed by the changing light, safe in his arms.

As the room gradually grew brighter, the sunlight slowly chasing away the shadows, you began to stir, awakening slowly, reluctantly leaving the peaceful realm of sleep. You felt the slight soreness in your body, the after-effects of the intensity of the previous night, but there was also a warm, soft comfort, a sense of being encircled, protected.

You opened your eyes slowly, adjusting to the faint morning light. You were still in his lap, his arms securely around you, his chin resting on your head. He was wide awake, his gaze fixed on you, as if he had been silently watching over you the whole night.

His eyes met yours, a soft, warm smile curving up the corners of his mouth. "Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his voice a soft rumble. His fingers traced a gentle line down your cheek, a tender gesture.

You smiled back, still drowsy, still not fully awake. But you felt a sense of peace, of contentment, as you sat there in his lap, his arms around you, his gaze on you. It was as if you had come home, after a long, tiring journey, and finally, you were where you b

He gently pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, as if he couldn't bear to let go. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur.

You thought about the question, taking stock of your body, your mind. You were sore, but it was pleasantly  sore, a reminder of what had happened the previous night. "I'm okay," you replied, your voice still sleepy, "just a bit sore."

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and possessiveness. "You'll be feeling sore for a while," he teased, his grip on you tightening slightly, as if he was trying to emphasize his point.

You laughed softly, not denying that he was right. You leaned into him, savoring his warmth, the solidity of his body. "Worth it," you muttered, your cheek resting against his chest.

"Damn right it was," he murmured, his voice low and gruff. His hand moved up to your hair, his fingers tangling in the unruly strands, as if he simply couldn't keep his hands off you.

You closed your eyes again, enjoying the feeling of his fingers in your hair, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. You could stay here forever, you thought, in this moment of peace, this brief bubble of time where it was just the two of you, the world outside forgotten.

He was silent for a few moments, his hand still in your hair, his other arm wrapped snugly around you, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. You could almost feel the thoughts running through his mind, the things he wanted to say but hadn't yet.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Last night..." he started, his voice a low murmur. "Last night was...it was everything, baby. You have no idea what you-" His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't quite find the words for what he was trying to say.

You opened your eyes again, tilting your head back slightly to look up at him. His face was a mix of emotions - possessive, tender, loving. He was struggling, trying to convey something that he couldn't seem to verbalize.

"Last night," he tried again, his voice still thick with emotion, "last night just...just made me realize how empty the years without you have been. I forgot what it felt like to hold you, to touch you, to feel you respond under my hands. I forgot...I forgot what it was like to feel alive."

His words were spoken so quietly, as if he was confessing something he'd been keeping hidden for years.

"Jungkook," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. His words, his raw, unfiltered feelings, were overwhelming. This wasn't the confident, cocky man you had grown up with. This was a man stripped bare, a man who was finally pouring out all the pent-up emotions, all the years of longing and need

"Don't leave again," he said suddenly, his voice a low, urgent plea. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if he was trying to meld your body against his, as if he was scared to let you go. "Don't ever leave again. I wouldn't survive it."

Your heart ached at his words, the raw, desperate plea. You knew he was putting himself out there, exposing his vulnerabilities to you. You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm not going anywhere," you assured him, your voice soft but sure. "I'm here, Jungkook. I'm staying."

His eyes met yours, his gaze intense, searching. It was as if he was trying to assure himself that you were real, that this wasn't some dream he was about to wake up from. "Promise me," he whispered, the simple command infused with an undercurrent of fear, of insecurity.

You held his gaze, your thumb still stroking his cheek, your mind filled with determination. "I promise," you said, your voice firm, steady. "I won't run. I won't leave. I'm here, and I'm st

A sense of relief washed over him, the tension in his body easing slightly. He let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in, as if he had been waiting for your promise. His hand that was tangled in your hair tightened, his grip possessive, as if he was trying to anchor himself to you, to reality. "Good," he murmured, his voice regaining some of its familiar, confident tone. "Because once I have you, I'm not letting go. I'll never let you run again, baby."

You smiled at his words, your heart swelling with affection for him. You knew it was a veiled threat, a subtle warning, but you didn't feel threatened. Instead, you felt a sense of comfort in his possessiveness, in his desire to keep you close. "I'm not going anywhere," you repeated, your voice firm, your eyes never leaving him. "I'm staying, Jungkook. I'm staying with you."

He gave a satisfied nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to have calmed a bit, the earlier tension and insecurity replaced by a more familiar, cocky attitude. "Damn right you are," he said, his voice a low, almost teasing rumble. "You're mine now, baby. And I don't share what's mine."

" But minho ",you muttered.

At the mention of the other man, Jungkook's demeanor changed in an instant. His hold on you tightened, his body tensing under you. His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching, and a low growl escaped his throat.

"I don't want to hear about him," he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "I don't want to hear his name coming from your lips. You're not his. You're mine."

You could feel his possessive grip on you, the way he was holding you as if he was claiming you, marking you as his. You knew his words weren't a request, but a command. And despite the possessiveness, you couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat, your stomach fluttering with a strange mix of fear and pleasure at his assertion of o

“ But he is still my husband legally “, you said. As much as you hate to admit it this is the truth.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed at your words, his jaw clenching even tighter. He seemed to bristle at the reminder, his possessive instincts rising to the surface, making his grip on you almost painful. "Not for long," he growled, his voice harsh, almost menacing. "You're mine, and I'll be damned if I let him stand in the way of that again."

You felt your heart skip a beat, his words sending a strange mix of emotions through you. There was fear, yes, but there was also a thrill, a sort of perverse pleasure at the depth of his possessiveness, his determination to have you, no matter the cost.

"Jungkook..." you began, but he cut you off, his voice a low, harsh whisper. "No. Don't even try." His arms were still wrapped around you tightly, his body coiled tight, as if he was ready to pounce at any moment. "You're mine. You've always been mine. I'm not letting you go this time. I can't. I won't."

There was something wild, almost feral in his eyes, a raw possessiveness that was both terrifying and thrilling. He pulled you closer to him, his body flush against yours, as if he was trying to eliminate any space between you. "You understand, don't you, baby?" he murmured, his voice low and rough. "You understand that you belong to me. No one else, just me."

You felt a rush of heat flood your body at his words, his possessive tone seeping into your skin, making your heart race, your breath catch. You were trapped in his arms, his body surrounding yours in a tight, overwhelming embrace. And even though there was a part of you that was scared, there was another part that was undeniably stirred, aroused by his intensity, his determination.

" Let's run away ", he said.

You paused at his words, your mind swirling with conflicting emotions. He was asking you to run away, to leave everything behind and start anew with him. It was a proposition that both excited, and terrified, you. There was a thrill in the idea of being with him, of building a life together. But there was also a nagging fear, a sense of duty and obligation that was holding you back.

"Jungkook..." you began, your voice hesitant, uncertain. "I...I don't know...I can't just-"

He cut you off, his eyes darkening with impatience. "Don't think about it, baby. Don't overthink it. Just say yes. Say yes and let's run away together. Just you and me, starting over."

His voice was urgent, desperate. There was a pleading edge to it, a hint of vulnerability that you'd never seen before. He was pleading with you, his eyes boring into yours, searching your face for a sign, any sign, that you'd say yes.

"We could have everything, baby," he persisted, his arms tightening around you again. "We could have a fresh start, a new life together. No minho, no drama, just us."

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, his words echoing in your ears, his presence drowning out all rational thought.

"Just say yes, baby," he murmured again, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Say yes, and I'll give you everything you've ever wanted. I'll give you the world, baby. Just say yes. Say yes and let's go, right now, just you and me."

You could feel your defenses crumbling, your rationality slipping away under the onslaught of his words, his touch, his presence. He was overwhelming you, his intensity drowning out your doubts, his possessiveness stoking the fire within you.

"But...what about...everything else?" you managed to whisper.

"Everything else can burn," he said, his voice rough and determined. "Everything else can goddamn burn, baby. All that matters is us, the two of us together. You and me, baby. We'll build a new life together, a better life. Just say yes."

The room seemed to spin around you, his words echoing in your ears like a siren's song. He was offering you a chance to start over, to be with him, to build a life together. The fear, the obligation, all of it seemed so trivial compared to the intensity of his plea, the raw, burning need in his eyes.

"Jungkook..." you whispered, your heart hammering in your chest. "I..."

"Say yes, baby," he pleaded, his voice urgent, his arms pulling you closer still. "Say yes and let's go, now, just you and me."

He was so close now, his body pressed against yours, his face mere inches away from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, could almost taste the desperation in his breath.

Your heart was racing, your mind a chaotic mix of emotions. But through it all, one clear, burning need was rising to the surface, fueled by his intensity, his single-minded determination.

"Y-yes," you heard yourself saying, the words almost a gasp. "Yes, Jungkook, I'll go with you. I'll run away with you."

His eyes lit up, a feral, possessive gleam in them. A savage, almost feral breath escaped his lips as he claimed your mouth in a hard, possessive kiss. It was a kiss that was more a mark than a kiss, a claiming gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thats it ," he whispered against your lips, his voice raw, his breath ragged. "You're mine, baby. You're all mine now. We will send divorce papers to that bastard soon."

He pulled you even closer, his body pressing you into him, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands beginning to explore your body with a fervor. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he kissed, was claimed, marked as his.

From that moment on, everything changed. With your decision to run away with Jungkook, you had stepped into uncharted territory, leaving behind your old life, your old obligations, your old identity. You were no longer a wife, a person with ties and responsibilities.

You were now a fugitive, a partner in crime, a woman who belonged wholly to Jungkook as he is still yours you have nothing to fear about.

[astrcmoni]

ᨒ* ⊹rhythm of the rain⊹ *ᨒ

MASTERLIST

synopsis: on a quiet night wrapped in rain and reflection, you and billie navigate the tender spaces between love and stillness, finding solace in each other’s presence. in the gentle hum of the storm, her touch becomes your anchor, and the world narrows to just the two of you, infinite and enough.

genre: comfort

pairing: fem!reader x billie eilish

wc: 1.5k

warnings: none

authors note: just something light 🦋

rain patters against the glass, each droplet sliding down in delicate, meandering trails, weaving like veins on a leaf. each drop carves its own path, tracing fleeting silver ribbons that dissolve into the frame. the world outside swirls in muted tones, blurred and smudged as if by a painter’s careless thumb. the rhythm is unsteady yet soothing, a fragmented melody humming a lullaby only nature could compose. it filters through the quiet of the room, wrapping you in its gentle embrace, tender and unassuming.

thunder murmurs low and distant, a growl softened by the rain’s steady cadence. lightning cleaves through the clouds, a brief, silver scar across the sky before vanishing into the velvet dark. the storm is restless—caught between a lullaby and a roar, threading the air with tension that never quite resolves. it spills into the room, mingling with your thoughts, becoming part of the silence you’ve surrounded yourself with.

you lie sprawled across the bed, one hand resting on your stomach, the other buried in your hair. your eyes trace the faint cracks in the ceiling, following them as if they might lead you somewhere new. your mind wanders untethered, drifting through memories like pages of a book you can’t stop thumbing through. there’s no urgency, only the slow pull of reflection, the weight of the past pressing into the present. the what-ifs circle you, quiet but persistent, tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

what if you’d chosen differently? spoken differently? would you still be here now, in this moment, staring at a ceiling that holds no answers?

the front door opens with a soft creak, barely audible over the rain. keys jingle, their sharp clink grounding you in the present. billie’s footsteps follow—light, deliberate—each one a quiet promise that she’s home. you hear the faint rustle of her jacket as it’s shrugged off, the dull thud of her shoes landing near the door. her presence seeps into the house, familiar and warm, like the scent of rain-soaked earth clinging to her skin.

“baby?” her voice cuts softly through the hum of the storm, low and tender.

you don’t answer, not right away. your lips curl into the barest hint of a smile as you listen to her move through the house. her footsteps pause in the living room, then the kitchen, before making their way toward the bedroom. the door creaks open, and her silhouette appears, framed by the dim light pooling in the hallway. her eyes find you instantly, softening as she takes you in.

“hey,” she murmurs, her voice a balm against the stillness.

“hey,” you whisper back, your voice almost swallowed by the rain.

she lingers for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as though trying to read the unspoken in your expression. “mind if i join you?”

you nod, a small motion that feels heavier than it should. she peels off her damp hoodie, hanging it on the back of the door, before crossing the room. the bed dips under her weight as she settles beside you, her movements careful, as if not to disturb the fragile quiet surrounding you both.

silence stretches between you, filled only by the rain and the steady rhythm of your breaths. her hand brushes yours, the touch featherlight, almost uncertain. you answer by threading your fingers through hers, intertwining them in a gesture that feels timeless, as if your hands have always known each other. her skin is cool, her thumb tracing idle, soothing patterns over the back of your hand—a silent reassurance you hadn’t realized you needed.

slowly, you turn to face her, your body curling slightly as you shift onto your side. her hair clings damply to her forehead, framing her face in uneven strands, and her blue eyes catch the faint glow of the streetlights outside. her lips curve into a soft, knowing smile that tugs at something deep inside you.

“hi.” she breathes, her voice delicate as a thread in the still air.

“hi.” you reply, your voice carrying the same quiet intimacy, like the word is a shared secret.

her hand moves, brushing a stray curl from your face, her touch lingering against your skin. “you’ve been quiet,” she murmurs, her thumb tracing gentle circles over your cheek. “what’s on your mind?”

you hesitate, the words tangled somewhere between thought and speech. “just thinking.”

“about what?” her voice remains soft, inviting.

“life,” you admit after a pause, your words slow, deliberate. “and us.”

“us?” she echoes, the faintest curiosity flickering in her tone.

you nod, your eyes falling shut briefly as her hand cradles your face. “yeah. how we got here. how it feels… unreal sometimes. like, out of everyone in the world, we found each other.”

her smile deepens, and the warmth in her expression seeps into you, quieting the restless hum of your thoughts. “i think about that all the time,” she confesses, her voice steady, sure.

her words settle around you like a blanket, grounding you. she takes your hand, pressing it briefly to her lips before resting it against her chest. “do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t met?” you ask, your voice softer now, almost afraid of the answer.

she shakes her head, her hair brushing against the pillow. “no. nope, don’t even wanna imagine it.”

your laugh is soft, breaking the quiet. “good.”

she leans closer, her forehead pressing against yours, her nose brushing against your own. “you’re stuck with me, you know?” her voice is teasing, but there’s a weight beneath it, an unspoken truth you feel in your bones.

“i’m okay with that,” you whisper, the words falling between you like a vow.

her lips graze your forehead in a kiss that lingers, soft and unhurried. “me too.”

outside, the storm begins to quiet, the rain a gentle murmur now, its rhythm matching the rise and fall of your breaths. the world beyond the two of you fades, leaving only her touch, her presence, her love. and in this moment, it is everything.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[thesightstoshowyou]

No Questions Asked

Ledger!Joker x F Reader

- Chapter One -

(Chapter Two)

Summary: A house call puts you in the path of Gotham’s newest menace.

Warnings: Gunshot wounds, blood, descriptions of medical procedures and medical “torture,” reader is described as having longer hair because I was gripped with insanity and had to write that scene, swearing.

[A/N: This is a bit different than what I usually write! Stepping out of my comfort zone, I guess. Let me know how I did!]

The sidewalk simmers, heat rising off pavement. A weak breeze billows through the street, bringing with it the stench of refuse and exhaust. Gotham in the summer smells like literal hot garbage.

Paradise.

Your nose wrinkles and you tug your hat further down on your forehead to shield your eyes from the sun. Towering buildings offer shade, but thousands of windows reflect the glare of that accursed star at just the right angle to blind unsuspecting passerby. Even the skyscrapers here mean harm.

You weave through the crowd, calves burning with your quick, deliberate steps. The strap of your bag digs into your shoulder and sweat gathers beneath it until your shirt adheres to your skin. The relative cool of the alley you enter would be a relief if you weren’t already so sticky.

The door is unassuming; metal, distressed, a little rusted at the corners like all the others nearby save for the rectangular peep hole at eye level. You knock twice, two sharp raps in quick succession. Almost immediately, the shutter over the peep hole slides open with a clang.

You raise your chin in greeting to the pair of eyes that inspect you through the opening. Slam goes the shutter. The muted click of locks opening reaches your ears before the hinges squeal as the door is tossed open.

You don’t wait for permission from the burly man behind the door. Instead, you cross the threshold and descend the worn stairs two at a time. An annoyed sigh leaves your lips when the stuffy basement air presses into your already overheated skin. You’d think these rich assholes could at least afford some a/c.

Rossi meets you in the doorway. His uneasy expression immediately sets you on edge and you worry the urgency of the situation had not been properly conveyed over the phone. He gives you a look before you step into the room, a glance that says, ‘Don’t ask questions.’

He must think you’re an idiot. You could not have made it in this job for as long as you have by allowing your curiosity to speak for you.

It immediately becomes apparent what Rossi meant when you enter. The low ceiling is dotted here and there with aging, incandescent bulbs that bathe the room in sickly yellow. At the center of the room is a round, makeshift “conference” table littered with bloody paper towels and rags.

A few goons you don’t recognize hover uselessly around another slumped in a fold out chair, the reason you’d been called here on such short notice. He’s vaguely familiar, a distant relative of Maroni’s—Ronny Something. He’s clammy and pale, his scarlet coated fingers pressed limply to the wound in his shoulder.

However, what draws your attention and raises your hackles is the man seated in the corner atop an overturned box. His legs are spread wide and he hunches over them, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clad in purple leather and absently fiddling with a pocket knife. Dark green hair hangs like oily curtains next to a grease-painted face. Stained mostly white with blacked out eyes and a curling red grin, it’s apparently supposed to be a crude imitation of a clown. Above him, the light bulb flickers, throwing him in and out of shadow, but you can still make out the sharp eyes trained directly on you.

You don’t ask. Never do. That rule had been made abundantly clear. Instead you stride across the room and shoo the henchmen aside. Bending at the waist, you pull Ronny’s hand away from his shoulder and click your tongue as blood gushes from two distinct bullet holes.

“I was told these were grazes,” you start as you straighten to shoot a glare at Rossi. “There’s at least two slugs still in there. I’m gonna have to call the doc. He needs anesthetic and blood and other shit to keep him from going into shock. I don’t have the tools—

“Do it,” dares a sing-song voice. Startled, you turn to face the man in the corner. He’s smiling now, yellow teeth peeking between red, his upturned cheeks pockmarked and twisted. You realize the paint covers thick scars that stretch away from his lips like a macabre extension of his grin. The intensity in his gaze is difficult to hold so you don’t, instead glancing at Rossi, the unspoken question of, ‘Who the fuck does this weirdo think he is?’ written all over your face.

“No, no, no, no don’t look at him. Look at me.” Even with the weird, warbled inflection of his voice, there’s authority in his tone and an unspoken threat should you disobey. Brows knitting into a frown, you do as you’re told, and your head twists back to meet the eyes of the clown in the corner. The air in the room is thick and heavy and it’s no longer because of the heat. You can barely even hear the other men breathe.

“I’m a nurse. I don’t have the expertise necessary to perform surgery.” Not entirely accurate these days, but he doesn’t need to know that. “He could die, and then my head would wind up on a plate.”

“I like your head…where it’s at.” His own head shakes a little with his words and a pink tongue darts out to swipe across painted lips. Finally, he stands. Pinching the knife between thumb and forefinger, he slips the blade into an inside pocket. Gripping the lapels of his purple jacket, he gives them an exaggerated shake. His movements are erratic and cartoonish and you can’t stop your nervous little backwards half-step.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The question sits poised on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t let it free. Instead, you grit your teeth as the…man saunters over to Ronny and claps a hand on his uninjured shoulder. The movement jars Ronny enough to pull a pained cry from his mouth.

“Little, uh-“ the clown snaps his fingers like he’s trying to remember something, then makes a grabbing motion like he’s pulling the information out of the air, “Ronny here has faith in your skills. Don’t you, Ronny?”

Weak, but hasty, Ronny nods as though he’s trying to placate the other man. In response, the clown spreads his arms, palm up, eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘See? Told ya’ so.’ Voice a deep growl, he sweeps one arm in front of him and says, “The floor is yours.”

None of the men speak up. There’s no protest, not even a scoff. The only sounds are the flickering bulb and Ronny’s haggard gasps.

You don’t glance over your shoulder at Rossi. It is clear to you now that there has been some sort of shift in power and this clown…this man is in now in charge. And questioning orders is definitely not in your job description.

“Well, that’s fuckin’ great,” you sigh. The man chuckles, high and airy. “Get him on the table,” you snap at the two goons hovering nearby. After a second of hesitation, they quickly comply and hoist a blubbering Ronny onto the dirty tabletop until he’s flat on his back, his legs dangling.

Heart rate pulsing in your ears, you whip off your ball cap and toss it away. Hurriedly, you gather your locks into a messy bun before tossing your bag onto the table next to poor Ronny’s shivering form. The zipper is so loud in the tense silence, the rustle of bandages and the clink of instruments a cacophony. Unfortunately, there’s no sink to be found, so you settle for hand sanitizer.

“You’re gonna be okay, Ronny,” you tell the man staring up at you as you snap on a pair of gloves. Fear and pain twist his expression and you can tell he wants to protest, but won’t dare. It makes you wonder what the man in the makeup is capable of to inspire such fear in hardened criminals.

Scissors make short work of the bloodied shirt. With gauze and sterile water, you clean away dried gore so you can properly inspect the wounds. You note one graze along the bicep, a bullet buried in the deltoid, and another lodged just under the clavicle.

“If there’s any nerve or artery or organ or bone damage, I won’t be able to repair it. He needs actual surgery.” You shoot a withering look at the clown who makes a show of sucking in air through his teeth as though he’s concerned. You don’t miss the grin tugging at his scarred lips. “I can get the bullets out and do my best to stop the bleeding. You two,” you nod at the unnamed henchmen, “Will have to hold him.”

Ronny whimpers, the sweat pouring off his brow mirroring your own. You want to complain about just how not sterile this space is, how Ronny is probably going to die of an infection even if you get him stabilized, but you bite your tongue and focus on the task at hand.

You watch the process as though you are suspended just outside your body: Insert IV, start fluid, give what little pain meds you have on hand, sterilize the forceps, clean the injuries, bodily hold down a thrashing, screaming Ronny while you dig out the slugs, slap him awake and tell him to man up, hold pressure, stop the bleeding, suture the wounds closed.

“Keep this,” you shove the bag of normal saline into the hands of Goon Number One, “Above his head.” You turn to a stone-faced Rossi and solemnly tell him, “Doc needs to see him.” You fill a syringe with antibiotics, amazed by how steady your hands are. Ronny barely flinches when you jam the needle in the meat of his hip.

Snapping off your gloves, you release an exhale that trembles on its way out. On autopilot, you turn back to your bag and reach for the blood pressure cuff when, without warning, leather-clad fingers wrap around your wrist. Jolting, you stumble back into the table to put an arm’s length between you and the clown—where the fuck had he come from—but he closes the distance with one, bouncy step.

Just like that, you’re snapped back to reality. Now firmly seated in your body, you are startlingly aware of how hot everything is: The air, your sweaty palms, his chest against yours, his breath on your lips, your blazing cheeks, the stares of the other men burning into the sides of your head.

“Don’t—

“Shhh, shh, shh, c’mere,” the clown murmurs as he grips you by the back of the neck. You stiffen and push back against his hand in a subconscious effort to put distance between you, but fall still when his opposite hand comes to rest on your neck. His expression is unreadable, the look in his eyes a mixture of amusement and something a bit more menacing. You don’t want to search too hard, but fear of what will happen should you look away keeps your gaze on his.

White paint cracks along the creases in his forehead when his brows raise. “You’ve just got a little….” He presses a thumb to the corner of your mouth and drags it upward. You feel the slickness smearing across your dewy skin, too thick to be spit or sweat. Blood, you wager. Judging by the satisfied smile that spreads across his face and the contented hum he emits, you guess there’s a red half-grin now curling away from your mouth.

An imitation of his own.

You barely manage to contain the flinch when the clown raises his hand to your crown. Fingers dip into your hair and feel around for the hair tie keeping it piled atop your head. Three quick tugs sees your locks cascading around your shoulders. Both of his hands then come up to ruffle and shake until it’s all a wild, frizzy mess.

You don’t know whether to be afraid or baffled, and you realize this is entirely the point. Keep others guessing and unable to predict your next move. There’s fear in uncertainty.

The intensity of the moment, the frantic fluttering of your heart, the stifling heat of the room has you seconds away from begging for mercy, something you’ve never done before. Even the slouch of his shoulders—the way he almost curls over you—seems designed to make you panic. You swallow thickly and open your mouth to break the awkward, terrible silence when he interrupts:

“Why don’t you…run along, hm?” He offers you your ball cap and, tentatively, you take it. The clown shuffles back the tiniest inch and you suck in a gasping breath, your heart like some kind of trapped bird ricocheting against your ribs as you hastily whirl around to pack up your instruments. Fuck Ronny’s blood pressure. Doc can handle it. You must get out of here.

You don’t look over your shoulder as you quickly stride from the room, but lilting words reach you in the hallway and stop you dead in your tracks. A chill races up your spine.

“See you soon!”

The clown’s parting sentiment.

You’re up the stairs and out the door before Rossi can catch up. “Who the fuck was that?” you snarl, whipping around so fast your bag smacks against your sweaty back.

“Are you livin’ under a rock?” he shoots back, but any bite there might have been in his words has been shaken from him. He’s pale, you notice, obviously disturbed by what you had to do to Ronny.

“Yes!” you exclaim, throwing your arms up in the air. “Yes I am! I keep my head so far down, I’m underground.”

Rossi shakes his head and huffs a humorless laugh. “Turn on the news, then. That oughta answer your questions.”

**

Begrudgingly, you do as you’re told.

It doesn’t take long to put a moniker to the painted face splashed all over your television screen:

The Joker.

Maybe it’s time to pay more attention to current events.