#need to practice lightning

[ittetsuspecs]

:D

[psilliguykai]

@aleafylampshade hiiiii your thing from the reblog with mind designs post :D

+my very sad attempt at rendering because Lord do I need practice 😭 I included a flat colors version as well. you have a phenomenal mind design I really love the storm motif and the lightning in the hair it’s so so cool!!

Thankyou for sending in your guy !! :333

[hopetatic]

What a nice gentleman, i wonder what hes thinking

[rawliverandgoronspice]

The Hero of Time returns home.

(sort of)

[iydiamartinx]

RED HANDED

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.2k synopsis: Damian sneaks you into the manor, only to get caught red handed.

Wayne Manor was supposed to be empty.

That’s what Damian had told you when he pulled you through the back gate, hand clasped tightly in yours, voice low and insistent as he muttered about stealth and nosy family members and “don’t touch that, it’s a pressure sensor.” He’d checked the security logs himself—Bruce was at a board meeting, Alfred out running errands, and the others all scattered across the city on patrol or “adult things,” as Damian called them with no small amount of disdain.

So he brought you home. Quietly. Secretly.

To his room.

The moment the door shut behind you, his shoulders dropped that ever-present tension. His fingers found your wrist, then your waist, tugging you gently toward the bed. No words, just that look he gave you—sharp eyes softening, mouth twitching at the corners in something dangerously close to a smile.

You were the only one who ever got that version of him.

Now the two of you were curled up beneath the covers, the storm outside tapping against the windows while his arm wrapped snug around your waist. Damian’s head rested near yours, nose brushing your temple every so often, breath slow and steady.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured, tracing lazy circles along his chest.

“You will,” he replied, voice quiet and certain. “Once I find a way to keep you here without the others ruining everything.”

You giggled, tipping your head up to meet the small, rare curve of his mouth—the almost-smile he only gave you.

And then the bedroom door slammed open.

“Dami, I need to borrow—OH MY GOD!”

Both of you shot upright like you’d been struck by lightning.

Dick Grayson stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as dinner plates, mouth agape in sheer, appalled disbelief. His finger jerked upward, trembling like it couldn’t decide whether to point at Damian, you, or the fact that you were clearly in his bed.

“What the hell, Grayson?!” Damian snapped, scrambling to hide your presence by throwing the blanket over you as you shrieked in surprise and ducked under it. But the damage had already been done.

“You have a GIRL in your BED?!” Dick shouted, scandalized.

Damian looked moments away from lunging across the room. “I swear to Ra, if you say one more word I will end your bloodline—”

But it was too late. The yelling had summoned the wolves.

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“What the hell’s going on?” Jason’s voice barked from the hall, followed by a clatter of someone sprinting.

“Did someone die?” That was Tim, out of breath and still chewing toast as he skidded into view.

And then, like the final nail in the coffin, Bruce appeared.

He was dressed for work—pressed suit, tie knotted perfectly, not a single strand of hair out of place—but the look on his face was nothing short of bewildered. He stood in the hallway, staring into the room like he wasn’t quite sure what he’d walked in on, and very much wished he hadn’t.

There was a silence. A very loud, very awkward silence as everyone took in the scene.

“Damian has a girlfriend?” Tim whispered like he’d uncovered an ancient secret.

Jason blinked at you, then back at Damian. “Wait. She’s real?”

Another blink. Then a wild grin. “She’s real!” He turned and punched Dick in the arm. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

“I do not—!”

“You bet she was imaginary!”

“Because she was supposed to be imaginary! He’s fifteen!”

“Seventeen,” Damian growled, practically vibrating with fury under the blanket. “And if any of you take another step into this room, I swear on every god you hold dear, I will bring out my katana.”

But of course, the damage was done.

Slowly, cautiously, you peeked out from beneath the blanket. Your cheeks were burning, your hair a mess, and your heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ears.

Four sets of eyes landed on you.

Jason gave a slow, impressed nod. “Hey there. I’m the hot brother.”

“I swear to—”

Damian made a strangled sound of protest, but before he could lunge across the room, Tim raised a hand with a sheepish half-wave.

“I’m the smart one,” he offered helpfully. “Sorry about… all this.”

“And I,” Dick declared proudly, hands on his hips, “am the fun one. Also the reason you’re all about to get grounded. You’re welcome.”

“OUT!” Damian barked.

That’s when Bruce finally spoke up. “Enough,” he said, calm and quiet— almost immediately it made all three older brothers freeze.

Jason blinked. “We were just—”

“Out,” Bruce repeated, this time with the faintest arch of his brow. 

One by one, the boys started backing up like scolded dogs.

Jason grumbled something under his breath and turned.

Tim gave you a quick, apologetic smile and shuffled after him.

Dick lingered the longest, flashing you a grin and a salute. “Still think it’s adorable.”

“Out,” Bruce said again, firmer this time.

With that all three filed out with varying degrees of grumbling and smirking.

Bruce remained in the room for a moment longer. His eyes shifted from you—still half-curled beneath the blanket—to his son, who sat stiff-backed beside you, his jaw tight with embarrassment and defiance.

“I expect a proper introduction at dinner,” Bruce said coolly, turning on his heel. “Six sharp.”

Damian exhaled like it physically pained him. “Yes, Father.”

Bruce nodded once, then turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose, the breath full of fire and exasperation. He muttered a string of curses in Arabic—low, venom-laced, and fast enough to blur into one hissed syllable—as he collapsed back into the pillows with a dramatic thud. One arm flung over his eyes like he was shielding himself from the humiliation still clinging to the air.

You lay beside him, the warmth of his body still lingering beneath the tangled sheets, a laugh bubbling in your throat despite your best efforts to suppress it.

“Well,” you murmured, voice edged with amusement, “at least they didn’t bring a camera.”

He made a sound—something between a groan and a growl. “You underestimate them. There will be photos. There will be memes. Grayson will narrate the whole scene on the family group chat by noon. I am already doomed.”

You leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the curve of your mouth brushing the flushed skin just beneath his eye. “Guess I better dress nice for dinner, then.”

Another groan, this one muffled by the pillow he dragged down over his face.

But then, without warning, his arm slid around your waist and pulled you in—close, possessive. Like he wasn’t ready to let you go, even if the rest of the world now knew you existed.

“Remind me to kill them later,” he muttered, voice gruff but reluctant.

You laughed and burrowed into the crook of his arm, cheek pressed to his collarbone. “I don’t know… I kind of liked seeing flustered Damian. Might be my favorite version yet.”

He peeked down at you then, dragging the pillow just far enough to reveal a glare that lacked its usual bite. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You tilted your head and gave him a grin, utterly unrepentant, before brushing another kiss to his cheek.

“Yeah,” you said, voice soft and smug. “I know.”

[mephisto-reporting]

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said.  You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?”

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[lokissweater]

birthday boy!satoru who sleepily grins and smiles when you wake him up with a giant cake and gifts in bed, slowly propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes, your sweet soft voice singing him ‘happy birthday’ as he looks at you with a little gleam in his eyes.

birthday boy!satoru who devours the cake you bought him right then and there, refuses to go to the dining room table or get plates and refuses to let you leave the room, a fork in each of your hands as you both munch on his frosty vanilla bean cake, satoru’s eyes lightning up like stars once he sees that his precious pretty wife also got him kikufuku, his hands shooting out to tear open the packaging and stuff two in his mouth at once, feeding you one in return and him poking your puffed up cheeks with a shiny grin because you’re just oh so cute.

birthday boy!satoru who still refuses to let you leave his side once you’ve both cleared the desserts, his arms snaking around your waist and gently pulling you to lay on top of him, your bellies full and the sugar swirling in your heads proving no match for satoru as he raises a sneaky hand, fingers looping and pulling at the thin straps of your top down to devour you next, his favorite dessert, you squirming and giggling as you try to swat his hands away and tell him no…. but you let him have a little taste anyways, it’s his birthday after all! 

birthday boy!satoru who hasn’t even taken a peak at his presents because he just wants you, licking you up like the icing he licked off of his fingers just a few minutes prior, wet slick tongue running from the side of your neck down to your puffy plump tits as you prop yourself up, hands on his bare chest and with a shudder to your breath.

birthday boy!satoru who slobbers hickeys into your tits and sucks your nipples like a freak, you whining pushing at his chest and telling him he’s sucking too hard, and him only giving you a muffled ‘but it’s my birthday sweets!’ before sucking harder and taking advantage of your cute boobs, his big hands gripping your upper arms to keep you up and still.

birthday boy!satoru who finally listens to your protests about how you have plans made for him and you need to get going, a pout to his pretty face and dramatically moaning about how he wanted ‘morning birthday sex’ from his wife, but his face quickly switching back to that loving silly grin you love so much as soon as he sees you giggle and smile.

birthday boy!satoru who is bouncing off the walls when you tell him you got tickets to the new winter wonderland festival that’s in your town, him wanting to go since practically birth (last year) and talking your ear off about it ever since then, sprinting out of bed and putting on his pants and thin sweatshirt.

birthday boy!satoru who pouts again when you drag him back in the house because his attire is not fit for the weather outside, and pouts still as you’re bundling him up in a thicker puffer jacket, his cheeks going pink once you press a sweet kiss to his jutted out lips and chasing yours for more, obnoxious kissy noises filling the air.

birthday boy!satoru who nearly collapses upon arriving at the winter wonderland festival, the name doing itself justice with the holiday decorations strewn about and pinecone ornament filled garlands hanging from every post lamp, the particularly snowy day adding to the christmas feel as he quickly interlaces your fingers together and drags you around.

birthday boy!satoru who gets in line to meet santa, scoffing over the weird looks the parents in line were giving him as you laughed, him muttering something about how it’s discrimination to be judged like this just because he’s not a kid, and that his christmas wish list was just as important as a five year olds.

birthday boy!satoru who jumps on the old man’s lap with a huge smile, santa’s alarmed eyes darting in every corner as your husband went on about the things he wanted (mainly sweets), not a single ounce of giving a shit in his body because it was his day.

birthday boy!satoru who finishes off his christmas wish list with ‘oh! and for my wife to never divorce me! yeah put that one at the top actually—’

birthday boy!satoru who refuses to let you treat him the entire day, saying he was satoru gojo and that he was made of money for you to spend, you playfully rolling your eyes as he got gingerbread cookie after gingerbread cookie for you, and the one time you show up with peppermint kikufuku, he kisses your cheek over and over a million fucking times in gratitude.

birthday boy!satoru who by the end of the day is spent from hours worth of eating sweets and desserts and riding the kiddy rides, requesting to get on the ferris wheel one more time just as the two of you were leaving to go home.

birthday boy!satoru who has an arm around your shoulders and a cheek on the side of your head on the ferris wheel, his heart fuzzy and warm despite the chilling temperature of the night, all due to precious little you that made his day so special in the way that you did, in the way that you do every year that makes him absolutely melt and feel worthwhile.

birthday boy!satoru who cups your cheek and brings you in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips amongst the glittering lights, music, and laughter of the festival below, feeling borderline emotional over the fact that he’s married to such a beautiful person like you.

“will you marry me baby?”

“toru we’re already married—”

“oh so you want to divorce me then—”

birthday boy!satoru who leaves the festival with you hand in hand, and with a new found sense of energy because his sugar filled brain managed to remember the promise you made him this morning, one that had to do with sexy time upon arriving home, his hands literally harassing you the entire car ride home with them shoved down your shirt or a needy squeeze to your thighs.

birthday boy!satoru who deems this the best birthday he’s ever had in his life.

but birthday boy!satoru knows that he has the best birthdays of his life every year actually, and knowing that they were ever since he met and married you, for they were never this sweet before.

authors note: happy birthday to my glorious honored one OH how i need him <333 :33

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[rosemaryhoney27]

Tiny Blades and Big Chaos”

aka: Danny vs. Damian: Politeness vs. Precision, Featuring Ghost Tricks and Sibling Rivalry

It was Alfred’s idea, of course.

“Master Daniel seems rather adept at handling himself,” he said, very reasonably. “A joint sparring session with Master Damian might help them… bond.”

Vlad had sputtered. “Bond? Bond over what? Hidden knives and bloodlust?!”

“Yes,” said Alfred, calm as ever. “Precisely.”

Wayne Manor Training Room, 9:00 AM

The Batkids lined the edges of the mat like kids waiting for recess drama. Jason brought popcorn. Tim had his tablet recording. Steph was live-texting Cass with updates. Dick had his camera ready and a big brother grin on his face like this is gonna be great.

Damian stood at the center of the mat, wooden sword in hand, the sharpness in his eyes making up for the lack of steel. “You are not a trained assassin,” he said flatly, glaring at Danny. “This will not be gentle.”

Danny smiled, still in his hoodie and sweats, holding a practice staff Alfred handed him. “That’s okay. I’m kinda hard to kill.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see.”

Bruce, from the sidelines, muttered to Vlad, “This’ll go fine.”

Vlad whispered back, “This is a war crime waiting to happen.”

Round One: Damian Attacks First

Damian moved like lightning—precise, deadly, fast. His wooden sword swung for Danny’s side, a feint to the legs, followed by a spinning strike meant to knock him off balance.

Danny vanished.

Literally. Vanished. A shimmer of light and he phased right through the blade like a friendly ghost playing tag.

“What—?!” Damian turned, just in time to catch Danny gently tapping his shoulder with the staff. “Tag.”

Steph: “OH MY GOD HE GHOSTED THROUGH IT—”

Jason: “Ten bucks says he phases through the floor next.”

Vlad: weeping in the corner “He does this all the time. You’re all just ENCOURAGING HIM.”

Round Two: Damian Gets Serious

“You are not using proper rules of engagement,” Damian growled.

“I’m literally just floating,” Danny said, upside down mid-air. “Not my fault physics loves me.”

“Fight me like a warrior!”

“Okay,” Danny said—and then let the staff drop.

He raised his hands, and a soft, eerie glow covered them. His feet touched the ground. The temperature dipped just a little. Shadows crept a little too long.

“Wanna go full-power?” he asked, still smiling, but something in his voice had changed.

Everyone shut up.

Damian grinned like a tiny feral goblin. “Yes.”

What Followed Could Not Be Legally Described As Training

To summarize:

Danny dodged a flying kick by phasing through a wall and reappearing behind Damian like a horror movie jump scare.

Damian managed to tag Danny across the ribs, earning a respectful, “Nice hit!”

Danny retaliated by sliding through the floor, then popping up behind Damian to ruffle his hair, making him scream in rage.

Cass showed up halfway through, said nothing, and started rating their moves out of 10.

Alfred brought out lemon water and towels like this was completely normal.

Bruce was watching with an expression that said, I need to update our supernatural sparring protocols.

At one point, Danny caught Damian mid-air (after a parkour wall run), gently set him down, and said, “I’m only going easy because Vlad said if I break a Wayne he loses custody.”

“Fight me properly or I will THROW YOU,” Damian roared, red-faced.

Danny giggled.

He giggled.

Afterwards

They were both sweaty, bruised, and grinning like maniacs. Damian sat on the bench, panting, sipping water with a glare that could melt titanium.

“That was acceptable,” he muttered. “You are chaotic and dishonorable. I approve.”

Danny wiped his face with a towel. “Thanks! You fight like my sister’s evil clone. High praise.”

“Can you teach me to phase through walls?”

“Only if you promise not to sneak up on people during 2 AM snack runs.”

“…No promises.”

Jason tossed Danny a granola bar. “Welcome to the family, baby ghost.”

Danny blinked. “Wait, you mean I passed?”

“You suplexed a grown man and survived Damian. You’re in.”

“Officially a Wayne now,” Steph said, taking a picture. “Smile!”

Danny grinned just as Vlad walked in with a cup of tea and despair on his face.

“I leave you alone for one hour. One! What happened?!”

Damian pointed dramatically. “He cheats.”

“He used no blade.”

“He walked through a wall!”

“He told the shadows to ‘wait their turn.’”

Vlad blinked. “That last one actually is new.”

Danny smiled. “It’s a learning environment, Uncle Vlad.”

[heartowan]

★

[ abby anderson x fem reader ] cunnilingus, fingering, soft, slow sex, stone top abby, pillow princess reader, pwp.

Abby's broad shoulders rested between your legs, keeping them apart with no effort. She was strong and hard. Her arms were under your thighs, fingers stroking the sides of your body so tenderly it might make you cry if you focus too much on it, but it was hard to do so with the way her tongue lapped at your center.

She wasn't loud, wasn't messy, but she got the job done like no other. Her tongue flicked against your clit in practiced strokes, you could feel the humid warmth of the muscle pushing you closer and closer to your peak. Your legs twitched, toes curled as if you were about to come, but she had just started — she was just that good.

Your low whimpers and breathy moans filled the quiet room, and your fingers held onto her hair just carefully enough not to completely mess up her braid, but you needed to ground yourself. Abby was just like you, almost like she was the one receiving, whimpering to herself, humming against your pussy, showing you how you could make her feel good just by feeling good yourself.

Eyes closed, lips parted, head tipped back and resting on the pillow. She made you feel like you were about to burst every time. You didn't even realize the pants were coming out anymore, your breath heavy as you tried to hold on, to keep yourself from coming pathetically fast, but fuck, you hadn't seen your girlfriend in almost two weeks — you hated when her work trips took her away from you, and so did she —, you supposed you could act a least a little pitiful.

You were dripping onto her bedding, the juices flowing out of you and landing on her chin, then down onto the white sheets.

"Abby," you gasped when she eased her thick index finger into you, accidentally gripping too hard at her hair, but she didn't even mind, in fact, you head her chuckle against your clit.

You whined, pushing up to your elbows to watch as she ate you out. She was looking at you, her blue eyes piercing into yours. Her finger pumped in and out of you, she could feel you creaming around it, making a mess like you usually did. The squelching noises were music to her ears, as well as your soft hums, shaky cries and dragged moans of pleasure. Every sound that you made.

You clenched around her finger, and she made sure to add another one, now fucking you with her index and middle fingers — fast and efficient. Your head fell back again, and you whimpered, hips bucking to follow her movements.

Now you felt it even more, your toes curled harder, stomach started to tense and breaths came out even more puffy. You tried really, really hard to keep your eyes open, but the efforts were in vain.

You cried out, louder than normally (still not a scream), your body slumping down against the bed as you spasmed, your thighs squeezing Abby's shoulders with strength neither of you new you had.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a lightning bolt, you dripped down on Abby's fingers, and she kept going, milking you, watching as the cream oozed out of your needy pussy. "Thaaat's it, that's it..." she cooed, digits still pumping into you, just slower.

It all lasted so painfully and deliciously long, you twitched in her arms even after she had already pulled her fingers out, now letting them caress your sides again as she pressed the softest kisses to your inner thighs, grounding you in the moment.

When you looked down at her, her lips were shiny, face flushed, and hair a complete fucking mess — beautiful as always. You were so happy to have her.

"Thank you, baby..." your voice was a breathy, drawled slur, you were just so satisfied.

You heard her laugh against your skin, and then felt one last kiss to your thigh before she murmured, "You're very welcome."

She stayed there, head between your legs, resting against your thigh as she caressed all over your torso, tracing midless lines, and you didn't move either, finding her hair again, sinking your digits in it to massage her scalp just the way she liked.

Both of you knew you weren't even close to being done after nearly two weeks apart, but chose to bask in the comfortable quietness for a little longer.

★ not proof read, guys

[thedensworld]

Now We're Swapping | j.ww

Pairing: Rich Kid Wonwoo x reader

Genre: College au!, Enemy to Lovers au!, Body Swapped au!

Type: fluff, hint angst, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Summary: Wonwoo was waking up as his high school rival in one sudden morning. There were two things he could do, help you or turn your life into a miserable one.

Wonwoo experienced three bizarre things the moment he woke up:

1. He wasn’t in his soft, warm, and luxurious bed. In fact, he wasn’t even in his room. The second he opened his eyes, confusion struck him like a bolt of lightning. Instead of his familiar surroundings, he found himself lying on a rock-hard mattress in a room he had never seen before. His back ached from the uncomfortable bed, and the musty smell of old wood filled the air.

2. Before he could even process where he was, the door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. A woman, looking frantic and completely unbothered by the fact that he had just woken up, barged in and yelled at him. “Come on! Help me get the kids ready!” she snapped, her voice grating against his ears. Wonwoo flinched. The kids? Since when did he have kids to take care of? Even back at home, not a single staff member dared to wake him up so rudely, let alone order him around. But this woman? She had the audacity to yell at him as if she had been doing it for years.

3. It wasn’t until he was practically dragged out of bed, his body moving sluggishly with sleep still clinging to him, that the real shock hit him. Stumbling towards a mirror hanging on the wall, his bleary eyes landed on his own reflection—except it wasn’t his reflection. It was you. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He blinked. Once. Twice. He even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. It was your face staring back at him. No, wait! It wasn’t just your face—it was you. Or was it him? No! It was him, but in your body! No— Whatever! The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had somehow woken up as you!

Now, Wonwoo stood in the backyard of a place called Pristine Foster Home, feeling utterly lost. Wet blankets and bedsheets hung from the clothesline, swaying in the breeze, but he was too consumed by his own crisis to care. He tapped his foot anxiously against the ground, his fingers instinctively biting at his nails—a nervous habit he never realized you had. This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare.

Not only had he woken up as a girl, but to make things worse, he had woken up as you—his biggest rival for the upcoming university student presidential election next week. Before Wonwoo could fully process the madness of waking up as you, the woman—who everyone around here called Mrs. Kim—grabbed his wrist and dragged him away without a hint of hesitation.

“You! Front yard. Now. The donor is coming in two hours, and this place needs to be spotless!” she barked, barely giving him time to keep up with her fast-paced steps.

Wonwoo stumbled along, still disoriented, but before he could even protest, a broom was shoved into his hands, and Mrs. Kim disappeared just as quickly as she had appeared. He blinked down at the worn-out broom in his grasp.

What the hell was happening?

He huffed in frustration and, without a second thought, threw the broom aside the moment she was out of sight. His arms crossed over his chest, lips curling in irritation as his gaze swept across the yard. The place wasn’t even that messy. And more importantly—

“Why am I the only one working here?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the empty yard. There were kids. Lots of them. Small, loud, and chaotic little kids running around, playing, laughing—doing everything except helping. Meanwhile, he—no, you—was here, being ordered around like some unpaid laborer.

A long sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his rapidly declining mental state. He was exhausted, and he had barely even done anything yet. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to piece together the last thing he remembered.

He had gone home last night. That much was clear. After an intense strategic meeting at Mingyu’s place about how to crush you in the upcoming university election, he had ridden his bike home. He did have a beer—maybe two. But he wasn’t drunk. He swore he was completely sober when he got home.

And yet, here he was. Stuck in your body, in a place he had never been, surrounded by a bunch of kids and an overbearing woman yelling at him about cleaning. His head was starting to spin from the sheer absurdity of it all.

What kind of twisted nightmare was this?

Hours later, the children lined up neatly in the front yard, their chatter filling the air with restless energy. Wonwoo, on the other hand, was slumped on the front porch, exhausted and utterly out of place. He had barely caught his breath when, once again, Mrs. Kim grabbed him and dragged him forward, forcing him to join the group.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, eyeing him—you—from head to toe. “You’re a mess,” she muttered. “You look filthy. You probably stink too, but there’s no time for a bath.”

Wonwoo barely had the energy to argue. His body—your body—was covered in sweat and dirt after hours of cleaning. His arms ached, his back was sore, and he was convinced he had never worked this hard in his life. And for what? To stand in a lineup like some kind of orphan?

“Now—Oh! They’re here! Let’s go.”

Mrs. Kim barely gave him a second to react before shoving him to the front of the group. Wonwoo stumbled forward, blinking in confusion as an expensive black car slowly rolled to a stop in front of them. His brows furrowed as he focused on the vehicle, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

The driver stepped out first, closing the door behind him. Wonwoo’s blood ran cold.

“Oh no…” he muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew this man. The driver stood tall, his expression neutral yet familiar, dressed in the usual black suit that Wonwoo had seen countless times before.

Don’t tell me the donor is…

Before he could finish his thought, the back doors of the car opened, and a well-dressed couple stepped out.

“Mr. Jeon! Mrs. Jeon! How are you? It’s very nice to meet you. It’s been a long time, right?” Mrs. Kim greeted them enthusiastically, her voice laced with respect.

Wonwoo’s entire body stiffened.

What in the actual universe was this?!

Standing before him were his parents.

Wonwoo froze as his mother approached him with a warm smile, her arms immediately wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

“Y/n… you’re beautiful,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to cup his—your—cheek. “How are you, honey? I heard you joined the election for university student president. I wish you the best of luck!”

His entire body went rigid.

It wasn’t just the hug that caught him off guard—it was the way she spoke. So soft, so affectionate, her voice practically dripping with warmth. His mother had never spoken to him like that before. And now, she was looking at him—at you—with so much fondness that it made his stomach churn with unease.

Before he could even process her words, his father stepped up beside them. Unlike his mother’s overwhelming affection, his father’s greeting was simple yet firm as he gave Wonwoo a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, Y/n. I heard you’re ranked second in your school.”

Wonwoo nearly scoffed. Of course, you’re second. Living in a foster home, faking a high-maintenance life while studying at an Ivy League university—you’d have to be at the top to keep up. But there was something about the way his father said it that irked him.

Second place. And who was first? Wasn’t it him? The top student? Before he could dwell on it any further, he felt Mrs. Kim’s sharp gaze on him. Her eyes flickered between him and his parents, silently sending him glances—no, warnings. Her expression screamed at him to stay in line, to play along.

Play along with what?!

Before he could figure it out, his mother suddenly took his arm, her fingers latching onto his wrist as she led him forward, her voice full of excitement. “Come, let’s take a look around!” The entire group started moving for a home tour, but Wonwoo was barely keeping up. His mind was still spinning, drowning in confusion, when a voice snapped him out of his daze.

Mr. Jung, the driver, leaned in and whispered something to his father.

His father’s expression darkened instantly.

“We need to go,” his father said abruptly, turning to his mother.

She blinked in surprise. “Why? What happened?”

“Our son is in the hospital. Bike accident.”

Wonwoo’s breath caught in his throat.

What?!

*

Now, thanks to the lie he had impulsively made earlier—saying he wanted to come with them to the hospital—everyone, or rather just his parents, would start thinking that you and he were close.

His mother’s fingers gently wrapped around his hand, her eyes filled with warmth as she asked, “You’re close with our Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo almost blurted out No way in hell! because, really, what kind of sick joke was this? He and you had been enemies since high school. Ever since you transferred in and started creeping up the academic ranks, toppling one student after another—except him. He had been the only one who managed to keep you from taking first place.

And now? Now, here he was. Sitting in front of a hospital room.

As his parents went inside to see their real son, Wonwoo sat stiffly in the hallway, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at the hem of the dress he was still wearing. Your dress. He hadn't even had the chance to change out of it—an old, faded yellow sleeping gown that was wrinkled from all the chaos he had been thrown into. His hair— your hair was probably a mess, sticking out in all directions, and worst of all… he reeked. The hours of chores he had done at the foster home had left him sweaty and grimy.

He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

What the hell is going on?

Before he could spiral any further, the door to the hospital room creaked open.

“Honey.”

He looked up to see his mother stepping out, his father following close behind.

“He wants to see you.” Wonwoo’s heart stilled.

Shit. Who the hell was he?

“Wonwoo… is that you?”

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was his voice—his own deep, familiar tone—but coming from the hospital bed in front of him.

Wonwoo hesitated before stepping closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his own body lying there. His forehead was bandaged, a clear sign of the accident, but everything else was exactly as he remembered.

His own face looked back at him with furrowed brows, filled with confusion. “Who are you?” Wonwoo asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He didn’t know what to expect—hell, nothing about this entire day made sense—but seeing himself awake and talking to him? This was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined.

The person in his body blinked, hesitant before answering.

“I’m Y/n…” Your voice—his voice—sounded unsure, shaken. “Why am I here?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Surprised you didn’t panic the moment you saw yourself talking to you,” he muttered, shaking his head. He honestly expected more screaming. Maybe some fainting. But here you were, surprisingly composed despite everything.

Your—his—eyes widened slightly, scanning the room before looking back at him. “What happened? Why… why am I you?”

Wonwoo scoffed, letting out a dry chuckle. “You think I know?” He met your gaze with an exasperated look. “I’m just as confused as you are, Ji Y/n. But whatever happened… we’ve switched.”

Silence filled the room as you stared at him, disbelief evident in your expression. And for the first time in his life, Wonwoo experienced the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of being stared at by himself.

It was unsettling. He shifted on his feet, looking away as he took a small step back.

You swallowed hard before finally speaking again, voice quieter this time. “How did this happen?”

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his—your—messy hair. “Same, Y/n… I’m asking too.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Wonwoo—stuck in your body—felt an itch in his brain, an urge to pace around the room in frustration, but he held himself still. Meanwhile, you, trapped in his body, were staring at your—his—hands, clenching and unclenching your fists as if trying to confirm this wasn’t just some fever dream.

“This has to be a nightmare,” you muttered, gripping the blanket draped over your lap. “A really weird, messed-up nightmare.”

Wonwoo sighed sharply, rubbing his temple. “I thought the same thing when I woke up in that damn foster home.”

At his words, you blinked, finally snapping your gaze up to meet his.

“The foster home… Pristine Foster Home?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo let out a tired huff. “Woke up on some hard-ass mattress in a tiny room, got screamed at by a woman who made me do chores all morning, and then got dragged here because your—” He paused, correcting himself. “—my parents showed up as donors.”

Your expression darkened as you digested his words. “Mrs. Kim must’ve made you clean, didn’t she?”

“Front yard.”

You cringed. “Damn. That’s the worst one.”

Wonwoo scoffed. “Yeah, I figured.” He studied you carefully, watching as you pulled at the hospital blanket, your jaw tightening. “So? What happened to you? How the hell did you end up here?”

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I remember going to bed last night like usual, and then… I woke up here. But obviously, it wasn’t me who got into that accident.”

Wonwoo frowned, trying to recall the events of last night. He had been at Mingyu’s house, strategizing ways to defeat you in the student election. He’d had a couple of beers, but he hadn’t been drunk. He clearly remembered riding home on his bike, arriving at his house, getting into bed…

And then waking up as you.

His fingers twitched as he crossed his arms again. “Nothing weird happened,” he muttered. “At least, nothing that explains this.”

You let out a tired groan, running a hand down your face. “This is insane.”

“No shit.”

Just then, the door to the hospital room creaked open, and both of you snapped your heads toward the entrance.

Wonwoo’s—your—parents stepped back in.

“Honey,” his mother—your mother now—spoke gently, a worried look on her face. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

Wonwoo felt his pulse quicken. Home? As in your home? The foster home?

His father nodded in agreement. “Yes, dear. We can handle things here. You’ve done enough already.”

Done enough?! What had he done besides get thrown into this mess?

Before he could protest, his mother stepped forward, her hands reaching out to pat his cheek fondly. Wonwoo stiffened instantly. “You’ve always been such a hardworking girl,” she said softly. “It makes me so happy to see you and Wonwoo getting along.”

Wonwoo barely resisted the urge to grimace. He threw you a look, silently screaming, What the hell do I do?! You—trapped in his body—were no help. You simply stared at him, eyes wide, just as lost as he was. And just like that, Wonwoo realized something horrifying. Until they figured out how to switch back…

He was going to have to live as you.

*

Wonwoo stood frozen in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The old wooden door creaked slightly, the dim light from the hallway casting a shadow over the tiled floor inside. The thought of stepping in—of actually taking a bath—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Because that would mean undressing. Undressing your body. Absolutely not. There was no way in hell he was going to do that. He had morals. Standards. There were just some lines he refused to cross, and this was one of them.

But damn… his body—your body—felt disgusting. The grime from hours of chores clung to his skin. Sweat dried in uncomfortable places, making the oversized sleeping gown stick to him. His hair was an absolute mess, still tangled from the wind earlier, and he could smell the faint scent of dirt and soap from when he’d scrubbed the front yard clean.

Wonwoo groaned, running a hand through his—your—hair in frustration.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he muttered under his breath.

If he didn’t shower, he’d feel like this all night, and the thought of sleeping in this state made him want to scream. But if he did shower…

He shut his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath.This was hell. Just then, a loud knock on the door startled him.

“Hurry up in there! Other people need the bathroom too, you know!” Mrs. Kim’s sharp voice rang through the hallway, making Wonwoo jolt. He turned his head, glaring at the door.

“Alright, alright!” he snapped back, annoyed.

He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself.

Fine. He wouldn’t do anything weird. He’d make this as quick and moral as possible. No unnecessary looking, no thinking too hard about it. Just in, out, and done.

Steeling himself, Wonwoo reached for the doorknob, swallowing hard before stepping inside. This was going to be the most uncomfortable bath of his life.

Wonwoo tried his best not to look. He focused on the feeling of the water against his skin, rubbing the soap over your—his—body as quickly as possible. The sooner this was over, the better. His movements were stiff, awkward, and mechanical. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles, avoiding even a glance downward. Just soap, rinse, and get out. That was the plan.

But then—

His hand ran over his back, and a sharp sting shot through him. Wonwoo froze.

What the hell?

His stomach churned at the thought.

Wonwoo quickly rinsed off and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel, drying off haphazardly before stepping out of the bathroom. The moment he found a small, cracked mirror in the hallway, he twisted his body, angling himself to get a look at his back.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as he finally caught a glimpse of his—your—back in the cracked mirror. His brows furrowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

His chest tightened.

His mind raced as he tried to recall everything that had happened since he woke up in your body. Wonwoo gritted his teeth.

What the hell happened to you, Ji Y/n? And why did he have a bad feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger?

*

Wonwoo stormed through the front doors of his house, shoulders tense as he stomped up the grand staircase. His whole body—your body—felt sore and exhausted from the insane day he'd just had. The security at the gate had nearly dragged him out, refusing to believe that the Ji Y/n in front of them was actually their young master, Jeon Wonwoo.

"You have no idea how much I had to beg the security to let me in," he grumbled as he yanked open the bedroom door, stepping inside with an annoyed scowl.

Inside, you—in his body—stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. It was jarring, watching his own body move with hesitation, looking completely out of place in the very room he had lived in for years. The moment your eyes landed on him, your shoulders sagged in relief. "Finally—I thought you were never coming back."

Wonwoo scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "I thought I was never coming back. You think it’s easy walking into my mansion looking like you? The guards almost threw me out!"

"You live here," you shot back, exasperated. "You could’ve just walked in—why did you make this harder?"

Wonwoo gave you a deadpan look. "Oh, sure, let me just casually waltz in while looking like someone who doesn’t belong here. I looked like a lost delivery worker!" He threw his hands up, pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating that was?"

Your frown deepened. "At least you weren’t forced to do laundry and yard work for an entire foster home full of children. Mrs. Kim practically used me as free labor."

Wonwoo turned to you, unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, I woke up in a hospital bed, covered in injuries, and had to sit through my own parents looking at me like I was their long-lost daughter."

Your mouth opened slightly, then shut. "…Touché."

Silence fell between you two, the weight of the situation settling in.

After a moment, Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "Alright. We need to figure out what the hell happened and how to fix it."

You nodded, though your expression was still tense. "Agreed. But where do we even start?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Let’s think. What’s the last thing you remember before we… switched?"

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed as his brows furrowed in frustration. No matter how much you both racked your brains, there was no logical explanation for why you'd switched bodies. There was no accident, no weird mystical event—just a normal night before waking up in each other’s skin.

"This is ridiculous," Wonwoo muttered, shaking his head. "It’s like some cheap fantasy movie plot, except it’s actually happening to us."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "I know. And I hate to admit it, but I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight."

Wonwoo scoffed. "Yeah? Well, in the meantime, I’m not going back to that foster home and working my ass off like some unpaid worker." He turned to you with a pointed look. "You call my parents. Tell them to let you stay here until we switch back."

Your eyebrows shot up. "What? Why me? That’s your job!"

"I can’t exactly call them in your voice and say, ‘Hey, I’m actually Wonwoo, let me stay at my mansion until further notice.’ They’ll think I’ve lost my mind."

You groaned, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. "Fine. But if they say no, you’re on your own."

Wonwoo smirked. "Trust me. My mom loves you. She won’t say no."

You stared at Wonwoo’s phone in your hands, your thumb hesitating over the contact labeled Mom. The plan was simple: call his parents, pretend to be him, and ask if you—which meant him in your body—could stay over until this mess was sorted out.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

You cleared your throat and pressed call. The phone barely rang twice before his mother answered, her voice warm yet slightly distracted. "Wonwoo? It’s late. What is it?"

You shot Wonwoo a look, and he gestured impatiently for you to just talk.

"Uh—yeah. Mom. I, uh, wanted to ask if Y/n could stay over for a few days?"

There was a beat of silence. Then she hummed, as if turning the idea over in her head. "Y/n?" she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity now. "Why?"

Your mouth opened, but no excuse came to mind. You hadn’t thought that far. You shot Wonwoo a desperate look, but he just folded his arms, watching in amusement.

The silence stretched, and then, to your horror, his mother let out a knowing sigh. "I see… So it’s like that."

Your brows furrowed. "Like what?"

"You finally brought a girl home."

Wonwoo choked.

You nearly dropped the phone. "Wait, what?"

"It’s fine, Wonwoo. You’re an adult. If you’re serious about this girl, I won’t say anything. Just make sure you’re being responsible."

Wonwoo was now aggressively shaking his head at you, mouthing fix it!, but you were too stunned to respond properly.

"Uh—yeah," you stammered, scrambling to end the conversation. "So… she can stay?"

His mother chuckled softly. "Of course. Have the staff set up a room for her. Your father and I will be out of town, but tell her she’s welcome."

And with that, the call ended.

You lowered the phone slowly, turning to Wonwoo with wide eyes.

"You finally brought a girl home?" you repeated in disbelief.

Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is a nightmare."

You stared at the phone in disbelief. "That’s it?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle. "What did you expect? A heartfelt conversation?" He snatched the phone from your hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "They’re barely home as it is. They probably don’t even care who stays over."

The bitterness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

You decided not to comment on it. Instead, you sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, at least that worked. Now get out of here before Mrs. Kim drags me—I mean, you—back inside for more chores."

Wonwoo groaned but grabbed his things and left.

As you settled into his massive, empty house, you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t much of a home at all.

*

The next morning, you both stood in front of Wonwoo’s sleek black car, staring at it like it was the final boss of this entire ridiculous situation. "You drive," you said, tossing him the keys. Wonwoo caught them but immediately scowled at you. "You drive. It’s my car."

You folded your arms. "I don’t even have a license, genius." His jaw clenched. He looked at the keys, then at the car, then at you—his own body. "You mean to tell me that after all the times you acted like you’re better than me, you can’t even drive?"

"Driving doesn’t determine intelligence, Jeon." You rolled your eyes. "Are we going to school or not?"

Grumbling, he unlocked the car and got into the driver’s seat. You slid into the passenger seat, watching with barely contained amusement as he adjusted everything—pushing the seat forward, adjusting the rearview mirror, lowering the steering wheel.

"This is so uncomfortable," he muttered, shifting in the seat. His knees were practically up to his chest. You smirked. "What? Is my body too small for your big manly car?"

Wonwoo shot you a glare before turning the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and he carefully pressed the gas pedal—only for the car to jerk forward suddenly, causing both of you to lurch.

"YAH!" you yelped, clutching the dashboard. "Are you trying to kill me—yourself—whatever?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Your legs are too damn short! I can’t feel the pedal properly!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Now you know my struggles."

After a few more rough starts, Wonwoo finally managed to get the car moving smoothly. The drive to school was tense at first, but as he adjusted, his usual confidence returned. You, on the other hand, were dreading what was to come.

As soon as you arrived, all eyes would be on him—or rather, you. And there was nothing either of you could do about it. The night before, you and Wonwoo had spent hours sitting in his room, going over the rules of survival until you switched back.

1. Don’t tell anyone about the situation.

"Not even Mingyu?" you had asked.

"Especially not Mingyu," Wonwoo had deadpanned. "He’ll make this a circus."

2. Act normal, even to each other.

"You mean I have to be cold and unbothered like you?" you had teased.

"And I have to act like you?" Wonwoo had shot back. "All smiles and fake pleasantries? Great."

3. Avoid attention.

This one was the most important. The last thing either of you needed was people noticing something was off.

Now, standing at the entrance of the university, those rules felt like an impossible mission. You watched as Wonwoo—you—stepped out of the car, adjusting the oversized hoodie he had thrown on. It was strange seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, and even weirder seeing how awkward he looked in your body.

"Stop slouching," you hissed under your breath. "I don’t walk like that." Wonwoo shot you a glare but straightened his posture. "And stop staring at your feet. It’s weird." With that, the two of you walked through campus, forcing yourselves to act normal. It was fine. Until the first person called your name.

"Y/n!"

You froze before realizing it wasn’t actually you they were calling—it was Wonwoo, in your body. Wonwoo sighed, forcing a smile that was so stiff it looked painful. "Uh… morning?"

Your friend frowned. "Are you okay? You sound weird."

You nearly facepalmed. Rule number two, idiot!

Wonwoo quickly cleared his throat and attempted to sound more like you. "I mean—uh, I’m fine! Just, um, tired!" He gave a thumbs-up that looked completely unnatural.

Your friend tilted their head but didn’t press further. You exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. Because at that moment, the worst possible person appeared.

Mingyu.

And he was heading straight for you.

Mingyu approached with a wide grin, his usual energy radiating off him like a beacon. "Wonwoo! Y/n! What’s up?"

You barely had time to react before Mingyu threw an arm around your shoulders—except it wasn’t you, it was Wonwoo trapped in your body. Wonwoo went stiff immediately.

You saw it, the way his entire body tensed, the way his hands twitched like he wanted to shove Mingyu off but was holding back. You couldn’t blame him. You wouldn’t like Mingyu suddenly draping himself over you either. But—

"Are you okay?" Mingyu suddenly leaned down, squinting at Wonwoo’s face. "You look kinda… different today."

You nearly choked. Crap.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. "Haha. No, I’m good. Totally fine." You flinched at how unnatural that sounded.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You don’t usually stand this stiff. And your voice sounds weird. And you—"

"He said he's fine," Wonwoo cut in, voice strained.

You quickly jumped in before Mingyu could keep interrogating. "Just tired. We were studying late last night."

Mingyu looked between the two of you, lips pursed. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. "Wait a second."

You both froze.

He pointed at the two of you. "Did something happen between you two?"

Wonwoo stiffened. "What?"

Mingyu gasped dramatically. "Are you two dating now?"

"WHAT?!" you both yelled in unison.

Mingyu took a step back, hands up in defense. "Geez! Sorry, it’s just—lately, you guys seem different. Studying together? Walking into campus together? Y/n’s acting weird, Wonwoo’s looking more tired than usual—it’s suspicious!"

Wonwoo turned to you with a glare, mouthing, Fix this.

You gritted your teeth before turning to Mingyu with a forced laugh. "No, no! We’re not dating. We just—uh—had to work on something together, that’s all!" Mingyu squinted at you—well, at Wonwoo’s body. “Work on what?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, crossing your arms. Mingyu blinked at your sharp tone but shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Anyway, why are you heading that way? Our class is upstairs.”

You froze for a split second. Right. You were supposed to have class with Mingyu—as Wonwoo. But out of habit, you had started walking toward your usual class instead.

Wonwoo, standing beside you in your body, subtly elbowed you. “Uh—he’s just, uh, walking me to class first,” he quickly interjected.

Mingyu’s brows furrowed as he looked between the two of you. “Since when do you do that?” You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Since today. Got a problem?”

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, actually. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

Wonwoo shot you a look, silently pleading with you to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, you forced a casual shrug. “I just felt like it. Can we go now?” Mingyu crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Weird. Really weird.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. If Mingyu was already suspicious, keeping this switch a secret was going to be harder than you thought.

*

After surviving the day without slipping up—at least, not too badly—you and Wonwoo finally made it back home. The moment you stepped inside, you groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch while Wonwoo shut the door behind him.

"That was exhausting," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "Do you know how hard it is pretending to be you? You barely talk to anyone, but somehow people still pay attention to you."

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "And do you know how annoying it is to be you? Everyone just randomly talks to me, and I have to pretend I actually care about their gossip. Even your professors are so chatty. One of them asked me if I was doing okay in business class. Do you struggle that much?"

You glared at him. "Excuse me, but business studies is not my major. You expect me to be a genius at it?" Wonwoo shook his head before his gaze sharpened. "Speaking of weird conversations, what's up with Mingyu?"

You blinked. "What about him?"

"He’s too friendly with you. I didn’t know you were close," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. You shrugged. "He's just been kind to me since senior high school."

Wonwoo frowned at that. "Why? You two don’t seem like the type to be friends."

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "It’s... a long story. Back then, Mingyu was the first person to find out that I wasn't actually the child of some entertainment industry mogul like the rumors said. He was the only one who knew I was orphaned and living in a foster home."

Wonwoo stiffened slightly. He had never heard that before. He had always thought you were just naturally secretive and didn’t like discussing your personal life. But this—this was different.

He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mingyu knowing something so personal about you before him left a strange feeling in his chest.

Wonwoo sat down across from you, his expression unreadable. "So… you grew up in a foster home. How did that happen?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "I was placed there when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about my parents—just bits and pieces. They passed away when I was young, and after that, I ended up in Pristine Foster Home."

He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "And school? Our school isn’t exactly easy to get into. How did you afford it?" A small, almost ironic smile tugged at your lips. "Your mother."

Wonwoo blinked. "What?"

"Your mother," you repeated. "Mrs. Jeon. She’s one of the biggest donors for Pristine Foster Home. Every year, she funds scholarships for students with high academic potential. I was one of the kids who got lucky."

For the first time, Wonwoo was at a loss for words. His mother? The same woman who barely had time for her own son had been funding your education all this time?

"You… never told anyone?" he asked after a moment. You shrugged. "Why would I? People already made enough assumptions about me. If they found out the truth, I’d just become a pity case. Besides, it’s not like your mom personally chose me. I was just another name on the scholarship list."

Wonwoo was still trying to process this new information. He had spent years seeing you as a rival, someone always on his heels, challenging his top position. But now, for the first time, he saw you in a different light.

"So all this time," he muttered, "you were working twice as hard just to stay in school."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "More than twice, actually."

He didn't know why, but something about that unsettled him.

*

The days went by with both of you struggling to adapt to each other’s lives while keeping up the act. The campaign phase for the student president selection had officially started, and since you were both candidates, you agreed to stay professional about it.

"Don't play dirty," you both promised.

That meant being responsible for each other's campaigns. If someone asked you about Wonwoo’s stance on school policies, he had to answer correctly. If someone questioned him about your plans for student well-being, you had to handle it.

There were three candidates in total. Wonwoo—the top student, known for his intelligence and efficiency. You—the representative of female students, admired for both brains and beauty. And Seungcheol—the rich, well-connected candidate who could probably win just by flashing his wealth.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu said, narrowing his eyes at you—or rather, at Wonwoo’s body, which meant he was technically squinting at him. You, stuck in his body, stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu tilted his head, studying him. “You’re being… polite. Too polite. Wonwoo, you usually glare at everyone, but today? You literally smiled at Soonyoung when he called you ‘princess.’” You, sitting in Wonwoo’s body, internally cringed. Right. You had forgotten about that.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling just as much to keep up with your usual attitude.

“Y/n, are you okay?” one of your classmates asked, frowning as they observed Wonwoo’s body. “You’ve been acting so… serious today.”

Wonwoo barely looked up from the book in front of him. “I’m fine.”

She stared at him, unconvinced. “Uh… you didn’t even whine about how boring today’s lesson is.”

He cursed internally. Right. You always complained about morning classes.

“I’m… trying to be a better student,” he muttered.

She gave a slow nod, still eyeing him suspiciously.

It wasn’t just your friends who were growing suspicious. Professors had started noticing the odd behavior, too. You had always been confident in subjects like marketing and communication, but the moment you sat in Wonwoo’s business economics class, you knew you were doomed.

“Mr. Jeon,” the professor called out, peering at you over his glasses. “Could you summarize the concept of supply and demand in market equilibrium?”

Your mind went blank. Market equilibrium?

You hesitated, scanning the board for hints, but nothing made sense. Silence stretched across the room. The professor raised an eyebrow.

“Uh… equilibrium… is when things are equal…?” you blurted out.

The entire class turned to stare at you in horror. Even Mingyu, sitting beside you, looked concerned. The professor let out a long sigh. “Mr. Jeon, I expected better from you.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was having an equally hard time in your marketing class.

“Miss Ji,” the professor called. “Could you give an example of a successful emotional branding strategy?”

Wonwoo froze. Emotional branding? He knew numbers. He knew statistics. But marketing?

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Emotional branding is… when a brand… makes people emotional?”

The professor’s expression remained unreadable. Wonwoo held his breath. “…Technically not wrong,” the professor finally said. “But please elaborate next time.”

Wonwoo exhaled in relief, but he could still feel the judgmental stares of your classmates. Keeping up appearances was exhausting.

You had to remember to act cold, distant, and borderline unapproachable. Every time someone approached you—well, Wonwoo’s body—you had to force yourself not to smile too much.

When you accidentally giggled at a joke Seungkwan made during lunch, he nearly choked on his drink.

“Whoa. Wonwoo, you laughed?”

You immediately straightened your face. “No, I didn’t.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did. That was a full-on giggle.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling with the opposite problem.

He had to force himself to be approachable. Smile more. Nod during small talk. When someone complimented you on your campaign, he barely responded before remembering that you were supposed to be charismatic.

“Ah… yeah. Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly.

The girl who had complimented you blinked. “Uh… you’re welcome?”

It was painfully obvious something was off.

But despite the challenges, Wonwoo started thinking.

There was an opportunity here.

If he was in your body… and people naturally liked you… then why not use that to his advantage?

You had a way with people. Students admired you. If he played this correctly, he could subtly steer people toward supporting his campaign—without outright sabotaging yours.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was just… strategic use of circumstances.

Sitting in the cafeteria, he overheard a group of students discussing the election. Some were loyal to Seungcheol because of his family’s wealth. Some admired your leadership. But a few were still undecided, considering Wonwoo’s intelligence but unsure about his approachability.

“If only Wonwoo was a little more… open,” one student mused.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant, but he’s kinda cold,” another agreed.

Wonwoo’s lips curled slightly. An opportunity.

The next time he (in your body) spoke to people, he made subtle shifts in conversation.

“Wonwoo’s been under so much pressure lately,” he said casually.

“You know, he doesn’t show it, but he really cares about the school.”

“He’s just not the type to express it openly, but he’s been working hard behind the scenes.”

He didn’t need to lie. He just needed to frame the truth in a way that made people sympathetic.

If students thought he (as himself) was struggling under pressure, they might rally behind him. They might see him as someone deserving of their votes.

And the best part?

No one would suspect manipulation.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder, casually strolling through the hallway while eavesdropping on conversations. He was getting better at this. Being in your body had its advantages—people naturally gravitated toward you. They trusted you. They listened to you.

So why not use that to his advantage?

As the election campaign heated up, students began discussing the candidates more openly. Seungcheol was securing votes through his endless connections, practically drowning the school in expensive flyers and promotional videos. Meanwhile, your campaign was gaining momentum thanks to your charisma, intelligence, and undeniable appeal.

But Wonwoo?

People respected him but hesitated to support him because of his reserved nature. He needed to change that perception—without breaking his promise to you about playing fair.

So, he started subtly influencing opinions.

During lunch, he sat with a group of students he knew were undecided. He (in your body) let out a sigh, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"You know, Wonwoo doesn’t really show it, but he’s been so dedicated to this campaign," he mused.

A girl across the table looked up. "Really?"

Wonwoo (as you) nodded. "Yeah. I think people misunderstand him. He’s just not the type to brag about his efforts. But I know for a fact that he’s been working late nights planning policies for the school. He doesn’t just want the title—he actually wants to make changes."

Another student leaned in, interested. "I always thought he was a bit distant. Like, he doesn’t really care about people."

Wonwoo let out a small, knowing smile. "That’s not true at all. He’s just not good at expressing it. But if you really talk to him, you’ll see how much he genuinely wants what’s best for the school."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

The students exchanged glances, suddenly reconsidering their stance.

Wonwoo wasn’t lying. He had been working hard, and he did care. But he knew that if he had tried to say all of this in his own body, people would just assume he was defending himself.

But coming from you? Someone they trusted and admired?

It felt genuine.

He kept this strategy up, slipping subtle remarks into conversations, framing his strengths in a way that didn’t sound forced.

At the library, when a group of students discussed who they should vote for, he (as you) casually said,

"Honestly, Wonwoo is the only one who’s actually proposing policies based on data instead of just saying what people want to hear."

At a student council meeting, when people debated about which candidate had the best leadership skills, he (as you) shrugged, "Wonwoo may not talk much, but he’s the most capable. He’s been top of his class for years. If anyone can handle responsibilities, it’s him."

And it worked.

Slowly but surely, more students began considering Wonwoo as a serious contender.

Of course, he had to be careful not to overdo it. If you suddenly became too much of a Wonwoo supporter, people might get suspicious.

So, every now and then, he would slip in a neutral or positive remark about you as well, just to balance things out.

"Y/n is amazing, though. She’s got that natural leadership aura."

"I think between Y/n and Wonwoo, we’d be in good hands either way."

Seungcheol was still dominating with his flashy campaign, but now?

Wonwoo had momentum.

*

Meanwhile, you were starting to notice something was off. At the end of the day, you crossed your arms, watching Wonwoo—well, your body—scribbling something in your campaign notes.

"Why do I feel like you’ve been too invested in my popularity?" you mused, raising an eyebrow.

Wonwoo barely looked up. "I have no idea what you’re talking about." You narrowed your eyes. "Wonwoo."

He sighed, closing the notebook. "Look, I’m just… taking advantage of an opportunity. It’s not cheating—I’m just rebranding myself a little."

"Rebranding?" you repeated, appalled. "You’re using my face to market yourself!"

He leaned back against the chair. "Technically, I’m not lying about anything. I am working hard. I do have solid policies. People just… needed a little push to see that."

You groaned, running a hand through your hair—well, his hair. "I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you."

Wonwoo smirked. "Oh, please. You promised we’d be fair to each other. I never said I wouldn’t be smart about it."

You scoffed, muttering under your breath. "I hate you."

"That’s unfortunate," he said, flipping open your campaign notes again, "because I think I really like being you."

A week.

It had been a week of waking up in Wonwoo’s body, wearing his oversized clothes, walking around with his permanently unimpressed face, and trying to keep up with his ridiculous level of intelligence in class.

You were exhausted.

If this continued any longer, you were going to need therapy.

Wonwoo, sitting on his bed (in your body), smirked. "Oh? Having a hard time living as me?"

You shot him a glare. "You live like this every day? No offense, but it sucks."

"None taken," he said easily. "I’m used to it."

You groaned again, burying your face in your arms. "At this point, I’m just praying we switch back before I completely lose my mind."

Wonwoo hummed, flipping through his phone. "Well, at least you don’t have to deal with your own expenses anymore."

You lifted your head. "Huh?"

He smirked. "I checked your bank balance, Y/n. You’re broke. You can’t even afford new panties."

Your face burned in embarrassment. "Excuse me?!"

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. "Relax, I didn’t actually look. But seriously, where does all your money go? I heard my mom has been funding you for years, so what are you spending it on?"

Your expression darkened, but you didn’t answer.

Wonwoo noticed the shift in your demeanor and frowned slightly. "Hey—"

The two of you froze the moment you heard sounds.

Wonwoo’s parents were home.

His mother was sitting in the living room, casually sipping tea, while his father was reading the newspaper. They looked up simultaneously, eyes landing on you first.

"Oh, Y/n," his mother greeted warmly, setting her cup down. "You’re two home already."

Wonwoo—inside your body—stiffened beside you.

You, standing in his body, forced a polite nod. "Uh… yeah. Classes ended a little early today."

His mother smiled. "That’s good. Come, sit down. I was just about to ask chef to prepare some snacks."

Your heart pounded. You had interacted with Wonwoo’s mother plenty of times before, but never while pretending to be her son. One wrong move, and she would know something was off.

You shot a quick glance at Wonwoo, silently screaming, What do I do?!

He only shrugged. Figure it out.

You resisted the urge to strangle him.

His father, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "Wonwoo, I heard you’ve been doing well in the election campaign."

You tensed. "Uh… yeah. I guess so."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. If you want to take over the family business one day, this is a good step toward leadership."

You nearly choked. Take over the family business?!

You hadn’t even considered that part of being in Wonwoo’s body.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo, still in your body, sat stiffly on the couch, looking incredibly awkward. You could tell he was doing his best not to react too much.

His mother turned to him. "Y/n, dear, how has Wonwoo been treating you?"

Wonwoo snapped out of his daze. "Huh?"

She smiled gently. "You know, since you’ve been staying here. Has he been a good host?"

Wonwoo blinked. Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

"Oh, he’s been great," he said smoothly. "Super considerate. Always making sure I’m comfortable. Really making my stay… interesting."

Your eye twitched.

His mother beamed. "That’s wonderful! I always tell him to be more thoughtful toward others."

You clenched your fists. I am going to kill him.

His father, however, was more focused on you. "Wonwoo, I heard you had an important presentation in class today. How did it go?"

Your soul left your body.

Presentation?!

You turned slightly to Wonwoo, panic written all over your face.

He smirked again, clearly enjoying your suffering.

You were so screwed.

*

Dinner with the Jeons was awkward.

You had eaten with his family before, but this time, it felt different. Because this time, you were him. Wonwoo—trapped in your body—sat stiffly across from you, barely touching his food. He was oddly silent, his usual sharp remarks absent. It was almost as if he wasn’t the son of this house at all.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to act like a son. You engaged in small talk with his mother, attempting to mirror the way a child might converse with a parent.

His mother, elegant and poised as ever, seemed pleased by your effort. You knew her well—after all, she had been funding you since junior high school. Yet, you had never had the chance to sit this close, to talk to her as though you belonged at this table.

It felt foreign.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled the silence between occasional remarks. Then, just as you were starting to relax, a phone rang.

His mother glanced at the caller ID. "Oh… why is Mrs. Kim calling?"

You froze.

Wonwoo saw the way your shoulders tensed, how your grip on the chopsticks tightened.

Mrs. Kim.

Why was she calling?

Wonwoo felt his own chest tighten with something uncomfortable. It was strange—seeing his own body react so visibly to that name.

He swallowed.

No.

Not in a quadrillion years would he go back to that place. That stinky foster home. That cramped space filled with too many kids, too little food, and too much responsibility.

He refused.

He stared at his mother as she stood up and stepped away from the dining table to take the call, her voice soft yet unreadable.

The seconds dragged on.

Neither of you spoke, but the air in the room had shifted.

When his mother finally returned to her seat, something was different. Her expression wasn’t as lighthearted as before.

She placed her napkin down carefully, looking directly at Wonwoo—who was still in your body.

"Y/n," she said gently, her tone firm yet concerned. "Tell me the truth."

Your stomach twisted.

She folded her hands together. "Why have you been staying here for a week?" A pause. "Be honest."

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his throat tightening.

You looked back at him, equally frozen.

The two of you, sitting in each other’s bodies, mirrored each other’s nervousness so perfectly that if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed something was wrong.

You could feel your pulse in your ears. His mother’s eyes were sharp, expectant, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—swallowed hard. His mind raced for an explanation, something that would make sense. But every possible response felt weak under the weight of his mother’s gaze.

You, meanwhile, could feel your palms sweating.

His mother’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Mrs. Kim said you ran away from the foster home after stealing her money.”

"No, she didn't steal anything."

His mother’s gaze snapped toward Wonwoo—toward you. “Do you know something, Wonwoo?”

You hesitated, words catching in the throat. You wanted to say something, but how much could you actually say? His mother didn’t know the truth about the switch, and if you weren't careful, things could get worse.

"I mean..." You started, choosing your words carefully. "Mrs. Kim never really liked her. She's probably just trying to make her look bad so she can take her back."

His mother frowned. "Is that true, Y/n? Mrs. Kim is lying?"

Wonwoo—you—tensed.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. You couldn’t say it outright. You couldn’t risk making things worse. But at the same time, you didn’t want to go back.

"Mrs. Kim..." You shifted in your seat. "She’s never been very fond of her. She always saw her as a burden. And, well..." You forced a weak chuckle. "Let’s just say she has her own way of handling things."

His mother’s expression darkened slightly. "What do you mean?"

You glanced at Wonwoo, at your own face, searching for some kind of lifeline. Wonwoo was watching you closely, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"I—" You exhaled. "There was something more complex and Y/n couldn't just explain it to you."

Silence hung in the air for a beat too long. His mother’s gaze was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—concern? Realization?

Wonwoo—inside your body—shifted uncomfortably, gripping the hem of his sweater. He had never thought about what your life was like before. But now, watching you struggle to speak about it, he felt something churn in his gut.

"Mrs. Kim said she wants you to come back," his mother said, her tone quieter now. "If what you're saying is true, then tell me—do you want to go back?"

You inhaled sharply.

And for the first time since the switch, Wonwoo saw something in your eyes that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

Fear.

*

Wonwoo, still trapped in your body, stepped into his own bedroom. It felt strange, standing there as someone else—seeing his familiar space from a different perspective. Normally, this was where he slept, but since his parents were home, he had to take the guest room. The one you usually stayed in.

Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms and watched you—watched himself—working on a marketing project. He hated marketing. He hated everything about it. But he knew you were doing it for him, for the presentation he had to give in front of your class tomorrow.

"About earlier…" he started, his voice quieter than before.

You didn't look up, fingers continuing to type away on the laptop.

"Is it true Mrs. Kim doesn’t like you?"

The sound of your typing stuttered for a second. Wonwoo caught the slight pause before you resumed.

"You can be honest with me, you know," he pressed, stepping further into the room. "I mean… I deserve to know. Since I’m you at the moment."

Still, you didn't answer. Your expression remained focused, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice dropped slightly.

"Is she the one who gave you that wound on your back?"

This time, you finally looked at him.

Your eyes were unreadable.

Wonwoo felt something uneasy settle in his chest. He had never thought about where the scar had come from. He had seen it, felt the sting of it when he moved, but he hadn’t questioned it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

"Is it true?" he asked again, voice firmer now. "She hit you?"

You lowered your gaze.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, you nodded.

"I’m sorry that you had to bear that."

Wonwoo swallowed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to stay composed.

He shrugged, as if trying to make light of the weight in his chest, and walked toward the bed. "The staff helped me with ointment. She asked if you had been hit by someone. Like… physically abused."

You didn’t respond right away, but your silence spoke louder than words.

Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his own reflection in the mirror across the room.

He thought about Mrs. Kim. About what kind of person she really was.

And for the first time since this whole body-swapping nightmare began…

He realized that maybe, just maybe, there were worse things than waking up in someone else’s life.

Like living in a life you never chose… and having no way out.

"Let me see… How bad is it?"

You stood from your seat and turned to him. Wonwoo, still in your body, looked up from the bed, brows raised in alarm.

"What?"

You blinked. "Let me see."

A heat crept up his face. "No!" His hands shot up defensively, arms crossed over his chest as if shielding himself.

You rolled your eyes—his eyes. "That’s my body, technically."

"And you’ll be looking at it with my eyes," Wonwoo argued, scooting a little further away from where you stood, hands still up in defense.

"As if you’ve never touched my boobs during a shower," you shot back, unimpressed.

Wonwoo gasped, scandalized. "I’ve been very careful and respectful, for your information," he retorted, voice full of righteous indignation. He narrowed his eyes at you. "And I’d appreciate it if you did the same for mine."

You snorted. "No, seriously, let me see. I don’t remember getting one on my back."

Before Wonwoo could protest again, you turned him around—your own body—and lifted the hem of his shirt.

He let out a sharp squeal, but you ignored it, your attention now focused on the sight before you.

The bruises were in various stages of healing—some faded, others still dark and angry-looking. A deep blue one spread across the lower part of your back, as if someone had struck you with full force. You hadn’t even realized how bad it was. Seeing it now, so clearly, made something inside you twist.

"That’s… brutal," you muttered. It was the first time you had seen the extent of the damage, the history of pain that had accumulated over the years in that foster home.

Wonwoo quickly yanked the shirt back down and turned to face you, his expression serious. "Is Mrs. Kim the one behind all of them?" His voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something far heavier—concern, maybe even anger.

You hesitated.

"It’s… a punishment. Everyone got that. I just got a lot more than the others." You took a deep breath.

"Why?"

You shrugged. "I lived there the longest. No one adopted me, so I stayed there for years."

Wonwoo blinked, trying to process that. You had endured this for years? His mind reeled.

"But my mom…"

You shook your head, gaze dropping to the floor. "She just funded me."

It was true—Wonwoo’s mother had funded your education, sending you to an elite private high school and later helping you get into an Ivy League university. But no one ever knew where you came from. Your background had been carefully concealed, your identity kept a secret.

And yet, despite all those privileges, Mrs. Kim had never let you leave the foster home. It was only later that you realized why. The money meant for you had never truly been yours—it had gone straight into her personal bank account. She had given you just enough to cover small personal expenses, but nothing close to what a college student actually needed.

In return, she had assigned you to endless chores, justifying it by saying she had raised you. The truth, however, was much simpler. No one had adopted you, not because they didn’t want to, but because she had made sure of it. You had been nothing more than a source of steady income to her.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I don’t want to go back," he muttered. His voice was quieter now, but the weight of his words was undeniable. "It was only a day. But it felt like a day in hell."

You looked at him for a long moment before stepping closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I’ll talk to your parents," you promised. "I’ll make sure you can stay here until we swap back. Don’t worry."

Wonwoo stared at you, still in his body, before nodding. For once, he didn’t argue.

*

You knocked on Wonwoo’s bedroom door Monday morning, already irritated. Both of you had class in an hour, and since he had to drive, he needed to wake up. Now.

"Wonwoo, get up!" you called, knocking harder. Silence.

With a sigh, you pushed the door open—only to find him curled up in a tight fetal position, clutching his stomach like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

He barely lifted his head. "Dying."

It took you exactly three seconds to realize what was happening.

Your period was coming.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. "Ohhh. So, how’s it feel?"

"How’s it feel?!" Wonwoo wheezed, shifting slightly—only to immediately wince and curl up tighter. "I feel like someone’s wringing out my insides like a soaked rag while kicking my spine. This is inhumane. You live like this?!"

You shrugged. "Every month."

"Every month?! This happens every month?! For how long?!"

"About five days."

"Five—" He buried his face into the pillow and groaned loudly. "I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. How do women even function? How do you go to school, work, BREATHE?"

"You get used to it." You rolled your eyes before getting a small heating pad packet you’d picked up from the convenience store few days ago, tossing it onto the bed. "Here. Stick this on your stomach."

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"A heat patch. It’ll help with the cramps."

He struggled to sit up, tearing open the packet with shaking hands before slapping the patch onto his lower stomach. A few seconds later, he exhaled in relief, sinking back onto the bed. "Oh. Oh, that’s—" He let out a soft, almost embarrassing noise. "Nice."

You raised an eyebrow. "Did you just moan?"

"Shut up."

You snickered before heading for the door. "I’ll get you some painkillers. You have ten minutes before I drag you out of bed."

"I’m not gonna make it," he groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. "Just leave me here to die."

You smirked. "Get up, or I’ll make your body buy pads in broad daylight."

His eyes snapped open in pure terror.

You had never seen him sit up so fast.

As the day went on, the pain dulled to a manageable ache, but Wonwoo was still visibly uncomfortable. He kept shifting in his seat, frowning every few minutes, and muttering curses under his breath. At one point, he glared at you as if this was somehow your fault.

By the evening, his parents were preparing to leave the city again. The two of you stood at the entrance, watching as his father loaded their luggage into the car. His mother straightened Wonwoo’s—your—collar before stepping back with a warm smile.

"Take care of yourself, Y/n. And you too, Wonwoo. Don’t forget to review those documents I sent over for your internship."

His father adjusted his watch and turned to you—well, to Wonwoo. "We’ll talk more when I’m back, but I trust you’ll take this internship seriously. It’s time for you to step up."

You blinked. What internship?

Your head snapped toward Wonwoo—who was standing beside you in your body—only to see him freeze like a deer caught in headlights. His wide eyes screamed I forgot to tell you about this.

"Uh..." You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Right. Of course."

Wonwoo's father nodded approvingly. "Good. This is an important step. You’ll be working directly with the executive team to prepare for your role in the company."

Your role? What role?

You stole another glance at Wonwoo, your face silently asking What the hell is he talking about?

Wonwoo, in your body, gave you a strained smile and the tiniest shake of his head, as if saying, Later. Just nod and agree.

So you did. Hesitantly. "Yeah. Got it."

His father clapped a hand on your shoulder, almost knocking the air out of you. "That’s what I like to hear. Make me proud."

You forced a smile, though internally, you were screaming.

After a few more goodbyes, his parents got into the car and drove away. The moment they were out of sight, you turned to Wonwoo, arms crossed.

"What. Internship."

Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "God, I was hoping you wouldn’t hear that."

"Well, I did. And now you’re gonna explain."

"It’s just some stupid business internship," he muttered, looking anywhere but at you.

"Business internship? You mean, for your family business?"

He shot you an unimpressed look. "No, for the bakery down the street. Yes, for my family business."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "You’re supposed to be the heir?"

He rolled his eyes. "Apparently."

"Since when?"

"Since I was born," he said bitterly. "They never pushed too hard before, but now that I’m getting older, they think it’s time I 'step up' and 'fulfill my role.'" He made exaggerated air quotes. "It’s stupid."

You frowned, watching him closely. He wasn’t just annoyed—he looked exhausted.

"You don’t want to do it," you said quietly.

"No, I don’t. But they don’t care what I want." He scoffed. "It doesn’t matter that I hate it. That I want to do something else. All that matters is that I have their last name and was born first."

For the first time since the swap, you saw something vulnerable beneath his usual sarcasm. It made your chest tighten a little.

You hesitated before saying, "Then why don’t you just... refuse?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You think it’s that easy?"

"I think you should at least try to talk to them."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple, Y/n."

Maybe it wasn’t. But the way his shoulders slumped made you think that, for a long time, he had felt trapped. And no matter how much he acted like it didn’t bother him, deep down, it did.

"What do you want to do then?" you asked, settling onto his bed.

The two of you had just finished gathering your things—his things, technically—since his parents were gone and it was time to return to your designated rooms.

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. "Journalism."

Your brow lifted in surprise. "I remember you were in the journalism club back in high school."

"Yeah."

A memory resurfaced, making you smirk. "You wrote an entire article about me beating you in chemistry and taking first place. Called me a 'lucky fluke.'"

Wonwoo let out a small chuckle. "I was very bitter about that."

"You were such a sore loser."

He scoffed. "I had a reputation to uphold!"

You laughed. "Right, right. And now, look at you. So mature."

He sighed dramatically. "Yeah... I’ve grown a lot."

You gave him a skeptical look.

"I mean," he continued, "I’m literally experiencing a period right now. That has to count for something."

Your lips twitched. "Oh, of course. Nothing says personal growth like surviving cramps."

He nodded solemnly. "I have transcended. I'm practically enlightened."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Idiot."

You leaned back on your elbows, tilting your head as you looked at him. "By the way, why did you even run for student president?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "I needed influence."

You blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Connections. A reputation. If I ever wanted to pursue journalism seriously, I needed to build a name for myself early on."

You stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. "Oh my God, you sound like a villain setting up a master plan."

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. "It’s called thinking ahead. You wouldn’t understand."

"Oh, I wouldn’t understand?" You scoffed, sitting up straighter. "Alright, then why do you think I ran for student president?"

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment before shrugging. "For the experience?"

You shook your head.

"To put on your resume?"

Another shake.

He frowned. "To prove you’re better than me?"

You smirked but shook your head again. "Nope. I needed a place to stay."

Wonwoo’s frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

You inhaled before answering. "The student president gets a free dorm on campus. I needed a way out of the foster home, and that was my best shot."

Wonwoo went quiet, his gaze searching yours as if piecing together things he hadn't realized before. "You… ran because you needed housing?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Mrs. Kim never planned on letting me move out. The only way I could leave was if I had a legitimate reason that even she couldn't argue against. A free dorm with full coverage? She couldn’t say no to that."

He was silent for a long moment before muttering, "Damn."

You chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Not all of us can afford to run for power moves, Mr. Influence."

Wonwoo sighed, rubbing his face. "I really had no idea…"

"It’s fine," you said, waving it off. "I made it out, didn’t I?"

He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then, with a small huff, he muttered, "I still think my reason was cooler."

You threw a pillow at him.

*

The presidential election had finally concluded, and to your surprise, your votes ranked in the top two alongside Seungcheol. The final results hadn’t been announced yet, but sitting in the driver’s seat, Wonwoo was already sulking like a kid who dropped his ice cream.

"Seungcheol has a lot of influence, you know," you said, trying to lift his mood as you buckled your seatbelt.

Wonwoo huffed, arms crossed. "Yeah, yeah. He’s charismatic, well-connected, and has professors wrapped around his finger. We get it."

You smirked. "Sounds like you’re a big fan."

He shot you a glare. "I'm not. I just don't like losing."

"You made it to the top two. That’s not losing."

"It’s not winning either," he grumbled, resting his chin on the steering wheel. "I had a plan. I worked hard. I even made small talk with people, and you know how much I hate that."

You chuckled. "Oh no, not small talk. The ultimate sacrifice."

Wonwoo groaned, tilting his head back against the headrest. "You don’t get it. I needed this. Influence is important."

You grinned. "Yeah, tell me. I was just trying to get a dorm."

Wonwoo let out a long sigh, starting the car. "Well, at least if you win, I'll be stuck in power with someone who won’t make my life hell."

You laughed. "Aww, is that your way of saying you trust me?"

He clicked his tongue, pretending to focus on the road. "No. It’s my way of saying I don’t trust Seungcheol."

"Right, right," you teased. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Almost-President."

Wonwoo’s phone—well, technically, your phone—buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at the screen, then at you, hesitating.

"It's my mom."

Wonwoo's grip on the phone lingered even after the call ended, his mind racing. His mother had sounded calm, but he knew her well enough to recognize when she was holding something back.

"She knows," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. "What?"

"My mom—she knows what Mrs. Kim has been doing to you."

Your breath hitched. "How?"

Wonwoo hesitated. He hadn’t told you yet, but when he had been in your body, experiencing firsthand the bruises, the way your muscles flinched at sudden movements, the way Mrs. Kim had spoken to him—he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. He had confided in his mother, unable to hold back his anger.

"I told her," he admitted, watching your reaction carefully. "When I was in your body, I couldn’t just ignore it. She knew something was wrong, and I… I told her everything."

You stared at him, emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, and something else, something raw.

"She’s getting the police involved," Wonwoo continued. "She already contacted them, and they’re starting an investigation."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "An investigation?"

He nodded. "We’re not letting her get away with this."

For the first time, real hope flickered in your eyes, but there was also hesitation. "But… she’s always covered her tracks. She’ll deny everything."

"She can try," Wonwoo said firmly. "But I already went for a visum et repertum."

Your eyes widened. "You what?"

"A forensic medical exam," he explained. "To document the bruises, the scars—everything she did to you." His jaw clenched. "I needed proof. And now we have it."

You sat there in stunned silence, struggling to process it all.

"Wonwoo, you—"

"She’s not laying another hand on you," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "Not now, not ever."

Your fingers curled into your lap, emotions overwhelming you. You had spent so many years believing no one would ever step in, that no one would ever truly see what was happening behind closed doors.

But Wonwoo had. And he wasn’t backing down.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, forcing out a small, shaky laugh. "You really went and did all that?"

He gave a half-smile, shrugging. "Yeah, well… I might have a soft spot for you."

That startled a genuine laugh out of you, light and breathless.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar creeping into your chest—something warm. Something safe.

Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare was finally coming to an end.

*

Wonwoo stood beside his mother, his heart pounding in his chest as the police officer laid out the results of the investigation. He glanced at you—his own body—sitting stiffly beside him, hands clenched into fists. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your shoulders barely moved with your breathing. He understood why. Every word the officer spoke only made the weight in his stomach sink deeper.

"Tonight, we will take Mrs. Kim into custody," the officer stated firmly. "We've gathered substantial evidence, including records showing she registered life insurance policies for over ten children under her care. One of them was a boy who died from hypothermia."

Wonwoo felt a sharp chill crawl up his spine. "Hypothermia?" he repeated, his voice coming out in your tone.

The officer nodded grimly. "She drowned him," he clarified, sliding a file onto the coffee table. "The forensic reports prove it. The original findings were covered up, but we managed to recover them."

A nauseating feeling twisted in his gut. He had suspected Mrs. Kim was cruel, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined. He turned his gaze toward you—you were staring at the photos in the file, your expression blank, but he knew you well enough to see the terror hiding beneath it.

His mother, who had been listening quietly until now, suddenly stiffened. Her sharp eyes locked onto one of the documents in the officer’s hand. She reached for it, flipping through the pages before pausing.

Then she froze.

"There's your name," she murmured, glancing at him.

Wonwoo leaned forward, eyes scanning the document. It was an insurance registration. The name on it was yours.

"She took out a policy on you six months ago," the officer confirmed.

His breath caught in his throat. He turned to look at you again, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he saw pure fear in your eyes.

His jaw clenched as his mother exhaled sharply, gripping the paper tightly. "She was planning to..," he said, his voice dark with anger.

His mother closed her eyes briefly before fixing the officer with a hardened gaze. "She won’t get away with this, will she?"

The officer shook his head. "No. We have enough evidence now to ensure she faces the full weight of the law."

Silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Wonwoo’s mother slowly reached for your hand—his hand—and squeezed it gently.

"You're safe now," she whispered.

*

The news came late at night. Mrs. Kim had been arrested. The police had raided the foster home, taking her into custody without incident. The children had been removed from the house, placed under temporary care while they underwent medical check-ups and psychological evaluations.

You sat in Wonwoo’s room—his real room, not the shared space in the foster home—legs tucked under you as you stared blankly at the floor. It still didn’t feel real. After years of suffering, years of thinking no one would ever come to help, it was over. Mrs. Kim was gone.

Wonwoo—still in your body—watched you carefully from across the room. He could see the exhaustion in your posture, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you held onto the blanket draped over your lap. You had barely spoken since the police update.

"You should sleep," he said softly.

You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think I can."

Silence settled between you. Then, after a moment, you looked up at him, your expression unreadable.

"Thank you," you said, voice quiet but steady.

Wonwoo blinked. "For what?"

You let out a breath, searching for the right words. "If it weren’t for you… none of this would’ve happened. Mrs. Kim would still be out there. The kids would still be suffering. I—" You paused, looking down at your hands. "I might not even be alive."

The weight of your words hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just stared at you, watching as the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled.

"You didn’t have to help me," you continued. "But you did. You fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself."

Wonwoo swallowed, something heavy settling in his chest. "You deserved it," he said simply.

You met his eyes, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt something close to relief.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I think… I’m finally starting to believe that."

Wonwoo, still in your body, moved to your side, his expression unreadable. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into his arms. The embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you forgot about the weight of everything that had happened.

You stiffened slightly at first—it was strange, feeling your own body hold you—but the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, made it easier to let go. Slowly, you relaxed against him.

"You’re safe now," he murmured. "It’s over."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his—your—shirt. "It doesn’t feel real."

"I know," Wonwoo said, his grip tightening just a little. "But it is."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything unspoken. The weight of the past few days, of the fear, the uncertainty, the fight—it all hung in the air. But underneath it, there was relief.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Even though he was in your body, the concern in his gaze was entirely his. "If I hadn’t gotten there in time—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t even want to think about it."

"But you did," you reminded him, offering a small, tired smile. "You saved me. And not just me—all the kids in that house. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be suffering."

Wonwoo’s grip on you tightened for a moment before he finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess we saved them together."

He watched your eyes and hesitated, his grip on you loosening just slightly, but he didn’t pull away completely. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

You noticed.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips—a mere brush, a hesitation wrapped in warmth. It was barely anything, just a peck, but the way Wonwoo froze made your heart race.

When you pulled back, his eyes widened, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You stepped back slightly, giving him space, but the air between you had changed.

"What was that?" he finally asked, voice quiet.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. "I… don’t know."

A beat of silence.

"We were enemies, right?" Wonwoo said, his brows furrowing in thought. "Back in high school, we couldn’t stand each other."

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Yeah, I guess we were."

"But then… somehow, we became friends," he continued, his voice softer now. "I don’t even know when that happened."

You met his gaze, something unspoken lingering between you. "And now?"

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to reach for you but hesitated at the last second. Instead, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, almost amused smile.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "What are we now?"

You didn’t have an answer either. But as you looked at him—at the way he was watching you, searching for something—maybe that was okay. Maybe you’d figure it out together.

*

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You shifted slightly, feeling warmth against you—an arm draped loosely around your waist, a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a moment, you didn’t think much of it. It felt natural, comfortable. The exhaustion from the past few days had melted into this quiet moment of peace.

Then it hit you.

You shot up, your eyes widening as you took in the sight in front of you. Wonwoo was still half-asleep, his hair a mess, eyes barely open as he blinked up at you in confusion. But that wasn’t what made your breath catch.

It was him. His face. His body.

And then you looked down at yourself.

Your hands—your hands—small, familiar. You touched your face, feeling the features you had grown up with.

Panic and realization hit at the same time.

"Wonwoo," you gasped.

At the sound of his name, he frowned, groggy, his voice rough from sleep. "What?"

You grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "We—"

Then his eyes widened, fully waking up as he sat up abruptly. His hands darted to his own face, his own chest. He looked at you, then at himself, then back at you again.

"We’re back," he breathed.

You both stared at each other, the weight of everything crashing down. The confusion, the fear, the chaos of switching lives—it was over.

A mix of emotions swirled inside you. Relief. Disbelief. Maybe even… a little sadness?

Somehow, in all of this, you and Wonwoo had gone from being enemies, to reluctant allies, to something more. And now, back in your own bodies, you weren’t sure what came next.

"You were cuddling me," Wonwoo suddenly pointed out, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Your face heated instantly. "You were cuddling me!"

He hummed, stretching lazily. "I don’t remember pushing you away."

"Ugh, you’re insufferable."

But there was no real bite behind your words. You were too relieved, too overwhelmed, and maybe even… a little happy.

Because somehow, through all of this, you had found him.

*

You moved out as soon as Seungcheol, the newly elected student president, handed you a key after pulling some strings to secure you a free room in the student dorm. It was a relief—a chance to finally breathe on your own, away from the chaos of the past few months.

"Don't forget, you owe me," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he twirled the keyring around his finger like some grand prize. He was clearly enjoying this.

You rolled your eyes but snatched the key from his hand anyway. "Aye aye, captain," you muttered, stuffing it into your pocket.

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Oh, and your boyfriend—think he’d be interested in filling the media and advocacy position?"

You froze mid-step, your fingers tightening around the key. "He's not my boyfriend," you shot back, a little sharper than intended. Heat crept up your neck, and you hated how easily he could fluster you with just a few words.

Seungcheol’s brow arched, clearly unimpressed by your denial. "Don't lie to me. You think I didn’t notice how often you talked him up during the campaign?"

You scoffed, turning the key in the lock just for something to do. "I wasn’t talking him up."

"Really?" His smirk widened. "So saying he's ‘sharp, capable, and annoyingly good at everything’ was criticism?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat as realization dawned on you. It wasn’t you who had said those things about Wonwoo. It was him, using your body.

That little—

Your jaw tightened, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. The thought of Wonwoo casually praising himself while pretending to be you made you want to throw something. Of course, he had made you sound like his biggest fan.

You exhaled sharply, deciding this was a battle for another day. "I’ll ask him," you muttered, pushing open the door to your new dorm.

"Good," Seungcheol said, straightening up. "And let me know when you two finally admit you’re together."

"Seungcheol—"

"See you at the next meeting, Madam Secretary," he called over his shoulder, throwing you a knowing wink before strolling off down the hallway.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as you glared at the empty space where he had just stood. Annoying.

With a sigh, you stepped inside your new dorm room, shutting the door behind you. The silence was almost deafening compared to the whirlwind of everything that had happened recently. You glanced down at the key in your palm, feeling the weight of it.

A new beginning. A fresh start.

But somehow, you had the feeling that no matter what, Wonwoo was going to be right in the middle of it all.

Just like now, the tall boy was sitting on the floor, unboxing your books and carefully placing them on the shelves. The only sound in the room was the occasional hum from your lips—a rare moment of quiet between the two of you. It struck you as odd.

Wonwoo was never this silent around you.

You turned, only to catch him flipping through one of your books. But from the worn-out cover and the way his brows slightly raised in interest, you knew exactly what it was.

Your high school diary.

Your stomach dropped.

In a flash, you slid across the floor to his side, reaching for the book, but he was faster. With a teasing smirk, he turned his body away, holding it just out of your reach as he continued reading like he wasn’t blatantly invading your privacy.

"That's my diary, Wonwoo," you hissed, stretching to snatch it from his grasp.

"As if I hadn’t literally lived in that body of yours," he quipped, his smirk widening.

You huffed, crossing your arms in frustration. You honestly didn’t even remember what you had written in that diary—probably a bunch of pointless high school drama and petty complaints about your elite private school.

That is, until he read one line aloud.

"Mingyu is annoyingly kind and smart for the rich kids."

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. "Please stop."

Wonwoo chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as he leaned back against the bed. "And he's handsome too, I guess. You like Mingyu?!"

"Past tense," you muttered, peeking at him between your fingers. "And honestly, who didn’t back in high school?"

His amusement lingered as he continued flipping through the pages, but then, without warning, his smile faded.

He stilled.

His brows furrowed.

When he finally looked at you, there was something unreadable in his expression. "It was intentional?"

Your breath hitched at the shift in his tone. "What?"

Before you could grab the diary, he turned it around so you could see the passage.

And then, it hit you.

The memory resurfaced instantly—the day you had scribbled those frustrated words after an exam. The day you had deliberately answered one question wrong just to land in second place.

Wonwoo’s voice was quieter this time. "My father asked you to do that?"

His eyes scanned your face, searching for confirmation, as he tried to process what he had just read.

Your fingers curled tightly around the diary as you exhaled, leaning back against the bed. There was no point in hiding it now—not when he had already read the truth for himself.

"It was to secure my scholarship," you admitted, your voice quieter than before.

Wonwoo's brows remained furrowed, his hands tightening slightly around the book. "What?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Your father... he told Mrs. Kim that I was never to step into your level—meaning the highest I was allowed to place was second."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken resentment and long-buried frustration.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. "He told you that?"

"Not directly. Mrs. Kim did," you clarified, gripping the diary a little tighter. "She said it was a condition. That as long as I stayed beneath you, I could keep my scholarship. My tuition would stay covered, my future secured—as long as I didn’t outshine you."

Wonwoo stared at you, and for the first time since you met him, there was no teasing, no sarcasm, no sharp-witted remarks. Just silence.

He wasn’t even looking at the diary anymore. His gaze was locked onto you, his expression unreadable.

"You were forced to stay second place," he finally said, his voice almost detached, like he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

You shrugged, forcing a small, bitter smile. "It wasn't that hard. You were better than me, anyway."

"That's not the point," he snapped, the sudden edge in his voice making you blink. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "That’s why you never challenged me, isn’t it? Why you never tried to win?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Would it have mattered?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "And here I thought you just enjoyed losing to me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, because that sounds like something I’d do."

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he stared at you like he was seeing you in an entirely different light.

Like he was starting to understand something he never had before.

Wonwoo let out a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the diary still clutched in your hands. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for it again—but instead, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular.

Then, to your surprise, he laughed. A quiet, almost disbelieving sound.

"Wow," he murmured, shaking his head. "So all this time... you were holding back for me."

You frowned. "Not for you—"

"Still," he cut in, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "You let me win. Over and over. You fed my ego for years."

You didn’t know what to say to that. Was he mad? Annoyed?

But then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and you saw something unexpected in his expression.

"Thank you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Thank you," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "For letting me think I was the best. For... making me feel like I was good at something."

There was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just a raw honesty that made your chest tighten.

"I didn’t do it for you," you muttered, looking away.

"I know." He tilted his head slightly, watching you. "But you still did."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "Why are you even thanking me? It’s not like I had a choice."

Wonwoo leaned back against the bed, his expression unreadable. "Because if you hadn't, I probably would've lost my mind."

You frowned.

"My dad—he always expected me to be the best. Not just in school, but in everything." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "And I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. But the scores? The rankings? That was the only thing that made me feel like I was good enough. Like I actually deserved something."

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling in.

"You have no idea how badly I needed that validation," he admitted. "How badly I needed to believe I was the best at something. Even if it was fake."

You swallowed. You had never thought of it that way before. You had always seen Wonwoo as someone untouchable—smart, capable, and always one step ahead of you. But now, sitting here, hearing him admit that he needed to win...

He wasn’t as untouchable as you thought.

"You weren’t bad, you know," you said after a moment. "Even without me holding back, you probably still would’ve beaten me."

He let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. But at least now I know the truth."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unspoken.

You sighed, shifting so you were fully facing him. Wonwoo had always carried himself like he had everything under control, like he never wavered. But now, sitting here, you could see the cracks in that image—the weight of expectations, the pressure he had put on himself for years.

"You don’t have to be the best at everything, you know," you said quietly.

Wonwoo looked at you, surprised by your words.

"You’re already smart," you continued. "Responsible. Honest to a fault." You hesitated before adding, "You even helped me with Mrs. Kim when you didn’t have to."

His brows furrowed slightly. "That doesn’t mean—"

"You could’ve caused trouble while you were in my body," you cut him off. "You could’ve made my life a mess, done things just to spite me. But you didn’t. You helped me. You took care of things. That says more about you than any stupid ranking ever could."

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure if he was actually listening or if he was just waiting for you to stop talking. But then, after a long pause, he let out a quiet chuckle.

"So you’re saying I’m a good person?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m saying you don’t have to prove that you are. You already are. And that’s enough."

Wonwoo blinked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your words. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

You scoffed, nudging his arm. "Don’t get used to it."

But the warmth in his gaze lingered, and for the first time, you saw him believe it.

Wonwoo let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You know, if this were some kind of cliché moment in a movie, you’d kiss me right now. Like last time."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Oh, please."

But his words triggered a memory—the last time your lips met.

"Besides," you added, tilting your head at him, "I technically didn’t kiss you last time. It was more like a peck. And even then, it wasn’t me kissing you—it was me in your body, so it was your lips touching mine."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in slightly. "Sounds like a lot of excuses."

Before you could roll your eyes again, he reached for your wrist, pulling you just close enough that your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a second before he murmured,

"Let’s fix that, then."

And before you could even think of a response, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck.

*

Wonwoo sat stiffly across from his father, unsure why he had been called to this unexpected meeting. His father, always composed and stern, sipped his tea before finally setting the cup down with a decisive clink.

"I’ve been thinking," his father began, his deep voice carrying an unusual softness, "about your future."

Wonwoo’s shoulders tensed. He was ready for another lecture, another reminder of his predetermined path. But then—

"I’ve decided," his father continued, "that if you truly want to pursue journalism, you have my support."

Wonwoo blinked. He must have misheard. His father? Supporting his dream?

His father adjusted his glasses, tapping a finger against the table. "I read your work—the articles, the essays, the investigative pieces you’ve written over the years. There’s potential, Wonwoo. Real potential. I wasn’t convinced before, but now…" He exhaled, looking directly at his son. "I see it."

Wonwoo’s mind raced. How did his father—?

Then his eyes flicked to his laptop sitting on the desk nearby. A strange feeling gnawed at him. Slowly, he reached for it, opening his email.

His inbox showed a long thread between him and his father—except… he didn’t remember sending these.

Clicking through, his breath caught. Attached were all the articles, drafts, and opinion pieces he had ever written, even the ones he had abandoned, perfectly formatted and sent with a professional, persuasive message:

"Father, I know journalism wasn’t the future you envisioned for me, but writing has always been my passion. I hope you can see the effort I’ve put into it. All I ask is for you to read and reconsider. If there’s any part of you that believes in me, please support this dream."

The email was formal, respectful—something Wonwoo would never have dared to send himself.

Because he didn’t send it.

Realization struck.

You.

While you were in his body, you had gathered every piece of writing he had ever done and sent it to his father, pushing for the approval he had been too afraid to ask for himself.

A lump formed in his throat.

"You…" Wonwoo murmured under his breath, still staring at the screen. His heart pounded, caught between disbelief and something else—something warm, something deep.

His father took another sip of tea. "I’m ready to support you, son. If this is what you want, you don’t have to fight for it alone."

Wonwoo swallowed, his grip tightening around the laptop. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because for the first time in his life, he realized—

Someone had fought for him first.

*

Years later, Wonwoo came home to find you curled up on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through TV channels. The familiar sight of you—your hair messy, your legs tucked under a blanket—made something in his chest unclench. Without a word, he let his tired body collapse onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your stomach.

You huffed at the sudden weight but didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers instinctively found their way into his hair, gently brushing through the strands.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You chuckled, feeling the vibration of his words against you. "Journalism finally hit you?"

Wonwoo groaned dramatically before shifting, propping himself up just enough to look at you. "My senior is evil. How could he make us stay in the police station for two days?"

Your brows raised. "Got any news?"

He sighed, shaking his head before letting his head fall onto your lap, his face turned toward you. His dark eyes studied your features, the corners of his lips tugging into something softer, something unspoken.

"And I missed you," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though your fingers never stopped their soothing motions through his hair. "You're so dramatic."

"Am I?" He smirked lazily. "You should've seen how miserable I was without you."

You scoffed, pretending to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. It had taken months—months of stolen kisses, secret touches, and endless bickering—before the two of you had finally admitted what everyone else had seen from the start.

Mingyu, fed up with your ridiculous denial, had finally intervened. And by "intervened," it meant shoving you and Wonwoo into a closet during a party and refusing to let you out until you confessed your feelings. It was a long, messy story—one that involved a lot of yelling, some threats, and a victorious Mingyu grinning like a proud matchmaker.

And yet, it had worked.

Now, here you were, years later, with Wonwoo sprawled across you like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did.

"You’re such a baby," you teased, lightly flicking his forehead.

He caught your hand before you could pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Only for you."

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle shift in the way Wonwoo’s fingers curled around yours, the slow, deliberate drag of his thumb against your palm. His other hand, which had been resting idly on your waist, started to move, fingertips tracing light, teasing patterns over the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitched when he pressed a little firmer, his touch no longer innocent, no longer just an affectionate gesture.

"Wonwoo," you murmured, though it came out softer than intended, barely a warning.

His lips twitched, eyes flicking up to yours, dark and knowing. "What?" he asked, voice low, lazy, but there was something else there too—something heavier, something that made your stomach flip.

"You’re tired," you pointed out, though even to your own ears, it sounded like a weak excuse.

Wonwoo hummed, shifting slightly until he was lying on his side, one arm draped around your waist, the other still tangled with your fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, nuzzling into your stomach. "But I still missed you."

You swallowed when his nose brushed against the hem of your shirt, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. His fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming your hip before sliding up, slow and unhurried.

Your skin prickled under his touch, and he must've felt your reaction because his smirk deepened.

"Wonwoo," you tried again, but this time, your voice betrayed you, dipping into something breathier, something more wanting.

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, feigning innocence, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist, the way his lips barely brushed against your stomach before pulling back—it was anything but innocent.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, torn between pulling him away and pulling him closer.

And from the way his smirk widened, you had a feeling he already knew which one you were leaning toward.

You sucked in a breath when Wonwoo’s fingers trailed lower, his touch lazy, teasing, like he had all the time in the world. His palm skimmed over your thigh, fingertips pressing just enough to make you shiver. His head remained on your lap, but his eyes were locked on yours, watching every little reaction.

"You're really not going to stop me, huh?" he murmured, amusement lacing his tone.

Your fingers curled in his hair, torn between pulling him away and keeping him right where he was. "Wonwoo," you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant to stop him or encourage him.

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through you, before his fingers slipped just a little further, skimming over the waistband of your shorts. Your breath stuttered, body tensing in anticipation.

"You’re so easy to tease," he mused, his lips curving as he pressed a kiss to your stomach.

You swatted at his shoulder, though there was no real strength behind it. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you still let me touch you."

His fingers flexed again, just a whisper of movement against your skin, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and the air between you felt thick, charged.

Your lips parted to say something—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tell him to keep going—but before you could, his fingers dipped lower, making you gasp.

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in closer. "Yeah," he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. "I thought so."

Wonwoo's fingers danced across your heated flesh, tracing the sensitive inner thighs, his touch both teasing and tantalizing. You parted your legs slightly, inviting him deeper into the haven of your intimacy. His calloused palm grazed the damp lace of your panties, the delicate material offering little barrier against the scorching heat of your core.

With a knowing smirk, Wonwoo hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling them down your hips to reveal your glistening, needy center. He dipped a finger into the slick folds, gathering your essence and rubbing it along your throbbing clit in a deliberate rhythm.

"You're so wet for me already," he purred, his voice low and husky with desire. "Tell me, do you miss me as much as I miss you?"

The overwhelming ache within you demanded release, begging for Wonwoo's touch to quench the thirst that had built throughout the day apart. You nodded frantically, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you surrendered to the intensity of your longing.

"Yes, I miss you so much," You whimpered, arching into his skilled caresses. "Please, Wonwoo... I need you inside me."

At your plea, Wonwoo stood abruptly, scooping you effortlessly into his arms.

He carried you swiftly towards the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you with a resolute click. Once there, he set you down on the edge of the bed, his dark eyes smoldering with unrestrained hunger as he shed the remainder of his clothes with swift, practiced movements.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, buried deep within your sweet heat," he declared, his rigid length jutting out prominently, aching to claim its rightful place inside you once again.

"I'm dying to taste you, sweetheart, but I can barely control myself." Wonwoo spat onto your dripping slit, the warm droplets mingling with your arousal. "Gotta get inside you, now."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the swollen head of his member nudging against your slick heat.

With a steady, controlled thrust, Wonwoo sheathed himself fully within you, his thickness stretching and filling you to the brim. He paused for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, before withdrawing until just the tip remained inside.

"Are you ready, baby?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained passion.

You nodded, your hips lifting eagerly to meet his next push forward.

Wonwoo's grip tightened on your hips as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each stroke dragging out the pleasure until it bordered on agony. He leaned down, capturing your thing between his teeth, nibbling and suckling in time with his measured pace.

With agonizing slowness, Wonwoo continued to drive into you, each inch a tantalizing exploration of your innermost depths. His teeth grazed your thing, sending electric shocks straight to your core as his fingers found your sensitive clit, circling the tender bud with maddening gentleness.

"Wonwoo...Yes..." You whimpered, lost in the haze of pleasure, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him desperately.

Wonwoo's rhythmic strokes intensified, his hips undulating sensually against yours. Each deep, languid thrust seemed designed to unravel you from the inside out, his teasing touches driving you closer to the brink. Youwrithed beneath him, craving more of that exquisite friction, your cries escalating into urgent whimpers.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained with effort as he fought to maintain the torturously slow pace.

With a subtle shift in his tempo, Wonwoo picked up speed, the previously languid thrusts now becoming harder and faster. Your back arched off the bed as he pistoned into you with renewed vigor, the room echoing with the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"That's it, take it deeper," he encouraged, his hand tightening on your hip, urging you to meet his increasing fervor. "Let go, my love. I've got you."

With a sudden yank, Wonwoo hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he maintained eye contact. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper inside, and you cried out at the delicious stretch.

"I want to look at you while I fill you up," he growled, his thumbs rubbing circles over yout hyper-sensitive clit as he pumped into you.

With each relentless thrust, Wonwoo could feel the telltale flutter of you impending orgasm building within me. Your walls clenched tighter around his throbbing length, drawing him impossibly deeper, and he knew you was teetering on the precipice.

"Don't hold back," he commanded gruffly, his own climax fast approaching. "Let go for me, my beautiful girl. I want to feel you shake apart.."

With increased urgency, Wonwoo slammed into you, the force of his thrusts nearly knocking the wind from you ungs. You inner muscles spasmed wildly as you reached the crest, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over me.

"Yes, yes, yes!" You screamed, your nails raking down his back as the most potent orgasm of yout life ripped through you.

...and then Wonwoo buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating violently as he reached his peak. With a guttural roar, he poured himself into you, flooding your spasming channel with his hot seed.

"P-pretty... fuck," he stuttered, his face contorting in blissful agony as he emptied himself inside you. His rhythmic spurts triggered aftershocks, each twitch of his still-hard member coaxing out lingering echoes of yout earlier climax.

With a contented sigh, Wonwoo collapsed onto you, your bodies still intimately entwined. Though he'd just delivered a mind-blowing orgasm, his exhaustion was palpable, making it clear he had no intention of withdrawing anytime soon.

"Mmm, too tired," he mumbled, his face nuzzling into the crook of my neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

*

A soft groan escaped your lips as you stirred from sleep, the lingering sensations of last night’s intimacy still fresh in your mind. Your body felt relaxed in the most satisfying way, every inch of you still attuned to Wonwoo’s touch. A small, pleased smile curved your lips as you felt the comforting warmth of him pressed against you, his solid form still nestled close, as if he had no intention of letting go.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured sleepily, your voice laced with warmth and amusement. "Seems like you didn’t intend to let me go after all, did you?"

But the moment the words left your mouth, something felt off. The timbre of your voice—deeper, rougher—sent a jolt of confusion through you.

Your eyes snapped open.

Your breath hitched as you took in the unfamiliar sight of broad shoulders, long limbs, and the distinct weight of a body that wasn’t yours.

Panic set in.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you looked down to the other side—only to find yourself staring at… yourself.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—blinked at you sleepily, his own eyes widening in delayed realization.

Not again.

"Don't move…" Wonwoo groaned, his voice—your voice—strained as he let out a soft moan from the way your body tensed inside him.

His grip on your arm tightened as he exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way his brows furrowed. "Shit… Does your body always ache this much after sex? Don’t move!" he snapped, his complaint sounding oddly amusing in your own voice.

You bit back a laugh, despite the absurdity of the situation. "I’m not doing anything," you said defensively, then motioned toward your member—his member—where the evidence of his current predicament was painfully obvious. "It’s working itself."

Wonwoo sighed in exasperation, dragging a hand down his—your—face. "Welcome to manhood," you added with a smirk.

His glare could’ve burned holes through you, but at that moment, all you could do was marvel at the sheer irony of it all.

The end:)

[science-hoes]

Safe & Sound

Jack Abbot x Reader

Warnings: PTSD, panic attack, hallucinations, graphic descriptions

Description: A stormy night in Pittsburgh causes Jack Abbot to fall into a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring him back.

Jack Abbot Masterlist

——

The night shift was slow in the Pitt (but you didn’t dare mention it aloud). Aside from traumas coming in by ambulance, there weren’t many patients in Chairs. Nobody wanted to go out in the severe weather that night. The winds howled against the building, creating ghostly whispers with the rain that slapped concrete.

You were fascinated by the unusual weather. Usually, if it stormed at all, it was quick with little fanfare. But the system moving across Pennsylvania tonight had every local news station showcasing their meteorologists like it was coverage for the Olympics. In fact, that’s what the TVs in Chairs had on constant loop since you arrived for your shift.

Gloria had reminded everyone at shift change of the protocols in case of severe weather, usually reserved for blizzards. Backup generators, spare on-call rooms, yada yada yada.

But the storm outside was majestic. So dangerous yet so powerful. Something about it intrigued your deepest curiosity. You could only see the flashes of lightning from the exit to the ambulance bay, but the growling thunder supplied a nonstop soundtrack for your shift.

“We’ve got a high school basketball player coming in via ambulance after passing out during a game. He’s conscious again after some IV fluids but still needs some electrolyte labs and monitoring. About five minutes out.” The charge nurse snapped you out of your daydreaming.

You quickly sat up and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll head on out there.” You replied.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “You mean in that hurricane?” She questioned.

You shrugged, standing up from your desk. “I’ll stay under the bay. Don’t want them to get lost in all this rain.” You joked.

The doors to the ambulance bay glided open as you approached them. You snatched a sterile gown and tied it loosely around your waist. Finally, you were able to stand outside and watch the storm. The sky lit up with magnificent cracks of lightning followed by rolling thunder, and the rain was thick enough to blur the bar across the street, only its neon “OPEN” sign visible.

You heard the automatic whirring of the doors behind you, along with wet footsteps trudging through the tiny river formed by the slope of the bay combined with heavy rain. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you wait out here.” The voice warned.

You peaked over your shoulder to see Jack Abbot wrapping a sterile gown around his waist to match yours. You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for the advice, grandpa.” You teased.

Jack scoffed, coming forward to stand beside you. He assumed his usual soldier stance, broad chest puffed out, arms crossed behind his back, head held high. “I’m not old enough to be a grandpa.” He defended.

You smirked, admiring the way the lightning in the sky reflected off his silver curls. “You look like you are though.”

Another look of disbelief washed over his face, his mouth agape at your audacity and those whiskey eyes rolling back. You couldn’t tell if he was seriously offended or not. “I look exactly my age.” He said.

“Which is…?”

“Classified.”

You giggled, and he couldn’t help but smile as his eyes remained fixed on the path to the ambulance bay. The red lights of the rig danced off the pools of rain in the street as it approached. The sirens were nearly masked by the looming thunder. Suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing the rain horizontally. You screeched as the freezing water drenched you head to toe in a matter of seconds, but laughed at the cathartic feeling. Jack held his hands over his forehead, trying to shield his eyes, a practiced maneuver he learned for billowing sand instead of water.

“It’s just some water, you won’t melt!” He called out to you, his voice fighting to be heard against the gusts of wind.

You flashed a grin at him and hurried over to the ambulance as it rolled under the cover. “Come on, old man!” You yelled back.

The EMTs hopped out and pulled the gurney out of the back, trying to work quickly in the rain. Within seconds, it was clear that speed had no benefit in the situation. Every single person, including the young patient, were soaked from the monsoon.

As you introduced yourself to the basketball player, a flash of lightning, more brilliant than the others, nearly blinded you. The ensuing sound wasn’t like the rumbling thunder that had plagued the night, but more of a deafening crackle. After you regained your senses from the sensory overload, you could see the flag pole sizzling, burning hot at the top.

“Holy shit!” You screamed, standing straight after realizing your body naturally cowered to the ground in response.

The rain had plastered your hair to your face, obstructing your view, so your hands gripped onto the metal rail of the gurney as you helped push it inside. “Let’s go!” You screamed, leading the way to the automatic doors.

Once you were out of the rain, you swiped the hair over your forehead and gave a smile to your patient. “Sorry about that!” You said. “We don’t usually waterboard our patients before treating them.” You teased.

The kid laughed and wiped the water off his face. “It actually felt pretty good. I was really hot.” He replied, but you noticed the shivers hitting his body from the cold air of the Pitt.

You pushed the gurney with the EMTs into Central Three at the instruction of the charge nurse. “Are you cold, baby?” You asked the patient, using the same term of endearment that you used with all pediatric patients.

He nodded. “Yeah, just a little.” He underplayed, his teeth involuntarily chattering.

You tilted your head to the outside of the room. “I’ll go get you a warm blanket.” You offered.

The rest of the team began to help the kid move to the hospital bed, and you began your journey to the linens closet. You turned the corner to the secluded room in the corner, a bit inconvenient when every room had to have new sheets after every patient.

The scanner beeped at the proximity of your badge when you pulled it from its reel, and the lock illuminated green to grant you access. You opened the door and stepped in, making a beeline for the coarse, white blankets.

But you heard breathing. Loud breathing. Fast breathing. In the darkness, only illuminated by a distant fluorescent light, you spotted a body slumped in the corner of the room. When you stepped forward, the squeak of your Hokas on the wet floor alerted him. His head snapped up.

You saw a ghost. Pale, clammy skin. Eyes blown wide. Breathing anything but normal. But you recognized the reflection of the silver hair in the light.

“Doctor Abbot?” You called his name, unsure if the apparition was truly your stoic attending.

His breathing was staggered but quick. Too quick. “I think I was hit.” He grunted.

You noticed his hands putting pressure on his abdomen. You ran to his side and placed your hands over his, still beaded with raindrops. “Let me see.” You ordered. “From the rig?”

His hands only pressed down harder, refusing to let you move them away from his injury. “No, no. It needs pressure.”

“Doctor Abbot, please move your hands so I can help you.” You demanded, your tone hardening.

He shook his head, grunting through pain, sweat and rain dripping from his forehead. You grabbed his wrists, trying to pry them, but your strength was nothing compared to his. “I can’t. I can’t.” He mumbled over and over.

You finally grabbed his face, squeezing firmly on either stubbled cheek. “Jack. Look at me. I need you to listen to me. I’m going to help you.” You said. “But you have to let me.”

Jack’s bronze eyes focused on yours, looking for any signs of danger, any signs of an enemy. Finally, he reached up with one hand to your wrist and pulled it down to where his other clutched his abdomen. You peeled the damp black shirt up, revealing rippled muscles and stainless steel dog tags hanging around his neck. In another situation, you would have spent an eternity trying to memorize each toned crease of his upper body.

He hissed at the air exposure, throat flexing his Adam’s apple to hold in yelps of pain. But the further you went up, the more you realized what was going on. He had been putting pressure on a deep, ragged scar. One that was no longer pink but beginning to blend into its surroundings, stretched like a lightning bolt across his skin, twisting and turning, mirroring the ones in the night sky. The pads of your fingers brushed against the slightly raised marks, and Jack let out a strangled cry of pain.

“Jack.” You breathed.

But he wouldn’t look at you. His chest heaved, and you knew he was going to get dizzy from hyperventilating. He clutched the dog tags around his neck.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Jackson Abbot. I was with the-“ he cut himself off at another wave of pain. “O Neg. I’m…I’m O Neg.”

“Jack. Baby, look at me.” You tried the term of endearment like you did with pediatric patients, just like you did with the patient back in Central Two.

No change. The sounds leaving his lips were desperate and frightened. Finally, you grabbed his face again, forcing him to look in your eyes. You could see that he was far, far away. Not in this place. Not in this time. A psychosis episode.

“I saw…I saw Simmons. He got hit in the neck, and…” He trembled, voice cracking like a teenage boy’s.

“No, Jack. No. You’re here with me. We are in Pittsburgh. We’re at work.” But your words fell on his deaf ears.

You felt powerless in that moment as well. You were an emergency room resident for fuck’s sake, but you had never seen a PTSD-induced psychosis episode, not like this. Standard protocol would’ve been an injection of haloperidol to reduce hallucinations and alleviate his agitation. To sedate him. But that would draw administrative attention to Jack, and something deep in your chest told you to keep this as private as possible.

Without wasting another second, you took in a deep breath to your chest, expanded your soft palette, and began to sing.

Just close your eyes

The sun is doing down

You brushed your thumb up and down his grizzled cheek in the same tempo as your words. Jack didn’t react to the touch, but his eyes fixated on your mouth as your lips moved.

You’ll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Your other hand came to rest on his bare chest, over his heart, icy hands sending a shiver across his warm skin.

Come morning light

You and I’ll be safe

And

Sound

Your soft mezzo voice drifted away in the silence of the room. Jack’s breaths had more depth now, more consistency. His glassy eyes reminded you of a recently passed patient, devoid of life and emotion. But he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.

Just when you thought he might be coming back to your reality, he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants. With tears in his eyes, a new addition to his wrecked appearance, he handed you a concealed pocket knife. “I need to to stab me in the foot.” He whispered in between pained grunts.

You shook your head, pushing his hand away. “Jack, I told you. Listen to me. You are in Pittsburgh, and-“

“I know where I fucking am!” He cut you off through clenched teeth, threatening to crack at the sheer force. “I have a prosthetic right foot, and I need you to stab it like it’s a fucking snake. I need to see you do it.”

The desperation in his voice was unsettling as he shoved his pocket knife back to your grasp. You hesitated for a moment, but his next cry of pain spurred you into action. You took the knife from his hand, brushing your fingers against his rough knuckles, and switched the blade out of its safety position.

“Right foot.” You said aloud as your oriented yourself to make sure you didn’t slice the wrong foot.

You reached for the hem of his right pant leg to expose his leg, but Jack jerked back. “No!” He snapped. “It doesn’t work if you do that. Just stab my foot.”

What a fucking crazy situation. His chest heaved, dog tags glistening in the dim fluorescent light. The look in his eyes would haunt your dreams forever. The pain, the desperation, the helplessness.

Finally, you drew your arm up and came down with a searing force, the blade slicing through his shoe and coming to an abrupt halt as it met the titanium inside.

Jack let out a groan that you could only describe as orgasmic, the tension in his body dissipating. Your hand trembled as it let go of the pocket knife, stuck in his foot like an axe in a tree. Just like he said, it was a prosthetic. No blood, no additional yelps of pain.

Tears fell down your cheeks, and you took in a deep breath that you had been depriving yourself of. Then another. And another. And before you knew it, you were crying in full force.

Jack stared at you through heavily hooded eyes for a few moments, but then he reached out a shaking hand. “Come here.” He breathed. “Please.”

Wordlessly, you accepted his offer. He wrapped his arm tightly around you, concealing you against his warm body. For the first time since you entered the room, you realized how cold you were from your soaked scrubs and cold hospital air. One of your arms wrapped around his back, and the other rested on his shoulder. The hot tears from your face began to roll his chest, a sensation that helped ground him further.

When your own cries began to wane, Jack grasped your hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you do that.” He whispered, pulling your knuckles to his lips.

Your eyes remained fixed on his foot, pocket knife sticking out. A sight you had seen in many other patients before for one reason or another. But not like this. Usually in a real foot.

You had heard about stories like this before. Amputees needing mirror therapy or acupuncture to get rid of phantom pain. Once before, an old attending of yours from med school told a story about a veteran who needed his prosthesis stabbed to confirm that it wasn’t real, that he couldn’t feel the pain.

Jack shifted, reaching for his right pant leg, and pulled up. You moved out of his embrace, away from him. He froze, eyes fixed on you like a hawk.

“Please.” He whispered, with a desperation that differed from his tone earlier. “Don’t leave.”

Your eyes met his, and it was a new vulnerability that you had never seen before. Like he was scared. Not psychosis-induced.

“I’m not going to leave you alone.” You promised, and moved back to the opposite end of him, settling on your knees at his feet. “Can I help you?” Your fingers brushed at the hem of his cargo pants.

Jack let out an exhale of relief and slumped against the wall again, tension leaving his shoulders. His silence was confirmation. Slowly, you rolled the wet fabric up, up, up. Until metal ended and his skin began, around his knee. There was an obvious strap that kept the prosthesis in place, and you tugged it loose. Carefully, you removed the artificial limb, and he let out a slow exhale as the pressure changed.

You realized that most of the prosthesis was a socket for his shin, that his amputation was below the midline of his tibia. He absentmindedly reached for the prosthesis, and you handed it to him so he could set it aside. Your hands hovered over the newly exposed skin.

“Does it hurt?” You asked.

Jack sighed. “Just aching. It always aches.” He mumbled.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Can I…?”

A question you couldn’t finish. You didn’t know how. It felt weird to ask. Bordering inappropriate or offensive. But still he nodded, knowing the end to your intimate request.

Your fingers slid against his skin, pushing deeper and deeper. Massaging the truncated muscles. Kneading against the scar line from the closure. The tiniest sounds of relief fell from his lips, and if you had listened closely enough, not as focused on helping him feel better, you would have heard your name involuntarily falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Am I hurting you?” You asked, unable to decipher his sounds of pain from pleasure.

Jack shook his head, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, it feels…”

He wanted to say ‘good.’ But the truth was that it didn’t. It still hurt. Still ached. But not as intensely. You were numbing him. Distracting him. Pushing the pain into different areas to give the hotspots a break.

“I was discharged six years ago…” He breathed.

You shook your head. “No. You don’t have to explain.”

“We were away from camp. Routine checks in the field. Then, an IED…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what had happened at first. I didn’t have a seatbelt, so I was thrown from the Jeep. Simmons was, too. The rest of them…they burned.”

You had halted your soothing hand motions unconsciously, listening to every word, every breath like your life depended on it.

“Simmons had shrapnel to the neck. Carotid was lacerated.” His voice began to shake again. “I was the only survivor.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Jack didn’t look at you, just stared up at the ceiling, trying to forget the memories he recited to you. His hand traced over the wretched scar that slithered across his abdomen, his fingertips brushing against the uneven skin.

“I heard an explosion tonight, and…I was there again. In the sand. Bleeding out.”

The confirmation to your diagnosis. PTSD-induced psychosis. In that moment, you were grateful you hadn’t gone to get help. You weren’t equipped to handle the situation yourself, but…

“And you brought me back.” His voice cut through your thoughts. “With that siren call.”

Jack had that half smile on his face, the one you had seen only a handful of times when he thought you weren’t looking after he’d whispered praise for a risky procedure. Your heart skipped a beat, but you matched his smile sincerely.

“Music makes new paths in the brain. I thought I could reach you that way.” You explained.

His lips pulled up until his smile was complete this time. “Like a fucking angel.” He mused. “Grabbing my deformed ass from hell.”

The compliment seeped into your chest, and you knew he could see your blush in the low light. In a surge of bravery, you leaned down until your lips brushed again his knee, searing a kiss against the skin. Then another, a little lower on his shin. Another below that. And one more on the ridged scar.

His breath shuddered at the foreign contact, and you felt him shift under your touch. Your name passed his lips, louder this time, in the same cadence of his prayer from earlier. Your doe eyes locked on his as you pressed a final kiss on his scar.

“You are not deformed.” You scolded, rubbing a hand up his shin. “You’re perfect.”

—

A/N: Thank you for reading!! This will probably end up being a two-part fic with the second part being more focused on the reader reminding Jack how beautiful his body still is, if you know what I mean 🤭😮‍💨

[inseobts]

Kidd, luffy and law x reader (love triangle) please 😽😻

Run wild and free

luffy x reader + law x reader + kid x reader

a/n: bestie that’s not a love triangle, that’s a love quadrangle lmao. jokes apart, I ended up making it a bit too platonic and about you joining their crew, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.

reader’s powers: inspired by solo leveling

tags: gn!reader, post-wano, strong!reader, slow burn, tension

words count: 3.5k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The war for Wano is over.

Kaido has fallen. Orochi is dead. The Beasts Pirates have been crushed.

And yet, despite the celebrations, the laughter, and the cries of victory in the Flower Capital, you stand apart alone, as you’re used to.

The battlefield still writhes with shadows. Black, eerie figures kneel at your feet, remnants of those you’ve slain, now bound to your will.

Your power grants you dominion over the dead. Every opponent you cut down becomes yours, their shadows shackled to you in eternal servitude.

Some call you a monster. Others call you a deity of war. Either way, they fear you.

And that’s why the three most dangerous men alive are now fighting over you.

“Oi! There you are!”

Luffy’s voice rings across the ruined battlefield, his footsteps loud as he runs up to you. His grin is as bright as ever, completely unaffected by the haunting army of shadows still lurking behind you.

“That was so cool!” he says, eyes practically sparkling “You should totally join my crew!”

You blink “What?”

“You’re strong! And awesome! And you’d love the Sunny!” Luffy laughs “I bet you and Zoro would get along!”

You tilt your head. He’s serious.

Before you can answer...

“Tch. Move it, Straw Hat.”

Boots stomp onto the cracked ground. Kid.

His crimson eyes burn with something like admiration but it’s buried beneath his usual arrogance.

“You’re not actually considering that dumbass, are you?” He folds his arms, metal arm gleaming under the moonlight “You belong with a real crew… mine.”

You smirk “You mean a ship full of lunatics?”

Kid’s grin widens “Exactly, you’re obviously one of us.”

Before you can respond—

“You two never shut up.”

The voice is calm, sharp. Surgical.

Law steps forward, hands in his coat pockets, golden eyes locked onto you. Unlike the others, he doesn’t demand or taunt.

He simply says “You’re not looking for chaos. You’re not looking for a crew of idiots fighting over scraps. You’re looking for something bigger.” His gaze sharpens “Join me, and I’ll give you exactly that.”

The air tightens. The unspoken challenge crackles like thunder.

Luffy’s grin never fades “I’m not losing to either of you.”

Kid scoffs “Like hell you aren’t.”

Law just smirks “We’ll see.”

You exhale. They’re serious.

Three captains. Three paths.

You sigh, crossing your arms as you watch Luffy, Kid, and Law glare at each other, their presence crackling like lightning in the air.

“You guys do realize,” you deadpan, “that I never said I was joining any of you? You all know I’m a lonely pirate and somehow I already have my crew…”

Luffy ignores you “They’re all shadows… Join my crew, Y/N!” he says, grinning ear to ear “We’re all super strong! And we have a cook who makes the best food ever!”

Kid scoffs “You think food is what’s gonna convince them, Straw Hat?” He turns to you, crimson eyes gleaming “You’re wasted with these idiots. With me, you’d have the strongest crew on the seas. No one could touch us. And admit it, your powers fit us.”

Law sighs, rubbing his temple like he’s already exhausted by both of them “You two are insufferable.” He looks at you, his golden eyes sharp and calculating “You don’t need chaos. You don’t need a circus act. You need something real. Join me, and I’ll give you exactly that.”

You blink at them. They’re serious.

You already knew that Luffy was stubborn as hell, Kid was relentless, and Law was dangerous in the quietest ways, but you didn’t think they’d actually fight over you.

Your silence seems to fuel the fire.

“What can you even offer them, Trafalgar?” Kid sneers, cracking his knuckles “A crew full of weaklings?”

“I have a submarine” Law says coolly.

Luffy pauses “…That’s actually kind of cool. But the Sunny is way cooler! And we have the best musician ever! Do you guys even have music on your ships?”

You exhale through your nose “You guys do realize you’re treating me like a damn prize, right?”

Luffy blinks “Huh?”

Law sighs “That’s not what this is.”

Kid smirks “I mean, it kinda is.”

The ground shakes as your shadows shift, the weight of your power pressing down on the air “You’re acting like I’m just gonna follow one of you like a lost puppy.”

Kid grins “Wouldn’t say no to that.”

Before you can reply, a new voice cuts in.

“Oi! What the hell is going on here? We thought you were killing each other.”

You glance over to see Zoro, Killer, and Bepo approaching, the rest of their respective crews trailing behind them. Nami, Sanji, and Usopp are already watching from a distance, curiosity burning in their eyes. Heat and Wire stand near Killer, arms crossed. Shachi and Penguin exchange glances, whispering to each other.

It’s clear that the entire alliance has noticed the brewing tension.

“What is this, some kind of territory dispute?” Zoro grumbles, adjusting his swords.

“Oh, it’s worse,” Sanji says, lighting a cigarette “They’re fighting over y/n.”

Zoro pauses “Wait, seriously?”

“Seems like” Nami confirms.

Bepo looks at Law, confused “Captain, what’s happening?”

“Nothing” Law says flatly.

Killer sighs “Eustass-ya, this is ridiculous.”

Kid waves him off “Shut up, Killer. I’m working.”

“Working?” You narrow your eyes.

Kid shrugs, smirking “I like collecting powerful things.”

Luffy snorts “Well, I like collecting friends!”

Law rubs his temples again, clearly regretting everything.

Sanji exhales a plume of smoke “Well, well. What an interesting little mess.” as he eyes you with a smirk.

Your shadows ripple violently.

“Absolutely not.”

The temperature seems to drop as your aura expands. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.

The crews tense. They’ve seen you fight. They’ve seen the horrors your power can unleash.

Kid whistles, impressed “Damn. I like that.”

Luffy grins, unfazed “Your powers are so cool!”

Law watches you closely. Too closely. His golden eyes see more than you want him to.

You exhale “I don’t take orders from anyone. Not you. Not the World Government. Not anyone.”

Kid smirks “Then what do you want?”

You hesitate.

Because the truth is that you don’t know.

Luffy steps closer, eyes bright with something honest “You wanna see the world with us?”

Kid leans in, voice dropping into something dangerous “Or do you wanna rule it?”

Law, ever the strategist, doesn’t ask. He just looks at you and says “You’re searching for something. I can help you find it.”

The weight of their offers settles over you like a storm.

And for the first time in a long time you feel something real.

Luffy’s grin softens “You’d be awesome on the Sunny!”

Kid scoffs “Or you could actually be on a ship worthy of your strength.”

Law sighs, tilting his head slightly “You’re both exhausting.” But his eyes flick back to you, and for a second you see something intense.

They’re not letting this go.

“Yeesh, are they flirting or fighting?” Nami mutters.

Usopp stares “I… honestly can’t tell.”

Killer just sighs “Both.”

Heat nudges Wire “Should we start taking bets?”

Sanji exhales, watching you closely “Lucky bastards.”

You ignore them all, looking at the three captains in front of you. You’re not stupid, you know this isn’t just about power anymore.

It’s about you.

Kid steps closer, voice dropping just for you “You’re different.” His crimson eyes glint with something hungry “You’re not scared of me. You’re not scared of anything, are you?”

You smirk “Should I be?”

His grin stretches wider “I’d like to see you try.”

Luffy, still smiling, grabs your wrist. His fingers are warm, rough from battle and adventure, but there’s nothing forceful in the way he holds you. It’s just excited, unfiltered emotion.

“You’d have so much fun with us, y/n!” He leans in, voice almost giddy “I wanna show you the whole world!”

Your heart skips. Just a little.

Then a hand grabs Luffy’s wrist, yanking it off of you.

Law.

His touch is cool, precise, almost possessive. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Luffy, then at you. There’s something undeniably sharp in his gaze now.

Something dangerous.

“Don’t touch them so casually” he says. His voice is low.

Luffy just tilts his head “Huh? Why not?”

Law doesn’t answer.

Kid watches, then laughs “Holy shit. You’re jealous.”

Law ignores him, eyes still locked on you “This isn’t a game.” His voice is quieter now “Not for me.”

And for once, you don’t know what to say.

The air feels heavier now, not from battle, but from something far more dangerous.

This isn’t just about alliances anymore.

This is a chase.

The weight of their gazes presses in. Too much.

You exhale slowly, rolling your shoulders back. The shadows one by one sink into the ground, vanishing like ink in water, back to where they belong.

The battlefield is quiet.

Kid watches with sharp interest “Tch. Even your Devil Fruit is showy.”

Luffy tilts his head, blinking “Huh? Where’d they go?”

Law doesn’t speak, just watches you with that calculating gaze, as if he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

But you don’t give them the chance.

You turn on your heel and walk away.

Not a word.

Not an explanation.

Just silence.

The festival in the Flower Capital is alive with laughter, music, and sake. People are celebrating, embracing their long-awaited freedom.

The people of Wano don’t know you like they know the others. You’re not a Straw Hat, not a Heart Pirate, not part of Kid’s crew. You’re just a shadow passing through their victory.

It should be freeing.

It isn’t.

You settle against a wooden post near a quieter part of the town, eyes drifting up to the lanterns lighting up the sky. The night is warm, the air thick with the scent of grilled food and spilled alcohol. Somewhere in the distance, you can hear Brook playing music, the faint sound of Luffy laughing, the chaotic voices of pirates and samurai alike.

And yet, you’re alone.

Just how you like it.

…Right?

“You’re hard to find.”

The voice is low, familiar.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Trafalgar Law.

He steps beside you, hands tucked in his coat pockets, golden eyes flicking toward yours. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you. Something unspoken.

You don’t acknowledge him right away. Just sip from the drink you swiped earlier.

“You followed me?”

Law doesn’t deny it “You left without saying anything.”

“You guys were annoying me.”

He exhales through his nose, amused “I figured.”

Silence stretches between you, comfortable but heavy. The festival noise hums in the background, but this moment feels separate from all of it.

After a beat, Law speaks again.

“You’re not staying, are you?”

“Would that disappoint you?”

Law’s gaze sharpens, but not with irritation, but something deeper.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” he murmurs “And I don’t chase things I can’t keep.”

Your heartbeat stumbles.

A challenge. A warning. A confession. Maybe all three.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t know what to say, and Law notices.

Your grip tightens around your cup, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral “That so?”

Law doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, too closely, as if he’s already mapping out every possible move you could make. Then he tilts his head slightly.

“You don’t run from battles.” His voice is smooth, steady “But you walked away from us.”

You scoff “Don’t tell me you took that personally.”

He exhales through his nose “I don’t take things personally. I just like to understand what I’m dealing with.” His golden eyes flick to yours, sharp, unreadable “And you? You’re an enigma.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips “Flattery, Trafalgar?”

“Observation.”

The weight of his gaze lingers. Heavy. And something about it, about him, unsettles you in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. Because he’s right.

You don’t walk away from fights. You don’t back down from challenges. But something about them, about this whole mess, made you leave.

Before you can respond, a loud, familiar voice cuts through the air.

“There you are!”

Footsteps. Heavy boots against wood.

Kid.

He stomps over, crimson eyes flicking between you and Law, his lip curling “The hell is this?”

You raise a brow “A conversation?”

Kid huffs, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off some irritation “Didn’t think you were the type to have quiet conversations.”

Law clicks his tongue “And I didn’t think you were the type to go looking for someone who left without a word.”

Kid’s eyes darken “Tch. You think I give a damn if they left? I just don’t like loose ends.”

But the way his gaze lingers on you says otherwise.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid “Why are you two even here?”

Kid folds his arms “Maybe I don’t like being ignored.”

Law hums “Needy.”

“Shut the hell up, Trafalgar.”

You sigh “You’re both ridiculous.”

Kid leans against the post next to you, his smirk sharp “Maybe. But you didn’t answer the question.”

You glance at him “What question?”

He tilts his head, watching you like a predator watching its prey “Are you staying?”

The air between you tightens.

You could lie and tell them exactly what they want to hear, but you don’t answer at all. And this silence is what gets them.

Kid’s smirk twitches, like he doesn’t like not knowing. Law’s fingers flex at his sides, like he wants to dissect every inch of your thoughts.

And just when you think you might finally get some peace a familiar laugh echoes.

Luffy.

He lands in front of you, grinning like he hasn’t just dropped into the middle of something tense.

“Oi, y/n!” His grin stretches wide, his eyes shining “I’ve been looking for you!”

Of course he has. Of course they all have.

Luffy's wide eyes flick between you, Law, and Kid and he doesn’t miss a thing.

“Eh? You guys are here too?”

Kid rolls his eyes “No shit.”

Law sighs, rubbing his temple “Straw Hat-ya, this really isn’t—”

But Luffy’s already stepping into your space. Closer than the others. Closer than anyone should be.

His warm fingers brush against your wrist, tugging lightly but not pulling, not forcing.

“You left before the party started,” he says, pouting “I wanted to drink with you.”

His voice isn’t demanding. It’s something worse... soft.

Unfiltered. Real.

Your pulse skips just for a second. And from the way Law tenses and Kid narrows his eyes, you know they notice.

You don’t pull away, but you don’t answer either.

Luffy tilts his head “Are you mad?”

You blink “Why would I be mad?”

He shrugs “Dunno. Maybe ‘cause we wouldn’t stop arguing in front of you.”

Kid scoffs “You mean because you wouldn’t shut up?”

Luffy grins “Well, yeah.”

Law exhales, voice flat “Straw Hat-ya, you’re not helping.”

But Luffy doesn’t care. He never does. He just looks at you, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist.

“You didn’t answer Kid’s question” he says.

You freeze. Of course he noticed.

Kid shifts beside you, arms crossed, eyes burning “Yeah, y/n. You staying or not?”

Law watches you, calculating, unreadable.

The festival noise fades. It’s just them. Just this. And you still don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because they all want different things.

Kid wants power. A challenge. Someone who doesn’t bend to him but still stands beside him. And you can give him that.

Law wants strategy. Precision. Someone he can trust, someone who understands things without needing to say them. And, angain, you can give him that.

Luffy just...

Luffy just wants you as you.

Not for your strength. Not for your Devil Fruit.

Just because you’re you.

And that’s the scariest thing of them all to you.

So instead of answering, you finally pull your hand back.

“I’m going to get a drink” you say simply.

Then you walk away, again. And this time none of them stop you.

Your boots move over the worn wooden planks of the street, but your mind lingers on the moment you pulled away. On the way they looked at you. You grip the sake bottle you swiped from a distracted vendor, your fingers pressing just a little too tightly around it. You shouldn’t care and yet... Footsteps. You don’t turn. You don’t have to. “I thought I told you I was getting a drink” you murmur. A low chuckle. Rough, amused. “Didn’t say I wasn’t getting one too.” Kid. Of course. You glance over your shoulder. He’s close.

Crimson eyes gleaming, coat still torn from battle, his usual sneer replaced with something slower, something that lingers. He’s looking at you like you’re his favorite fight.

You sigh, raising the bottle to your lips “What, afraid I’ll disappear?”

Kid’s smirk sharpens “I don’t get afraid.”

You swallow, letting the warmth of the sake burn down your throat “Could’ve fooled me.”

His grin widens “Tch. You wish.”

You should tell him to leave but you don’t. Because despite the way Kid is all sharp edges, all arrogance, all chaos, he’s also the one who followed. The one who didn’t let you slip into the night alone.

“Where the hell do you think you’re running off to, anyway?” he asks.

You tilt your head, watching him “Who says I’m running?”

Kid scoffs “Please. You didn’t just walk away. You walked the hell out.”

You hum, taking another slow sip “And yet, here you are.”

His smirk doesn’t fade “Damn right.”

“You’re different from them” he mutters.

You raise a brow “Them?”

His eyes flick back to where Law and Luffy were.

“They don’t get you like I do.” His voice drops just slightly, lower, rougher “You don’t play nice. You don’t follow. And you sure as hell don’t belong on a crew that treats life like a damn adventure story.”

You exhale, tapping the bottle against your thigh “That why you’re here?”

Kid takes another step closer, his voice a challenge and a promise all at once.

“I’m here ‘cause you don’t belong to anyone, y/n...”

His grin turns sharp.

“...but you could stand beside me. And you know that.”

A challenge. A temptation. And a mistake.

Because before you can answer, another voice cuts in.

“You don’t decide that for them.”

Kid turns, scowling, just as Law steps into the light.

You exhale through your nose “Figures you’d show up next. You all won't give up until I make a choice, will you?”

Law doesn’t deny it “Because you keep walking away” His voice is level “But you didn’t leave.”

Kid scoffs “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

But Law ignores him. He steps closer, close enough that the air between you shifts. His voice is quieter now, meant only for you.

“If you were really leaving, you would’ve been gone by now.”

You grip the bottle tighter “And what if I just wanted a damn drink in peace?”

“Then you wouldn’t have let him follow.”

Your pulse stumbles. Kid’s jaw clenches, but before he can snap back, a familiar warmth crashes into you.

Luffy.

Arms wrapping around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his laugh bright, unbothered by the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.

“There you are!” He pulls back just enough to grin up at you “I knew you weren’t really leaving yet!”

You blink “What makes you so sure?”

Luffy tilts his head, confused by the question itself “Because you didn’t say goodbye.”

The simplicity of it hits harder than it should, because he’s right. You didn’t.

Law’s eyes darken, but he doesn’t look away from you “You’re still deciding.”

Kid’s jaw ticks “Tch. Just say it already.”

Luffy just waits, still smiling. Because he already knows.

And suddenly, you realize that so do you.

You inhale. Exhale. And then you turn.

Not to Kid.

Not to Law.

But to Luffy.

His eyes widen slightly, his fingers twitching against your sleeve “Eh?”

Your lips curl into a smirk “Took you long enough to find me, though”

Then he jumps with joy, hugs you tightly and kiss you on the cheek, which shocks you.

Luffy’s arms still wrapping tight around you like he never wants to let go.

Kid curses loudly, wheeling around to storm off, shoving a stunned passerby out of his way “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Law sighs heavily, running a hand down his face “Honestly.” But there’s no real bitterness in his voice, just understanding. Because they both saw it before you did.

You were never meant to follow. Never meant to stand beside them.

You were meant to run wild and free, with the only captain who never wanted to tame you in the first place.

Luffy pulls back, beaming, his hands still tight around you “So that means you’re coming with me, right?”

“As if you’d let me go.”

He grins.

“Never.”

[becertainlust]

SLOW MOTION | Sanji Vinsmoke

synopsis: pussy drunk.

content: smut

He swore he’d stop after the third round.

You were trembling, flushed, soaked with sweat and stickiness as he held your legs up like you were fragile porcelain—but his cock was already hard again. Hard again just from watching it.

Your pussy, swollen and dripping with his cum, fluttering around nothing, practically begging for him to fill you again.

Sanji was on his knees between your legs, thick golden hair clinging to his forehead, his lips parted as he watched his release ooze out of you. That creamy white drip sliding down the seam of your folds made his cock twitch violently—he groaned like it physically hurt to not be inside you.

"Sanji—” your voice broke around the syllables, drunk on pleasure and face ruined with tears, “you said… y-you said one more…”

“I know,” he whispered—like he hated how much he was about to break that promise. “I know, I did, but—look at you, sweetheart. Look what you’re doing to me.”

You followed his gaze.

His pretty cock was already standing tall again, flushed in such a lewd pink, twitching against his stomach just from seeing how messy you were—how well you’d taken him.

A whimper slipped from your lips, your body tensing involuntarily as another wave of heat rolled over you. You tried to close your thighs, but Sanji groaned, pressing kisses to them whilst pawing them apart, legs wide open with shaking hands.

"You're driving me insane," he groaned, leaning down to press his forehead to your belly as he slowly stroked himself, hand messy and desperate. "You’re addictive. Every part of you—your sounds, your pussy, the way you squeeze me when you're about to cum—fuck, it's too much."

And then—without warning—he pushed back in. Deep. All the way.

Your body arched like it had been struck by lightning.

Your head fell back against the pillows, mouth falling open in a breathless moan that never quite made it to sound. Just a sharp inhale. A jolt. Your eyes fluttered, glassy and dazed, jaw slack as the stretch and fullness bloomed inside you.

Your hands fumbled to find him—grabbing blindly at his shoulders, then his face—pulling him down into a kiss that was less lips and more instinct. Mouths dragging, hot and wet, as you pawed at his cheeks like you needed to feel something real. You kissed him like you were drowning, drunk off the depth of him, the heat, the pressure.

Your legs wrapped around him without thought. Your heels dug in. He groaned, muffled against your lips, hips stuttering from how tight you clenched when he kissed you back.

“F-fuck,” he whimpered, barely pulling back an inch. “You feel—so good, baby—so warm, so full—don’t stop holding me like that.”

You moaned this time—audibly—soft and strained, like the only thing you could give him now was a cry.

And he devoured it.

“God—yes, just like that,” he whispered against your lips, trembling. “You look so beautiful”

He started thrusting again—slow and deep—watching your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open each time he bottomed out. His hand found your cheek, cradling it like you were precious even as he fucked you with a filthy hunger.

"Squeezing me so good—" he plops his head into the groove of your neck.

And every time your cunt fluttered around him, every little cry that escaped, it made him twitch and curse and moan like he was the one being undone.

He started to move again.

Not with the slow, teasing rhythm from before. It was deeper now. Steady. More honest. Like he wasn’t performing for your pleasure anymore—just feeling it. Feeling you.

His breath was hot against your skin as he sank his weight into the bed, his hips rolling into yours with quiet groans punched out of his chest. You gasped softly every time he bottomed out, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

“You feel too fucking good,” he mumbled, forehead pressed to your jaw. “I should stop. I meant to stop.”

But his body said otherwise. His cock throbbed inside you, every twitch making your walls flutter involuntarily. You could feel your own slick mixed with his cum dripping down your thighs. It was messy—so messy—and that just seemed to make him harder.

“Sanji, please” you whispered, a breathless edge to your voice. You didn’t even know what you were asking for. Maybe to slow down. Maybe to keep going. both.

He kissed your cheek, then your neck, then lower—trailing his lips wherever your skin was warm and trembling. “I know, baby. I know. But look at you. How can I stop when you’re this perfect? You’re still dripping for me.”

You turned your head, eyes locking on the way his hips moved—how deep he was, how wet the slide sounded. You should’ve been wrecked by now. Maybe you were. But you still needed more. Just like him.

Your legs hooked around his waist again, and he groaned at the feeling.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, pushing deeper. “I’m not even sure I’m alive anymore. Just… floating in you.”

You choked out a soft laugh against his mouth, breath hitching when he hit that sweet spot again. “Then don’t stop.”

He stilled for a second. Just looked at you.

Eyes a little wide. A little awestruck. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Don’t stop, Sanji. Please.”

And that was it.

He buried his face in your neck with a low moan, like he couldn’t handle it. His thrusts picked up—deeper, a little faster. Still gentle, still careful, but full of raw want.

Every time he pulled back, your body tried to follow. You were soaked and aching and clinging to him like your life depended on it. He kissed you hard—lips sloppy, breathless, like he needed to taste the sounds you made just as much as he needed to feel your body wrapped around him.

“I’m gonna cum again,” he warned, almost helplessly. “I—fuck—I’m gonna fill you again, baby, I can’t hold it—”

You clenched around him and he whimpered. That soft, broken sound made your whole body light up.

“Do it,” you whispered, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer. “I want it, Sanji—cum inside, please—”

His hips stuttered hard, then slowed—deep, grinding thrusts that made your toes curl. And then you felt it again—his warmth flooding you, his body shuddering above yours, breath catching as he moaned your name into your skin.

You didn’t even realize you were crying again until he looked at you—sweaty, dazed, completely wrecked—and cupped your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing the wetness from your lashes. “Too much?”

You shook your head, lips parted. “No. Just… a lot. I feel full.”

He kissed you softly—no rush, no heat. Just gentle lips, soft and sweet and grateful. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “We’re okay. I’ll take care of you.”

You stayed like that for a while—your legs still around him, his cock still buried deep, the room warm with the heat of sex and sweat and something neither of you could quite name.

Then, quietly:

“You’re staying in bed all day tomorrow,” he said, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I’m not letting you walk after this.”

You laughed, weak and flushed. “Bold of you to assume I can walk.”

He smiled against your skin. Smug. Soft. A little in love.

“Good.”

[whosashan]

Hello! I had a super fluffy idea for LADS. Mc who always tries to laugh politely until one day one thing or the other happens and they just. Cackle. A full body wheezing laugh, snorts, the works. The boys just being absolutely smitten with this new side of Mc and I just— AGH.

Anyways, I hope you have a nice day!

Oops..!

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader (reader is implied to be the MC in Caleb's part)

SYNOPSIS: Caught in the tide of the moment, you let your true laugh escape—unfiltered, unguarded—for the first time in their presence.

A/N: That was such a cute request, thank you! Hope you enjoy :]

The dim glow of your phone screen flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows across the room. Outside, the rain pattered steadily against the window, the rhythmic sound blending with the low hum of the heater. It was one of those nights—quiet, intimate, where the world outside felt distant, leaving only the two of you in your little cocoon of warmth.

You sat nestled against your lover on the couch, his arms draped lazily over your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. The scent of him—familiar, grounding—filled your senses, an anchor you didn’t quite realize you needed. His slow, steady breaths brushed against your hair, lulling you further into comfort.

You had been together for a few months now. Long enough to settle into a routine, to share soft touches and quiet nights, but there was still a part of you that held back. A quiet restraint. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—God, you did—but you still wanted to maintain that polished image, the one that made you feel… presentable. Safe.

So, even now, as you scrolled through your phone, watching video after video designed to squeeze laughter from you, you kept your reactions measured. A gentle giggle here, a muffled chuckle there, a hand pressed delicately over your mouth. Meanwhile, your lover, equally engrossed, would occasionally let out a low chuckle or murmur some offhand comment about whatever played on the screen.

Then it happened.

Something he said—so completely unexpected, perfectly timed, effortlessly hilarious—struck you like a bolt of lightning.

The laughter ripped out of you before you could stop it.

Not the soft, practiced giggles you had so carefully maintained, but a full-bodied, unrestrained, reckless sound. Your head tilted back, body shaking as you gasped for air between uncontrollable wheezes. A slap to your thigh, followed by another, and then—oh, God—a snort. A loud, undignified one.

Mortification slammed into you.

Xavier

When Xavier heard it—really heard it—he swore he could feel his heart melting.

How could you have hidden this from him? That sound—so unfiltered, so raw—hit him like a warm wave, wrapping around him and pulling him under before he even had a chance to react. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was you, in your purest form, and it made his chest ache in the best way possible.

Sure, he always thought you were silly, but never in a way he’d tease you for. No—this was different. It was the kind of silly he wanted to keep forever, the kind that made him think, I want to hear this sound for the rest of my life.

His own laughter bubbled up before he could stop it, carried away by the sheer joy of you. It was contagious, impossible to resist. But when he saw your mortified expression—the way your eyes widened, hands flying up to cover your mouth—he sobered just enough to reassure you. A warm smile curved his lips as he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently against your heated skin.

"Never hide your true self from me again, okay?" His voice was softer than usual, but there was something new in it—a tenderness that settled deep in his tone, something reverent, as if he were committing this moment to memory.

You looked away, embarrassed, your face flushed all the way to the tips of your ears. His words, so effortless yet so intentional, made your heart stutter. And the fact that he was acting so casual about it only made it worse.

"...It’s embarrassing," you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Xavier let out a quiet huff of amusement before tilting your chin back toward him. Then, without warning, he squeezed your cheeks between his hands, molding your face into a ridiculous shape. His expression, however, remained perfectly serious.

"Absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about," he stated, his grip tightening just slightly for emphasis.

Your words came out muffled against his hold. "Alright, alright—!" You swatted weakly at his hands, surrendering with a breathless chuckle.

And then, just as quickly as the moment had come, your laughter returned—softer this time, but no less genuine. Xavier let go, only to watch in satisfaction as that small, easy smile took its place.

You never had anything to be worried about, after all.

Zayne

Zayne hadn't expected it. Not the sound of your laughter—unrestrained, unfiltered, so unlike the polite chuckles you usually allowed yourself. And certainly not the way it affected him.

It was foolish, really, how something so simple could send an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest, how his carefully composed demeanor fractured in the wake of your joy. But there he was, caught in the moment, lips curling into a rare, unbidden smile.

His sharp, refined features softened, betraying something unspoken—something close to reverence. This wasn’t just amusement to him; it was trust, a glimpse of something so deeply you that it left him spellbound.

But then, just as quickly, you withdrew.

"I'm so sorry, I don’t know what came over me..." You rushed out, voice tinged with panic, fingers tightening around the fabric of your sleeve as if grounding yourself.

His expression darkened—not in anger, but something dangerously close to disappointment.

"Why would you apologize?"

Before you could shrink further into yourself, he reached for you, his touch deliberate as he smoothed a hand over your shoulder. His movements were slow, calculated, meant to ease the tension in your frame.

“Do not diminish something so precious,” he murmured, his voice velvet-soft yet laced with quiet intensity. “It just so happens that the sound of your laughter may be my new favorite thing about you. And rest assured, my dear, I intend to hear it again.”

The certainty in his words sent heat rushing to your cheeks, your earlier embarrassment now replaced with something far sweeter, far more dangerous.

You hesitated before speaking, your lips curving into something playful despite the lingering warmth in your chest.

"Well then, Dr. Zayne..." You drew out his name, reaching up to pinch his cheek in a teasing display of defiance. “I’ll make sure you get sick of it.”

His gaze darkened—not in displeasure, but in something richer, something indulgent.

He caught your wrist, turning it over in his grasp with a featherlight touch, then pressed a lingering kiss to your palm.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he whispered against your skin, before leaning in to place a final, impossibly tender kiss to your forehead.

Rafayel

“Oh my god—did you just snort?”

Rafayel’s voice rang out, rich with amusement, his deep chuckle reverberating through the dimly lit room. The golden glow of the floor lamp cast shadows along the sharp angles of his face, his blue-pink eyes glinting with something unreadable—something between adoration and mischief.

He wasn’t laughing at you. No, the thought never even crossed his mind. He was laughing because it was you, because this moment, so unguarded and raw, was unexpectedly perfect.

But you didn’t see it that way.

A mortified groan left your lips as you shrank into the plush couch cushions, turning your face away from him, heat rushing up your neck. “...So what?” you mumbled, voice muffled, fingers curling into your sleeves as if that would somehow make you disappear.

For once, Rafayel didn’t push. Didn’t lean into his usual brand of relentless teasing. No sly remarks, no playful taunts—just silence, thoughtful and heavy, as he observed you with an expression far softer than before.

And then, before you could protest, he pulled you into his arms.

His grip was firm, grounding, the warmth of his body seeping into yours as he buried his face into your hair. A slow inhale, as if he was memorizing your scent, as if this was something fragile, something precious.

“Aww, cutie, no need to be embarrassed,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You tensed, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he shifted, his fingers finding yours, tracing slow, absentminded circles along your knuckles. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its usual teasing lilt, replaced by something quieter, something real.

“I’ve never heard anything like that before,” he admitted, a rare sincerity lacing his tone. “It was unexpected, sure—but it was you. And that means it was perfect.”

Your chest tightened at his words, at the way his arms remained around you, unwavering, patient.

“You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend,” you muttered, voice small, but your resolve was already beginning to crack.

He hummed, tilting your chin up with a single finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. The playfulness was still there—of course, it was Rafayel—but beneath it lay something deeper, something unshakable.

“Well, that, but also…” He leaned in, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “I truly mean it. Laugh around me more, okay?”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest in feigned betrayal before dramatically pinching your nose between two fingers, making you yelp. “Don’t you dare hide such a treasure from me!”

You groaned, swatting at him, but the fight had already left you. Because even through the teasing, the mischief, the absurd dramatics—you knew.

You knew that to Rafayel, every part of you was something worth cherishing.

Sylus

Mortification coiled tight in your chest, making it impossible to meet Sylus’s gaze. You trusted him, of course—you knew he wouldn’t judge you—but that didn’t stop the nagging insecurity gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. Sylus was always so composed, so effortlessly refined, his words always carefully chosen, his every move exuding an unshakable grace. And here you were, sinking further into the plush couch, burning with embarrassment over something as ridiculous as a misplaced snort.

What must he think of you now?

A deep chuckle rumbled from beside you, rich and velvety, carrying an almost amused warmth. “I knew you had it in you, sweetie.”

The gentle teasing in his voice made you peek up at him, brows furrowed in uncertainty. His expression was unreadable at first—calm, as always, but softened at the edges by something far more tender. You searched his gaze, those sharp crimson eyes gleaming with a quiet affection that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

His fingers wove through your hair, slow and deliberate, the touch featherlight. “I understand you may feel slightly… embarrassed,” he mused, his voice a soothing hum against the quiet of the dimly lit room. His hand slid down, fingertips tracing your cheek before his thumb brushed over the heated skin. “But I assure you—I've never heard a sound so beautiful.”

You sucked in a breath, warmth blooming across your face. Of course, he would flirt his way out of this. Of course.

And yet… you didn’t mind.

The tension in your shoulders eased, replaced by something lighter, something almost intoxicating. You let out a quiet sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe I just snorted in front of the leader of Onychinus…” you muttered, rubbing your temple in exasperation. But despite your words, a smile had already begun to tug at your lips.

Sylus only chuckled, tilting his head ever so slightly before reaching up to pinch your cheek—not hard, just enough to make you look at him again. His smirk was entirely too pleased.

“The leader of Onychinus,” he repeated, voice dripping with amusement, “knows how to appreciate true beauty when he sees it.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a murmur. “And you, darling, are nothing short of a masterpiece.”

Flustered beyond reason, you let out a groan before landing a light punch against his arm, making him laugh.

Maybe Sylus wasn’t as intimidating as you thought. Or maybe—just maybe—he was far more dangerous in an entirely different way.

Caleb

Caleb was no stranger to your laughter—the wild, unrestrained kind that always came from deep within your chest, the one that had haunted your teenage years with its sheer unpredictability. He had heard it countless times before, back when things were simpler, when you were nothing more than an impulsive, wide-eyed girl who never cared how she sounded or looked.

But now? Now things were different.

You weren’t that reckless teenager anymore. You had grown, refined yourself, learned to move with grace and carry yourself with poise. You wanted Caleb to see you as a woman—not the clumsy girl he used to tease mercilessly, not some silly childhood memory.

And yet, all of that crumbled the moment the sound left you.

A full, shameless snort.

Mortification hit like a wave, heat flooding your face as you turned to him, your eyes narrowing in a silent dare, challenging him to say anything.

But Caleb—damn him—only laughed, a rich, familiar chuckle that sent warmth curling through your chest in a way you weren’t ready to admit. “There it is!” he said, grinning as he reached out to ruffle your hair, the same way he used to when you were kids.

You groaned, swatting his hand away. “You are insufferable.”

His hand lingered for a moment before falling away, his gaze softening as he looked at you—really looked at you. To him, that laugh wasn’t something to be hidden or tamed. It was a sound he had carried with him through years of change and distance, something that had always felt like home.

And now that he had heard it again, he wasn’t going to let it slip away so easily.

“That’s the last time you’re hearing it,” you mumbled, turning away, trying desperately to compose yourself. But you couldn’t will away the flush creeping up your neck, nor the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“No way, pipsqueak,” he murmured, moving in closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

You stiffened. His voice had dropped just slightly—low, teasing, but with an undeniable weight to it. A promise.

“Now that I’ve heard it again,” he continued, dangerously close now, “I won’t stop until it’s the only sound you make.”

You barely had a second to react before his hands were at your sides, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. Then—pure chaos.

A startled shriek left you as he tickled you mercilessly, his movements swift, relentless. You thrashed against him, laughter bubbling up from your chest, unrestrained and wild, that same shameless snort slipping through again.

But this time, you weren’t embarrassed.

Somewhere between the helpless gasps for breath and the way his laughter mixed with yours, something shifted.

You felt… at peace. Like maybe, just maybe, hiding yourself had never been worth it in the first place.

"You're so gonna regret this!" you gasped between fits of laughter, half a threat, half a plea.

Caleb only grinned, utterly triumphant. “Doubt it, sweetheart.”

[svtswhorehouse]

SVT : the daddy kink line — nsfw

disclaimer: minors do not interact, 18+ only

Seungcheol: pls tell us something we don’t know, isn’t this one obvious. this man radiates so much power and authority, his aura practically SCREAMS daddy. you would call it straight off the bat before you two even started dating that he had the kink. the way he presented himself let you know it, but curiosity kills the cat right ??? (the cat being your pussy.) he wouldn’t even have to tell you. the word would just casually slip out of your mouth in a whine mid-fuck and he would stop for a beat before thrusting into you at lightning speed. ever since then, it became a name you would use every time y’all had sex and even if you wanted to let it go and quit using it, you just wouldn’t be able to help yourself from calling him daddy. not when he towers over you and makes you feel so damn good that you’re seeing stars.

Jeonghan: a flipping fucking tease. he would force it out of you for sure. leading up to it he would make jokes and subtle hints about calling him daddy, but you’d never think he would be serious about it. fast forward to you at his mercy laying on the bed completely bare and spread open for him. he would’ve been edging you for hours, his favorite past time — a sly smirk on his face as he holds off on letting you cum undone until he hears the very word escape from your mouth. you would refuse at first. not because you didn’t want to, but rather because you were far too stubborn to give in to him. jeonghan however has no problem with ruining your orgasm over and over again until you reach your breaking point and practically yell out the name with incoherent begs following it. that fucker would smile wide and big before faking sympathy and telling you that’s all you had to say if you really wanted to cum that badly. he would ruin your orgasm a few more times after that, just to remind you that one: he always gets what he wants, and two: to hear you call him daddy a few more times before he finally gives in to your desperation.

Soonyoung: hear me out — this man didn’t even know he had a daddy kink. soonyoung has definitely thought about it before, but pushed it to the back of his mind as he claimed it to be silly. it wasn’t until you were playfully teasing him one day in which the switch just flipped and he was like “damn, maybe i do have a daddy kink.” he would bring it up in the middle of eating you out. you were almost there, just needed a little push over the edge to bring you to an orgasm when he drops what he’s doing entirely. any other day you might’ve laughed in his face when insisted you call him daddy, but that night — the way he said it, he didn’t even ask for it. no, he demanded it. voice rough and stern, you just found the name slipping from your lips so easily in a desperate plea for him to continue his relentlessness on your sopping wet cunt.

Wonwoo: the thought of calling wonwoo daddy would cross your mind occasionally, however he has a sir kink and has never seemed to care about being called anything but. yes sir this and please sir that — but, you just can’t help but wonder if he would mind you calling him daddy. the opportunity arises when you found yourself on your knees infront of him one day, completely bare and ready to be good for him. he would ask you a question and you would answer with a lack of manners that he would remind you about. that was when you would strike. “yes daddy.” he was toast. you could tell he had to hold back a groan too as he was quick to skip everything else he would normally go through and instead get inside of you as fast as he could. “daddy huh?” he would ask, thrusting at an almost inhumane speed, bringing you to your orgasm much too quickly. you wouldn’t be able to do anything, but moan the word over and over again, only pushing him to fuck you harder. from that day on he ditched the sir kink. you awakened something inside of him he wished he heard from you a lot sooner. he was missing out all this time.

Mingyu: hear me out again — he can cook, he can clean, he can take care of you in more ways than one, he’s HUGE. yupppp, that’s a daddy right there. when he cages you in with his big muscular arms and overstimulates you to the point in which you’re teetering on the edge of subspace is when you find yourself calling him by the name. it leaves your mouth in a whine and it doesn’t faze him at all as he hums in acknowledgment and continues to nip at your neck. he becomes so attentive when you call him it, but still refuses to let up, the word fueling his need to bring you to another orgasm even if it would leave your brain even more empty than it already is. it’s not something he genuinely needs to hear whenever you two have sex but my god does it make his cock twitch and fuel his sex drive. once you use it for the night, you can sure as hell bet that you would be calling him daddy for the rest of the time you two spend fucking because when he hears it he won’t allow you to call him anything else.