#the expression of constant sickness

[xoxojisu]

"DON'T STOP LOVING ME."

synopsis: things were always easy between you and katsuki. until suddenly, they weren't. (aka you pull back and katsuki notices and hates it)

notes: ALWAYS w the unofficialbf!katsuki agenda. wc ~5k. childhood bffs bc duh. barely proofread sorry

ever since you were three years old with your scraped knees and sticky fingers to now, where teenage life could not be more confusing, there has always been one, unwavering, constant fact.

you're absolutely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with bakugo katsuki.

and you've never been afraid to show it! backhugs, tackling him to the floor, jumping on top of him and climbing him like a jungle gym, telling him you love him like it's the most obvious thing in the world. (it is)

he always scoffs and grumbles, but you'd never take it personally, because when he tells you to get off, he pulls you close. when he complains that you're annoying when you're sick, he brings you soup and medicine and cuddles you to sleep. when he blushes and tells you he hates you, his eyes tell a different story.

so what if he doesn't express it the same way you do? everyone has different ways of showing they care. even if he doesn't say it much, you know katsuki loves you.

right?

-

it was late when you accidentally overheard it. when you froze up and felt your heart drop to the floor. when you started shaking and sweating, eyes darting around for a trash can in case you threw up.

"bakugo, bro, when are you and y/n gonna make it official?" kirishima had teased, throwing an arm around katsuki.

katsuki scoffed and shoved him off. "tch. it's not like that."

"you suuure?" sero questioned. "you two seem awfully close for just friends."

"mannn, if i was bakugo, i'd be all over that. y/n is such a pretty girl!" kaminari chimed in, clearly jealous over his lack of love life.

the teasing continued. you couldn't see him from your angle, but you knew that katsuki definitely had a vein on his forehead that was getting larger by the second.

"you're always carrying her bag, walking her to class.."

"cuddling with her during movie nights, scratching her back.."

"oh! and don't forget how she never forgets to tell him she loooves him whenever they say goodbye!"

"c'mon, bakubro, just spit it out! you two are practically married already!"

the three laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the rise they were getting out of katsuki.

"all of you, shut the hell up!"

"just admit it. you're in love."

he gritted his teeth.

"i'm not in love." he grimaced, venomous anger bubbling to the surface.

"she's just there all the fucking time! always fucking doing girlfriend-y shit when she knows damn well she's not! always clinging and trying to cuddle and all that stupid sappy shit. she's just an annoying fuckin' habit ive learned to tolerate." he spat.

you froze.

what?

was he serious? like, really, truly, deadass serious? you knew he wasn't exactly the super affectionate type, but even still! you thought he really cared about you! clingy? annoying? tolerated?

your head spun as you broke out into a cold sweat. you could've sworn that that wasn't true. you and katsuki have been friends forever. surely he wouldve gotten rid of you by now if he hated you that much, right? and he cuddles you! and hangs out with you! he takes care of you when you're sick! there's just no way, right? he's just angry because he's being teased, right?

..right?

"damn, dude, that's pretty harsh," sero snickered. "you always take care of her, though, no?"

you held your breath.

"tch. doesn't fuckin' mean shit. just gotten used to her because she's been around so long."

your stomach dropped to the basement. he tolerated you. he thought of you as nothing more than an annoying habit.

insecurity pooled inside of you. now that you think about it, was he really cuddling you, or just not bothering to move you off when you laid on him? maybe he just thought you were too much of a hassle to get rid of when you came to hangout, so he just let you stay even thought he didn't want to. when he brought you medicine and stuff, maybe your sickness made you delirious and made you think he was being more affectionate and caring than he really was.

you felt nauseated. you recall all the times you threw a quick "i love you!" over your shoulder or while you clung to him. had he ever once said it back? ever? the room started spinning as you realized you couldn't think of a single time. he'd always deflected. gave you a classic "tch." rolled his eyes. messed up your hair. you dont think you'd ever even heard the word "love" from his lips.

had you just been deluding yourself all this time?

you couldn't take it anymore. sweating, you sprinted out before you could be spotted.

-

it's been two days since you overheard that conversation, and you'd been avoiding katsuki ever since. or rather, not quite avoiding completely, but there was an undeniable shift in your behavior. you stopped trying to cuddle with him. you stopped showing up to his dorm room to hangout. you especially stopped saying "i love you," even though it killed you every time.

katsuki hadn't shown much of a reaction to your change in behavior. he'd raise an eyebrow when your usual daily hugs disappeared or ask a gruff, "where were you?" when you didn't show up to your unofficial but completely established after school hangouts, but he had otherwise put up no protest.

you didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

on one hand, katsuki's kind of scary when he's confrontational. also, you don't know how you would be able to talk to him. "i overheard a conversation where you said you hate me but im madly in love with you and want to marry you and have your kids?" yeah right. you were sort of glad to be getting off easy.

but on the other hand, you were devastated. his apathy served as further confirmation that he meant every word he said. he really didn't mind that you were pulling back, and seemed perfectly content not being nearly as close as before.

you really had been deluding yourself. secretly, you had been hoping that he was just saying stuff in the heat of the moment and would actually be upset if you pulled back. because that would mean he cared. but he didn't give two shits about you. you really were just some stupid childhood habit he'd learned to tolerate.

you became less energetic as a person. not just with katsuki, but simply in general. your days seemed unbearably longer and darker without him. you had a hard time engaging and staying in the present, your mind wandering to katsuki again and again. it was pathetic, really. you two had never even dated. why were you so hung up about it? you two were just friends, and in fact, it seemed like he never even liked you in the first place. you were just stupidly hopeful and naive.

-

katsuki was dying.

two days. it had been two fucking days since you'd touched him or even just been remotely affectionate with him and he was going crazy. hell, he'd give the whole damn world even for just a smile at this point. he was desperate.

he didnt understand why you were being like this. it was like everything he knew about you had shifted, and he was just standing there, waiting for some kind of sign or something like an idiot.

katsuki had noticed the shift in your behavior immediately. of course he did. he knows you better than he knows himself, after all. at first, he thought you were just playing some dumb game or pulling some stunt to get his attention, but that wasn’t it. you waved instead of hugging. said a simple "bye" instead of "love you, bye bye!" it's not like you were completely avoiding him. you still talked. you still laughed. only now, it didn't quite reach your eyes.

and it was fucking killing him.

he hated that you were pulling back. he hated how off everything felt. he hated how fucking empty his dorm room felt when you weren't there to pester him. but most of all, he hated how he couldn’t even figure out what he'd done wrong. he couldn't think of any fights or reasons to be angry, but if that wasn't it, what was it? why were you suddenly just.. leaving?

he wanted to confront you. he wanted to pull you aside and demand to know where the fuck you went. but for the first time in his entire life, he didn't know how. because this wasn't like confronting stupid deku about his new powers. it wasn't about asking icyhot what his fuckin' deal was. it was you. his whole fucking world, even if he never said it out loud. he was nothing short of terrified to ask, because he feared it would drive you away even further, and he couldn't think of any alternate universe where he'd be able to handle that.

he found himself looking for excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to just be around you in any way possible. the last two days had been a torture of silence, of missed chances to sit next to you or casually reach out and tug you into his space like he used to. the times when he’d shove his arm around your shoulders or playfully mess with your hair, it had all stopped. he didn't feel like he could anymore. like he'd somehow lost the privilege. and now, all he was left with was this gnawing feeling in his gut that something was horribly wrong.

he had finally worked up the courage and tried asking you once, but you had shut him down with that all-too-familiar "nothing, just tired" bullshit and that damn closed-off look on your face that made him feel completely hollowed out.

he was desperate. he needed to feel you. needed to hear your bright laughter and see your stupid smile. it was so fucking stupid and sappy and so unlike him, but he couldn't even bring himself to care about that. he needed to cuddle with you until you fell asleep. have you curl up on his chest and get swallowed up by his much larger frame and watch you as your breathing quickly evened out from his touch. you could never stay awake long when cuddling with him. he found himself smiling at the thought.

he scowled. this is so fucking stupid. he thought to himself.

-

it all came to a bubbling point for him on friday. 5 whole days of "hi's" and a half-smile instead of "KATSUKIIIII's," and a running hug. he was losing his fucking mind.

usually, you convinced him to join the weekly 1a movie night by taking his hand and dragging him out of his room. he'd grumble about it, but he'd never refuse. he'd sit on the corner of the couch and you'd sit close to him before gradually inching closer, the night ending with you two cuddling. now, he willingly trudges to movie night of his own free will and sits in the same corner of the couch, but this time alone.

the room buzzed with quiet chatter and the flicker of the TV as the opening credits rolled and iida turned the lights off. it was some dumb romcom movie katsuki couldn't bring himself to care about in the slightest. you would definitely like it, though. kirishima passed around popcorn, sero argued with kaminari over which movie was the best, deku was doing his stupid nerd rambling as todoroki and hagakure gawked at him. and you? you sat on the other end of the couch.

not just away, but away from him.

the usual spot right beside katsuki, practically in his lap, head on his shoulder, knees draped over his thighs sat empty. you sat next to mina instead, curling into the armrest and pulling your legs up to your chest. you offered sweet smiles to everyone, laughed when something was funny, made conversation when prompted. but katsuki saw it. he saw you.

and he saw that you weren’t you.

he stared.

throughout the entire first half of the movie, he barely processed a single second of it. he kept looking over, waiting for you to glance at him, to shift closer, to give him a sign, anything, but you stayed curled in on yourself, legs angled away from him. he hated it. he hated how you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller. like you were trying to disappear.

katsuki’s heart thundered. his leg bounced impatiently. his jaw was tight. he couldn’t take this shit anymore.

he stood up abruptly, catching your attention. he stalked straight over to you, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. he hovered over you, looking down and saying nothing.

you blinked up at him. "...what?"

his eyes were sharp and unreadable to most. but to you, who knew him better than he knew himself, you could see the anxiety and desperation swimming in his eyes.

no, no, no. remember, don't delude yourself. he doesn't like you, not even as a friend.

"are you okay..?"

"no." he snapped, his tone making you flinch. he softened at your reaction. "i just.. you've been.." he started, but his tone cracked, eyes flashing, and something in him snapped. "fuckin’ hell, just—"

he reached down and grabbed you.

gently, but with zero room for argument. strong arms slid under your knees and behind your back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you barely had time to yelp before he was sitting down again, with you in his lap, pulled tight into his chest like you were his lifeline. (you are)

you froze, wide-eyed and stiff, but he just held you. his arms locked around you. he didn’t look at anyone else, didn’t give a shit about the stares or the knowing grins. he buried his face in your shoulder, muttering low and rough into your neck.

"i don't know what the fuck i did," he said. "but you don't get to just... take all that away. not from me."

you blinked, suddenly breathless.

he held you tighter. his voice cracked again, this time softer. "whatever i did, 'm sorry. i'll make it up t'ya, i swear. but don't just.." his voice trailed off. "dont stop loving me." he wanted to scream.

you felt your heart stutter, but you didn't say anything.

not at first, anyway.

because what is there to say when your heart is lodged in your throat and your body is caged in the arms of the person you swore you were going to get over?

you just sat there, crumpled in his lap like some lost puppy that finally found its way home again. your face is pressed into his shoulder, and you think if you speak, you’ll cry. so you don't. you just let yourself relax and melt into him.

he doesn’t say anything else either. his grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little. his fingers press into your back, not hard, just steady. grounding. enough to keep you pressed firmly against him. like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

the room’s still noisy with all the side conversations, but it's all background noise now with you two just in your little bubble away from the rest of the world. you feel safe and like you’re about to fall apart at the same time.

you shift a little in his lap and glance up at him.

“…you didn’t have to drag me across the room, you know,” you finally mutter, voice hoarse.

he scoffs, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “yeah, well. you weren’t comin’ on your own.”

you wrinkle your nose at him. “you could’ve asked.”

“whatever." he grumbles. "this is more efficient."

you snort. "the hell?"

he shrugs, completely unapologetic. “worked, didn’t it?”

you don’t answer. because yeah. it did.

instead, you rest your head back on his chest, and he immediately shifts to accommodate you. your legs drape over the couch, his arm hooked under your knees to keep you anchored, and his other hand settled at the base of your spine. he starts tracing slow, absentminded circles there, hand slipped under your hoodie to rub at the bare skin like nothing had ever changed. like you hadn’t just gone five whole days without touching him. like you hadn’t spent those five days trying to unravel every version of reality where he didn’t love you back.

you sit like that for a long time.

finally, he speaks up, his voice low.

"what did i do?" he asked, his voice oddly shy. "why'd ya stop.. you know..?"

your breath hitches. because you do know. but you don't know what to say or how to say it. "i thought you completely hated me" doesn't quite seem like an appropriate response.

"nothing," you settle with.

he gives you a look.

you sigh. you never could lie to katsuki. he's known you for too long and too well to fall for them.

"i just.. got insecure. overheard some conversation where you said i was, um, clingy and annoying." you murmur, your voice small. if katsuki wasn't pressed up against you and hanging on to your every word, he wouldn't have been able to catch it.

but he did.

and you swore you saw complete heartbreak in his eyes.

you let out a small gasp of surprise when he pulls you flush against him, arms tight around your body and face nuzzled deep into your neck. he holds you with such a gentle intensity you think you might cry. he holds you in a way that makes you feel loved and safe.

"'m sorry." he mumbles into your neck, voice watery. "didn't mean it. i was just.. mad that they were makin' fun of me. none of it was true. at all."

your breath hitches.

"you're.. so fuckin' special to me. i mean it. these last few days without you have been hell."

you think you might cry.

"been missin' your fuckin' smile and your damn laugh. and your stupid hugs that make me almost topple over."

you hold back a giggle.

"i love you."

the world stills.

you don’t move.

you don’t speak.

hell, you're scared to breathe.

your heart is beating so loud you’re worried he might hear it. your face is burning, your lungs feel tight, and your throat’s a warzone of words you can’t quite say.

he said it.

he said it.

and now he’s quiet. breathing you in. arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your hand comes up to brush his bangs from his eyes, and your fingers linger at his temple, trailing down his cheek like you’re memorizing him.

his expression is soft in a way you rarely get to see. wide-eyed. hopeful. a little scared.

you offer him a tiny, quiet smile.

no teasing.

no trying to be brave or play it all off.

just soft. honest. the kind that only he gets to see.

you lift your hand and touch his face. not dramatic, not shaky, just steady. fingers brushing along his cheekbone, thumb ghosting over the edge of his jaw like you’re memorizing the shape of him again.

his eyes close for a second and you swear you see him leaning into it a little.

you say nothing.

you don’t need to.

because you’re here. because he’s holding you. because you’re not pulling away, and he's pulling you in.

you nuzzle your face into his neck, like it's right where you belong, and you breathe in.

he breathes in too.

slow. like the world’s stopped spinning for a second just so you can exist like this, tangled up in each other without saying anything. no talking about what's going on, no complications, just.. being.

you both don't notice how mina and kirishima are gossiping wildly about how you two are practically married and wondering how you still claim not to be dating. you don't notice the way that ochaco squeals after glancing over at your position, and you don't notice the way izuku looks fondly at you two with soft eyes. (he's been shipping the two of you since childhood)

you and katsuki are the only two people in the world who matter.

"i love you," you whisper as you feel yourself dozing off.

you think you feel his lips press gently against your forehead.

"i love you too."

masterlist

[freaktoru]

DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH ME BABY!

✰ pairing: nanami kento x fem!reader ✰ summary: after several sexless months of a very vanilla marriage, nanami kento learns how his slutty wife actually likes to be fucked. wc; 4.1k ✰ warnings: food play, a tiny bit of ass play, dirty talk, unprotected sex, praise, fingering, pet names, very light bondage, hair pulling, some very sweet after care, nanami is soo addicted to his wife, honestly just pure filth. 18+ MDNI

your sex life with your husband was basically dead—buried so deep, it felt like it might never come back.

i mean, you shouldn't be surprised right? when you got married, everyone warned you it would be this way. “just wait until the honeymoon phase is over”, “wait until work gets in the way”, “wait until you start sleeping in separate beds” they told you. although you thankfully hadn’t made it to the third phase yet, you didn't believe them—at least not at first.

the first few months of your marriage felt purely euphoric—like a drug you just couldn't get enough of. you were bathing in the seemingly never ending marital bliss, convinced that nothing could have come between you and your husband— at least not when the two of you were fucking like animals in heat, absolutely devouring each other no matter where the pair of you were. well, it seems life has a way of being deceiving, doesn't it?

so here you were, only one year into your marriage and somehow, sex had completely fallen off your marriage itinerary. you don’t even know how it happened. your work lives took over, and the honeymoon rush had slowly but surely died out. your daily orgasms slowly turned into weekly orgasms which eventually turned into none. the number of times you and your husband have had sex in the last few months has been a big, fat, zero. your revised daily routine now looked a little like this: wake up, breakfast, work, dinner, sleep. exciting right?

kento was a very busy man—you couldn't blame him. he was always working overtime, always being pushed past his limits by his boss and always coming home completely and utterly exhausted. but that didn't change the stark reality—your marriage had become painfully sexless, and severely depressing. and you’d endured months of this silent, dry torture before you finally stepped up and decided you had had enough.

you and nanami were a picture perfect couple—that much was obvious from just looking at the two of you. you had the perfect wedding, the perfect house and perfect vanilla sex. though, despite its initial merits, clearly it hadn't gotten you very far—not if you found yourself so sexless this early into your marriage.

you couldn't let your marriage go down like this, you simply wouldn't. something had to change; you both knew that. the only question was, who would be the one to fix it first? so, you finally mustered up the courage to tell your husband you were sick and tired of the drought, and you were more than ready to break this invisible wall which had stood between you two for months.

when you told nanami that you wanted him to fuck you nasty, whenever and however he pleased without so much as a warning— naturally, his cock hardened, and nanami had displayed the rarest of his facial expressions: shock. though, despite his obvious shock, he was just as desperate to bridge the painful distance between the two of you.

so, of course he agreed— because nanami kento was not one to deny his beautiful wife.

and then it began—the waiting game. a semblance of hope finally returned as a light in your plain, boring days and the thrill of the unknown had you going absolutely feral. not knowing when and if he was going to fuck you had you living through your day to day life in a constant state of need and arousal. you finally felt yourself getting closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel where a long, loving marriage awaited you.

it had only been two days since your conversation when he walked into your shared apartment after work, and saw you standing behind the kitchen island in the tiniest, sluttiest white dress, preparing his favorite after dinner dessert—apple pie. what a perfect, thoughtful wife you were.

you looked up from the recipe book to see him standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and overworked as usual but, also looking remarkably handsome in his clean suit. gosh. he had just walked through the door and already your warm and wet arousal was settling comfortably in your panties.

“hi kento, how was work?” you asked softly, your lips pulled into a light smile.

“tiring” he replied, his voice an octave deeper than normal. he must have worked very hard if he sounded this exhausted, you thought. his bag dropped to the ground with a thud and he took his shoes off followed by his blazer, leaving just his dress shirt and pants on. you watched him intently as he walked over to where you stood behind the kitchen island, rolling up his sleeves and throwing his tie on the marble surface.

you flinched as he wrapped his big arms around your waist, welcoming the warm yet unexpected touch. he nuzzled his stubbly face in the crook of your neck, placing feather light kisses along its delicate skin. you let out small, pathetic whimpers, feeling another rush of heat settle in your core. your slick would start dripping through your panties and onto the floor if you didn't fix this soon.

“my dear wife, i didn’t know you were so dirty” he mumbled into the sensitive flesh of your neck, lightly nibbling at it, and leaving a trail of wet kisses down it’s stretch. fuck. why had the two of you ever stopped doing this in the first place?

“w-what do you mean?” you asked breathlessly, already feeling worked up from his minor act of intimacy. he inhaled your sweet vanilla scent—relishing in it, before he spoke up.

“yes kento, i want to be fucked” he started, while slowly snaking his fingers down the side of your dress. “whenever you want, however you want” he finished, mocking you sweetly with your own filthy words from just days ago. he was playing with you, baiting you—and you were falling right into his waiting hands.

his fingers met with your soaked panties as you leaned your head back onto his shoulder, feeling him rub slow, lazy, teasing circles on your clothed clit, leaving you wishing you skipped the panties entirely when you got dressed this morning.

“is that not what you told me just a few days ago, my dear?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, watching you in amusement as you squirmed under his light touch. he’d barely given you anything yet your head was already clouded with arousal, making you literally tremble with need. dirty, dirty girl. “mhmmm” you hummed in response, not bothering to utter any words. not when you were so busy relishing in your husbands sweet proximity—a proximity you hadn’t felt for months.

“if i had known my wife was such a slut—” he said, slowly moving your wet panties aside with two long fingers “maybe we would’ve never had this issue in the first place” he finished, his deep, velvety voice sending little shivers racing across your skin. you closed your eyes, letting out sweet little mewls and whimpers while he toyed with your drenched pussy.

“k-kento” you moaned, desperate for more. it just wasn't enough. after so many celibate months, you were brimming with need, ready to burst at any given moment.

“yes baby? what is it?” his coo was sweet and honeyed. he toyed with you like a doll, teasingly pushing his fingers in and out of you, slowly pushing each and every coherent thought out of your mind, leaving you in a hazy, blur of need.

“ah— i n-need more” you whined pathetically in response, reaching a trembling hand up to the nape of his neck while your knuckles turned white on the other from your desperate grip on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“more what sweetheart? use your words for me” he practically purred in your ear, his voice a soft caress. the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, teasing you like this.

he pressed himself closer against you, removing your dress strap from your shoulder to give himself easier access to your tits. you bit your lip, desperately stifling your moans as he seized a handful of your breast, kneading and teasing the supple flesh, his fingers rolling your nipple with a torturous precision. fuck him.

"p-please kento, want you t-to make me feel g-good" you let out, voice shallow and breathy. your whines and moans were music to his ears, and he vowed they would be the only sound he ever craved to hear again.

you let yourself surrender to the waves of pleasure that coursed through your body as nanami pumped two of his thick, long fingers in and out of you. god, what a sight you were for him—eyes squeezed shut, rosy-cheeked and completely breathless. until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed in these last few sexless, stressful months he had lived through.

you whimpered a desperate plea as your husband pulled his fingers out, leaving you teetering on the edge of release. no, he was not going to give it to you that easy— especially not after this long of a wait. he turned you around to face him, and in one swift motion, lifted you onto the kitchen counter, the cold marble cooling the burning, aroused skin of your thighs. you felt a strong, big hand grab your waist while the other rest on the soft skin of your cheek. he looked at you through lust filled, hazel eyes—admiring his irresistible wife.

growing impatient, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. "kento" you breathed against his lips, desperate for more of his attention. no matter how much he gave you, you felt it would never be enough to make up for all the time you missed with your husband.

he kissed you softly, mapping every inch of your mouth with his wet tongue. you flinched, as he caught your lip between his teeth, teasingly biting down and nibbling on it before pulling away and leaving you whining and aching all over again. removing his hand from your cheek, he reached his arm around you and picked up the bottle of whipped cream that stood with the rest of the pie ingredients.

"my dear wife, when was the last time you made me this pie? the day after our wedding?" he chuckled deeply, studying the can in his hands.

"thought you'd like it" you mumbled, embarrassed by his mocking tone. you'd never seen him like this. his expression was one—in all your years of dating and one year of marriage—you've never seen him display. he looked hungry. a hunger that went beyond satisfying his human needs—this hunger looked feral, almost primal and he looked ready to do whatever it took to satisfy it.

nanami took a step back, opening your legs further apart to give him a better view of all your sweetest parts. you watched him flick the cap off the whipped cream can, buzzing with impatience as you waited for his next move. a strong hand pushed the fabric of your skimpy linen dress up to your waist, and you almost jumped when he sprayed some on your leg.

"ah- kento, what are you doing?" you gasped, looking down at your bare thigh, where a cute little heart of whipped cream was now drawn.

"apologizing to my sweet wife" he muttered, placing the can back down on the counter. he leaned his head down to your thigh, one of your hands instantly tangling itself in his hair. that's right. this is how nanami kento would apologize for all your missed orgasms—for unknowingly denying his wife.

his tongue met with your leg and he began slowly dragging it up and down the skin of your thigh, licking up all the cream that sat in the shape of a heart. a soft moan escaped your parted lips, and you tugged on his hair to pull his head up despite him not being finished.

"dear husband, when did you become so dirty?" you echoed his earlier words right back at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you locked eyes with his ravenous gaze. there it was, that hunger— that pure look of desire which you hoped would never disappear from his eyes. marriage was hard but in this moment you were both convinced that doing this every night, would make it feel effortless. nanami only smirked lightly before diving his head back down to meet your trembling thigh. that's right, he had you trembling with need—that's how desperate you were for his touch.

strong hands held your thigh down as he finished licking the heart of whipped cream on your leg. this was an interesting way to apologize to say the least. he lifted himself up, locking eyes with you as he slowly licked the last traces of cream from his lips. holy fuck, you almost came from the sight alone.

moving his hands, he pulled your dress over your head, leaving you in just your skimpy, soaked, panties. "so beautiful" he rasped, drinking you in with just his gaze while grabbing the can and getting to work on your tits. you giggled, watching him spray two hearts of whipped cream, one around each of your nipples.

"baby you- ah" the words died on your lips as he began licking the cream, finishing off with a light nibble that had your toes curling from pleasure. with a groan, he worked his way to the other one, sending chills down your spine and whimpers past your lips. one thing was for sure—nanami knew exactly what he was doing. and he wasn't going to stop.

"please" you whined desperately— impatiently. nanami was holding you on the brink of release, dangling your orgasm right in front of you before ripping it right back when you were about to finish. it was fucking frustrating.

so many nights, while nanami stayed late at work, you lay in your shared bed, desperate and aching, your fingers working tirelessly—trying, and failing, to replicate the feeling of his. little did you know that your dear husband spent his time in similar ways. in the late hours of the night while you were soundly asleep, he stood in the giant two person shower of your shared bathroom, hand wrapped around his veiny cock, warm water streaming down his body, pumping himself endlessly. he tried, he really tried. but nothing—nothing could compare to the addictive pleasure that came from your warm, tight walls clenching around his cock or the heavenly feeling of your soft, wet lips wrapping him so sweetly. yes, it was safe to say you were both very desperate and very frustrated.

"you wanted it nasty baby, that's exactly how i'll give it to you" he groaned in your ear moments before you were flipped face down onto the counter, toes barely touching the floor. you had awakened something inside him, and now that you'd gotten a taste of this nanami, you never wanted to go back.

you craned your neck to look back at him, watching him unbutton his now crumpled white dress shirt. he met your gaze, smiling at you while he reached beside you to grab his tie. you had never reacted to your husband this viscerally before. just the mere sight of him was intoxicating, leaving your head light and hazy, as if you were drunk on his presence alone.

he moved your hands behind your back, crossing them over each other before binding them together with his tie. a light moan escaped you, and you wiggled your hands, getting a feel for the restraint.

"spread your legs" he ordered, his suddenly stern and commanding voice only fueling the desperate throb between your thighs. you obeyed, stepping your toes further apart to allow him to stand between your legs.

you'd never thought you'd be this pliable, this eager to please. but here you were, pushed against the marble counter, wrists tied and ready to fulfill any of his wishes and demands—no matter how filthy. nanami held a dangerous level of control over you and your body, and the thought of wanting it any other way terrified you. surely this is what addiction felt like.

you flipped your head over to the other side, enjoying the cooling feeling of the marble against your burning cheek while you watched him pick up his handy whipped cream once again. guess he wasn't done with that huh.

"kento" you whined, indulging in the slow, sweet pleasure but impatiently needing more than just the teasing he was giving you. it wasn't fair. you had waited long enough.

"ah ah, so impatient, my dear wife" he clicked his tongue, grabbing hold of your wrists. you shuddered slightly when you felt the cold whipped cream meet with your tight holes. oh. he placed the can down, and got on his knees, still holding your bound wrists tightly with one hand and squishing the flesh of your soft thighs with the other. he dragged his tongue up all the way from your clit to your ass, licking up the string of cream he had drawn on you just moments before.

god, this man was filthy. his tongue lingered around your rear entrance, licking playful circles around it and prodding it with his tongue. the initially foreign feeling slowly grew on you, shooting warm pulses of pleasure through every vein in your body and deep into your aching core.

he dragged his tongue away from your tight ring, lapping up the last bits of cream left around your drenched cunt. you clenched your fists, desperate to hold something—anything to help you cope with the overwhelming pleasure you felt.

"kento— e-enough, i need you inside me" you uttered, unable to contain your restless, writhing need for him any longer.

"fine, if my beautiful wife so desires" he replied lazily, letting out a low laugh. you heard him unbuckle his belt, dropping it to the ground while he unzipped his pants. finally.

"my dirty, filthy wife" he muttered, idly pumping his hard, veiny cock with one hand. before you could protest, his fat, leaking tip found itself at your seeping entrance, prodding the wet flesh around it. you heard him suck in a sharp breath, a low hiss slipping from his lips as he pushed into you slowly, stretching you so wide that your eyes fluttered to the back of your head.

"nngh- ah" you moaned at the feeling of his tip reaching your cervix. he was sheathed inside you, waiting for your quivering body to adjust to his thick length. nanami was huge—there was no denying it. no matter how many times you had taken his cock, it was always an adjustment for you.

wiggling your hips, you tried to get as comfortable as you could on the hard, white marble countertop while he started slowly moving his cock in and out of you. "i-i haven't ah-adjusted" you whined, needing more time to get used to him. after all, the months of fucking yourself with your small fingers were nothing compared to your husbands cock.

but nanami only said, "you can take it" whilst speeding up to an almost frantic pace. you felt like you were going to fucking break. but don't say you didn't ask for this. you exposed your most vulnerable self to your husband just days before, begging to be treated like this. so yeah, you asked for it. and he was only doing what his wife desired.

nanami began to question his sanity. he never cracked under pressure, no matter the circumstance, but he felt his once strong grasp on his self control now slipping through his fingers. yup. this felt almost too good to be real—like he was either high on the most potent drug or finally losing his damn mind. he couldn't recall the last time he'd ever felt like this—not even during all the other times you had sex. you just felt that good in this moment.

each thrust had you crying out and clenching around him tighter and tighter—reassuring you that this marriage could be saved, that your sex life was not dead forever. your mind was swimming in pleasure and pain, the head of his cock kissed your cervix so roughly yet so sweetly. you silently said your final goodbyes to the sweet, innocent, vanilla versions of yourselves, and welcomed this new beginning for your marriage. you wanted this version of nanami for the rest of your life.

he fisted a handful of your hair, quite literally pulling you out of your lustful haze. nanami wrapped the strands around his hand once, securing you in place—not that you had any intention of being anywhere else anyway.

"fuck- baby you feel so fucking good" he growled from behind you, his breaths slowing into heavier, raspier ones. push. pull. push. that's what this fucking felt like. your scalp ached from the strong pull on your hair and your pussy throbbed from how hard he fucked you. your bodies fused together, connecting with each of his slams inside of you.

"nngh k-kento gonna c-cum" you stuttered out. he had you so fucked out on his cock you were barely able to even think, let alone form a sentence. it was fucking pathetic.

"yeah- f-fuck come for me" his voice came out in a ragged breath and his erratic pace began to slow into a more languid, agonizing one. he couldn't help himself—he wanted, no— needed to feel every single muscle along your tight walls clench around his cock. nothing felt better than this.

a desperate cry ripped from your throat as your entire body tensed, the long built up pressure in your core finally snapping free. your breath hitched, and you surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensation, finally unraveling around him. your walls clenched and throbbed, milking his cock with every pulsating wave of pleasure that coursed through your body.

"that's it, good girl" nanami purred behind you, feeling his cock throb deep inside you— the unmistakable sign of his climax finally reaching him. he went still, letting his cum spill out inside of you as he came down from his high. he gently untangled his hand from your hair letting your head drop back down onto the counter top.

your eyes were shut and your body was limp. there was no way that you’d be able to get up and walk around— at least not for a while. you felt your husband finally pull out of you, hearing him buckle his pants back up. warm hands met with your still trembling body, and he gently flipped you over, scooping your body up into his arms. not a single word would come out of you. you were fucking spent.

“my love” he whispered softly, placing you onto the plush bed of your shared bedroom. you looked up at him through half lidded, blurry eyes. “hm?” you hummed out, hoping that was enough of an answer for him.

“let’s take a bath” he said simply and you nodded in response. you could use a warm soothing bath right about now. he stalked into the bathroom and you heard the water turn on. he came out naked moments later, and picked you up off the bed, carrying your limp, exhausted body to the bathroom.

he lowered himself in, and you followed, sitting in between his thighs, his huge frame towering over you from behind. he pushed you lightly to sit up and you obeyed, tilting your head backwards to give him easier access to your hair. he began running his long fingers through the strands, untangling the little knots that resulted from his pulling earlier. you hummed lightly at the feeling, enjoying this small, sweet act of intimacy.

he moved his hands down to your shoulders momentarily, placing light, wet kisses on each one, and a few down the length of your back. “you did so good for me” he whispered sweetly, his gentle praise sending a rush of warmth through you.

god. you loved your husband. he was so caring and so tender, and moments like these made sure to remind you of that. you hoped you’d never have to experience another drought in your marriage like that again and you would do anything to make sure it stayed the way it was in this very moment.

“kento?” you spoke up softly, eyes still closed and head thrown back as he began to lather your hair with your vanilla scented shampoo. “yes my love?” he asked in response, waiting to hear what you mustered up all your remaining strength to say.

“i didn't finish baking the pie" you said, letting out a soft laugh. so much for being thoughtful.

he let out a deeply chuckle in return, recalling how adorable you looked, baking in a cute little white dress. he'd never eat his favorite pie again if it meant sex like that for the rest of his life.

he lowered his mouth to your ear and whispered "it's okay, i already had my favorite dessert"

a/n: holy shit if u made it this far thank you so much for reading. this ended up being wayyyyyy longer than i planned it to be but i had such a good time with this <3

[usagimen]

The spicy thought Sayuri acquires her facial scare in HoTD protecting the Green siblings. She would roughly be in her late teens && shows her teeth for the first time despite having such an ethereal visage. Her loyalty once more becoming the most beautiful but horrendous aspect of her as it will come to betray her later in life. She doesn't mind the stares or constant apologies, always laughing in this incarnation; isn't she more beautiful than before?

[casualshrimp-but-undertale]

WTH THIS JUMPSCARED ME ON MY FEED WHA- WHAT— HE SAID THE THING HE SAID CHOO CHOO!! (SHAKING /POS)

Doodle comic based on THIS

Seems the phrase has grown on him, just a little

Code sans by @callmeherry

Elated sans by @knobe07o

[yandere-romanticaa]

Seen the request, so I shall deliver. Could you pls write a drabble or hcs of a yandere sunday with an isekaied reader?

Good timing because I'm actually planning a non yan isekai fic for him, I wonder if you saw that post. Here it is in case you haven't.

Sincerest apologies if this isn't the best, this fic is 100% emotionally charged by my obsession with him and frankly with a little bit of a high for passing a tricky exam. This is a treat for myself.

EDIT: Please check out this wonderful comic that @danijaci made me based off this fic!! 😭🫶

Picking up the cup from the fine oak table, you gazed towards the eerie galaxy before you, hundreds upon thousands of stars giving you a constant reminder of just how far from home you truly were. Taking a sip from the little porcelain cup you could not help but to hum in delight, the soft notes of the tea soothing your nerves ever so lightly as you pretended to ignore the heavy gaze which lingered at the back of your head.

Even from this distance, it was easy to tell that Sunday was eager to approach you. Still, he kept his distance and made a silent offering in the form of the very tea you drank at the moment.

Anything is better than Himeko's coffee but you were never going privy her to that.

In a not so distant past, all of this was nothing but fiction. The Express, the story, the characters - it was all nothing more but fiction, something to pass the time as your days went on and on, the same monotony repeating each and every day.

It was hard to not think about your friends and family, what sane person would not? Lord knows how they must be feeling right now, worried sick out of their minds with indescribable sorrow. In their eyes you had merely vanished, not a single trace to be found. For all they knew you could have been left for dead in a ditch somewhere, beaten, bloodied and broken, never to see the light again or if they were even more inclined to be morbid, you had succumbed to a fate worse than death. Death at the very least grants you finality, that all is over regardless of what happened moments prior.

But that was simply not the case for you.

Here you were, lounging about in a comfortable chair as you pondered on your old life while enjoying tiny little luxuries, far away where none of your loved ones could reach you. However, life was funny sometimes because it had some fun games in store.

Sunday was very kind upon arrival. He made sure to always be there for you, always checking up on you, always there to keep you company. You were already smitten with him but now to actually witness him in the flesh was just... Indescribable. You got along like a house on fire, so much so that the crew liked to tease that you ought to just get a room. Sunday, ever the gentleman, would just brush their words aside and assure you to not take their playful little jabs to heart.

You wouldn't say anything, resorting to merely giving him a smile but not because of what he said but rather of what he did not - never once did he actually shut down those perverse accusations. Never, not even once did he deny them.

He became an emotional crutch, someone to whom you would come running to when things got tough and he would always welcome you with open arms. Sunday would hold you tenderly, his serene voice dripping with honey along with a tender drop of ecstasy, for his excitement with holding you would just show itself sometimes. His grip would be too tight at certain moments, never quite ready to let you leave. His hugs were warm and comforting, he always smelled so good too. He smelled like kindness and sweet wildflowers, always lulling you back to him no matter the time. In dark corners and perhaps even under the watchful eyes of the crew, Sunday would wrap his scarf around your head, securing the soft fabric in order to provide you with a sense of comfort.

It was humiliating just how much you would try to inhale his scent as much as possible. You wanted it etched deep inside your memory, you wished for it to linger on your very soul and for it to follow you everywhere you went, sticking to your being like tar. The fabric of the scarf would muffle your ears a little but someone was always chatting in the background. Be it March bickering with Dan Heng, Mr Yang scolding someone for doing something they were not supposed to, or just Conductor Pom Pom trying to give a speech, all of it was irrelevant.

You were ready to kill whoever would try to pry you away from sweet Sunday. That thought came often which had left you worried - just what kind of person had you become? Regardless, you kept your mouth shut and had no plans of sharing such violent sentiments with anyone, particularly not to the one you held so dear.

When it was time to part for the evening you would bid the crew farewell and wished them a good night. You always made sure to take a few extra seconds with Sunday, just to ease your aching soul. He would tell you to sleep well and would see you in the morning, ready to take on any endeavor that crossed your paths.

As everyone parted ways, Sunday would wander off somewhere dark and distant, somewhere no one could see nor hear him. He would fall to his knees and clutch his chest in agony, fat tears streaming down his face as he did everything he possibly could to steady his raging heart. In a rush he would reach for the scarf which clung around his neck, his grip tighter than iron as he would bring it close to his nose. Taking a large, deep breath, Sunday was greeted by your familiar scent which would promptly calm his poor heart.

He sometimes wondered if his heart would start bleeding from the pain due to the sheer intensity of his emotions.

This was wrong, everything about this was not right and it hurt. Sunday was obviously ill but he had no clue on how to fight this... This emotion, this white hot feeling of need whenever you stood by his side. He started to choke on the air around him and fell into an abrupt coughing fit but even then, he could bring himself to remove the scarf from the lower part of his face.

Sunday wept and sobbed, filthy snot coming out from his nose but he could not handle that now. He needed you, Oh Heavenly Aeons, how he needed you. However was he going to tell you how he felt? How, oh how was he going to express the sheer magnitude of his true thoughts? He would scare you off, he was sure of it.

Even with this pain, even with these clipped wings and bleeding heart, Sunday had never felt so alive, so harrowingly present in the moment whenever he was with you.

Perhaps, he was doing himself a kindness by just letting you be. Drink your tea, be at peace.

He can always just make you another cup if you so desired.

Without knowing, you both haunted each other in the most agonizing way known to mankind and neither was strong enough to face the reality of the situation.

[fushitoru]

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! a nanami kento fic / drabble

cw: nanami kento x reader, a little suggestive maybe, established relationship, fluff, nanami is a green flag but he's just a man, light jealousy / posessiveness, crack, based off this (instagram link). gojo ver here

general masterlist

"Ranking types of hugs I'd be comfortable with another guy giving my girlfriend." 

Kento’s not the type to aimlessly scroll on his phone --- he prefers to be in the present, not deplete “his reserves of dopamine” too quickly, but right now he’s bored. You’ve yet to come from work---you’d texted him you were running late, buying some groceries---so Kento’s laid on the couch looking at his phone. Even though he hates using social media and the rabbit holes that result from said use, he answers your reels and TikToks religiously. After all, he values everything you have to say, even though they are a bit silly.

But just before he could respond to the baby fever videos you sent him----he does have to admit, it’s a bit cute---his screen auto scrolls onto the next piece of 30-second content, and with that, he’s hooked, observing the slots of rankings the filter auto generates for the guy on his screen.

For a bit, he multitasks on looking at the video and reading the comments, then frowns at how possessive they seem. 

catcher hug is 1000 bodies 😭😭

No one is hugging my girl

PUT EVERYTHING AT 11 CUH

a/n lmaoo these are real comments on the link above honestly i love when men are pathetic

Surely, it can’t be that bad … right?

Kento prides himself on being an emotionally mature and secure man. It’s not to say he doesn’t have his own flaws, but while it seems the rest of his gender has fallen to the gym bro gurus and alpha male podcast bros, he’s involved himself in constant communication with you and makes sure to educate himself. 

And yet. He doesn’t know he’s going to almost be on the brink of tears as he opens the filter to try it out by himself.

The filter shuffles, presenting the first option: A back hug.

Kento exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t immediately react, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze. He ranks it a nine.

Then, the next: A slow dance hug.

His jaw tightens. The thought of you in someone else’s arms, swaying under dim lights, your cheek resting against another man’s chest—it’s enough to make something unpleasant curl in his stomach. Ten.

The filter shuffles again. One-armed hug. He sighs through his nose, rubbing his temple. Three. Acceptable. Barely.

e waits, trying to keep his thoughts level, but when the next option rolls in, his grip on his phone tightens. A slow catcher hug.

His face is blank. He blinks once. Twice.

Then, a deep, audible sigh fills the room as he drags a hand down his face, thumb and forefinger pressing against the bridge of his nose.

The image is unwelcome, vivid—someone else catching you, your legs wrapping around their waist, the ease, the familiarity.

His phone clatters onto his chest, and he stares at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw are taut, his lips pressed in a firm line. A moment passes. Then another.

And that’s how you find him—lying on the couch, stiff as a board, staring blankly upwards like he’s contemplating the meaning of life itself.

“Sweetheart?” you call, stepping closer. You set down your groceries, taking in his unusually tense form. He doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, just continues his thousand-yard stare.

“What’s wrong?” you press, now more concerned. “Are you feeling sick?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, still staring at the ceiling. Then, in a voice that’s a little too measured, he finally speaks.

“If another man so much as thinks about catching you in his arms, I’ll break both of them.”

You freeze. Blink.

“… What?”

Finally, he turns his head to look at you, eyes dark and serious, but there’s something almost resigned in his expression—like he knows he’s being ridiculous but can’t bring himself to care. You’re surprised at the turn of events to---it’s unlike him to be so…possessive and droopy. It’s actually really cute---he reminds you uncharacteristically of a wet, droopy dog.

“I don’t like that filter.” His voice is calm, but his fingers twitch slightly where they rest on his stomach. “I don’t like thinking about other men touching you.”

It’s so unlike him—so openly possessive—that you’re momentarily stunned into silence. Then, amusement bubbles up in your chest.

“Did you just get jealous over a TikTok filter?” you tease, stepping closer.

He exhales, slow and long, closing his eyes briefly before muttering, “I was curious. I regret it.”

You bite back a smile, reaching down to brush your fingers against his jaw. He leans into the touch, almost instinctively, before sighing again.

“You’re the only one I want to touch me, Kento.” you reassure, and his lips finally quirk at the edges—barely, but it’s there.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But if I ever see a man standing with his arms open around you…” He exhales one final time, shaking his head before murmuring, “… I can fight.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving to put away the groceries, leaving him lying there, still brooding.

As you walk away, you hear him mutter under his breath, just loud enough to catch:

“Slow catcher hug… ridiculous.”

general masterlist

a/n first time writing for nanami kinda nervous :') i have def areas to improve upon but for the meantime pls accept this <3 thank you for the req cutie !! @girlyuuta choso ver is going to come too :3

[bbokicidal]

SKZ + Oral Fixations/Habits

The boys have some.. filthy habits that have to do with their mouths.

Genre: Suggestive (18+ MDNI) Pairing: OT8 (Individually) x Afab!Reader Warnings: Sexual/Suggestive Behavior, Perv?SKZ I guess, spit related kinks, tongue, eating out mentions, etc. Notes: Take this as a small apology for my brief absence while I was sick. (I still am...)

Chris:

Chris honestly doesn't have a whole lot of bad habits that have to do with his mouth - but he does have a need to constant keep his hands moving which means he picks at his lips. He doesn't peel the skin or damage them at all, lest the company chew his ass out, but it does make you constant look at them. Then again, they're so plush and warm and they taste like mint all of the fucking time - every time you look at them you can't help but remember what they felt like against your skin the night prior when he was sucking hickies onto your chest and moaning out how good you taste when he was between your legs. Brief, pleasant flashbacks that rile you up - all because he touches his lips.

Lino:

Minho doesn't have too many bad habits - other than the fact that he likes to always be sucking on something or chewing gum. When he's chewing gum, it's usually during rehearsal because he'd choke on a hard candy doing all that dancing - So you'll be sitting on the couch filming or watching and your boyfriend is in loose grey sweats, a black tee, and he's pushing his hair back damp with sweat while he chews his stupid little Red Hot gum - and you can't help the way your eyes drift to watch the way his jaw moves so fluidly every time it opens and closes briefly. You've seen it move that smooth before - but that was when he was eating you out and his tongue was fucking into you before he moved to instead suck on your clit and you'd caught a quick glimpse of him from the side in your closet mirror.

Changbin:

Man likes to eat - everything. The way he brings the chopsticks to his lips and the way his arm flexes just briefly every time he does so makes your thighs snap shut where you sit beside him. It reminds you of the way he likes to wrap his arms underneath your thighs when he eats you out - and he always does so, so lazily. Never a bad thing, he just likes to take his time when he's going down on you. And he wouldn't have to wrap his arms around your thighs if you weren't so wriggly with him when he was between your legs. Though, he truly doesn't know just how much you like feeling his muscles tightening around your hips and thighs - and you don't know how much he loves feeling the plush of your thighs trapped in his arms.

Hyunjin:

Hyunjin likes to be expressive - even when he's not trying, he's making faces at everything around him. So when something mildly annoys him or catches his attention in a less-than-pleasant way, the tip of his tongue prods the corner of his mouth while his lips are parted. It's a habit he's had for a long time, something he does right before he laughs when someone is teasing him. A way to show he's mildly irritated but laughing it off. He does it with you, too, and that's how your arguments and disagreements dissipate so quickly; You'll be bickering, you say something that irks him and the second he pushes his tongue against his lips, you fold. He watches the way you slump and melt at the sight and his expression of disapproval turns into a smirk. He knows the way you like his tongue - He knows you melt every time he sucks on your chest as he ruts into you like he's desperate to come all over your gummy walls (He is.) And he'll use that little trick to his advantage every time y'all argue.

Han:

Jisung likes suckers - point blank period. He likes suckers, he likes the taste, he likes the feeling of something in his mouth, he likes twirling the stick between his fingers - and you love the little color ring that stains his lips because it just makes him look oh-so-cute. He's oblivious to the fact that you adore it so much and how cute you think it is; He just really likes sweets and candy is a part of that. There's nothing sexual about it - Jisung just... likes suckers, and you think it's cute that he's kind of messy while eating them. His fingers always get sticky, somehow. (Though.. he does really like the taste of you when the taste of the sucker itself still lingers on his tongue...)

Felix:

Man is NASTY. Nasty, filthy, whore of a man. He's the type of boyfriend who, when comfortable enough, will turn to look at you in the middle of practice and - before anyone can catch him - flicks his tongue out between his index and middle fingers just to make you squirm and giggle. Definitely kinky - definitely likes to suck on his fingers after eating and does it loud just so you hear it - and he does the exact same thing to his fingers after he gets done making you orgasm all over his hand. He'll even lick his rings clean because he knows you like when he keeps them on during sex. Also, he looooves the taste of you - so he's going to be fingering you a lot; Under the table at dinner, cuddling in bed together, even while he games! Honestly, don't sit too close to him or it will end up happening.

Seungmin:

Seungmin gets annoyed relatively easily, and when he does his tongue pushes at the inside of his cheek. It's from annoyance, anger building up, and you know that - but when you express to him that you find it kind of hot he starts to use it in other ways. He does it when you tease him because, yes it annoys him a tiny bit, but he also knows it turns you on. And, he quits sending you texts asking you for BJs. Instead, he'll turn to you and silently push his tongue against his cheek a few times as the gesture - and when you nod he'll get all smiley because he knows he's getting head that night.

I.N:

Jeongin likes to be messy. He sticks his tongue out all the time anyway, he doesn't really need anything in his mouth - including his own spit apparently with how much it ends up on you. He's always leaving wet kisses over you during foreplay, always leaving your nipples slick with his spit because of how much he abuses them with his tongue. And if Jeongin is being a little more mean that night during sex, he'll drag your hips up closer to his face with his arms wrapped under your thighs and stick his tongue out until his spit drips onto your clit. It makes you flinch and whine and beg him to just eat you out already - but he can't help it. He just loves seeing the way it slides between your folds and mixes with your glistening slick. He loves when you're that wet for him. <3

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced/accidental bonding, subjugation

♡ part one

♡ fem reader

Once you wake up in the morning, you feel… changed.

Your body feels full—as though you’d indulged too much last night—heavy and sticky and sore all over. There’s a strange taste in your mouth—sweet, somewhat salty, and metallic. Geez, you’re head’s pounding—how much did you drink last night? No, this feels different from a hangover—more full-bodied than that—a withdrawal of some kind or another. You must have done more at the party than drink, and yet, you can’t remember having stayed there all that long. No, you left with someone. That’s right. You went with… that overgrown Omega.

Oh no.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!”

He comes in only wearing a pair of snug boxers—body stacked with brawn, not a single hint of Omega-like softness aside from his tousled bed hair. There’s a big toothy smile on his face—eyes are creased in cheer while carrying an overfull breakfast tray. You know you’re hungry, and yet you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but sick to your stomach by the horrid sight of his flaunted neck, decorated by a gory ring of your bitemark.

No. No, no, no, no, no! Fuck! “Tell me that’s not what I think it is…”

He laughs lightly with an awkward smile, apologetically scratching the back of his neck while balancing the tray in the other hand. “I’m afraid so…”

The world stops spinning, and for a moment, you think it might actually never start up again. Your throat snares, and you think you might throw up. How the fuck could this happen?

He sets the tray down next to you, then himself. The whole bed takes waves upon his weight. You remain still—eyes unrest and mouth hung.

“Hey, I know this might not be what we had planned, but…” he starts.

But you don’t let him finish before declaring, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

There’s nothing else to do, you think. The red string of fate has tied the two of you together. It’s sealed.

“There is no going back now.”

His face expresses shock, but if you’d taken a closer look, he’d probably not be able to hide it—the overwhelming sensation of victory. Oh, bless your Alpha pride. He knew you would say that.

He smiles softly. “I’m in your care then.”

It’s a work in progress after that—slow in the beginning, but that’s to be expected. You never pegged yourself to be the type who got caught up in the unmendable mistakes of a one-night stand, but then here you were—mated with a stranger, moving into his apartment because it’s bigger and closer to work, sharing the same bed and eating the same meals and helping each other through one another’s ruts and heats.

He's still no closer to being your type. In fact, he’s the total opposite—too giant to give you even a semblance worth of superiority over him. A couple of days ago, when he’d been searching for the remote in the couch you were lying on, he’d taken to pick you up instead of just asking you to move. It was completely humiliating. He’s so brazen, and it’s starting to become clear he’s doing it all on purpose!

He doesn’t get fussy when you state your claim of being the one on top—no, but what he does instead is somehow worse, going along with it with snide praise, grinning up at you, his big hands weighing heavy on your haunches as you roll them, calling you his good girl. It seems to humor him how it angers you—chuckling behind your hands as you layer them both atop his mouth, growling at him to “Shut up!”

No, he doesn’t mind letting you take charge. He rather enjoys the view of watching you ride—working so hard to appease him while he rests pretty and admires your body—all soft edges and plush curves. You tire quickly, though—poor thing, why don’t you leave the rest to him?

You had rejected it the first few times he’d offered. Your bruised pride simply wouldn’t have it—you’d rather you both stop than let him finish you off. But a couple more nights and you’d quicker come around than either of you expected—perhaps worn down by his constant nagging or simply fed up with your own failure—you let him assist by bouncing you on his lap.

You wouldn’t admit it to his face, never, but you’d enjoyed it far more than you could have ever thought…

Thankfully, your face in and of its own glory told him all he needed to know. It didn’t take long before he’d taken full advantage of it, nor for you to begin allowing it without being asked. Soon you were letting him fuck you against the wall, making the entire room shake—wall creaking and shelves rattling, pictures falling down. You hold your tongue and hold on tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him—moaning sweetly right by his ear. Fuck, you even bite him again.

As time passed, you came around to indulging more and more of his antics. Letting him fuck you from behind—hard and heavy and deep—thrusting into you while grappling your waist. You even go down on all fours when he does it—digging your claws into the sheets.

Lying belly-up beneath him still makes you feel nervous—and slightly ashamed—almost convinced something’s wrong with you for liking it. And yet you can’t help it. You know any other Omega wouldn’t fuck you like this. They wouldn’t have the stamina, the drive, or the desire. Not like him, who does it all like it’s his nature even when it shouldn’t be.

Guess you’re both freaks.

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[4linos]

the letter pt. 2

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & miscommunication, emotional cheating undertones.

wc: 8740

[the letter part. 1, the letter part. 3]

Acceptance didn’t come with a sudden epiphany.

It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.

At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.

But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.

You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.

“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”

Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.

You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.

You wanted someone to call yours.

A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.

And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.

But dreams change.

And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.

A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.

You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.

But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.

More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.

Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.

“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”

You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.

Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.

Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.

You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.

This baby was yours.

And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.

At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The letter.

That goddamn letter.

It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.

The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.

Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.

Maybe it was an apology.

Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.

He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.

He was angry.

Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.

So no, he didn’t open it.

He refused to.

The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.

He moved around it. Literally.

Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.

Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.

Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.

Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.

And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

So why write?

What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?

He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

And he didn’t.

Not until he started dreaming about you again.

Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.

He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.

Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.

“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”

He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.

He never meant to lose you.

He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.

The dreams came harder after that.

Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.

If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.

What if it was a goodbye?

What if it was closure?

The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.

Still, he didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because once he did, there���d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.

Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.

Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.

Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.

-

He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.

It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.

But still, he scrolled.

A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.

His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.

Jia’s post.

A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.

Laughing.

Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

You looked happy.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.

And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.

Smiling.

And not at him.

Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.

The drawer creaked.

That drawer.

He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.

He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.

You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.

He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.

The letter rested in his hands.

And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.

A rush of something hot surged in his chest.

Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.

It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.

You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?

His grip tightened.

The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.

He was going to rip it.

Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.

He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.

The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.

But something stopped him.

Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.

What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?

It came quietly. It always did.

Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.

Because something was wrong.

Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.

The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.

And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.

Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.

And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.

And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.

At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.

You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.

But no one told you how lonely it would feel.

How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.

And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.

You weren’t bitter.

You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.

It was Jia who brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.

“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.

“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”

Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”

“No. Chan.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”

Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know that.”

“And emotional.”

“I know, Lana.”

Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”

“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”

“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”

“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”

Reluctantly, Lana agreed.

So now here you were.

Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—

A tap.

Soft. On your shoulder.

You turned.

And there he was.

Chan.

The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.

He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”

The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.

Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.

Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.

You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”

You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”

He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”

That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.

He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.

“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.

Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.

You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”

Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”

“So did I,” you said quietly.

He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.

You felt like you again.

And that… that felt like breathing.

Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.

Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”

Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.

“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”

“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”

“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”

Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”

Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.

You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.

“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”

Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.

“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”

Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”

You nodded. “I could use the walk.”

“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.

“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.

The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.

Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”

He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.

It meant you.

You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.

But you didn’t talk about Jisung.

You didn’t need to.

Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.

Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.

“Have you thought of names yet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”

You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”

Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”

You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”

“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”

You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.

Just care.

And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.

You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.

Just… you.

And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.

Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.

He thought he was finally past it. Past you.

It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.

But then he saw the photo.

You. Laughing.

Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.

You looked so… okay.

That was what struck him the most.

You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.

He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.

The possibility made his stomach twist.

He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.

His hand hovered over it.

Six months.

What if he’d missed something important?

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.

And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?

He could barely breathe.

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.

And he hadn’t listened.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.

The man in the picture.

And that look on your face.

He thought about what it meant.

What it could mean.

And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.

What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?

What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?

He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.

His heart thundered.

The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.

But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.

-

The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.

He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh.

Your laugh.

For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.

It echoed again, closer this time.

He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.

And there you were.

Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

You weren’t alone.

The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.

You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

And it hit Jisung like a truck.

Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Something cracked deep in his chest.

It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.

You had left him and this was why?

You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?

His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.

Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that he needed answers.

Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.

You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.

The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.

For a second, no one said anything.

You stared at each other.

The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.

You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”

But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.

The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.

“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.

Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”

Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”

The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.

“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”

Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.

“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.

“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”

“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.

He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.

“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.

Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.

“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”

Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.

You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.

“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.

You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.

You didn’t mention the letter.

You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.

And he still had no idea what he had missed.

All he knew now was this:

You had moved on.

And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.

You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.

At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.

You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.

Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.

You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:

Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.

You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.

The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you’d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.

It felt good. Almost normal.

You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.

“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.

“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”

You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—

You heard your name.

That voice.

That damn voice.

Your body went cold.

It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.

You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.

Jisung.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.

And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.

He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.

Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.

And you saw it.

The flicker of realization.

He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.

The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.

You hadn’t even told him it was his.

You didn’t want to.

Not like this.

Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.

The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.

And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.

You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.

And you meant it.

When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.

You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.

Because if you did, you knew it would break you.

You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.

Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.

He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Your lip trembled.

And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.

But then the tears came.

Without warning.

You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.

Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.

You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.

All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.

The betrayal of being forgotten.

The fear of being a single mother.

The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.

You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.

He just held you. Like you needed.

Like you deserved.

Like Jisung never did.

It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.

Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.

You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.

He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.

The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.

When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.

Chan didn’t seem to mind.

He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.

“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then… you laughed.

Just a little.

Soft and tired, but real.

You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.

“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.

You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.

You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”

That was all you needed to say.

He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”

You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”

Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”

You looked down at your stomach.

The guilt crept in again, slowly.

The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.

“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Chan looked over.

“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”

You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.

“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”

He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.

Because that didn’t matter. Not now.

Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”

You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.

And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.

He made you feel like you weren’t broken.

Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.

Still worthy of being held.

Still worthy of being chosen.

It had been hours since he saw you.

Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.

But it was still echoing.

Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.

You were pregnant.

And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.

And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.

He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.

He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the envelope.

The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.

He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.

For a moment, his hand trembled.

He could read it.

He could finally read it.

But then his mind flashed back to earlier.

The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.

And then came the anger.

All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.

His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.

“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”

He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.

He needed it to be true.

Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…

No.

He couldn’t think about that.

Couldn’t handle it.

So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.

And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.

The sound that left his throat was ugly.

Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

He didn’t even feel like he was crying.

But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.

You were gone.

You had moved on.

And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.

And still… he didn’t know the truth.

Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.

He sat like that for a long time.

The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.

Because the truth, the real truth was gone now.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[the letter taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets ..]

[luveline]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

[shujichii]

he was used to getting you flowers.

be it a bouquet of your favorite flower, a delicate blossom tucked into your hair with reverence, a pink camelia in your favorite vase whenever you got sick— or a forget me not awaiting you on your shared bedside table whenever you needed some time to yourself, as if to say, take your time. i love you and i'm not going anywhere.

he may or may not have ended up investing in flower language solely for you. it was another way of expressing his love for you in that quiet, tender way— yet no less devoted.

but never in a million years had he imagined that he'd be standing before you after returning home—his beloved wife—one day, presenting a single flower to him after a sweet greeting, the petals adorning his favorite shade, all while looking up at him with a playful smile but affectionate gaze—the soft light of the living room adding a gentle glow to your features.

for a moment he was… stunned. unmoving— struggling to find the right words.

“for… me?” he asked at last, voice quieter than he intended for it to be.

you clutched the flower to your chest, mock-hurt. “what, don't tell me you don't like it? that's a shame..”

he exhaled in what could've almost been a chuckle, the corners of his lips unmistakably twitching.

“...but why? you didn't have to.”

you shook your head in disapproval. “don't be silly, baby. guys deserve flowers every once in a while, too, y’know.” you grinned up at him, taking his hand in your own before placing the flower on his palm, gently closing his fingers around it with your own. “it's yours now.”

he stared at you for a moment before his gaze dropped down to your hand clasped around his, the flower resting in between.

perhaps he shouldn't have been this surprised over receiving a flower. it wasn't a concept he'd ever thought of applying to himself, and yet here you were, giving him a flower like it was the most natural and obvious thing to do.

“that thought never crossed my mind, but.. thank you, love.”

he took the hand you were holding his with and lifted it to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. you laughed softly, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek in return before ushering him inside for dinner, all while the flower stayed in his grasp. gentle and reverent.

it was light in weight, yet heavy in its meaning.

he'd placed the flower in a vase on top of his desk, serving as a constant reminder of you whenever he was working. he'd find himself spacing off while staring at it, his lips subconsciously curving into a soft smile when he recalled the ghost of your warmth lingering on his skin from the night you placed the flower in his palm. it continued—until he noticed that it was starting to wilt.

and he simply couldn't let that happen. not when you were the one who gave it to him.

so one night, when you'd already gone to bed, he found himself carefully pressing the petals to his journal— where your reminder would lie within, safely tucked away with care.

and you had no clue about it until one day, you saw a petal peeking out from his journal while he was writing down on it with those familiar, elegant strokes.

“wait… is that—”

his movements stilled.

he didn't say anything.

just cleared his throat, lowered his head just a bit more and continued writing all while the tips of his ears turned a delightful shade of red.

because what could he say?

yes, he did keep it. because anything from you was meant to be treasured.

♡ zayne, sylus, xavier, nanami kento, geto suguru, diluc, neuvillette, wriothesley, calcharo, jiyan, uchiha itachi, hyuga neji, ishida ryuken, kuchiki byakuya, jugram haschwalth, ishida uryuu, tomioka giyuu, tsugikuni yoriichi, lucifer, barbatos, your favorite.

[sourle]

Oneshot n Headcanons

WARNINGS: There might be smelling mistakes/mispronouns/ooc. I apologize in advance for those.

Enjoy the show.

You wish you weren't brought into this hell, Looping for eternity for the joy of torturing. Was this really the karma for the things you did in your past?

Was this all just a sick joke as a payback from them?

You don't know.

You wish you could take it back and wouldn't end up here. Being chased around like some kind of toy all for entertainment for the.. killers. You're luckily not alone.. but… they're not all better.

After they know what you did, they turn their back on you. More often than not, they never help you whenever you're in a struggle.

Ignoring you completely.

You hate it, you don't like it. It's what makes the loop hell WORSE.

The way the other survivors treat you. Elliot never bothered to offer you a pizza. Shedletsky would just watch you getting chased alongside Guest. HECK, even 007n7 ignored you COMPLETELY.

It was exhausting, especially when all you wanted was a new beginning. Without the constant nagging of what you did.

You approached Taph, tapping him on his shoulder. “Hey— May I ask you something?—”

“🧍‍♂️🤷‍♂️👉👷‍♂️❓” (I don't know as well, maybe you should ask Builderman) You nod at his answer, giving him a thumbs up and left. Glancing back to see he gave you a thumbs up as well.

You next walked up to Noob, “Sorry to bother you… but do we have a plan for the next match?—”

Upon hearing your voice they flinched, they didn't seem to hear you but he just nodded quickly. “Y-you should ask Builderman about it, I'm s-sure he has m-more.. information.”

You watch as they speed walk away, slipping a bit.

You brushed his silly actions and went to find Builderman. He is outside the cabin with Shedletsky, seemingly in a conversation as Builderman checks over his new invention.

You approach the two and once you get closer, they turn their attention to the footsteps coming closer.

Shedletsky looks.. rather wary, whilst Builderman has that unreadable expression. You hope that's not hatred.

“Uhm— Hey, Builderman.. Can I ask about the next upcoming match’s plan?”

He didn't answer you outrightly other than letting out a sigh. A small silence overtook before Shedletsky finally spoke up, “We're still trying to figure out who's going to be picked next. Though I believe you won't be picked. Luckily.”

That smidge of disappointment in the last word already says you're not welcome in their presence. You hum with a nod, bidding farewell they didn't respond to and left.

You sat in the living room of the cabin, staring into the fireplace, waiting for the match to start to explore more of the camp, place, whatever people call the area around the cabin.

You don't know what else to do to spend the time, you've got no one to talk to as of now. You've already asked if there's a plan— like every other time before a match. And you can't think of doing anything else.

You might try and find Dusekkar for a small chat, but even so he will, like others, find an excuse to get away from you.

What are you, some kind of plague infected robloxian?

No matter, you'll just wait for the match whilst watching the endless fireplace.

Headcanons

Survivors

Noob

They don't hate you. More so terrified of your capabilities, judging from your past.

Would avoid you every chance they can.

They did try to push away their fear go try and bond with you, maybe. But Guest held him back for 'caution'

Elliot

He hates you. Deeply.

He's frustrated towards what you did to his workplace. Outright unforgivable.

Does not trust you one bit.

REFUSE to heal you even as you're low.

Shedletsky

He's wary. Does not trust you.

Would often watch you from afar though never try and make a conversation with you.

He does not hate you.. maybe a little bit.

Only helps you when it's only you two left alive.

Builderman

Hatred.

He's seething whenever he sees you.

Never tells you where the sentry or dispenser is at. Leaving you wounded most times.

Definitely is the one who told Dusekkar to never help you when you're chased.

Dussekkar

He doesn't hate you. Just a smidge of dislike. Though he does love to talk to you. Once in a while.

Is curious how you are able to do what you've done in the past

The closest to neutral.

Doesn't mind you, though he can't say anything for the others. Especially Builderman.

Chance (pink day Chance yass)

THE MOST NEUTRAL

Like Dusekkar, he doesn't hate you or dislike you.

The closest you think as a friend in the hell.

They do enjoy talking with you!

Though he can't ignore what you've done in the past.

They does help you, Often!

Maybe the only one who helps. Or is he? (Vsauce music started playing)

Two time

Thinks you're a demon coming for them.

Will watch you like a hawk.

They tried to sacrifice you once. Though Taph stops him by knocking him out.

Also tried to give you to the killer aka Jason. Jason ended up targeting Two time.

Guest 1337

He's neutral. Just distrustful of you in every aspect.

He has respect for your.. powerful doing in the past. Though he can't say he's not wary of your capabilities.

The second most to help you. Even though most of it is just him watching you getting chase.

Taph

He actually likes you.

You both would talk often and he loves teaching you sign language!

You both have the closest bond, aka best friend!

He does not care about your past, it's the past after all.

007n7

No emotions.

He sees himself in you.

He understands what you're going through.

Thought.

He respects you for your determination.

Often leaves medkit or bloxy cola near your spawn place.

He does give it to you directly. Once. Elliot glaring at him, whispering he needed it more than you as he can't heal himself.

Chance shut Elliot down by mentioning how he doesn't heal you at all.

Killers

1x1x1x1

She's intrigued by your past.

Though he doesn't care and would kill you whenever.

They would often leave you as the last man standing. Though you don't understand why.

John doe

Absolutely doesn't care.

L + Ratio. Die.

c00lkid

Thinks what you did was cool!

He's impressed how you have done it.

Would often target you first to see if you're as powerful as the story his father told you about.

Fond of you. Somehow.

Jason

He pity you. He does.

He knows how it feels to be an outcast.

Would leave you as last man standing everytime. Though sometimes he lets you win.

Hey at least another killer friend other than a child.

Masioso

He has heard stories of what you did.

Intrigued and impressed.

Though he doesn't understand how you ended up in the hit list. He doesn't remember you doing anything about debt. Meh, you're name in the list anyway.

Azure

He doesn't understand why almost all the survivors hate you.

Even as he feels sorry, he's still going to kill you.

Noli

Thinks what you did in the past are bullshit.

He does not care what so ever.

Though he did tease you about your past, despite not believing it happened, before chasing you.

Guest 666

He doesn't really care.

He tried to feel sorry for you from seeing how the survivors avoided you. But he's careless.

He's a monster. Not a villain.

Note: woah, What's this? I finally uploaded something other than reblogs? Mwehehhe

Anyway if you guys want more, please send it a request of what I should do next.. like a scenario for this Oneshot hcs story.. like maybe Reader trying to bond, how they react to this, that, etc.

Bye now ty for reading!

[othernightslikethis]

AFTER HOURS

Kim Taeyeon x Male Reader.

A little anguish, age gap, bf x gf, smut

7,1k words

Kim Taeyeon wasn’t just your mother’s best friend. She was part of the fabric of your life, a constant presence that seemed to have existed forever. The aunt who wasn’t related by blood but who scolded you when you talked back. The woman who made three-tiered cakes for birthdays, who remembered the names of your third cousins and always knew what gift you wanted before even you did.

She was the loudest laugh at Sunday barbecues, the lap you ran to when you fell off your bike, the shoulder your mother leaned on when she was sad. She was there when you broke your arm jumping off the school roof, holding your hand in the hospital while your mother was busy filling out emergency forms. She was there at your high school graduation, shouting your name louder than anyone, eyes shining with pride. She was there on that holiday in Jeju, when she showed up in a wine-red bikini that made your father immediately look away, flustered. You were fourteen at the time, and you saved the photo on your phone with a heat in your cheeks you couldn’t name.

She was perfect. Untouchable. She glowed in a way you didn’t know if it was because she was too much of an adult or simply unlike any woman you’d ever seen.

And that was exactly why... she was completely off-limits.

It happened on a stifling summer afternoon, the kind where the heat seeped through the cracks in the windows and the house itself seemed to sigh, slow and lazy. Your mother had gone to visit your sick grandmother in Busan, leaving you home alone for a few days. Taeyeon showed up unannounced, a bottle of soju in hand and a vulnerability in her expression you’d never seen before.

"Another weekend alone..." she said, kicking off her shoes in the corner of the living room. The divorce was still fresh, and even though she smiled, you could see the broken pieces behind her eyes.

You offered to keep her company. Turned on the fan, put on some soft music, poured the drinks. One drink became two, two became three. She laughed more than usual, tossed her hair to the side, and let her arm brush against yours every time she said something funny.

"You understand me in a way no one else does," she murmured, her finger tracing the rim of her glass.

You don’t remember who leaned in first. Only the silence between one breath and the next, the suspended moment before the touch. The taste of her lipstick was berries and alcohol. The scent of her perfume—expensive, subtle, unforgettable—lingered on your skin. Her fingers were cold, but her hands were warm, nervous, determined. The shock in her eyes when she realised what you were doing was real. But she didn’t stop.

"This is wrong..." she whispered between kisses, even as her fingers undid your shirt buttons with a urgency that betrayed any hesitation.

"I know..." was the last coherent thing you managed to say.

That night, everything collapsed and revealed itself at the same time.

After the first time came the guilt. Thick, suffocating, like a blanket too heavy for summer. You avoided mirrors, ignored her messages, tried to convince yourself it was a mistake that wouldn’t happen again.

But then she texted.

"Are you okay?"

And the truth was: you weren’t.

The meetings started again, like an inevitable relapse. First quick coffees, flimsy excuses. A movie here, a lift there. Hands "accidentally" touching. Laughter that lasted longer than it should. Until the meetings lost any pretence of innocence.

You were sleeping together. In roadside motels, in the backseat of her car, once in her architecture office with the lights off and the blinds drawn. She moaned against your shoulder, biting your skin to keep from crying out too loud. And you? You lived for those moments. For that body, that woman, that dangerous, addictive secret.

But it wasn’t just sex. It was the way she knew you. Knew you hated kimchi. Knew you got anxious before interviews. Knew you listened to classical music when you were sad.

It was the care. The tenderness in small gestures. The dinner she cooked for you on days you didn’t want to get out of bed. Her fingers in your hair when you said the world was too hard. The comfortable silence between you.

And then it happened:

You fell in love.

It was a stupid mistake. A careless slip. You left your phone on the kitchen table while you showered. It was unlocked. A message came through.

"I can’t hide it anymore. I love you."

Your mother read it.

The silence that followed was absolute. A chasm. She looked at you as if you were a stranger. As if she’d just discovered her son was someone else entirely.

"How could you?" was all she managed to say, eyes red, hands shaking as she gripped the phone so tightly it looked ready to snap.

She slammed the door on her way out, and the sound echoed like a gunshot.

Taeyeon tried to explain. Called, messaged, showed up at the door. Your mother ignored her as if she were dead. Their mutual friends turned away. Your mother’s brother stormed in, furious, threatening to involve lawyers.

She was painted as the villain. And you as the victim. The manipulated one.

"She took advantage of you," your father said, refusing to meet your eyes.

And for a while, you believed it.

Two years passed.

Nothing was easy. You lost friends. She lost her reputation. Your mother drowned in bitter silence, and your father just avoided you. But time, stubborn, kept moving forward.

The messages between Taeyeon and your mother started getting replies. First with terse punctuation. Then short sentences. An "ok." A "got it." Later, a cold but human "thanks."

Your father still wouldn’t look at her, but he stopped making venomous jokes when you mentioned her. A small victory.

And the two of you? You moved in together. A new flat, in another neighbourhood, far from prying eyes and old memories. A fresh start. Taeyeon began smiling again, lighter, as if she’d learned to carry the pain without letting it weigh her down. You learned to cook for her. She started buying too many books and stacking them on the shelves.

On Sunday mornings, she still danced barefoot in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in hand, hair messy, spinning to the music as sunlight streamed through the window.

She danced as if the whole world had finally allowed her to be happy.

And, watching her, you knew: none of it was a mistake.

---

The atmosphere in the house had shifted—subtly at first, but now it was impossible to ignore. The walls felt colder, the rooms quieter, as if even the air carried a faint discomfort. The home that had once been Taeyeon’s refuge had become a glass prison, where everything was visible, yet nothing was truly spoken.

Her parents *tolerated* her—that was the word. They tolerated her presence, her measured words, her forced smiles. But when they looked at you, there was something different in their gaze. A glimmer of admiration—not for who you were, but for what you represented. Youth. Beauty. Vigour. And the comparison was inevitable.

Every comment, every masked joke, every prolonged silence between sentences carried an implicit message: "You're not enough."

"You're so handsome. So young... What on earth did she do to win you over?"

"She must have some secret, right? Blackmail? Or is it the money?"

"Not that she's ugly... but let's be honest."

Taeyeon heard it all. Every word cut through her chest like ground glass. She smiled, made jokes in return, pretended not to care. But her eyes… her eyes told a different story. And you saw it. Because you recognised that spark. Or rather, you remembered when it was there. Now, all that remained was the reflection of someone trying to resist drowning in emotional wreckage.

Her friends didn’t help. At meet-ups or coffee dates, their compliments dripped with poison:

"He’s a Greek god, Taeyeon. Seriously, how did you manage it? Does he like women who are... older?

"Oh, you’ve always been good at winning hearts, haven’t you? Even with that age gap. I could never."

And she smiled. Pressed her lips together. Changed the subject. But you saw how she withdrew a little more with each remark. As if she were shrinking.

Your own friends, at first, were cruel. Called her a "milf", made crude jokes, laughed at absurd insinuations about her "dominating you in bed" or "manipulating you with experience." You argued, fought, cut some of them off. Eventually, they fell silent. But the damage was already done. And Taeyeon felt it.

---

Her shift was subtle. It began with small gestures.

She still said "good morning", but without looking at you.

Still kissed your forehead, but her lips trembled.

Still smiled, but not with her eyes.

The warmth of her body, once always pressed against yours at night, began to retreat. Little by little, she started sleeping turned away, inching closer to the edge of the bed. You reached out to hold her, but she curled in on herself, as if your touch burned.

Mornings became silent routine. She woke before you and slipped away without a sound. Came home late, smelling of stale coffee and exhaustion. Her makeup faded, her gaze hollow. And when she entered the bedroom, she changed in the dark, lay down without a word, turned the other way—and slept.

You tried to talk. Tried to coax out smiles. But she pulled back. She was there… but she was gone.

And a doubt gnawed at you: Was there someone else?

But you knew Taeyeon. Knew the pain she carried from her ex-husband’s betrayal. Knew how even the smallest lie shattered her.

She wasn’t cheating.

She was crumbling.

---

The night was warm, but the bedroom felt frozen. You came home from work, showered, and lay down. She was already there, motionless. Facing away. The silence was absolute. You tried to touch her, but she only pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders.

You stayed awake for hours, tossing, trying to understand how things had come to this.

Then you felt the mattress dip slightly. Taeyeon rose with quiet steps, as if begging the universe not to make a sound. The bedroom door creaked faintly, and she vanished into the hallway.

You waited. Something in your chest screamed that you shouldn’t ignore this.

You got up. Went downstairs. And found her.

She was curled on the living room sofa, folded into herself as if trying to disappear. Her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

Her sobs were muffled, desperate, as if crying in silence was her last attempt not to break completely.

You froze for a moment. The sight of her like that was something you’d never forget.

"Love...?"

She flinched, hastily wiping her face with her pyjama sleeves. Her expression was pure panic, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

"W—what are you doing awake?" her voice hoarse, weak, broken.

It was the first time in weeks she’d looked you straight in the eye. But something inside her was shattered.

You moved closer, sat beside her. She recoiled instinctively, like a wounded animal. But you took her hand—and felt it.

The tremor. The fear. The vulnerability.

"Taeyeon... talk to me, please."

She hesitated. Her lips parted, but no words came. Until the weight became too much. The fortress she’d built with such effort collapsed.

"I... I can’t do this anymore..." she whispered between sobs.

And then she broke. Collapsed into your arms as if that embrace were the last anchor between her and the abyss.

She wept with her whole body. Her hands clutched at you, fingers digging into your chest as if trying to fuse with you. Tears soaked your shirt, but you didn’t care. You just held her, pressing her close, rocking her like a wounded child.

"You should end this. I'm trying to push you away, damn it, but why do you keep coming back?"

Her voice trembled, thick as if every word were caught in a throat crushed under the weight of guilt. It was a rough whisper, fragile, yet loaded with a fierce desperation. It sounded as though she were begging to be left behind—yet at the same time, begging for you to stay.

Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, as if her entire body were fighting to hold itself back, resisting the natural urge to throw herself into your arms. She kept them rigid at her sides, as though trying to keep her soul from escaping her flesh.

The tears no longer came in sobs, but in silence. They had grown accustomed to flowing—two gleaming rivers down her pale skin, trailing her face like open wounds. The shirt she wore was stained in uneven patches of sorrow, as if grief had left footprints on her chest.

"It’s not fair… I ruined your life…"

Those words were whispered against you, like a confession she hated to voice aloud. She pressed her forehead to your chest, as if the weight of everything was too much to bear standing. You felt the damp heat of her tears seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and the muffled sound of her ragged breathing hitting your body like a plea for forgiveness.

Her shoulders shook—not just from pain, but from shame. From fear. And from a love so immense it hurt.

You reacted instinctively. Your hands rose slowly, trying to wrap around her shoulders, to pull her close. To shield her from the world and, if possible, from herself. But she flinched at the slightest touch, as if your affection were a burning ember rather than a refuge.

"Don’t. Don’t lie to me…"

Her voice was weak, like a breath of wind on the verge of vanishing. "I’m old, and—God… how did I not see it before? My friends were right. You’re only with me out of pity, aren’t you? You’re afraid to leave this old woman!"

That word—old—slipped from her lips like a blade, sharp and cruel. And the worst part was, she seemed to have driven that knife into herself. Her lips quivered. She bit them, hard, as if punishing herself. As if she deserved to suffer for daring to love you, for believing, even for a second, that it was possible.

"Taeyeon. You’re perfect."

Your voice cut through the air, firm, charged with a fierce intensity. You held her carefully, your fingers trembling with emotion, and gently pulled her away from your chest, forcing her to look at you. Not with brutality—but with love. With urgency.

Her face was swollen from crying. Her eyes, red like two weary suns, yet still beautiful. There was a desperate glimmer in them, as if searching for something in you—perhaps a reason to stay, perhaps confirmation that they were wrong.

And you gave it to her.

Because there, right in front of you, Kim Taeyeon was still stunning.

Stunning even with her smudged mascara casting shadows under her eyes. Stunning even with her nose red from crying. Stunning in the depths of pain, in the chaos of insecurity, in the abyss of fear. Stunning because she was her.

"Do you really think I care about age?" Your voice dropped an octave, like thunder rolling in to shield the land. "Do you honestly believe I’d be here if I didn’t want you more than anything?"

She tried to look away, as if afraid to find the truth in your eyes, but you wouldn’t let her. With a gentle touch, your thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away a stubborn tear that refused to stop falling. You leaned in even closer, closing the space between you like someone refusing any distance.

"I don’t want anyone but you, Taeyeon. Not someone younger. Not someone older. Not anyone. Just you."

Those words seemed to dismantle the defences she had built with such effort.

"One day, you’ll meet a girl your age and leave me. I know it."

Her voice came out like a lost child trying to shield herself from inevitable pain. But there was also a sliver of hope, barely perceptible—as if, deep down, she wanted you to prove her wrong.

You laughed. Low. Warm. A laugh that carried affection, but also disbelief.

"And you’ll meet someone your age and leave me."

Her eyes widened.

"What?! Of course I wouldn’t!"

You smiled. That smile she always claimed to hate because it "made you too smug," but secretly adored.

"See? That argument doesn’t make sense. Baby. I’m with you now. And you’re the one I want. Don’t let anyone—not even yourself—try to change that."

She looked at you. Really looked. Her eyes brimming with tears, but this time, with something new behind them: hope. Vulnerability. Love. A raw love, stripped of glamour, born in the mud of pain and watered with real promises.

And then she whispered:

"Then promise me. Give me a… big, big kiss."

Her voice faltered at the end, almost a nervous laugh between tears. It was so genuine, so absurdly adorable that you couldn’t resist.

Adorable. That’s what you thought.

And then you leaned in and pressed your lips to hers—not like someone kissing an insecure woman, but like someone sealing a sacred vow. A kiss without hurry, full of truth, saying everything words never could.

When your lips parted, you already knew exactly what you wanted.

Your kisses trailed down, slow and deliberate, from her mouth to her jaw, then to her neck, where you left a discreet mark—just enough to make her shudder. She writhed beneath your touch, her hands gripping the sheets tightly, as if clinging to something solid to keep from losing herself completely. Until now, you had never taken control like this—she had always preferred to be on top, dictating the pace, and only now did you understand why: she was afraid of seeming vulnerable.

It was adorable.

Your fingers unbuttoned her pyjama shirt, one by one, exposing her soft skin to the cold air of the bedroom. She arched her back involuntarily, a shiver running through her as the fabric slid off her shoulders. You didn’t let her adjust to the temperature—your lips were already wrapped around one of her breasts, your tongue tracing slow circles before sucking firmly.

She screamed.

"I-if you keep this up, I swear you’ll be sleeping on the sofa for—"

You didn’t let her finish. Your fingers found the other nipple, twisting it lightly, and her protest dissolved into a loud, trembling moan. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breath quickened, and you smirked against her skin.

This was your woman.

And you would make sure she remembered she deserved to be treated like a queen.

"What’s the matter, mummy? Not enjoying yourself?"

She turned her face away, her cheeks burning with shame. At first, she had hated that name, but you’d noticed long ago how her muscles tensed less each time you called her that. How her moans grew louder. How her hips pressed against your hand whenever the word slipped from your lips.

Your kisses trailed lower, leaving a damp trail down her flawless abdomen. You could spend hours there—nipping, licking, worshipping every inch of that smooth skin. But you had other plans.

When your hands gripped the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, she hesitated, her fingers tangling in your hair in a mix of protest and plea.

"I-I can’t let you—"

You didn’t give her a choice. With one firm motion, you tore the fabric apart, relishing the satisfying sound of the elastic giving way.

"HEY, THAT WAS MY FAVOURITE!"

You ignored her. It was a lie. She had a wardrobe full of identical pyjamas. Besides, this was about something far more important.

In all your years together, she had never let you go down on her. There was a deep-rooted guilt in her, an old-fashioned belief that a decent wife shouldn’t allow something so indecent. You suspected that was why she’d rarely climaxed with her ex-husband.

But you weren’t him.

Your finger slid along her entrance, finding her absolutely soaked, and she arched her back with a ragged moan. You didn’t make her wait—your tongue found her clit in one firm stroke, and her scream echoed through the room.

"NO—YOU CAN’T— AAAAHWN~!"

She tried to close her legs, but you held her hips firmly, keeping her spread open. Within seconds, she was already trembling, her fluids dripping down your chin as she writhed, unable to form words.

She couldn’t hold back.

Her body was already at its limit, her thighs shaking uncontrollably as your tongue worked in a relentless rhythm. You knew exactly how she liked it—steady pressure, then quick, flickering strokes, just enough to drive her to the edge of desperation.

"S-stop… I’m gonna… NO, WAIT—"

But it was too late.

A hot gush spilled from her, coating your chin, your lips, dripping down the fingers still holding her open. She screamed, a raw, broken sound, her entire body convulsing in violent spasms. You didn’t stop—byou sucked, drank every drop, and she sobbed, her fingers buried in your hair, tugging wildly.

"I CAN’T… I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE… PLEASE—"

But you kept going, pushing her straight into another peak, even more intense than the first. This time, she couldn’t even form words—just high-pitched whimpers, her legs shaking, the wet sound of your tongue against her filling the room.

When you finally pulled away, she was gasping, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes glazed over. You sat up, licking your lips slowly, and she covered her face with her hands, embarrassed.

"You… you’re insufferable."

You smirked, pulling her into a deep kiss, letting her taste herself on your lips.

"So you squirt? Fuck, can you stop getting sexier, Kim Taeyeon? At this rate, I’ll have to knock you up."

She visibly shuddered at the idea, and then you grinned. Ah. So that was what she wanted? To carry your child?

Your fingers found her entrance again, this time two fingers plunging deep inside her heat while your mouth recaptured her swollen clit. She screamed, her body caught between the mattress and your dominance—completely at your mercy now.

"See how wet you get for me?" You murmured against her skin, feeling her walls clench around your fingers. "All this mess just for me… my greedy little wife."

She tried to muffle her moans with her hands, but you pinned her wrists above her head, holding them with one hand while the other continued its relentless work. Precise curls, deep thrust, the obscene sound of her slickness filling the air. You felt the moment her muscles started trembling again—she was so close…

"Come." You ordered, nipping at her thigh. "Squirt again. Now."

Your command shattered something in her. With a muffled scream, another gush burst from her, even more intense than before, spilling over your hand, dripping onto the sheets beneath. Her body jerked as if electrocuted, her eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure completely overwhelmed her.

You didn’t give her time to recover. In one fluid motion, you lifted her hips and buried your tongue deep inside her, drinking every drop as she thrashed.

"STOP! I… I CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE…!" She sobbed, her legs trembling violently.

You lifted your face, your chin glistening with her. "Liar." You smirked, lining your throbbing length with her dripping entrance. "You can take so much more."

And with one sharp thrust, you sheathed yourself to the hilt, her eyes widening as one last weak spurt escaped between your joined bodies.

"That’s… that’s too…!" She couldn’t form sentences, her nails digging into your back.

You started moving, each thrust calculated to grind against that perfect spot inside her. "Say it. Say what you are."

She shook her head, resisting, but her body betrayed her—growing wetter, tighter around you.

You slowed your pace, nearly pulling out completely before slamming back in. "Say it."

"Y-YOUR… YOUR WHORE…!" She screamed, and you felt her walls begin to clench again.

That was all you needed to hear.

Gripping her hips, you fucked her mercilessly now, the sound of skin against skin, her cries, your own growls—all blending together as you drove her to the edge once more.

Until you stopped. You flipped her onto her stomach, your hands firm on her hips as you pulled her up, leaving her on all fours on the sofa. She tried to protest, but you were already sliding into her from behind, a rough groan escaping your throat as you filled her completely.

"N-no… like this it’s… too—"

Deep. That’s what she meant to say, but the words were lost as you started moving, each thrust aimed at that spot that made her see stars. Her hands clawed at the sheets, her knuckles white from the strain, as you controlled the pace—slow and cruel at first, then faster, until the wet slap of skin dominated the room.

She tried to brace herself on her arms, but you pulled her back, her spine pressed against your chest, one hand wrapped around her throat while the other slid down to rub her clit in quick circles.

"You’re not running now, princess."

She screamed, her entire body shaking, and you felt her walls pulsing around you, clenching as if trying to milk every inch. You didn’t stop—you couldn’t stop—pumping into her as she remained oversensitive, each movement wrenching another moan from her.

When you finally dropped her back onto the sofa, she was completely boneless, her breath ragged, her eyes unfocused. But you weren’t done.

You lifted her, wrapping your arms around her as you pressed her against the wall, her legs locking around your waist.

"Hold on."

She obeyed, her arms looping around your neck, and you sank into her again, **even deeper this time**, the angle perfect for wringing another scream from her.

"O-oh God… like this I… I’m gonna—"

And she did.

Another gush, even more intense than the first, spilling down your thighs as you kept moving, relentless. She buried her face in your shoulder, her teeth sinking into your skin to muffle her cries, but you wanted to hear her.

"No one else will ever make you feel like this."

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears—happy ones this time.

"You only cry like this for me, understand, you slut?"

"U-uhuh! Oh yes, fuck, I’m gonna break, baby I’m gonna..."

You laid her on her back at the edge of the sofa, her legs bent against her chest, exposing her completely as you stood, gripping her ankles. She tried to cover herself, but you pinned her wrists above her head, quickly binding them with her own pyjama top.

"Y-You’re not going to—"

But you were already inside.

The penetration was brutally deep at this angle—every stroke grinding directly against her G-spot, the tip of you hitting a place that made her eyes roll back. She tried to speak, but only a choked "Nhgn—!" escaped, her fingers twisting in the makeshift restraints.

You gripped her hips and lifted her into the air, using her thighs as leverage to slam her back onto you with each thrust—blike a medieval catapult breaking through castle walls.

"S-STOP! I’M GONNA— CUMM—"

She didn’t finish.

Her body arched violently, a transparent gush spraying uncontrollably as you kept pounding, using her slickness to slide even faster. The sight was obscene—her stomach trembling with each impact, her breasts bouncing wildly, her expression completely lost in pleasure.

Then you changed positions, untying her hands, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, your hands gripping her thighs as you pressed her against the wall. She had no support. Her feet didn’t touch the ground, her arms clung desperately to your neck, and you felt her racing heartbeat against your chest.

"Y-You’re going to drop me…"—her voice was a breathless whisper, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and pure arousal.

You answered by thrusting deeper.

She shrieked as you buried yourself in one stroke, the angle brutally perfect. Every movement now controlled not just her pleasure, but her very breath—when you lifted her higher, she writhed; when you let her slip down slightly, her legs tightened around you, begging for more.

"I-I can’t… think…"

That was the point.

You used her as you pleased—lifting and lowering her body in your rhythm, feeling her grow tighter, more desperate. When your fingers found her clit, she lost control—another hot gush spilled between you, and she buried her face in your shoulder, crying from sheer ecstasy.

You didn’t stop. Not until she trembled endlessly, her legs too weak to hold on, her entire body ruled by your movement.

When you finally couldn’t hold back any longer, you buried yourself deep and emptied weeks of pent-up seed into her womb, and Taeyeon could do little more than whimper and twitch helplessly through another mini-orgasm—this one not quite as loud.

When you laid her back on the sofa, exhausted, you realised she had simply passed out from all that overstimulation.

---

Six months ago, your life had been turned upside down—in the best way possible. Taeyeon, your Taeyeon, was finally back in your arms. After so much time apart, you had both decided to face your insecurities together, diving headfirst into therapy. And to your surprise, she was taking it seriously—more seriously than you ever thought possible. She read books about relationships, jotted down reflections in a journal, and sometimes even initiated deep conversations in the middle of the night when anxiety struck.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared you for the whirlwind that was her pregnancy.

When those two little lines appeared on the test, your heart nearly burst with happiness. A little girl. Your little girl. You had even already chosen a name—Ha-eun—and agreed to get married when she turned three, giving yourselves time to adjust your lives, careers, and, most importantly, for Taeyeon to feel secure again.

But the pregnancy brought with it a Taeyeon who could switch between angel and devil in a matter of seconds.

She would laugh at a silly meme on her phone, and the next second, she’d be crying because you "breathed too loudly" and it "deeply bothered her." Once, she flew into a rage because you "chewed a biscuit too aggressively," and ten minutes later, she was clinging to you, apologising while licking the salty tears off your face.

If she used to love your scent, now, all it took was you approaching her after work for her to wrinkle her nose and say in disgust, "You reek of man." And worse—if she was having a bad day, just seeing you made her nauseous. Once, you walked into the bedroom, and she literally sprinted to the bathroom, laughing and vomiting at the same time. "Sorry, it’s the baby that hates you!" she yelled between gags.

Ah, but nothing topped the jealousy. Nothing.

If you so much as glanced at the barista for half a second, Taeyeon would go icy. If you replied to a message in the work group chat—which, by chance, included a female colleague—she would scowl, her eyes narrowing like a cat about to pounce.

And the peak? When the neighbour from the flat upstairs—a 60-year-old woman —said good morning to you in the lift, and Taeyeon hit the emergency button just so you could get out faster. "She fancies you, I saw the way she smiled," she growled, while you tried to process the fact that your pregnant fiancée was jealous of a grandmother.

It was an ordinary Saturday—or at least, it should have been. You and Taeyeon had gone out for a romantic dinner—something increasingly rare, as the pregnancy left her exhausted and irritable most nights. But today was different. She woke up in a good mood, even suggested getting dressed up to go out, and you, of course, didn’t question the miracle.

The restaurant was cosy, dimly lit, with wine glasses (grape juice for her) and a menu she had chosen after three days of indecision. You were laughing, talking about baby names again—she insisted Ha-eun sounded too formal and now wanted something "cute but not tacky"—when it happened.

The waitress came to clear the plates. A young woman, smiling, nothing out of the ordinary. You, being polite, thanked her with a "Cheers, that was lovely" and a brief nod. That was it.

But as the waitress turned to leave, Taeyeon froze. Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and her hands—clutching the napkin—tightened until her knuckles turned white.

You realised too late.

"Taeyeon? You alright?" you asked, still oblivious to the danger.

She didn’t answer. Just stared at you with an expression that mixed betrayal, fury, and pure existential dread.

"You… you looked." Her voice came out in a trembling whisper, as if she were holding back a tsunami of emotions.

"Looked at what?" you frowned, genuinely confused.

"AT HER ARSE. YOU LOOKED. I SAW IT.'

You swallowed hard. No. You hadn’t looked. Swore you hadn’t. But Taeyeon was already boiling.

"Taeyeon, love, I just thanked her—"

"NO. You did that little glance. That ‘oh, what a cute little thing’ look. I KNOW THAT LOOK."

"But she doesn’t even have… an ‘ar—’"

"STOP. TALKING. ABOUT. HER. ARSE."

She threw the napkin on the table, grabbed her bag, and stood up with the trembling dignity of a betrayed queen.

"I’m leaving."

"Taeyeon, wait—"

"NO. STAY HERE. CHAT MORE WITH HER. SINCE YOU’RE SO CLOSE."

You tried to hold her arm, but she shook you off as if your touch burned.

"I don’t even know the waitress’s name!" you argued, desperate.

"OH, SO YOU WANT TO KNOW, DO YOU? GONNA ASK FOR HER INSTA NEXT?"

The surrounding tables began to whisper. An elderly couple looked on with pity. The waiter pretended he wasn’t listening, but he clearly was.

With great difficulty, you convinced her to go home. Though she didn’t look at you the entire way.

"Kim Taeyeon, What the Bloody Hell Was That?"

You muttered, irritated enough to roll up the sleeves of your dress shirt, ready for a proper row. Until you noticed her frozen, eyes locked onto your flexed bicep, biting her lips so hard they nearly bled.

And then you understood.

"Ah… So that’s how it is?" Your voice dropped to a rough whisper, deliberately slow, as a wicked grin spread across your lips. "Naughty little girls…" You undid your belt with a dramatic click, watching her shudder. "...deserve punishment. Especially the ones who make a scene in public…" A step forward, and she stumbled back against the wall. "Isn’t that right, mummy?"

Taeyeon’s eyes widened, a moan escaping her throat—loud, desperate, as if she couldn’t believe what that word did to her.

"You—!" She tried to protest, but you were already there, one arm braced against the wall beside her head, the other tilting her chin up.

"You started this." Your hot breath against her ear. "Humiliated me in front of everyone. Treated me like rubbish. And now you’re looking at me like this?" Your hand slid down her waist, firm, possessive. "So easy…"

Taeyeon tried to turn away, but you tightened your grip on her chin, forcing her to face you.

"Say it."

She trembled, lips parted, eyes already glazed over.

"…I hate you."

You laughed, darkly, and captured her mouth in a filthy, dominant kiss, your hand tangling in her hair to pull harder. She moaned again, fingers clutching your shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

And Christ—if that woman wasn’t the most perfect thing when she surrendered like this…

You broke the kiss abruptly, leaving her gasping, and whispered:

"I’ll go easy on you only because of our little girl in there, understand?"

You massaged her six-month bump and smirked, finally sliding your trousers off.

"Open your mouth, you filthy whore."

"You call me a whore?"

Her voice trembled, eyes brimming with unshed tears—stubborn, just like her. A chill ran down your spine, but you didn’t back down.

"I do." Your hand moved from her belly to her chin, squeezing firmly. "My slag. Only mine."

Taeyeon’s breath hitched, lips parting. You saw the conflict in her eyes—anger, desire, submission, pride—all tangled in the pregnancy hormones that made her so sensitive.

"You... you can’t—"

"I can." You cut her off, dragging your thumb across her lips. "And you love it. Love it when I put you in your place. When I remind you that no matter how much you scream and throw a fit, in the end... you’re mine."

She shuddered, a moan trapped in her throat.

"Open."

For a second, she hesitated—stubborn to the last—but then, slowly, her mouth opened.

You grinned.

"Good girl."

"Choke on it properly, you disgusting bitch."

You shoved your cock down her tight throat, feeling the muscles spasm in panic around your throbbing head. Taeyeon gagged violently, nails digging into your thighs as spit and tears streaked her mascara-smudged face.

"That’s it, take every inch like the knocked-up slut you are," you growled, yanking her hair as you bottomed out. "Gonna cry? Gonna make a scene now, you filthy whore?"

She tried to pull back, but you held her firm, fucking her throat ruthlessly. Every gag was music, every tear a confession—she was yours, a wet, sobbing toy made to take your anger and lust.

"Feel that? Feel how your throat was made for this? For choking on my cock like the desperate slag you are?"

Taeyeon whimpered, body shaking with need as you used her mercilessly. When you finally pulled out, she coughed and spat, lipstick ruined, eyes glazed with submission.

"P-please..." she rasped, voice wrecked from gagging on you.

You laughed darkly and gripped her chin.

"'Please' what, whore? Say it."

She swallowed hard, tears and desire swimming in her eyes.

"...Please fuck me until I forget my name."

So far, you’d done nothing but foreplay—just that. She was afraid of hurting the baby, but if the urge struck, you’d made a reasonable agreement—while she carried your daughter, no vaginal penetration. Only anal, and carefully. After all, Taeyeon had always been the prim, almost naively innocent woman—the one who’d watched you grow up, who blushed at innuendos, who covered her eyes during sex scenes in films.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you slid your fingers between her arse cheeks, feeling how absurdly wet she was just from the idea, you realised something was very wrong—or very right.

"B-Bloody hell, Taeyeon…" you growled, feeling her tight ring give way easily under your fingers. "Have you… done this before?"

She bit her lip, eyes darting away, but her body arched into your touch. "N-No… just… thought about it… a lot…"

"Thought about what?" Your voice came out rougher than intended, fingers pressing deeper, feeling her clench around them.

Then she let out a filthy, desperate moan and confessed:

"You… taking me from behind… like I’m just a hole for you to come in."

Fuck.

You nearly lost it right then.

"Taeyeon…" Your voice was hoarse, veins standing out on your wrists as you pushed your fingers to the last knuckle. "You mean to tell me this innocent little face… was always hiding an anal slut?"

She whimpered, fingers digging into your thighs, face burning with shame—but her body begging for more.

"O-Only… only with you…"

And Christ, if that wasn’t the dirtiest thing she’d ever admitted.

Now you understood why she always flinched when you brushed there during sex. Why she blushed when you complimented her arse.

She wasn’t embarrassed.

She was fantasising.

And now, with the perfect excuse of pregnancy, she could finally give in without guilt.

"So that’s it?" You pulled your fingers out, watching her clench instinctively, trying to keep them inside. "My proper little wife… is actually an anal slut who dreams of being used like this?"

But first, you’d make her clean up her mess.

With a rough motion, you dragged your spit-slick cock over her face, marking her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, even her trembling eyelids. "Lick. Everything. Every last drop."

Taeyeon obeyed like a good girl, her hot tongue frantically lapping from base to tip, swallowing every trace of herself mixed with your precum. She looked addicted, eyes rolling back as she savoured her own taste on your skin.

"Now turn over, you slag." You landed a sharp smack on her round arse, watching the red imprint of your hand bloom on her soft skin. "Want to see that pregnant belly shake while you moan like a bitch in heat."

She got on her hands and knees, her rounded belly hanging sensually between her thighs, her cunt dripping wet. You spat on her pink clit before plunging two fingers inside, making Taeyeon scream.

"See this? Sopping wet over a cock that hasn’t even fucked you yet." You laughed as she moaned louder, fingers pumping in and out. "Gonna come just from this? You filthy, desperate little thing?"

Taeyeon shook her head, but her body betrayed her—her inner walls fluttered, her clit throbbing visibly. You yanked your fingers out.

"No. You only come when I say."

Then you finally lined yourself up at her tight entrance, feeling her tremble in anticipation.

"Now repeat: I’m only yours."

"I-I’m only yours—"

"A knocked-up, obedient slut."

"A k-knocked-up— AH! AAAH!"

You buried yourself to the hilt in one thrust, splitting her open, her virgin arse taking every inch like it was made for you.

"Feel that, Taeyeon? Feel how this tight little arse was made for me?" You snarled in her ear as you pounded into her, each thrust making her pregnant belly sway obscenely. Her hands clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, as strangled moans spilled from her ruined throat.

"Look ahead," you ordered, pulling her hair back. "Look at that belly shake every time I fuck you."

Taeyeon screamed, shame and pleasure overflowing in her teary eyes. "S-stop… please… don’t say those thi— AH! AAAAH!"

You laughed darkly and landed another smack on her reddened arse, feeling her clench violently around you. "Liar. You love it. Love being used like this, knocked-up and marked up, taking cock like there’s no tomorrow."

Your hips slapped against her arse with wet smacks, the brutal sounds of fucking echoing through the room. You could feel her tightening, growing hotter—ready to break.

"Wanna come, you Bitch? Do you?"

Taeyeon nodded frantically, swollen lips trembling. "Y-yes… p-please… let me… let me come!"

"Fine. Come."

Then you pulled her back against your chest, one hand gripping her throat while the other circled her swollen clit. "But not without remembering who you belong to."

Three fingers in her cunt.

A smack on her rosy arse.

Your teeth sinking into her shoulder.

And Taeyeon shattered, her whole body convulsing in a violent orgasm, her arse squeezing your cock like a hot, wet fist. You held her tight, fucking her through it, until your own release boiled over.

"Take it. Take it all, you whore!"

With a final animalistic growl, you buried yourself to the hilt, spilling inside her, each hot pulse marking your claim.

Taeyeon went limp in your arms, panting, her body covered in your marks—from your teeth, your hands, your cock.

You smirked, satisfied, and laid her on her side, your hand resting on her rounded belly.

"We’ll do this again tomorrow."

[loserlvrss]

Newton’s Fourth Law : THE LAW OF (E)MOTION ⸝⸝ 약한영웅 class

you learned the theory of love through the boy who didn't know how .ᐟ

y. sieun & fem.reader 是 pure fluff ⛱️ skinship 1004THOU oneshot ₍^ >ヮ<^₎ back2MiSC 요구?아니 for @slytherinshua

Questions, questions, questions. Your brother would contest that you came out of the womb curious. Your first words were laced with a quizzical tone, and as you grew older: What’s for dinner? Where’s my toy? Who took the last Melona bar? 

You grew more complex, and eventually your questions did too. 

What’s the square root of X? Why do we dream? Where did life begin? If we’re so technologically advanced, why are there no flying cars? Do you think the HealthCare system is just a sick play in the game of capitalism? What’s really right from wrong? 

Why are we alone in the universe, if the universe is presumably infinite? 

Your brother swore that Shinee’s Sherlock was specifically written for your curious-ass. But you couldn’t help it, there was just so much you wanted to know. He always assumed that when your mouth opened there would just be a question mark that followed—and most of the time he was right. 

“Suho!” You excitedly shouted, running into class 1-6, slamming open the door. It caused all the attention to shift to you… except one. 

The boy who didn’t look, almost at the front of the class, was hunched over his desk with a pen in hand, presumably studying. You wanted to ask why until you saw he had his AirPods in, assuming that he just didn’t hear you announce your presence. 

“Oh, Ahn Suho!” You sang as you skipped down the first row excitedly, until you reached the end of it, stopping at the black-haired boy who was fast asleep: Your older brother by almost one year. 

You slapped the back of his head—gently, for a sister—and he flinched awake, blinking up in your direction with a confused expression. 

“What the…” Suho started, laying his head back down, realizing it was only you who had hit him. “Why are you here?” He asked, eyes shutting again. 

“It’s lunchtime,” You stated, one of his eyes cracking open at the fact, “And I’ll buy for you,” His other eye opened, back straightening, “If you listen to my Big Bang Theory.” 

His eyes closed again suddenly, “…Big bang?” He laughed breathily, “Bang, bang, bang.” 

You huffed, annoyed at this dismissal of another answer to your questions. You turned to anyone in the class, but by now they’d all heard your long-winded monologues on The Germ Theory, on Natural Selection and every other thing you’ve ever read a scientific research paper on. 

They all ignored you. 

Then, your eyes landed on the scary-boy who Suho told you to stay away from—after what had happened a couple days ago, that is. 

But, you didn’t care. Call it his little sister being annoying or whatever you want, but why heed his warning? Wasn’t science all about discovering for yourself? 

“Hey, Evolutionary Game Theory!” You plucked an AirPod from his ear, “What are you listening to?” 

Murmurs broke out amongst the class, Suho finally shooting up out of his chair, like you wanted in the first place. 

The boy in front of you grabbed your wrist before you had a chance to bring it towards your ear. Your eyebrow cocked curiously—now the anticipation was eating at you. What was it? Was it really that bad? 

Suho started towards you, “What are you doing, yn?” 

“Yeon Si-eun, right?” You hummed, “Or should I call you The Fight-or-Flight Theory?” 

You trailed, questions and more questions infiltrating your mind. The gray-sweatshirt you were following only seemed to get faster each time he’d look back to see if you were still there. 

Until he seemingly had enough, turning around so calmly you didn’t know if it should scare or impress you. 

“Finally,” You tried to lighten the tension, “I don’t know if I should call you the Law of Inertia or something else. I debated on it, but I think it suits you: An object will remain at rest or continue moving at a constant velocity unless acted upon by an external fo—” 

He interrupted you, “Stop calling me useless theories, yn.” and you couldn’t tell what you saw written within the fine-lines of his downturned features, but nothing about it was something you were used to. “Just… stop.” 

Your eyebrows threatened to meet in the middle, “There’s nothing useless about you, Si-eun.” 

You traced the side of his face, eventually making your way down the bridge of his nose. You swear you could feel his breath hitch against your lips, eyes locked on yours.  

“You’re like The Triangular Theory of Love,” You commented, continuing to run your finger over his bottom lip. 

And, he just let you. 

Si-eun’s only ever let you get as close as you were to him. Inches apart, damn-near centimeters in reality. 

He had his hand on your waist, drawing circles where your shirt had ridden up against your skin, but you had to overlook the goosebumps and continue your explanation, “Love is a complex emotion made up of three components, according to Robert Sternberg: Intimacy, passion and commitment.” 

You were like a peninsula, a sanctuary for him to let his guard down. You were everything bright and colorful in the contrasting world; Everything good. 

When you first met, he wasn’t actually listening to anything—he heard you burst through the door in search of your brother—but now you’re all he ever wanted to hear in this deafening Hell everyone called life. 

You shifted closer, moving your arm to rest over his shoulder, “Hey, Law of Motion?” You asked, heart picking up an unsteady rhythm. He pulled your chest to his, feeling the warmth you brought with you overtake him. It was intoxicating… you were intoxicating. He felt like he’d never get enough, like the most insatiable being on Earth. 

Eventually, he began to wonder what theory that would make him. He’s sure you’d know. 

Then, you heard the soft hum from his lips meet your ear. Luckily his room was silent, otherwise you might not have. 

“I’ve got all of those, so…” He held his breath for a second, “Can I love you?” 

reblogs appreciated ! loserlrvss 2025 rights reserved. @kstrucknet @slytherinshua @gyuwrites @sknyuz

[itzpookiepooh]

You Lose!

You’ve been playing video games all day

Xavier is a very patient man. He would wait for you for the rest of his life. Not in this situation though, you have been playing in a gaming tournament for over 8 hours. He came home, greeted you, and what did you do? You just nodded your head at him. He ordered dinner and guess what? You barely touched it because you were too focused on that game.

As patient as Xavier is, even he had his limits. He was tired of being ignored by you. He was sick of hearing the same constant gunfire on the tv screen. He wanted to rip his eyelids off he was so irritated. He tried not to get upset so he went into your shared bedroom to catch up on some much needed rest. Only to hear the noise from the game in there. He was done, he teleports into the living room to give you an earful.

“Turn it off.” He says bluntly making you glance at him. You couldn’t you were almost done with the tournament. He glared at you as you continued your focus on the game.

“I’m almost done then I’ll lay with you.” You mumbled as your fingers rapidly moved across the controller. Xavier huffed watching your team get beat up. He didn’t even understand the point. You weren’t winning anything and this company was known for a good scam. He had enough and lifted you up taking you to the bedroom.

“Hey! I’m not done!” You shout, “It’s 2am. You’re done besides someone gets pretty upset when they haven’t gotten enough sleep.” And that was the end of it because as soon as your body hit the bed you were down for the count. Xavier wasted no time cuddling up to you and immediately falling asleep.

He’s not the one you want to do this to. He doesn’t even want to let you finish the game. He actually doesn’t let you finish it at all because as soon as you ignore him for too long he’s putting matters into his own hands. The endless hours of the same map was making his eyes hurt and he wasnt even playing. He stood behind the tv watching you not pay him any mind. He snatched the plug out of the wall making your jaw drop.

“You should’ve paid me some attention.”

He tosses the cord before dragging you to bed. You snapped at Rafayel the whole way. You also try to plead your case on how this tournament was extremely important. He lets you talk his ear off of course but when you hit the bed your speaking slows down. Rafayel just stares at you waiting for you to go to sleep. What does you in? Him running his fingertips over your eyelids. You finally go to sleep causing him to huff.

“Finally.” He huffs dramatically before throwing the blanket over both of you and zones into the sounds of the ocean outside.

He tries to wait it out, truly he does but when the clock starts hitting 3am and you’re on your 15th round he knows it’s getting ridiculous. He has showered and gotten ready for bed and you STILL haven’t moved. He was becoming rather impatient.

When he walked into the room your eyes were glued onto the screen. He shook his head as he moved farther into the room. You didn’t hear him as you cheered for winning this event. You were going to run to the bathroom before the next match but when you turned he was standing there with his arms crossed. You screamed loudly as you hold your rapidly beating heart.

“When did—how? I can’t breathe.” You pant on your knees clutching your chest. He breathes out a laugh before walking over and turning your game off. You pout at him. How could he?

“It’s time for bed.” He lifts you up to which you don’t fight. You didn’t realize how tired you were as you rested your head on his.

“I was in a tournament y’know? It’s super important.” You explain to him as you nod. He hums softly as he walks through the home.

“So important that you’ve played for over 12 hours. Have you won anything?” He asks smirking as usual.

“It’s pre trials if we make it to 50 levels we get to the real thing.” You express with your hands. He chuckles shaking his head. He knew you’d collapse before then anyway. He enters the bedroom and lays you gently on the mattress. You sigh through your nose as your body relaxes into the luxurious mattress.

“Well I think a certain gaming master needs rest before jumping into such a meaningful task.” He kisses your forehead as you begin to daze.

“Rest…right.” You trail off. If anything puts you to sleep it’s the tone in Sylus’ voice and his nice comfy bed.

“Mm exactly. Sleep tight.” His deep voice flows through your ears. He waits until your breathing evens out before smirking and tucking you in. He holds you close as you both fall asleep.

Caleb was playing with you earlier in the day but as most people he got bored. He told you the fleet needed him for something and that he’d be right back. You mumbled a noise confirming you heard him. When he got back it was extremely late and he could still hear the noises from your game. You were so focused you didn’t hear him come home.

“Pipsqueak I think it’s time to get off.” He spoke softly trying to drag your attention away from the bright screen.

“One second…almost done.” You mumbled to him as your fingers rapidly move across the controller. He sighs before walking away, he was going to give you time by showering.

When he came back he had to make the executive decision or else you’d regret it in the morning. He used his evol to lift you up which didn’t faze you since you didn’t let go of the controller. He chuckled before walking closer and taking it from you. Your eyes red and irritated from staring at the screen for so long.

“You’ll regret it in the morning besides, your eyes are bloodshot.” He informed you causing you to gasp and close them.

When you arrived in the bedroom, he sat you down. You couldn’t lie your eyes did burn. Maybe sleep was the best option right now. Caleb always knew what was best even as you both got older. He cuddled you until you fell asleep, he stayed up a while longer to make sure you were comfortable.

He had no idea why you weren’t answering his texts all day. He forgot you had the day off and assumed you were at work. He couldn’t call to check on you since it was the busiest day ever today. When it came time for him to get off work, he texted you he was on his way home. To his surprise you were sitting close to the tv screen playing a shooter game.

The room was tidy as if you hadn’t moved an inch since you sat down. He put his keys up and took his shoes off before walking closer. You looked drained, he couldn’t even begin to guess how long you had been playing. He crouched beside you and tapped your shoulder. You give him a quick side glance before smiling softly.

“You’re home.” Your voice filled with joy. “Have you been sitting here all day?” He asked with genuine concern. You nod as he watches your eyes dart across the screen.

“This isn’t healthy, your eyes and brain need rest.” He informed you as he rubbed your back. You nodded sort of hearing him.

“I’m almost done…” You trail off as the clacking of the controller gets louder. He sighs turning to look at the screen seeing your character die.

“That ended quicker than I anticipated.” He mumbled before looking back at you. Your eyes were sore and looking at Zayne for this short period of time gave them relief.

“You should shower.” You tell him but he raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re trying to trick me again. I know you’ll start another round if I leave.” He told you making you laugh.

“It was worth a shot.” You told him as he helped you stand up. He guided you to bed before going to wash off his day. He promised to tell you a story after his shower. By the time he was done you were fast asleep, curled into his pillow. That brought a smile to his face.

He kissed your forehead gently before whispering, “Goodnight, my love.” He proceeds to fall asleep next to you. This was the best night’s sleep either of you had gotten in a while.

[thesecondhandwoman]

can you make stubborn sick!reader and sevika? like reader getting sick because she is so overworked at her job and then sevika scolding her with love ofc, we just love soft and caring sevika 😭

SICK DAY

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Recently you have been working yourself to the rim, and it had resulted in you becoming sick, making your girlfriend, Sevika, step in and force you to get better.

Request: Anon 🤍

Zaun never slept. The hum of machinery, the occasional shout from the streets below, and the flicker of neon lights painted the city in a constant state of chaos. It was the perfect backdrop for how you felt, burnt out, dizzy, and utterly drained.

You’d barely slept last night, tossing and turning in bed as your fever grew worse. By morning, nausea hit you like a punch to the stomach. You’d stumbled into the bathroom, cold sweat dripping down your temples, barely making it to the sink before your body betrayed you.

The retching sounds echoed through the apartment, and by the time you were done, your knees wobbled so badly you had to grip the counter to stay upright. You splashed cold water on your face, staring into the cracked mirror at your reflection. Dark circles framed your eyes, your skin pale and clammy.

But even then, your stubbornness wouldn’t let you give in. There was work to do. People were counting on you.

Dragging yourself into the living room, you grabbed your bag and threw on your coat, every movement sluggish and uncoordinated. You ignored the spinning in your head and the way your stomach churned at the thought of taking a single step outside.

Unfortunately for you, Sevika noticed.

“Babe,” her voice cut through the air, sharp and concerned. You froze mid-step, turning to find her leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. “You look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” you croaked, wincing at how scratchy your voice sounded.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning you from head to toe. The worry in her expression was obvious, though it was paired with a healthy dose of frustration. “Bullshit.”

“I just need to—”

“You need to sit your ass down before you pass out,” she interrupted, stepping toward you with purpose. “Have you even looked in the mirror? You’re burning up, you can’t even stand straight, and don’t think I didn’t hear you puking your guts out this morning.”

Your face burned with embarrassment, though whether it was from the fever or her words, you weren’t sure. “I’m not that bad,” you muttered weakly, trying to sidestep her.

She moved faster. Her mechanical arm gripped your waist gently but firmly, stopping you in your tracks. The cool metal against your overheated skin made you shiver. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Sevika—”

“No.” Her voice was firm but not unkind. “You’re sick, and you’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. You think I don’t notice? Skipping meals, staying up late, barely talking to me because you’re glued to your work? Enough is enough.”

Your vision blurred slightly, your body swaying as the room spun around you. If it weren’t for Sevika’s steady grip, you might’ve crumpled to the floor right then and there. She sighed, muttering something under her breath before scooping you up into her arms.

“Sevika!” you protested weakly, though it sounded more like a whimper.

“Yeah, yeah, complain all you want,” she said, carrying you back to the bedroom. “You’re not winning this one, sweetheart.”

The next hour was a mix of soft scolding and reluctant care

After making sure you were tucked under the covers, Sevika disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a cool washcloth for your forehead and a glass of water. She didn’t say much at first, just sitting beside you, her presence a comforting weight.

“You’re gonna drink this,” she said, holding the glass of water out to you. “Slowly. And don’t even think about arguing.”

You groaned but obeyed, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat. “Happy?” you mumbled after finishing half the glass.

She smirked faintly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Getting there. But you’re not off the hook yet.”

The fever took a turn for the worse later that afternoon.

Your body ached, every muscle sore and heavy as if you’d been hit by one of Sevika’s punches. The nausea returned in waves, and the dizziness made it impossible to focus on anything. You drifted in and out of sleep, the world around you a hazy blur.

At some point, you must’ve started shivering, because you woke to find Sevika draping another blanket over you. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line as she adjusted the covers, making sure you were snug and warm.

“Sevika,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“Shh,” she said, sitting down beside you. “Just rest.”

Her hand found yours beneath the blankets, her calloused fingers curling around yours. The gesture was simple but grounding, her presence a lifeline in your fevered haze.

“I hate being sick,” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion.

“I know,” she said softly, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But you’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

A few hours later, the fever had broken slightly, though you were still far from recovered.

Sevika coaxed you into eating some soup, her patience unwavering even as you grumbled and complained. She sat close, her eyes never straying far from you, as if she was afraid you’d collapse again if she looked away.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you asked at one point, your tone teasing despite your hoarse voice.

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Because I love you, dumbass. Someone’s gotta take care of you when you won’t take care of yourself.”

Her words hit you square in the chest, the warmth of her affection almost overwhelming. You leaned into her, resting your head against her shoulder, and for the first time all day, you felt truly at ease.

“Thanks, Sev,” you murmured, your eyes drifting closed.

“Always, babe,” she replied, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now get some sleep. I’m not letting you out of this bed until you’re back to 100%.”

The following days were a blur of recovery, Sevika’s care unwavering throughout.

She brought you meals, made sure you stayed hydrated, and even stayed home from her own work to keep an eye on you. Her gruff demeanor softened considerably, though she still teased you relentlessly about your stubbornness.

By the time you were feeling well enough to sit up and joke with her, you couldn’t help but smile at how much effort she’d put into taking care of you.

“See? Told you I’d survive,” you said playfully, leaning against her shoulder.

“Barely,” she replied, smirking. “Next time you decide to work yourself sick, I’m tying you to the bed.”

“Promises, promises,” you teased, earning a snort of laughter from her as she shook her head, just glad she had her healthy version of you back

A/N: This one seems a bit too repetitive to me, but I hope it was okay either way.