#you must express it. third though

[23sanguinity]

Fun fact: empathy is a lie and you do not need it at all to be a good person or to help someone

[pinkthick]

Humiliating, isn’t it?

Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: “You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

A/N: This is probably wayyy out of his character, but I haven’t watched season 2 yet (I don’t have Netflix 😭) and just saw an edit with him on tiktok and suddenly my obsession with him came back from 2021. So there are no spoilers!!!

Warnings: blowjob (m receiving), cum swallowing

If you’re not 18 DNI BECAUSE I WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

The metro station was cold, the flickering overhead lights casting dim shadows on the walls. Your steps echoed faintly as you trudged forward, your head bowed to avoid the stares of passersby. You could feel their judgment, their pity, their disgust. You didn’t blame them—you looked like hell. Blood crusted your upper lip, the remnants of a nosebleed from earlier when some thug decided to teach you a lesson about unpaid debts. Your cheek stung, swelling just beginning to bloom.

You winced as you adjusted the strap of your worn-out bag. Your ribs ached, a dull, persistent throb that reminded you how low you’d sunk. Debt was a beast that refused to loosen its grip. It clung to you, suffocated you, and drove you into situations you’d never imagined.

As you shuffled down the platform, you barely registered the man who bumped into you until you staggered back, your body colliding with the wall. “Sorry—I didn’t watch where I was going,” he said, his tone oddly pleasant.

You blinked up at him, taking in his immaculate gray suit and perfectly combed hair. His smile was disarming, polite but sharp, like the edge of a blade.

“It’s quite alright,” you muttered, instinctively brushing yourself off despite already looking like a wreck. The man didn’t move on, though. Instead, he studied you, his gaze lingering on the dried blood and the faint bruise forming beneath your eye.

“Rough day?” he asked, a trace of amusement in his voice.

You gave a humorless laugh. “Something like that.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, offering it to you. You hesitated before taking it, dabbing at your nose. The fabric was smooth, expensive, and it felt wrong to smear your blood on something so pristine.

“I have a game,” the man said suddenly, his voice lowering as if he were sharing a secret. “Would you like to play?”

The fuck?

You frowned. “A game?”

He nodded, his smile widening. “It’s simple. You could win money—enough to change your life.”

Your skepticism must have been obvious because he chuckled, a soft, almost paternal sound. “It’s harmless, I assure you. You look like someone who could use a bit of good fortune.”

You thought of your debts, the people breathing down your neck, the empty fridge in your apartment. Against your better judgment, you found yourself asking, “What’s the game?”

He gestured to a nearby bench, and you followed him, still wary. From his briefcase, he pulled out a folded board and a stack of rectangular tiles, explaining the rules of ddakji. It sounded simple enough: flip the opponent’s tile using your own. He placed a stack of cash on the bench beside him, its presence tantalizing.

You played your first round and lost. The second and third rounds went the same way. You were terrible at this game.

When you finally admitted you had no money to bet, his expression didn’t change. “Usually, I slap people when they lose,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But…” He gestured to your bruised face. “It seems someone’s already beaten me to it.”

The absurdity of the statement caught you off guard, and you let out a startled laugh. “That’s generous of you.”

He smirked. “I do have a heart.”

With no stakes involved, you continued playing. You lost repeatedly, the man’s skill far outstripping your own. He never seemed frustrated, though. If anything, he looked amused by your determination. Eventually, your bruises began to throb, and exhaustion seeped into your bones. You tossed the tile onto the bench, letting out a defeated sigh.

“I give up,” you said, slumping back. “I’m not winning this.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “Pity. You were just starting to improve.”

“Sure,” you muttered, wiping your hands on your jeans. “So, what now?”

He placed the briefcase on the bench between you, opening it to reveal neat stacks of bills. Your breath caught in your throat. It was more money than you’d ever seen in your life, more than enough to pay off your debts and start over.

“You could pay all your debts with this,” he said, his voice soft, almost enticing. His gaze shifted to you, sharp and calculating. “But it’s not free.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “What do you mean?”

He closed the briefcase with a decisive snap, leaning in slightly. “I’ll give this to you if you… do something for me.”

Your stomach churned at the way his eyes lingered on you, his meaning crystal clear. Heat flooded your face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “What kind of something?” you asked, though you already knew.

His smile didn’t waver. “Let’s not pretend we’re strangers to desperation. You’ve been beaten down by the world, haven’t you? Cast aside, forgotten. This,” he gestured to the briefcase, “could be your ticket out.”

Your fists clenched, your nails digging into your palms. “You think I’m going to sell myself for money?”

He shrugged, unbothered by your indignation. “You’ve already sold your time, your dignity, your safety—haven’t you? What’s the difference?”

The words stung because they weren’t entirely untrue. Still, you shook your head, your pride warring with your desperation. “I’m not doing that.”

He leaned back, crossing his legs with an air of nonchalance. “Your choice, of course. But think about it. How long before your debtors come back? Before the beatings get worse? How long can you keep scraping by?”

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You stared at the briefcase, the money practically taunting you. Your mind raced, weighing the humiliation against the potential freedom.

“I… I can’t,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

He studied you for a long moment, his smile fading slightly. Then, to your surprise, he stood, gathering the game pieces and tucking them back into his briefcase. “Well,” he said, straightening his tie, “it was worth a shot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he let it go. “That’s it?”

He chuckled, the sound low and almost fond. “I’m not a monster. I made an offer; you declined. Simple as that.”

As he turned to leave, something in you stirred—a mix of relief and regret. “Wait,” you called out, your voice trembling.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Yes?”

You hesitated, the weight of your situation crushing down on you. “Why me?” you asked, desperate to understand why this stranger had singled you out.

His smile returned, enigmatic and unsettling. “Because you’re interesting. And because I see potential in you.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small card and placing it on the bench. “If you ever change your mind, give me a call.”

Before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the card. You stared at it, the black lettering stark against the white background.

For a long time, you sat there, the sound of the metro fading into the background. The man’s words echoed in your mind, intertwining with your fear, your pride, and your unrelenting desperation.

And the card remained in your pocket.

—

You stared at the card for what felt like hours that night. The weight of its potential pressed heavily on your chest. In a world where every door seemed to slam in your face, this was the first one to open—albeit under circumstances you couldn’t fully comprehend.

The next day, after another call from a creditor threatening you with more violence, you finally gave in. Your pride was already battered, and your options had all but evaporated. With shaking hands, you picked up your phone and dialed the number on the card.

A smooth, professional voice answered. “Hello?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. “I… I got this card from someone at the metro. I’d like to… take them up on their offer.”

There was a pause, then the faint sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. “Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting your call. An address will be sent to your phone shortly. Be there within the hour.”

The line went dead before you could say anything else. Moments later, a text arrived, and you stared at the address. It wasn’t anywhere familiar to you, but the name of the street was in one of the wealthiest areas of the city. Hesitation gripped you again, but the bruises on your face and the weight of your debts pushed you forward.

The cab dropped you off at the gates of a sprawling villa. The sheer size of it was intimidating—tall wrought iron gates, a long driveway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, and a house that looked more like a palace than a home. You adjusted your jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you looked.

Before you could press the buzzer, the gates swung open as if you were expected. You walked up the driveway, each step feeling heavier than the last. When you reached the front door, it opened before you could knock.

A tall man stood there, dressed in a sleek black suit. His expression was blank, professional but cold. “Welcome,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. The foyer was just as luxurious as the exterior—marble floors, chandeliers, and artwork that probably cost more than your entire life’s earnings.

“Next time, a car will pick you up,” the man said, his tone brisk.

“Next time?” you echoed, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Before he could respond, the familiar voice of the salesman cut through the air. “Sorry, he’s—doesn’t matter. Just come on in.” He appeared at the top of a sweeping staircase, his ever-present smile intact. He looked even more polished than before, his posture relaxed.

You hesitated but eventually followed the man into what appeared to be a sitting room. The furniture was sleek and modern, the walls lined with bookshelves and abstract paintings. He gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing, your nerves making it impossible to relax.

“Drink?” he offered, motioning to a decanter of amber liquid on a nearby table.

“No, thank you,” you said quickly, your voice tight.

He tilted his head, his smile softening. “Suit yourself. I see your bruise is healing nicely.”

You instinctively touched your cheek, still tender from the beating. “Can we just… get to the point? What do you want me to do?”

The salesman’s smile widened slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Straight to business. I like that.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “What I want is very simple. And, let me assure you, the reward will far outweigh the discomfort.”

You shifted uneasily, his words setting off alarm bells in your mind.

His smile took on a sharper edge. “I want you to use that mouth of yours for something other than talking.”

The room seemed to tilt, your stomach dropping like a stone. You stared at him, your mind racing to comprehend what he’d just said. “You’re kidding,” you said, your voice trembling.

“I never kid about business,” he replied smoothly. “You’ve seen the briefcase. You know what’s at stake.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “You want me to—”

“To prove how much you want to change your life,” he interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “To show me that you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

You took a step back, your legs bumping into the edge of a chair. “This… this is humiliating.”

“Is it?” he asked, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve already been beaten and left with nothing. What’s one more compromise?”

His words were like needles, each one poking at the fragile walls of your pride. He stood, closing the distance between you. “I’m offering you freedom,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “All you have to do is take it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to leave, to walk out of this villa and never look back. But the image of that briefcase, the promise of a life free from fear and debt, rooted you in place.

“I…” Your voice cracked, the weight of the moment crushing you.

The salesman tilted his head, his smile softening ever so slightly. “Think of it this way,” he said. “This is the last time you’ll ever have to beg, to endure, to scrape by. After this, the world opens up to you.”

He stepped back, giving you space but keeping his piercing gaze locked on you. “But it’s your choice,” he added. “It always has been.”

“I—okay,” you murmured, barely audible.

His smile widened, not in mockery but in something resembling satisfaction. “Atta girl.”

The words hung in the air, and you immediately dropped to your knees, ready to get this over with. But his hand shot out, stopping you mid-motion. His touch was firm but not forceful, his fingers curling gently around your forearm.

“Not so fast,” he said, his tone light, almost teasing. “Let’s get you a bit comfortable first.”

You looked up at him, confusion etched across your face. “Comfortable?” you echoed.

He patted his lap, a small gesture that carried so much weight. “Don’t you want to loosen up a bit?”

“I—” The protest was on the tip of your tongue, but you stopped yourself. He tilted his head, his sharp gaze pinning you in place.

“Come on,” he coaxed, his voice soft but insistent.

After a long moment of hesitation, you stood and awkwardly settled onto his lap. The action felt unnatural, foreign. You perched on his thighs stiffly, your hands clenched in your lap, your body tense like a coiled spring.

He didn’t seem bothered by your discomfort. Instead, he rested his hands lightly on your waist, his touch careful and deliberate. His thumbs began to trace small, lazy patterns into the fabric of your shirt, the motion strangely soothing despite the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. The words were meant to reassure, but they only made your pulse race faster.

You nodded, unable to bring yourself to speak. The air between you was thick with tension, the kind that made your skin prickle. You tried to focus on the patterns he was drawing, on the steady rhythm of his breathing, anything to distract yourself from the heat radiating off his body—or the unmistakable hardness pressing against you.

You froze, your entire body going rigid. He noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment. Instead, his hands stayed where they were, his thumbs continuing their soothing motions.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. His breath ghosted over your temple, warm and inviting. “Just breathe.”

Easier said than done. You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. He shifted slightly, and your hands instinctively reached out, grasping his shoulders for balance. The movement brought you closer to him, your faces mere inches apart.

His eyes searched yours, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you every opportunity to pull away. When you didn’t, his lips brushed against yours, tentative and soft.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were testing the waters. His hands stayed on your waist, their grip light, giving you space to move away if you wanted to.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat there, motionless, letting him lead. When he realized you weren’t responding, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Relax,” he murmured, his tone patient.

Tentatively, you leaned forward, your lips meeting his. The kiss was awkward at first, your movements hesitant and unsure. But he didn’t rush you. He let you take the lead, his hands remaining steady on your waist.

As you grew more comfortable, the kiss deepened, your initial hesitation fading away. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit jacket, grounding yourself as you tilted your head, pressing closer.

That’s when he took over.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him as he angled his head, deepening the kiss. The shift was subtle but deliberate, his lips moving against yours with a confidence that left you breathless. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, a gentle request rather than a demand, and you parted your lips without thinking.

The kiss turned hungry, his movements more assertive but never forceful. His hands roamed cautiously, never straying too far, their warmth seeping through your clothes. Your senses were overwhelmed—the taste of him, the scent of his cologne, the steady strength of his hands.

You didn’t know when it happened, but your tension melted away, replaced by a strange sense of surrender. It wasn’t defeat—it was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Your hands slid up his chest, your fingers brushing against the collar of his shirt as you leaned into him.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still on your waist, anchoring you in place.

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Not so bad.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you simply nodded. The reality of what just happened began to sink in, but before panic could take hold, he shifted again, his hands steadying you as he leaned back slightly.

“Take your time,” he said, his tone soft. “We’re not in a rush.”

You weren’t sure if it was the weight of his gaze, the steady way he held you, or the way his fingers brushed against you as if he knew exactly where your boundaries were but was waiting for you to decide whether they mattered.

He reached up slowly, his movements deliberate, and his hand brushed against your face before moving to your hair. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as he pulled the tie from your hair. Your hair tumbled loose over your shoulders, and he twirled the hair tie around his fingers, his smile never faltering.

“You’ve sucked dick before, right?” he asked, his voice smooth, casual.

Your heart stopped, then resumed at a faster pace. You blinked, your cheeks flushing hot. “I—of course I did!” you replied defensively, the words tumbling out before you could think them through.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Of course you did,” he murmured, his voice dropping as his gaze lingered on your face. “How could someone resist a pretty face like yours?”

The compliment sent an unexpected jolt through you, but you weren’t given time to process it. He gently took your hands in his, his touch light but firm, and began guiding them behind your back. You stiffened instinctively, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Relax,” he said, his tone calm and soothing, as though he were coaxing you out of a tense state. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You hesitated but allowed him to move your arms behind you, his grip steady and unthreatening. The hair tie you hadn’t noticed still in his hand came into view as he looped it around your wrists. The act was careful, the tie snug enough to hold your hands together but not tight enough to hurt.

“There,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he adjusted the knot. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hair for you.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. He reached up, threading his fingers through your hair with the same slow, deliberate care he’d shown with your hands. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you hated how your body seemed to respond to him against your will.

“See?” he said, his voice low and steady. “No reason to be nervous.”

Nervous was an understatement. Your mind raced, trying to keep up with the situation. Everything about him was a contradiction—his words soft but commanding, his actions careful yet deliberate. It left you off balance, unsure of where you stood or what would happen next.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Down on your knees.”

You blinked, hesitating for a moment as the weight of his words sank in. Your body froze, torn between instinct and the promise of what you came here for. You must have looked as dumbfounded as you felt because his lips curved into that same infuriatingly knowing smile.

But then you remembered the briefcase—you couldn’t afford to hesitate, not now. Steeling yourself, you swallowed hard and did as he said, sinking onto the plush carpet beneath you.

He watched you with a calm, calculating expression, his fingers still lightly twirling the tie binding your wrists. When your knees touched the floor, he adjusted his posture, leaning forward slightly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words slipping from his lips in a tone that felt both patronizing and oddly reassuring. His hand left you entirely, moving to undo his belt. The sound of the buckle snapping open echoed faintly in the room, and you bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to remain still.

He slid the belt free and dropped it to the side, his gaze never leaving yours. His movements were slow as he unbuttoned his pants and let them pool around his ankles. Then came the boxers, and as he stepped out of them, his confidence radiated like a tangible force.

He looked down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Think you can handle it?” he asked, his voice dripping with challenge.

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “I’ve had bigger,” you shot back.

That earned a low chuckle from him, the sound rich and amused. He crouched slightly, bringing his face closer to yours as his hand reached out, cupping your jaw firmly but gently. His thumb brushed along your chin as he tilted your face upward. “Open up,” he said, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, your thoughts warring with one another. But then your resolve hardened.

You obeyed, parting your lips just enough to feel vulnerable.

The corners of his mouth quirked upward again, and his hand slid to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with practiced ease. “I’ll let you take the lead,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, “at least for now.”

His other hand rested lightly on your shoulder as he guided you closer, his movements careful.

With a deep breath, you adjusted, leaning in more and licking the tip. He groaned softly, the sound low and guttural. His other hand trailed from your shoulder to your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse point in a way that sent a shiver through you. His cock was heavy on your tongue, and your mind blurred as he thrust himself further and further into your mouth—and you appreciated the slowness with which he did it—until he was fully inside. The rhythm was slow at first. Small bobbing of your head that was just enough to pull soft groans of from his lips.

You pulled back slightly and swirled your tongue around the tip, pleasantly surprising him enough to earn yourself a sharp tug at your hair and a guttural moan that sent a shiver down your spine and a sudden awareness of the need between your legs.

“My… it’s like you were made for this…” he tugged gently on your hair again, signaling for you to pause, you pulled back slightly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch light but grounding.

“Good girl,” he said again, his voice softer now, almost approving. He leaned down slightly, his hand cupping your face as he tilted your chin upward. “Messy, though…” he muttered, wiping a bit of drool escaping your open mouth. His hand moved from your chin to your hair again, smoothing the strands back as he studied your face with that same intense gaze.

“Let’s see how far you can go,” he murmured, his tone calm but laced with challenge.

And he fucking shoved you down on his cock.

You froze for a second, overwhelmed by the situation, but his voice cut through the haze.

“Don’t stop now,” he said, his tone still calm but laced with something sharper, something that made your heart race. “You want the money, don’t you?”

Your jaw tightened involuntarily, and he noticed. His smirk deepened as he adjusted his grip in your hair, guiding you with more force than before. It wasn’t painful, but it was clear he wasn’t asking for permission anymore. He was almost guiding your head at this point, fucking into your warm mouth with soft grunts as the hand with a grip on your hair directed you towards him in perfect timing. Your jaw was starting to ache and you could barely notice it with your thoughts suddenly one-track-minded. You were alternating torturously between sucking and lapping at his dick. He pulled out, and then fucked back in roughly, and oh, he knew this would be good—but not this good.

His hand in your hair tightened, and the calm, collected demeanor he had shown earlier began to crack ever so slightly. His breaths were heavier, his eyes darker, and the faint quirk of his lips had transformed into something far less controlled.

His need was pressing against the edges of his control. Your breath hitched as you tried to keep up, the pace leaving you off balance.

You pulled back instinctively, your body reacting to the overwhelming sensation, but his grip on your hair tightened, keeping you in place. “No,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “Not yet. Breathe through your nose. Come on—work for it.”

The command sent a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and intimidating. You tried to steady your breathing, inhaling deeply through your nose as he’d instructed. Your jaw relaxed as best as it could, though every muscle in your body felt tense.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges, the first real crack in his composure. His free hand braced against the back of the couch he was sitting on, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it tightly.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, trying to focus despite your racing pulse. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, the intensity in them made your breath catch. He was watching you so closely, as if every movement, every reaction, was feeding something deep within him.

“God,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, his head tilting back slightly as his grip in your hair eased momentarily. “You have no idea how good you look like this. Believe me—you could’ve gotten out of your debts a long time ago.” The sounds are indescribable, dirty and wet and so fucking hot as he continues to thrust into your mouth.

“Your throat,” he chokes out. He splays one hand over your throat and starts to fuck up into you at a different angle. “I can fucking see myself in you, fuck—“ There was a rawness to his movements now, a lack of the careful control that had defined him earlier. “Just a little more” he murmured, his voice roughened by something you couldn’t quite place. You could hear his breathing quicken, could feel the faint tremor in his grip as he pulled you closer still. His dominance over the situation was undeniable, but there was a vulnerability in the way his body reacted, a need that felt almost desperate.

When you hesitated again, instinctively pulling back just a fraction to catch your breath, his hand tightened slightly in your hair, holding you in place. “No,” he said sharply “stay fucking still.”

You wanted to punch his face. But you did your best to keep up—still thinking about the money—your breath hitching as he guided you, his need evident in the way he moved.

His groans grew louder, more frequent, and his grip in your hair tightened again as he edged closer to the brink. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and his movements became more erratic. He was losing control, and the realization sent a strange thrill through you.

His orgasm washed over him and his body went still for a moment, his grip in your hair almost bruising as he held you in place. The sound he made was low and guttural, a noise that seemed to reverberate through the room. You froze as he held you there, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your throat burned, your body tensing as you fought the instinct to pull away as his fucking cum filled your mouth. He didn’t let you, his hand in your hair keeping you firmly in place as he muttered something under his breath—words you couldn’t quite make out over the pounding in your ears.

When he finally released you, it was abrupt, his hand loosening in your hair as he leaned back, his chest heaving. You gasped for air, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as you tried to steady yourself and then started to cough. Your body felt heavy, your limbs trembling as you sat back on your heels, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He met your gaze, his expression softening as he took in your disheveled appearance. “You did well,” he said, his voice low and rough. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “Better than I expected.” And then he took the hair tie off your hands.

You didn’t respond, still trying to catch your breath as you processed what had just happened. The room felt stifling, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you as you struggled to compose yourself. You just managed to smear his cum on your face.

His smirk returned, though it was softer now. “I knew you had it in you,” he said, his hand trailing down to cup your chin again. His thumb brushed against your jaw, and his smile widened slightly. “But you’ve got to learn to pace yourself.”

You glared at him faintly, though the effect was ruined by the flush in your cheeks and the way your body still trembled. “Maybe you should pace yourself,” you shot back, your voice hoarse.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Fair enough,” he said, his hand falling away from your face as he leaned back, his posture relaxing for the first time since you’d arrived. He looked down at you for a moment longer before reaching for his discarded boxers, slipping them back on with a casual grace.

“Go clean yourself up,” he said, gesturing toward a door off to the side. “The bathroom’s through there.”

You hesitated for a moment, your body still tense, before nodding and pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, and you had to grip the edge of a nearby chair to keep your balance. He watched you with an amused expression, his smirk widening as you stumbled toward the bathroom.

When you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. Your reflection in the mirror caught your eye, and you winced at the sight of your flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. You looked like a mess, and you weren’t sure how you felt about that.

As you splashed water on your face, trying to steady your nerves, you were almost on the verge of crying. It’s disgusting—it’s disgusting that you’re wiping his cum off your face and out of your mouth.

When you finally stepped back into the room, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable as he watched you. The briefcase was sitting on the nightstand beside him, and he gestured toward it with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Your reward,” he said simply, his smirk returning. “You’ve earned it.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering between him and the briefcase. “That’s it?” you asked, your voice still hoarse.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Unless you’re looking for another round,” he said, his tone teasing.

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to grab the briefcase. The weight of it felt solid in your hands, a tangible reminder of why you’d agreed to this in the first place. “I’ll pass,” you muttered, turning toward the door.

As you reached for the handle, his voice stopped you. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

You glanced back at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you met his gaze. His smirk was still in place, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker. You didn’t respond, pulling the door open and stepping out into the hallway.

The air outside felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the room you’d just left. You took a deep breath, the weight of the briefcase grounding you as you made your way down the hall and out of the villa.

[isasweetie]

say it to his face. (toxic!ex!rafe)

rafe’s not a very respectful ex. in his defence, seeing you in that little dress triggered him. it had been a while since he’d seen you, let alone those pretty thighs, and he didn’t know how to contain himself. he had bought you that dress, after all.

rafe’s eyebrows furrow from the pool table when he sees you finding another boy at the party. so you’re wearing a dress that rafe bought you while hugging your newest boy toy. it’s almost sad, he thinks, so certain it mean you must still want him.

so, arrogantly, he walks over. “shiiit, y/n, looking good,” he smiles, his hand on your shoulder from beside you so you look over — he always taught you to keep eye contact when he spoke.

you whisper something to your date, a little explanation as to who the hell this was. rafe snaps his fingers in your face when he sees the side conversation and obvious annoyed expression on your face. “hey, hey, what’s going on, huh?”

“rafe, please stop,” you sigh.

“nah nah nah, if you, uh, if you wanna say something about me to your pathetic guy, say it to my face,” he insists, bending his knees a bit to get to your level. “say it to my fuckin face,”

he starts slapping his defined cheekbone with his hand, condescendingly reiterating his former request. “stop it,” you insist. he leans his face in closer.

“and what if i don’t?” he asks, and when you don’t provide an answer, instead just rolling your eyes, he continues. “i just wanna know what you said, baby, don’t be stubborn,”

“i said you were my stupid ex and i apologized to my date for your immaturity,” you say honestly. he stands to his full height once more

“immature?” he repeats, scoffing at the blow to his ego. “yeah, does this guy run his own business? does this guy pay for his own house in figure eight, or do his parents still take care of him? does he even know what fuckin’ aftercare is? cause i sure do, baby, you know that—“

“rafe, stop!” you raise your voice, even though this is the third time you’ve told him to stop and he hasn’t yet.

he scoffs. “no, you stop. call me immature again, dare you,” his face moves over as if he wants you to whisper in his ear.

“you are,” you repeat.

“uuhhh huh,” he nods, as if in thought. “look, i moved houses, i don’t live in tannyhill anymore. here’s my card, has my number. call me and ill send you the address tonight, i’m going home and i’m gonna insist i see you there later,”

“rafe!—“ you start, glancing at your date.

“no, don’t start. don’t say shit. see you there,” he leaves, and in return leaves you standing beside your date, watching him go.

you hate yourself for dialling his number the minute your date is out of sight. you’re in the dress he bought you, for gods sake — you’re never getting rid of him.

[nanamiskentos]

MISS POSSESSIVE ⋆˚꩜｡ 五条悟, 鹿紫雲 (GOJO & KASHIMO)

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo’s been acting weird ever since he got unsealed: distant, smug, and just a little too rude about the fact you’ve been spending all your time with Hajime Kashimo. So when he catches you training together and things start heating up…well, you’re about to find out that territorial jujutsu sorcerers make very mean lovers.

FEATURING. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Hajime Kashimo

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, 3sûm, eiffél tower, orál (m), orál (f), dp, jealousy, semi-public séx, bulgés, gettin' pûssydrunk, implied yaoi for those who have the eyes to see, MDNI, post Culling Games, PETTY GOJO, mánhandling, inappropriate uses of jujutsu, possessive séx

WC 𐙚 8.1k

NOTE 𐙚 she's back and she's predictable... (req from @wetwhisper)

The air in the training room is far too thick and syrupy for your tired lungs. The temperature is warm, rising from shared body heat and gulping breaths. It's the kind of atmosphere that sticks to your skin, and makes your hairline damp, your limbs humming from overuse.

You're crouched low on the soft black mats, your strained thighs aching in the soft, linen pants you traded your navy staff robes for. One palm flattened against the ground as you attempt to dodge Kashimo's next hit.

The God of Lightning is as fast as his epithet, enjoying himself far too much, but you've come to learn that Hajime Kashimo is just naturally like that.

Nothing makes that man happier than bruised knuckles, and the sweet ring of victory bells.

"How can it be that you are this tired already?" Kashimo's panting and lurching forward, teal hair plastered to his brow. His sharp, jewel-toned cyan eyes are the exact same shade, and the effect is beautiful in the most disconcerting way.

"You wish." You lunge, twisting in a way that strains a solid third of your body, but Kashimo catches your wrist mid-strike, flipping you with a thud against the cushioned mat. His warm grip is firm, but never bruising.

Always precise, and always hungry.

The sorcerer lands above you, sun-kissed chest heaving, only wearing the ivory bandages wrapped around his torso, and dark martial pants slung low over his toned hips.

You forcefully tear your eyes away from the ripple of his carved abdomen as he cackles at the joy of his own victory. Again.

The next breath you draw is shallow, and you gnaw absently at the inside of your cheek as his knee presses between your thighs, "Dirty move."

"We must all play to win," Kashimo's cyan eyes are half-lidded, and you get the vague sensation that he's all the more pleased with your position pinned under him.

"You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Kashimo's pink lips quirk upwards, but he's tilting his head down to brush his mouth just barely against the curve of your jaw, "However, if my actions present an opportunity like this, I would be a fool not to indulge myself."

The training room's door might be closed, but this is still a public space, and you know that you should roll to your side, and shove him off.

But a lecherous demon inside you demands that you should tug your fingers through mussed teal strands, and pull him closer.

Surely, there's enough time for Kashimo to prove he can put his money where his mouth is.

Or rather, he can put his mouth right on your —

Bang!

Your body jerks upright instinctively as the heavy door slams open.

Gojo Satoru. Lacking a shirt, glistening and very much uninvited.

His snowy white hair is messier than usual, as though he's rolled out of bed and forgotten to fix it. But you wager he's been training nearby, judging by the white pants that hug his hips, low and lazy, covering a trail of thin, ivory hair that dusts his groin.

Ugh, the slope of his collarbone to the sharp ridges of his torso is frankly criminal. But his blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and his expression is...unreadable.

You'd wager a month locked inside the bounds of the Prison Realm wasn't exactly a picnic for Gojo, but still, does that really justify him treating you like week-old leftovers ever since he was unsealed?

Your best friend of years, now looking at you as though you personally hand-delivered the keys to his misery.

"Oh. It's you," Gojo intones, blue-eyes rolling skywards at the sight of Kashimo, dulcet voice flat and disdainful, as though offering a greeting offends him.

You think Gojo regards Kashimo the same way that someone may regard a raccoon digging through their trash, vaguely horrified and mostly inconvenienced.

Not that Kashimo notices, or cares. If anything, he always seems amused by Gojo's simmering, unadulterated loathing. Delighted, even.

Yeah, you've yet to figure out why Hajime Kashimo is the way that he is.

You remember a recent memory, perhaps a mere fortnight ago, when Kashimo insisted that the two of you train at the ungodly hour past midnight. So, you had untangled yourself out of soft sheets and trailed behind him down the dim hallway to the final training room.

But Kashimo had barely pushed the slow door open when a violent flash of red came screaming right past your shoulder. Hot, pressurised, and so close it nearly parted the roots of your hair from your scalp.

It had been a Reversal: Red. Casual as a breeze, as powerful as a packed weapon. Just coincidentally brushing past you, and aimed a little too close to Kashimo's face.

But he hadn't flinched, merely angled his staff with mechanical precision, deflecting the attack as though it was a light-hearted routine.

The blast of cursed energy had shattered against the far wall with a sizzle, leaving behind a smouldering scorch mark and the faint scent of fried ozone.

And Gojo? That smug bastard, that grown-ass man, had been inside, rolling his shoulders back as though he were plastered on a calendar shoot. Bare-chested, slow, gleaming with sweat. Thick arms stretched high as though he knew your eyes fell on him.

But when he dropped his hands, his blue eyes cut to you, sparkling with faux innocence, "My bad," your best friend had drawled, voice smooth and laced with the sugar that he was so fond of chewing, "Didn't see you there, man."

Kashimo had grunted at the time, entirely unmoved as he stepped past Gojo without so much an accusatory glance, "It happens."

Apparently, that pissed Gojo off more than a direct insult ever could.

You had watched it all unfold in real time, the petty twitch in Gojo's eyes, the way his jaw clenched as Kashimo breezed past, the medieval sorcerer already distracted and marvelling at the smoking crater in the wall like a museum exhibit.

And then, Gojo had turned that midnight-blue glare on you. As if you had personally redirected the blast. As if it was your fault that Kashimo hadn't been obliterated into magical dust. The sheer audacity.

And yet, you remember that exact moment your brain chose to focus on other matters. Like noticing the more...physical changes in your best friend.

It wasn't really a secret that Gojo had always been built like a demigod on vacation, but now? His time away had resulted in a thicker, sharper frame. All honed muscle and veined forearms, and a lean waist sculpted by aggressive training and solitude.

His training pants had been hanging low on his hips, loose and teasing, just barely clinging to the faint trail of white hair disappearing down his pelvis.

You had snapped your gaze to the far side of the room, pretending that you were admiring the chair where his dark top had been peeled off and discarded.

That petty, duplicitous bitch. He was definitely doing this on purpose.

But Kashimo had already moved on. Entirely unbothered and unperturbed by his near-death experience.

Not because he missed the way you practically gulped when Gojo stretched, but because he's too busy running curious, bandaged fingers alongside the crack in the wall, a neat floor-to-ceiling scar carved courtesy of Gojo's tantrums.

"An excellent technique, I have not seen a hit like that in centuries." Kashimo had whistled low, genuinely impressed. It had been enough for Gojo to throw the two of you a look of sheer disgust, his fingers snagging into his discarded shirt to yank it up, and stalk out of the room.

That brings you to the present. Gojo's still in the doorway, backlit by the warm training hall lights, white hair deliciously damp and tousled. His voice is flat and clipped, eyes like glass and tone like sandpaper as he nods, "Hey."

You blink, a scowl already defensively crossing your features. A pause stretches between the two of you, heavier and far more awkward than it's ever been, as you finally mutter, "...Hi?"

It comes out as more of a question than a greeting. Embarrassing.

Kashimo doesn't move from where he's perched above you, one leg stretched out lazily, and the other bent at the knee, still slotted between your thighs. He has yet to speak, doesn't need to, but a lean arm slips around your shoulders in that casual, infuriatingly confident way.

Not possessive, just visible. Just enough for Gojo to notice, with no Six Eyes necessary. Your best friend's lips are pressed into a thin line, as though he's grinding his teeth on gravel.

"Didn't know the room was booked," Gojo mutters, stepping inside anyway, and shutting the door behind him with an unnecessary click. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms bunching, "My bad. Didn't mean to crash your little date night."

You return his unimpressed look, correcting him, "Training."

Gojo hums, the sound is dry and unimpressed, "Sure."

You sigh, gently pushing Kashimo's arm off, and sitting up on your knees. You're certain that sweat clings to your skin, your top is damp and clingy, and hair must be stuck to your cheek.

"What?" You say, flicking your gaze up at him, watching how the warm light reflects the smooth, peach-tone of his cheeks, "Miss me or something?"

It's a teasing comment, like it always has been, but there's a carefulness underneath that disguises hope. The hope for a smirk, the sing-song voice, the snarky comeback that you've been privy to for over a decade.

But Gojo doesn't smile at you, for his eyes are narrowed, and something devastatingly sharp flickers beneath his impossibly long lashes. Rather, he's scoffing, tipping his head, "You wish."

You tilt your chin to mirror him, "Do I?" You look Gojo over, slow and deliberate, from his sweat-damp hair down to the way his pants hang low enough to piss off any patron saints of modesty, "Because you came all this way to interrupt us. And you know these rooms have training schedules right. One even the first years can read. So..."

Your gaze lingers on the sculpted lines of his abdominals, "What? Fresh out of clean uniforms?"

Gojo's arms tense tighter across his broad chest, wide shoulders flaring, "Are you really grillin' me about laundry right now?"

"No," You glance at Kashimo, who doesn't even bother hiding the amused curl shaping his lips, "No. I'm not, I'm – whatever."

Your sentence breaks off, and you realise there's a hot flush of irritation licking at your chest. You just wish that Gojo would just spit out whatever evil demon is bothering him, or either fuck right off.

Kashimo snorts softly, the sound low in his throat, but he doesn't speak. His expression simmers, not mocking, just entertained. Maybe even fascinated.

Gojo says nothing, watching you. Staring, and you do your best not to shiver at the weight of those bright jewel-blue eyes. His step forward stills you, pulse quickening under your skin like the warning crackle before lightning hits.

But the real lightning beside you doesn't seem as concerned.

Kashimo tracks Gojo's approach with the cool interest of a haughty cat watching another enter its territory, not threatened in the least, but ready. He shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee, and his toned frame draped in lazy tension.

"He's a good sparring partner for you now?" Gojo says, voice as low and smooth as a knife laid flat on the edge of a table, tipped to fall.

You shrug, deliberately loose and saccharine, "He's good, keeps me nimble."

Gojo's sky-blue eyes dip, skimming over your form as though he's committing you to memory. You can see his gaze linger on the strip of skin above your waistband, the sweat slicking your collarbones, "I thought sparring included more of a fight, and less...touching."

"Jealousy? Seriously, Satoru, that's what this is?"

Gojo scowls at you, sharp canines peeking out from glossy lips as he sneers, "Not of him." His reply is immediate, flat as paper and twice as sharp, "I just don't want you gettin' sloppy."

From behind you, Kashimo snickers, the kind that makes heat lick your spine, "She's not sloppy." Teal hair clouds the peripherals of your vision as his hair tickles your cheek, and his fingers drag lazily down your lower back, "She's quite lethal. And very flexible, trust me."

You should have whacked Kashimo upside the head.

Because, bless his heart, truly, but you didn't fancy Gojo deciding to rev up the old Hollow Purple again to try and smite the Edo-period sorcerer.

Gojo's resulting inhale is nearly silent, nearly. But you hear it, and his jaw tics, shoulders squared, and fingers twitching.

You're getting flashbacks to Geto Suguru's dramatic antics, back in your school days when the raven-haired sorcerer would get all huffy and puff up, like a chicken about to fly the coop. The thought of the similarity would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so depressing.

"Something on your mind, Satoru?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate, giving you that bored look. The one that precedes impulsive, poor decisions. The look that usually ends up with someone pinned to a wall, for better or worse.

"I'm just looking out for you," Gojo finally shrugs, as though he's attempting to shake the tension from his shoulders, "I heard all about his...exploits during the Culling Games. Kashimo's not exactly known for playing nice."

Kashimo hums, scraping his cyan hair up into his signature, loose knots, "She does not want nice."

"I know," Gojo's grin is blindingly dangerous, like a blade dressed in lace, "I've known her longer, right? I think I know everything she wants."

You glance between the two sorcerers, Infinity and Lightning, crackling like twin storms on the verge of colliding, and you can feel the heat in your gut bloom, sharp and molten.

Ugh, men. Honestly.

Kashimo breaks the silence, puffing air from his cheeks with the blunt edge of a bomb, as he drawls, "What, you want to hit me or kiss me? Or kiss her?"

Gojo's expression flickers, just for a second as confusion flits across his face, followed by a flush of colour painting his handsome features. White brows knitted together, as his lips rearrange into a defensive scowl.

You pinch the sorcerer beside you, "Hajime –"

Kashimo shrugs, clearly unfazed, "That is clearly what it is, is it not? His intentions have been clear to read since he walked in. What is it, irritated that we have fucked, and you were never invited?"

Gojo's opens his mouth, maw flapping open, probably to say something clever, or cutting, or catastrophically self-destructive. But nothing comes out, just cold static.

You have to hand it to Kashimo. You don't think you've seen Gojo Satoru truly speechless in over ten years. Well, unless you count that disastrous night on the train platform not so long ago, but who's fault was that really?

Kashimo leans in, ghosting the shell of your ear, "I told you so."

Your eyes snap to your best friend, and yeah. There it is, the front of his pants entirely tented, and the implication is loud and clear.

There's no misreading the watercolour blush painting his creamy cheeks as Gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, "Fuck you." Not a hint of denial in the rock-salt rasp of his voice.

"You could only wish," Kashimo snarls, all teeth and challenge, "We are still sparring. Stay and watch if you want. Or jump in, I am not that picky."

Your lungs are still burning when the match ends, and Kashimo has had his fair share of victory. The sorcerer had you pinned, once more. Sweat-drenched, gloating like a feline that had caught something squirmy.

He had leaned down, and murmured something obscene right againt your ear, voice a low purr that made your groin ache. When you had snapped at him to shut up, Kashimo had just licked the salt from your collarbone, "How fiery."

The bastard had wandered off to get water as though he hadn't left you with the urging desire to have your guts rearranged right here, right now. You're still shaking out the leftover adrenaline, hunched with your hands braced on your knees. Your pulse is doing double time in your neck when footsteps thud in your ears.

"Had your fun?" Gojo looks as though he's sucked all the juice dry from an unpleasantly sour lemon.

"Fuck's sake." You're muttering, dragging the back of your wrist against your forehead, "Why do you get off on sneaking up on people like that?"

"This is a training mat, not a door," Gojo says, deadpan.

"Satoru."

The way you say his name, soft and breathy, intimately frustrated, makes something flicker in his vibrant eyes. Something raw and reflexive, like a muscle flinch. He steps closer, you step back.

You don't mean to. It just happens, that instinctive movement, your heart doing triple-axel flips behind your ribs. Anticipation, and some dark thrill you don't fancy naming.

Gojo follows, slow and loose-limbs, like a big cat cornering something warm, and tired and tempting. His hands are in his pockets, and it's taking Olympian-level strength to not flit your gaze downwards.

"What do you want?" You're asking, doing your best to keep your tone breezy, but you don't quite succeed, "Here to give me an impromptu performance review?"

"Didn't think I needed to," Gojo scoffs, voice dipped in cool-lipped sarcasm, "You've been plenty vocal all day."

Your brows knit, "What?"

"I was nearby earlier," Gojo says smoothly, but you can see the twitch in his eyelid, lashes fluttering, "Hard not to hear when someone's moaning like that."

Your mouth opens, tongue sinking like lead. Closes, and opens again. This conversation doesn't seem to be related to sparring anymore. Not technically, not unless training included a little moment a few hours ago when Kashimo had two fingers curled inside you, streaking slick down your thighs, and you had gasped out his name in breathy cries.

Gojo's smile is slow, and sharp. Amused, but you can see the searing, red-hot tips of his ears peeking through mussed white hair, "You know, they say that Kashimo was one of the strongest sorcerers ever." Faux-modesty colouring his voice as he continues, "Well, of that era. Time has moved forward, you know."

"So?"

"So," Gojo wrinkles his nose, voice like honey poured over barbed wire, "Does he fuck you better than he fights you?"

Your back is to the training room wall, cool bricks pressing into your spine. A harsh contrast to how blisteringly hot the rest of your body feels. Your thighs twitch, and you're certain that if you pressed them together, you would feel the slick slide of your arousal pooling between your swollen folds.

"And I just didn't think you were into guys like him," Gojo murmurs, voice low and mildly unimpressed, "Loud. Cocky. I mean, that guy's a walking lightning rod with a complex."

Had you been in a more rational state of mind, you may have commented that Gojo's description was outstandingly self-aware. Instead, your pulse thuds in your ears as you arch a brow, "Didn't know you were takin' notes and watching that close."

"I'm not."

"Really? 'Cause this feels a lot like investigative journalism to me."

Gojo's eyes drop to your mouth, lingering, before flicking back up, "Does he always touch you right? You always make those sweet, little sounds like earlier this afternoon?"

Something dangerous flashes and sits right underneath your tongue, something along the lines of asking why he doesn't touch you and see if he can recreate the same melody.

"If you want to fuck her, just say it," Kashimo drawls from the doorway, sauntering back in with a water bottle in one hand, and a towel slung loose around his neck.

You freeze, feeling the low pulse of sheer want beginning to throb in between your thighs. But Gojo doesn't flinch, jaw stiff enough to grind diamonds down into dust.

Kashimo takes a long swig, shrugging handedly as one would comment on the weather, "It is tragic enough how you brood each time I touch her. We all know what is on your mind."

"I'm not –" Gojo's snapping, but the sharp, protruding tent in his pants speaks volumes for him.

"Who are you fooling?" Kashimo's teal eyes glint, teeth flashing in a lazy grin.

You glance between the two sorcerers, your best friend of years with that unreadable storm in your eyes, and Kashimo, who seems as though he's enjoying Gojo's fury a little too much. Your pulse is in your throat, your thighs tacking together, and the air around you crackles, thick enough to chew.

"Tell you what," Kashimo offers, unravelling the ivory bandages from his forearms, "Since you are so clearly aching for it," his eyes flicking to Gojo, and then you, "And she is all but waiting for one of us to finally pounce, why not have a taste?"

There's heat licking at your ribs, a molten and wicked thing that is curled low in your belly, and it's climbing. Fast. You watch distractedly as the linen wraps fall to the floor.

Your brows shoot up, "Are you –"

"I do not mind sharing," Kashimo says, and beneath his deceptively flat tone, you can sense the gears turning in his head, fuelled by the thrill and excitement, "So long as you can keep pace." Ocean-toned eyes glittering as they slide sideways.

Gojo scoffs, but you can see the dangerously red flush climbing up the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his white undercut, "You think I can't keep up with you?"

Kashimo rolls his eyes as though it's beneath him to answer, "I was not speaking to you, Six Eyes." He's tipping his head towards you, teal strands tangling, "I'm asking her."

Truthfully, you're soaked. Not metaphorically, nor subtly. You're clenching your thighs around nothing. Heartbeat pounding between your legs as if it's desperate for some friction, as heat bleeds through your clothes.

Kashimo's already beside you before you can draw another sharp breath, "Mhm. No answer?" He's humming, as though he already knows. Bandaged fingers drap down your hip, slow and teasing, before hooking into the waistband of your shorts with an easy flick of his agile wrist.

You stifle a sharp gasp as warm fingers slip through swollen, slick folds, and Kashimo snorts, "Dripping through your clothes. All this for us?"

The fabric slides past your thighs, and the cool air licks at your slick skin. It's almost cruel, how exposed you feel, heat pulsing between your legs, chest rising in shallow gasps as Gojo swallows behind you, a large hand coming to rest at your waist.

"I think it's just for me," Gojo purrs, grinding the prominent line of his cock behind you, hard through the thin fabric of his martial pants. His voice is smug, sweetened by the rasp of want, "Pretty sure she's been staring since I walked in."

Kashimo's clicking his tongue, gently mouthing a pink-blooming mark beneath your jaw, "That is because you strut about like a young peacock in the spring."

"I'm twenty-nine, you freak of nature."

"Then cease the preening, and get undressed."

"Now who wants to fuck who?"

"Okay!" You're gasping, flustered, and your voice trembles several octaves higher than usual. You're flushed from neck to navel, your pulse ricocheting through your veins like a cursed technique gone rogue, "You guys can argue later, right?"

They both pause, Gojo's raising a thin brow, amused. And Kashimo tilts his head, as though you're a puzzle he's planning to solve with his mouth.

"Sure, we can take turns," Gojo huffs, and his lips brush your shoulder. Open-mouthed, and hot. And your entire body lights up, glistening strands of arousal tacking between your folds.

Kashimo's hand slips over your chest, and he palms your breast with sheer hunger, tweaking your stiff nipple with practiced cruelty.

"F-fuck," You moan, bucking into Gojo's chest, and the white-haired man growls, a throat-deep snarl that erupts unfettered, "I wanna' touch her first."

Kashimo's responding look is smug, "She has taken me before. I suppose you can taste her first."

Your gasp turns sharp because your best friend is clearly done playing nice, and he's on his knees now, dragging your sodden panties all the way down, admiring the translucent fabric clinging to the shape of your puffy pussy folds. A long finger hooking the wet fabric aside, as his big hands grip your thighs, spreading you open with ferocious purpose.

"Pretty pussy's wet enough to drown in," Gojo murmurs, voice reverent, like he's found some holy grail between your legs, "And you've been letting the little lightning freak do this? Seriously?"

"I thought you did not care," Kashimo drawls, and he's tipping your chin up with two fingers, watching the daze flood your eyes, "And yet here you are, already kneeling."

"That's because I'm gonna' show you how it's actually done," Gojo grins against your inner thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh like a searing brand.

Between Kashimo's fingers digging into your jaw, and Gojo's warm breath fanning your cunt, you can barely think, let alone string together a rational strength. You're split between the searing light of the sun, and the rumbling thunder of a storm, one sorcerer smug as though it's another victory for him, and the other watching you with unbridled devotion.

"Go on, princess," Gojo murmurs, "Say please. Beg real sweet, and I'll eat ya' until you forget his name."

"You want first so bad?" Kashimo muses, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. His skin smells of ozone, and danger, that natural pine-scent you've come to associate with the medieval sorcerer. "Let him warn you up, little dove. We both know how partial he is to using his mouth."

"I will kill you," Gojo mutters, but there's hardly any heat in the threat, not when he's burying his face between your thighs, sending streaks of pleasure prickling through your spine.

Pink tongue licking a thick stripe over your soaked slit, slow and all for show. Then he flattens the glossy muscle over your clit, stamping you with his signature. You can already hear the tacking, sloppy sounds of Gojo quenching his thirst down there, and your knees give out instantly.

"Holy f-fucking –" You're gasping, gripping Kashimo's arm like a lifeline as your legs collapse like noodles. Wet, trembling and fucked-out. And they had barely begun.

Gojo hums smugly into your pussy, and it's obscene, all wet suction and vibrations, complete with practiced flicks of his tongue. Precision, ego and a little cruelty. He's eating you out as though he's attempting to outdo every man who's ever looked at you sideways.

"Still think I'm j-jealous?" Gojo rasps against your clit, lips slick with your shiny arousal, voice vibrating right into your core as you buck your hips against his chin.

"You are the one tongue-deep in her cunt five minutes after saying you would kill me." Kashimo's reply is dry as kindly, but you can hear the barely-grasped restraint shaking underneath, "You tell me."

You can hardly see straight. The world has narrowed down to Gojo's mouth, and Kashimo's hand, which is now stroking your cheek with infuriating calm, elegant thumb tracing your marked jaw as though he needs to ground something precious and his

The very tip of Gojo's nose bumps your clit just right, and you whine, pitchy and utterly wrecked. Hips twitching, thighs trembling as you bury your nails into Kashimo's lean arm, attempting to anchor onto something solid.

"Look at you," Kashimo murmurs, voice dripping with fond amusement, "So sensitive already. Are you going to finish just from his mouth already, little dove?"

"I – fuck, I might –"

"She will," Gojo cuts in, voice wicked and soaked with pride. He licks up into you again, tongue prodding at your pulsing entrance, slower now as he draws a long moan from your throat, "Knew I could always make her sound like t-this, easy."

You choke on a sound that's part moan, part whimper as Kashimo's gaze sharpens, "Not that easy." His breath ghosts your ear, trailing down to your pebbled nipples, "You will still scream for me, right?"

Your whole body must be trembling, caught in the tug-of-war between Gojo's talented, fuckin' mouth, and the sensation of Kashimo running his hands over your chest. You can feel that orgasm coiling low, and hot, and violent.

"You gonna' cum, pretty girl?" Gojo's teasing, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh, while the pads of his fingers run tight circles over your swollen, sensitive bud, "Or you wanna' be edged till he starts zappin' sparks everywhere."

Kashimo's grip tightens on your chin, "Let her come."

You don't just fall, you shatter. It's fast, too fast as your thighs clamp around Gojo's head like a vice, a desperate and gasping moan that rips from your throat as an orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. Raw, and shuddering, and shameless.

Gojo doesn't budge, nor does he flinch. He's just grinning into it, as though there's nowhere else he would rather be but your pulsing cunt. When he finally pulls back, after pressing a sticky mwah! to your very core, his face is soaked. Mouth swollen, chin shiny with your gloss, and silver hair in a disarray. He looks as though he just crawled out of paradise, and is considering diving right back in.

"If he wasn't so impatient, I coulda' made you squirt," Gojo huffs, smug as sin, swiping a thumb over his glistening jaw like a badge of honour.

You're barely upright, more puddle than person, when Gojo gently rolls you over, standing behind you and dragging his loose pants down with a practiced tug. You can feel the hot wisp of pre-cum cool against your ass after a heavy slap of his cock makes you jolt.

You draw in a deep breath, attempting to shake the last remnants of your orgasm-dazed haze out of your head, as you peer up at Kashimo. Naked. When the hell did that happen? But judging by the creamy slick already being bumped over his shaft, he's already been more than ready.

His cock is flushed, and proud, all glorious inches curving to the right, and the expression on Kashimo's face is somewhere between reverence and predation, "She's trembling." Brushing a thump along your lower lip, "Broke her already, Six Eyes?"

"Haven't even s-started. Gonna' make her cum again," Gojo grunts, and you can feel the thick, blunt head of his cock snag against your swollen, dripping folds.

Each thick inch is slow, unrelenting as though your gummy walls are memorising vein-ridden moulds of his cock. Each small bump of his cock deeper makes you tremble, back already arching so deliciously as you bite back a loud wail.

"F-fuck, Satoru," Your voice cracks, eyes rolling as your walls stretch and mould around him. Easily the biggest you've ever taken, and he's making every inch count, getting closer to kissin' your cervix.

"Thaaat's it, baby," Gojo pants, teeth skimming your shoulder as white hair clouds the peripherals of your vision, "Gotta' l-love hearing ya' say my name like that."

But when you open your eyes, you don't quite miss the jealous twitch that thunders across Kashimo's fine features. And you know that the God of Lightning is never to be outdone. Teal lashes fluttering as he gently runs a linen-wrapped hand over your face, "Just keep your mouth open, hmm?"

The head of his cock brushing your cheek as you mewl, sharp, from Gojo's harsher thrust. You obey before you even think, lips hungrily parting to flick your tongue over the cherry-red tip.

Kashimo hisses softly, the milky muscles of his thighs twitching, "Sweet tongue," he's murmuring, pushing his cock deeper into your waiting mouth, slow and deliberate, "So eager to serve. Who would not aim to worship you?"

Your mind splinters, for what Kashimo lacks in girth, he makes up for in sheer length, and your knees dig into the soft mat. Gojo's hand is running down your spine, trailing from the nape of your neck to the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, before slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost mean.

But Kashimo is fucking your mouth with a devastating kind of patience, as though he's savouring every hollowed, sloppy suctioned moan that you let out. It's immensely satisfying how he shivers when you press your tongue right over the long, throbbing vein that runs on the underside of his shaft.

And just like that, you're full. Every inch of you claimed, stretched wide so your slick and saliva begins to pool, stuffed in stereo. Pretty pussy and throat. You can feel your lashes fluttering, as desperate fingers dig half-moons into the muscles of Kashimo's upper thighs.

"Good, fuck – good, wet girl," Gojo groans behind you, hands bruising your hips, but every so often he's gently soothing over your spine with a warm brush, "A pretty damn' good multitasker, hmm? I'm making ya' feelin' good?"

"You are awfully loud for someone who was not even inside her five minutes ago," Kashimo mutters, voice tight with restraint, and sweat sliding down his temple as he slowly draws his gleaming, glistening cock out of your droolin' mouth. Flattening himself underneath you, so he's got the perfect view of you perched over him, right down to where the thick base of Gojo's cock is swallowed up by your folds again and again. The sorcerer hisses as he guides the spurtin' head of his cock back to your soaked, trembling cunt.

You can hear Gojo snicker behind you, and you know if you turned you would see fluttering, pretty lashes and cocky blue eyes as though he isn't currently ploughing balls-deep inside you already, "Didn't need to be," he murmurs, "Didn't take her long at a-all to cum from my mouth."

"I was there, fool."

"Then maybe, ya' shouldn't taken n-notes," Gojo purrs, lips stuttering around a broken moan as he digs his fingers further into your hips. Your upper teeth sink into your lip, half-wrecked and half-feral as Kashimo begins to slide the tip of his aching cock through the mess, teasing at your already-stretched entrance.

"Are you two gonna' fight, or a-actually fuck me?" You're snapping, voice shredded as your breath catches, attempting to breathe through the impossible fullness of Gojo hittin' all the sweet spots inside you, all while Kashimo lines up behind you again.

Gojo groans, admonished, as he tilts his hip to thrust up into you, deep and indulgent, "Not our fault you're so fuckin' addictive, baby."

"Speak for yourself, Six Eyes," Kashimo mutters, and then he pushes in, at the same time. Right next to Gojo's thick shaft pounding into you, right into your already stuffed cunt.

Your forehead, beaded with exertion, drops helplessy onto Gojo's chest as your walls stretch. The intrusion is deliciously unbearable, for both sorcerers are thick, solid and throbbing. And still, your greedy and aching body tries to take it, split right open as your sweet spots sing from the stimulation.

"Holy f-fuck –" you cry, voice cracking as your hips tremble and quiver under Gojo's large, surprisingly gentle hands, "You're both, oh my God –"

"Yes, sweet thing," Kashimo hisses, a sibilant sound that flickers past his lips, as his own hands reach up to anchor themselves in your waist, "Taking all of it s-so well."

You can feel both their cocks, sliding against each other inside you, pressed right in that too-small gummy cavity, kissin' up right against your sweet spot in the most incredible way. Gojo's exhaling a shaky laugh from behind you, smug even as his cock twitches from the extra friction, and you can feel the rough pads of his fingertips shake, "Didn't think you'd be able to us both, baby."

You rock helplessly between them, back beautifully arched, fucked-out moans spilling past kiss-stung lips as they set a steady rhythm that borders on ruthless. Kashimo's hand, elegant and tightly clenched, brushes Gojo's thigh. Barely a gaze, a blink and you'd miss it type of touch. But time hiccups, and you can feel that sudden, sizzling crackle that zips between them like lightning caught in a bottle.

The sensation ricochets through your body, shivering and kissin' along your spine. It's so much more carnal and charged, nearly unbearable. Deep sapphire-blue meets cool, ocean-cyan over your quivering, rocking shoulders, eyes locking like swords.

Kashimo leans in closer, in a way that his carved front presses against your own chest, smooth voice a dangerous purr in your ear, "He feigns disinterest. But he shivers when I touch him."

You know, and Gojo knows too, for you feel his hand tighten on your waist, just a little. There's a filthy echo of skin against skin, strands of slick sticking and unsticking as Gojo pounds into you, more determined than ever to see you fall apart for him.

Kashimo's fingers creep higher now, beautiful hands with small bruises from constant training. But they're moving intentionally now, brazen as his palm slides up your side, overlapping with Gojo's, both their hands pressed possessively to your body, steadying your stuffed form.

If you had been able to create coherent words, you would have comment on the low whine behind your ear, Gojo's muffled moan as he matches his pace to Kashimo's agile hips.

The white-haired sorcerer thrusts up into you, snapping your spine taut as a gasp is punched out of your lungs. His cock is driving into you so, so deep, brushing every sweet spot that you could only ever dream of finding.

"R-right there, Satoru!" You yelp, head falling forward against Kashimo's shoulder, that heady scent of mountain pine and something sweeter, like persimmon, enveloping you once more.

The God of Lightning answers with his own brutal snap of hips, driving forward to bury himself beside Gojo again, twin cocks filling you, stretching you wide while your arousal pools from your puffy lips, providing the slick lubrication needed. The sorcerers move together now, and yet not, not synchronised but racing, as though they're trying to outpace each other with every savage grind into your dripping cunt.

"Close, little dove? I can f-feel how tight you are, like a v-vice," Kashimo huffs, voice heady and low as a glass of smooth wine in the cold December air.

But Gojo's laughing, harsh and knowing, his muscular thighs caging you on either side, as sweat glimmers on his temple and he leaves sweet kisses on the nape of your neck, "Watch this."

A large hand slips between your thighs, and you crane your neck to peer in a haze at the soft dusting of white hair over peachy skin, and then —

Pressure. The pad of his thumb presses against your clit in slow, merciless circles. Too precise, too good that it becomes villainous. Like Gojo's already got a blueprint of your most sensitive spots memorised, and he's weaponising it.

You wail, falling further against Kashimo's sculpted chest, high and frantic gasps leaving your glossy mouth as your thighs twitch, cunt clenchin' tight around both of them.

"Fuckin' cheater," Kashimo groans, hips jolting as the soft thatch of teal curls at the base of his cock droop with the sheer amount of your arousal pooling over his hips at this angle.

"She likes it, don'tcha baby?"

"She likes me more."

"You gonna' cry 'bout it?"

"I will hit you."

"You'd hafta' pull out first."

You can't hold back a snappy, wet shriek. Not a cute gasp, but a full-body, trembling cry, and just like that, both sorcerers finally shut the hell up. Because your orgasm doesn't arrive so much as detonate. It slams you into like a special-grade, no warning nor mercy. Your thighs lock up, trembling as your cunt squeezes tight on both their cocks.

An awed choke echoes behind you as Gojo's jaw goes slack, flush crawling up his chest, "Holy s-shit, she's squeezin' me out –"

Kashimo looks equally affected, the magenta marks beneath his eyes bright as he attempts to keep his moans muffled, but he ends up panting, lips curled as he curses beneath his breath, "Beautiful, wicked thing. I may finish a-already."

"Ya' better not," Gojo growls, still fucking into you like a man possessed, the bulky, mushroom-tip of his shaft pressed right up against your cervix, "I'm not d-done yet." He's flipping you over with ease, that casual display of strength from your best friend that you had never really focused on before. His thrusts are messier now, sloppier and louder.

Gojo's groaning, low and filthy in your ear, beautiful praises barely coherent as he pounds into you, soothing the strained ache in your thighs as he runs his hands over the stung flesh, "So p-perfect, missed ya', right? M-missed everything, baby. Shoulda' done this a looong time ago."

Kashimo kneels beside you, cock still slick from glistening folds, aquamarine eyes molten. His thumb trails down your jaw once more, catching on the plush, gnawed seam of your lips, "Look at you, so lovely splayed out like this. Six Eyes must be doing a good job for that pretty cunt to still be so sensitive."

You mewl, nodding your head as you breathe deeply, attempting to clear some of the haze from your eyes, and Gojo doesn't answer, but his cock twitches inside you, heavy sack smacking against your ass and creating the most filthy mess on the mats.

"Go on, then," Kashimo murmurs, low and electric, "Fuck her full, Gojo, I'll clean her up."

The sound falling from Gojo's lip is closer to a whimper, a desperate high that he's chasing, and it's raw. You're babbling now, hips arching to meet his every thrust as your legs tremble, hands fisting on the mat. Your pussy flutters madly around him, greedy and so insatiable.

"S-Satoru," you sob, tears pricking at your lashes, drooping, Please –, please cum inside, n-need it."

That does it, for his name on your tongue breaks the strongest sorcerer of the modern day. Gojo moans loud and unabashed, ruined as his hips jerk, burying himself deep and spillin' inside you. Thick, and hot and endless, flooding every divot and sticky nook within you. Your pussy pulses around his shaft, every girthy vein to milk each drop of his creamy seed as though it was made for him.

Kashimo doesn't waste a second, the long, sheer length of his flushed cock slipping past your lips, snagging on your cheek and leaving a faint smear as your moan vibrates around him, "Fuck, little dove," he snarls, teal hair falling over his face as he shakes his head, "You sing with your tongue."

You hollow your cheeks, and that's enough to undo the greatest sorcerer of the Edo period. Kashimo loses it, spilling into your mouth, translucent seed like hot salt on your tongue, and his voice cracks as he shudders above you. You're swallowing what you can, and the rest trickles down your chin, sticky and so obscene.

One sorcerer's release leaks out of the swollen, glossy folds of your cunt in lazy drips, trickling down your thighs. And the other's coats your tongue like a second sin. It's a mess, a masterpiece and a miracle.

You're flat on your back now, dazed and twitching, held together by the warm and shuddering weight of two powerful jujutsu sorcerers. Gojo collapses beside you first, chest heaving with a strawberry flush, face pressed to your neck. His hand stays tangled in yours like a lifeline, as though he needs to be touching you.

But Kashimo leans over, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip where his release still glistens, "You made quite the mess," he murmurs, sea-glass eyes ringed by impossibly long lashes.

You huff, and let out a wet giggle, though it's still quite the exertion for your spent body, "You liked it."

Kashimo pauses, and then in a rare, velvet-soft voice, he laughs, fond, and presses a kiss to your mouth as though he's sealing a sacred pact, "I did, little dove."

Gojo's head lifts, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue-eyes heavy with bliss and almost boyish affection. He reaches for your face, and you lean into your best friend's touch, his warm and unhurried fingers that brush a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest sting.

"You still with us, baby?" Gojo's voice is gravel-laced velvet, playful and hoarse, "Or did we both finally fuck the soul outta' you?"

From the other side, Kashimo grunts, brushing damp strands of ocean-toned hair from his forehead, his voice dry as old parchment, "Oh, so now it is both."

You blink at up them, barely. Your lashes are stuck together, lips slick and bitten-red, and there's a pleasant glow settling between your thighs, though the ache is just as delicious, "Yeah, yeah, Satoru. I'm with you."

Silence settles over the training room like the aftershock of an afternoon storm, heavy, drowsy and gold-lit. You're still impaled on the memory of them, of everything. Their touch lingers in fingerprints across your skin, heavy seed still tacking between your legs. Gojo's bulky thigh is nudged across yours, pressed against Kashimo's, and oddly enough, neither of them seem particularly inclined to move.

"So...," Kashimo lies flat on his back, turquoise eyes locked on the ceiling in a heavy contemplation of the cosmos.

Gojo hums from where he's lazily tracing a finger along the slope of your hip, strands of mussed white hair falling over his forehead, "Hmm?"

"Wouldst thou partake again?"

Gojo turns his head, squinting up at Kashimo, almost as if he's incredulously offended, "Did you seriously just say 'wouldst thou'? Do you remember the dinosaurs?"

"I remember many beast, but your face is far more unpleasant than any I had encountered," Kashimo snaps coolly, before turning his attention back to you, a sculpted hand resting absently on your head, "Little dove?"

Their gazes flick towards you, sprawled out, cheeks pink and glowing, lips parted around breaths that still echo like whimpers. Ruined, radiant and definitely not done.

Gojo leans in closer, brushing a tender kiss to your temple, reverent and sweet, "Baby," he murmurs, and the name sounds so natural falling from his honeyed tongue, "You up for round two?"

"Or three," Kashimo adds helpfully, sitting up so you can admire the faintest streaks of jagged lightning over his smooth, rippling back, "I wish to see him dethroned. Spectacularly."

"Oh my god," Gojo groans, "You're obsessed with me. You wish you could dethrone me."

You shift, stretch slow and syrupy, winching at the ache in your thighs, that kind of soreness that feels like worship, "You boys gonna' kiss each other this time?"

A beat of silence, before predictably and gloriously, all chaos breaks loose in an echoing din.

"I'm not kissin' that Pikachu," Gojo snaps, but that sudden flush sits beautifully high on his sculpted, milky cheekbones.

"Do not call me names I do not understand. And you had your tongue in her half an hour ago, and now you are defensive?" Kashimo retorts, scandalised as his fangs peek from his pink mouth.

"I'm a tag-teamer, man, you just don't get it –"

"Is that an admittance of guilt?"

You sigh, closing your eyes, and you would be lying if there wasn't a faint smile ghosting your lips as you take what little rest you can get before you plan to make them both eat their braggadocio.

[bambisnc]

      KISS A KITTY   wherein % your bf is jealous . .

            ST✮RRING───Y.JW ☘️ 744 && WR. none! ˖ ✧

[ 陰 ♡ ] : im THE "save a cat and kiss jungwon" agenda truther

                        𝖢𝘓𝗂𝖢𝖪     🖇. 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝖭𝘈𝖵𝗂

yang jungwon likes cats. usually.

they’re cute. adorable. the picture of playful innocence, even, one might say. 

pft. yeah, right.

that was one propaganda your boyfriend was not falling for.

the tabby kitten you'd taken in as a new member of your apartment was anything but innocent.

why else would that tiny little creature that you had christened sir meowington, the third be so intent upon stealing all of your attention from its rightful owner, i.e. jungwon?.

he’s certain sir meowington’s doing it on purpose, the cunning devil. 

and you keep falling for its antics.

jungwon would be annoyed at you if it wasn’t for the fact that the way you fussed about the kitten and its whereabouts made his heart melt. 

but! he’s still very firmly against the kitten’s presence. all the little menace has to do is swipe his paw “cutely” in your direction for you to pull out your phone and devote yourself to taking 10+ pictures of it per second.

which is the exact moment wherein your boyfriend decides something must be done to fight back. 

his best (and only) idea at that particular moment however, is a staring battle. sir meowington doesn’t back down, though, green eyes firmly fixed towards his own. 

the two of them seem to be one step away from communicating and you almost can’t stifle your giggles at the scene. jungwon directs an expression towards you which is so utterly betrayed that it finally makes you laugh out loud.

“stop that.” he mutters in response to the sound, sounding only slightly defensive.

easily ignoring the plea, you scoop up sir meowington from where he’d been settled on the carpet. then sitting down on the sofa next to jungwon, you hold up the kitten in front of him, not unlike that scene from lion king, the movie. “do you need to have a little chat with sir meowington?”

“no,” he looks contemptuously at the feline’s green eyes and then back up at you,  “i most certainly do not.”

“then, do you mind stopping staring at the poor baby? you’re scaring him.”

he scoffs. of course you’d take the kitten’s side. did you not understand that he needed to assert his dominance?

“assert your dominance?”

and you’re laughing at him again. oh, damn, did jungwon say that out loud? oops.

“i think i will in fact be taking sir meowington’s side if you’re gonna be this dramatic about the whole situation.”

“i’m not being dramatic! and you just don’t get it. this creature,” jungwon points accusingly at the tiny fur ball now positioned comfortably on your lap, “is an evil mastermind.”

you’re too busy biting your lip to stop your continued laughter to be able to deign that with an appropriate answer. 

your boyfriend is still staring down at said offending ‘evil mastermind” with all the conviction of the world when the kitten yawns.

yawns.

the audacity.

it’s like jungwon’s being mocked.

“oh i know what this is about,” you pipe up, scratching sir meowington’s head lightly as he purrs contentedly at the action, “you’re jealous!” 

your boyfriend stiffens beside you, wordless.

“jungwon. you’re actually jealous of a kitten?”

he just looks away. how adorable. you’re gonna have fun with this.

“baby,” you lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder so he doesn’t see the amusement on your face, “did you want some attention too?”

“yes.” he replies a tad bit too fast but he really couldn’t care less right now. “... i’m so much cuter.”

“hm… that’s debatable!...” you tease, yet still lean upwards to press a kiss to his cheek.

he lets out a low gasp, as if scandalized at the mere thought that you could possibly find sir meowington cuter than him. before he can retort however, 2 things happen which distract him completely.

one, the kitten which had been so far laying on top of your thigh, stretches languidly—smugly, with ease—and two, it then promptly proceeds to pad over to jungwon, curling into a ball on his lap instead. 

you coo at the sight yet again, “aww, see he does like you. not so evil now, is he?” 

he just rolls his eyes. this is obviously just another new tactic, duh.

but for now, jungwon will make his peace. it would be hard not to, really, with how warm and fuzzy he feels with you cuddled up into his side and … the tiny creature who, admittedly, is rather cute. 

fuck, he was not supposed to fall for this propaganda.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatariki @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @eunwonji @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep @itsactuallylina ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[thomamaru]

Scripted Hearts: The Star, His Love, and His Spotlight...

Synopsis: Rin loves it when you wear his jersey. He may not show it, but deep inside, it shows that you are only a fan of him and nobody else's. The one day you wear it outside, you encounter his brother.

Tags: Rin Itoshi x gn!reader, jealous and protective! Rin itoshi, Sae is a tease, fluff

You’re on your way to meet Rin after his late practice, lazily wearing one of his jerseys since he left it at your place after a shoot. It feels soft and oversized, the number 10 sprawled across your back. As you pass by a café, someone calls out.

“Nice jersey.”

You turn, heart skipping as you recognize Sae Itoshi. Rin’s older brother. The famous Sae Itoshi—international soccer superstar and household name. You’d seen his aloof expression a million times in interviews, but now he’s standing a few feet from you, a brow raised.

“Thanks?” you stammer, unsure of what else to say.

“I didn’t know Rin lent you that.” His voice is cool but mildly amused. “Must mean you’re important to him.”

You chuckle nervously, “Uh, something like that. Are you visiting?”

Sae steps closer, a faint smirk gracing his face. “Something like that. Mind if I join you for a moment?”

As Sae chats with you, you find yourself less overwhelmed and more fascinated. He’s charming and charismatic, making light jokes about Rin’s dramatic nature, though there’s a sharpness in his tone whenever he mentions his younger brother.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rin walking up the street. His hoodie’s pulled low, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture already rigid when he notices Sae speaking with you.

Sae follows your gaze, and a glimmer of mischief lights up his eyes. Before you can figure out what he’s planning, Sae leans in.

“Stand still,” he says casually, pulling out his phone.

“What—?”

Click.

The sudden flash blinds you, and before you can react, Sae pulls back with a smug grin. Turning to Rin, who’s now glaring at the scene from just a few feet away, Sae holds up the phone as if to say, See this?

“Later,” Sae says coolly, walking past you to casually bump shoulders with Rin. His exit is punctuated with a stuck-out tongue that only Rin can see.

You turn to Rin, still stunned. “That was...weird.”

Rin doesn’t answer. His teal eyes are locked on the spot Sae disappeared, his jaw visibly clenched. Without a word, he turns and starts walking ahead of you.

---

From that point on, Rin becomes...strange.

He starts hovering closer, always making sure his arm rests around your shoulders or that he’s the one holding your hand—even in situations where it isn’t necessary.

He starts nitpicking things. “Why were you talking to him for so long?” “You looked too comfortable.” “Don’t trust anything he says.”

During a red-carpet event, he leans in closer than usual when photographers ask for a couple shot, his lips brushing your temple with a pointed, "Mine," under his breath.

At first, you think he’s just being protective. But after the third time you catch him scrolling through his phone (most likely checking Sae’s social media), you finally confront him.

It’s late at night, and Rin is at your place, brooding on your couch while you try to get some work done. When he sighs for the fifth time in ten minutes, you slam your laptop shut.

“Okay, spill.”

Rin flinches but doesn’t look at you. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird ever since we bumped into Sae. Don’t lie.”

His lips tighten into a thin line as his fingers tap against his knee—a rare show of nervousness. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not ‘nothing.’ Rin, if something’s bothering you, just—"

“I didn’t like it.”

You blink, startled by his bluntness. “…Didn’t like what?”

“The jersey,” he says softly, staring at his hands. “You wearing my number. His number. Him acting like you…” Rin takes a deep breath, the words almost growled: “...like you’re someone he can mess with.”

“Oh.” You sit back, realization dawning on you. “You’re jealous.”

His head snaps up, his teal eyes wide. “I’m not—”

“You’re definitely jealous!” you say, stifling a laugh.

“I’m not!” Rin protests, his voice rising slightly before softening. “It’s just… I don’t like the way he looks at you. Like he’s better than me. Like he can take you—”

“Rin.”

Your voice makes him pause, and when you place a hand on his cheek, his rigid expression crumbles just slightly.

“I’m with you because I want you. Not Sae, not anyone else. Just you.

He swallows hard, leaning into your touch. “You mean that?”

“Of course, I mean it.” You smile softly. “Though, for the record, I like when you get a little possessive. It’s cute.”

Rin groans, burying his face in your neck as you laugh.

---

The next day, Rin posts a picture of the two of you in his jersey on his private account—a candid shot of you laughing on his couch while he watches you with a rare, genuine smile.

Minutes later, your phone buzzes with a notification.

Sae Itoshi: Guess he made his move, huh? Cute.

You laugh, showing Rin the message. He narrows his eyes, snatching your phone and typing a single reply.

Y/N : Stay away.

When you glance at him, his glare softens into a small smirk. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, pulling him closer. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only because of you,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours.

And for once, you’re okay with that.

(*￣∇￣)ノ

[occamstfs]

Man-Candle

Under the guise of a gag-gift Chad gives his bookish friend a candle based on his own b.o. Little does Stephen know, as soon as he lights the wick he sets off to join the jock in sweaty abandon.

Very musk forward Jock TF! Hope you enjoy this story of Stephen's scent-based (new)self-discovery, Best! -Occam

His ears ring with tinnitus as he opens the gift. It’s as if an explosion has gone off as he tries to process the pancake in his hands. Everything in him says to laugh, it’s clearly a gag gift, a Man-Candle? His mouth is dry and all the blood in his head rushes to its other epicenter as Stephen looks up, eyes wide, to the man who by all appearances has given him a candle of his own musk, Chad.

His cocky grin is a perfect likeness of the one on the candle’s label staring up from Stephen’s lap. Chad’s expression grows even smarmier as he winks and raises an arm to smell his pit. Stephen’s face burns red as he sees the clear patch of grey that must have been fermenting all morning, his cock bumps against the package.

Chad’s eyes shoot immediately to the sound and his smirk shifts and an eyebrow’s raised in curiosity, excited that his friend must quite like the gift. Stephen speaks up quickly, lest the two brain cells bouncing around the jock’s skull stumble across any ideas, “What the fuck?” The first volley, bounces off Chad’s steel confidence. The second “what the fuck,” causes an eye narrow as the idea that this may be a misstep finally occurs to him, the third repetition of Stephen’s new mantra apparent gets through through Chad’s thick skull.

The jock’s arm remains raised to scratch his back and Stephen’s cock is more than happy to see the grey patch return and his mind must remain focused on not staring directly at the few pit hairs sneaking above his sleeve. Chad clears his throat awkwardly, “I mean bro… Chicks are always talking about how they love, huh- y’know,” he gestures to the air around him, “my aura. Just thought, you know, uhhh- a dude like you might too?”

The jock braces as he sees Stephen’s eyes narrow as he clearly winds up to somehow lash out. Unfortunately for the twink he takes a deep breath to start and is hit with the full force of the man’s ‘aura,’ it catches him off guard and underneath the package his cock pushes again. Stephen grits his teeth and averts his eyes as he tries to hide his desire, “Chad! Those are people you’re sleeping with! I’m just- This is-” Stephen does everything in his power to quiet his lust as he finishes, “Why would I want this?” 

Chad tongues his cheek and juts his stubbled jaw. Scratching his meaty stomach in thought, Stephen can hear the hairs dragged underneath the jock’s tight shirt. Making up his mind Chad decides to speak on the elephant, or moreover the trunk, in the room. Nodding to the gift poorly hiding Stpehen’s erection, Chad shrugs “I mean bro, seems like you’re enjoying it just fine.” 

“Jesus Christ, fucking straight men!” As unfortunately turned on as Stephen is from the gift and the hunk he has long tried to not be attracted to, at the highlighting of his out of control cock he finds the will to defend his paltry dignity. Though instead of speaking up as his mind is not running on all cylinders, his hands instead reach for anything not breakable to hurl at the man still smirking.

Pillows fly at the man as he continues to try and explain his thoughts, “Yo bro! Watch it-” he grabs one to use as a shield against the continued volley, “I mean I can take it back if you want!” Stephen’s dreams of salvaging dignity perhaps fall to the wayside as this remark causes the hardest throw yet. Chad smirks behind the pillow and finally gets to the door, “Whatever dude! I’ll see ya later! Once you’ve cooled off a bit-” 

Chad stands behind the closed door with a shit-eating grin on his face, straight men huh. Awfully dismissive of the bi jock’s identity but whatever. He listens to Stephen huff and unbox the candle through the wall, unaware that the real gift is to come when he finally lights that bad boy up. Whenever the pair get drunk enough it always devolves into Stephen wishing he’d hit the gym more and Chad begging for his friend to join him. He’d love nothing more than a gym bro he can fuck, and soon enough, unless Stephen has the strength to nip his blue balls in the bud, both wishes are to be granted.

It does not take long for already riled-up Stephen to give in to his curious urges. As soon as the scent of Chad in the air dissipates and he hears the front door of his apartment close, the countdown begins. Stephen stares at the obnoxiously smug photo of Chad on the candle and narrows his eyes, “I mean surely it’s a bit? It can’t actually smell like him specifically? Seems hm, expensive to do.” 

He bites his lip as he shakily goes to remove the lid, driven by a mind less than conscious and more than hungry. Mouth on the precipice of watering, as soon as the seal is cracked the scent washes over him like a tidal wave. Somehow more powerful, more alluring than the real thing. Rich and grimy, and indisputably the essence of Chad distilled into waxen form.

His eyes are glazed over and his mouth is now pooling with drool. It's anyone’s guess as to how the candle gets lit, but so it does. Stephen falls back onto the couch as his hands struggle to free his cock quick enough from pants that force it down at an awkward angle. It finally bounces free, flinging more pre than he’s ever produced upward. Droplets land just shy of his own face as his mouth falls wantonly open and his hands begin their gleeful work.

The creation of Eau De Chad was not light work, the boiling down of man into a single candle is quite the ask. Perhaps even more so than the transformative magic that it is to instill in Stephen. Within the candle are notes from every musky epicenter of Chad’s being, more than powerful enough to distract Stephen as he begins his journey into a musky jock’s shoes himself.

Foremost of the mind-numbing notes that the lost man is bathing himself in is perhaps the one he’s smelled the least. As strong as in his jock after a workout, sweaty pubes and dripping pre. The medley of scents from Chad’s crotch is so powerful that even without clearly even knowing the source it’s on the tip of Stephen’s tongue, much like he would dream to have on his tongue in reality.

Each breath pulling him deeper than the last, Stephen continues to paw at his cock now free to the open, musky air. With each kneading thrust his hands struggle to encompass his dick as it begins to change. Years of pushing down primal desires for his friend, the Adonis, evaporate into the air as he pictures himself working Chad’s cock. Breathing and licking the heady swear straight from the source.

He imagines working the larger man’s spit-covered cock and with each new image in his mind his own beast begins to reform. Dripping more pre than he’s produced in his life up to this point, his hips thrust into wanting hands as his dick thickens and spears high into the air. Lengthening to press against his sternum, veins bulge and criss-cross across its length as its head regrows a foreskin he never had the chance to enjoy.

When his smaller hands, unable to truly satisfy or encompass his new rod, shift down to try and cup balls bulging larger and pumping him full of masculinity, he hears them scratch against the new jungle of growing pubes. Though the jock tries to keep his chest relatively hairless, under the belt hair growth is wild enough to more than make up for it, and as Stephen begins changing into his new musky lover, he seems to be of the same persuasion.

The candle wick flickers as a new scent begins to rise in prominence. This one Stephen recognizes all too well, though usually poorly masked under cheap deodorant, the scent of Chad’s pits could never be truly hidden. His mouth waters as the scent washes through him and his whole body contorts in pleasure. When his own pits begin to itch he gasps and for the first time opens his eyes to find an impossibly large cock hanging over his thin thighs. His mouth quivers into a smile as the line between dream and reality shifts muddy.

For now though, for the pit fiend there is only one thing to do. He raises his arm and gasps as he sees his few pit hairs lengthening, while in between each one a few darker curls make themselves at home. Stephen forces his head into the sweaty spot and hungrily sniffs. Nose tickled by the growing jungle he moans as he encounters his own changing scent, currently overcoming his own, usually superfluous, deodorant it is but a pale imitation of Chad’s. Though it races to be something equivalent, no, greater. 

He continues taking deep breaths, switching between the candle burning strong and his own pit as his musk continues to heighten and shift. With each needy sniff it becomes clear that his odor is not the only part of him shifting. Previously undeveloped arms cramp as muscle begins to pile on. Veins pulse down their center as biceps that have scarcely known strain burn as muscle fibers break and reform to create an impressive peak.

Stephven’s face suddenly contracts into a smirk that he never quite understood before now as his arms force themselves into a pose. Flexing and exposing his newly hairy pits in what he now knows as a front lat spread, he almost laughs as his heady powerful musk begins to overpower the scent burning off the candle. 

Having not actually left the apartment, Chad puts an ear to the door as Stephven’s laughter and moans rise in volume and deepen in tone. He creaks open the door and is almost physically hit with the wave of musk as it pours out like a fog from Steven’s bedroom. His own brand mixing with the steam of sweat seeping from his new bros pits is almost more than he can handle. With every step his mind strains to not just give into his own hunger to pounce on his half-formed bro sitting in the chair. 

Hearing Steven’s socks fray and tear as a subtle note of foot funk rises to the top of the candle. Seeing his new partner’s legs fill his young-professional pants to their limit, bulging thighs pushing at and swiftly bursting the strained seams. Chad bites his lip almost to the point of drawing blood as he feels his own thighs cramp. He doesn’t know if he’s somehow growing as his new gym bro continues to edge larger or if he’s simply overwhelmed, if his own mind is too clouded from the hunger and musk.

Chad shambles towards Steven, mouth falling open as he sees the shimmering sweaty traps that have torn his shirt open. His eyes can’t look away from the newly heavy pecs that hang over his defined abs, he fights the urge to lean down and lap at the muscle as Steven delights in bouncing them. Sending cascading shadows across his sweaty core, and gaining more mass with every dancing flex.

 Instead, Chad leans in close to Steven’s delirium painted face. “Looks like ya liked my gift after all, huh Steve?” His breath mists across Steve’s face. Its heavy humidity barely overcomes the sweaty atmosphere but the sharp mint and undercurrent of musty breath underneath call to his nose like smelling salts. 

His jaw cracks and widens as the changes that have overtaken him finally begin their work on the final frontier. Unable to control himself Chad licks the man’s face as it prickles with stubble. Steve’s nose breaks then reforms, his brows thicken and cast a shadow over his eyes as they lose both their color and clarity. Deepening to brown as their default state becomes glazed and thoughtless.

Feeling Chad’s sticky tongue drag on his cheek, it’s like he was struck by lightning. Every new bulging muscle in Steve’s body flexes at once and he stands to his new height, able to make direct eye contact with the man staring at him, just inches away.

Steve tackles him onto the bed, knocking over the candle and sending wax flying through the air. The pair are sparingly coated in the Chad scented candle as they begin heavily exploring Steve’s new form. As their mouths that have always been left wanting find new delight, whatever shreds of the old Stephen that are left begin to vacate.

The anxieties and priorities of a small meek man who never let his id loose disappear as he positions himself over Chad. He bites his bro’s lip and thrusts downward as he pins the massive man’s hands above his head. Masked by the pleasure of true release, he doesn’t care as his old self washes away. Memories evaporate like the sweat pouring off his form. He delights in maneuvering across Chad’s form and enjoying his musk from the source.

His tongue dances across sweaty pecs that match his own as his collection of classics on a bookshelf disappear to be replaced by free weights. Steve’s nose finally shoves its way into Chad’s pits as his extensive collection of hygiene and beauty products down the hall clatter to the floor and disappear as they’re replaced by a single bar of clinical deodorant only used for special occasions. Sleeves fall off his wardrobe of cardigans and button ups as sweat stains yellow every garment. The tops throw themselves from hangers while musty shorts and jockstraps heap into a pile on the floor.

Sweat drips from his brow as with each thrust into Chad his mind gives up the ghost. Each impossible wave of pleasure erodes his old self, each drop of sweat an idea gone, each rivulet of pre dripping down his veiny cock a sign of his intelligence drained to increase the muscle mass of his new form. After all besides pleasure nothing matters to him nearly as much as his fucking hot bod.

He feels his balls pulse as every remaining aspect of Stephen’s self shoots down and is quickly converted. His eyes roll back as he cums the few specks of self remaining in a massive load onto Chad’s sweaty abs. After a few moments of total mindlessness from the jubilee of release, Steve awakens to find himself atop his bro and simply laughs, “Huhuh woah dude that’s a fuckin’ fat load huh?” He scratches at his hairy chest and grimaces as he imagines how that’s going to hide his gains.

Seeing the thoughts on his face as the two are evermore on the same wavelength Chad pauses rubbing Steve’s cum onto his abs and offers, “Lookin’ a little rough there bro, wanna go top up and then hit the gym?” Steve smirks as his bro basically reads his mind, “Yoooo totally let’s hit it!” He punches down into his bro as he stands, smirking as he watches Chad’s cock bounce before sprinting into the restroom and prepping to get pumped.

The gym starts to clear out as the pair arrive, judging by the musk already following in their wake no one dares risk having to smell what it’s like once they actually start going. Stopping in the locker room the pair stop publicly groping and sniffing each other long enough to take a pre-workout photo, tongues out as ever. When they see some poor soul who didn’t escape the gym quick enough covering his nose they eye each other up.

“Yo dude, looks like lil’ bro over there’s gotta problem with your stink.” Steve performatively sniffs his pit and shakes his head, “Nahnah bro. It’s definitely yours, check it.” They continue to talk up eachothers musk while the young man can’t help but sit there, stunned into silence. With each new statement the pair swagger closer until their sweat may as well be dripping on the man.

Gasping as he regains awareness just as the pair are almost standing over him, the sharp intake fills his lungs with their musk as a smile creeps over his face. “Looks like lil bro’s likin’ it after all Chad.” Throwing a sweaty arm over his bro, the man who can scarcely recall that his bro hasn’t always been like this laughs, “Huhuh, well obviously bro, no shot anyone’ll be able to resist us soon.” The pair help the hazy man up and begin ushering him through the ropes, eager to have another musky jock in their image and excited to see how far their little group will grow.

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: when you were accommodated in such a shabby hotel, the last thing you needed was a power outage. and upon learning about one of your colleagues' fear of the dark, you can't bring yourself to not help him

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, spencer is afraid of the dark and the reader comforts him, they comfort each other tbh, elle&morgan my fav duo, glasses reid obvi.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.7k

𝐚/𝐧: these are my official apologies for all the recent stories 🫶🏼 i wanted it to be so much shorter but i just love writing conversations between characters so that's how it turned out. @mggslover i'm so sorry for not adding spencer falling off the bed but i didn't want to ruin that subtle ending :(( maybe next time

"Please, I’m begging you, I’m really begging you—begging in the name of a god I don’t even believe in. Tell me we’ve got the wrong address," Morgan said, squeezing his eyes shut the moment you all crossed the threshold of the motel where you'd been assigned to stay while working on the case in another state.

You noticed Elle’s expression falter as well. From the outside, the place hadn’t looked that bad. Well, perhaps it only seemed that way because the street it was on was so dark you couldn’t make out much of anything. Midnight must have been approaching; the first day of the investigation was officially over.

“We didn’t get it wrong,” Reid declared, stepping inside as the last of you, quickly scanning the interior. “I memorized it perfectly. Besides, there aren’t any other accommodations in the area, so this has to be it.”

“Do you remember that one case,” Elle started, “where the unsub killed women in hotel rooms and decorated the interiors with their intestines?”

You glanced at her, curious—or as curious as you could be under the circumstances. You’d only joined the team fairly recently; this was your third or fourth case at most, and none of them had been quite that… gruesome. Of course, you were well aware cases like that happened. It was only a matter of time before one came your way. Unfortunately.

“This motel totally looks like the kind of place where something like that happens on a daily basis,” Elle continued. “My advice? Don’t look under the beds tonight. Or in the closets, if there even are any.”

“I just hope there’s hot water,” Derek sighed, his voice carrying a tone of resignation. “We once ended up in a place that didn’t have any. I almost handed in my resignation.”

“You deal with gruesome murders every day, but no hot water is too much for you, Princess?” you raised an eyebrow, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as you made your way toward the reception desk to pick up your room keys. The motel’s walls were yellow—not the cheerful sunflower or sunny kind of yellow, but more like dried-up cat pee yellow.

“He’s got a point, though,” Elle chimed in, taking the key from an elderly woman at the reception desk. “Think about it. You come back after a long, grueling day, from dawn to midnight, just like today. You’re exhausted, barely standing, and you can’t even take a hot shower.”

Morgan pointed at her and nodded in agreement. You shrugged.

“Cold isn’t that bad,” you muttered. Honestly, you hadn’t expected anything luxurious from the place you’d been sent to. It was just a few days, after all.

“Oh, are you one of those people practicing that millionaire morning routine?” Derek teased. “You know—waking up at three, cold shower, steak for breakfast, daily planning, self-help book…”

I just grew up poor, you thought to yourself, but aloud you only let out a short laugh.

“I’d kill to have time to read a book before work. Any book. Not to be yanked out of bed by Hotch at five, like today, and scrambling to get out the door.”

Elle and Morgan exchanged a very brief look, almost secretive. You narrowed your eyes, suspicion suddenly welling up inside you. Before you could ask about it, someone else spoke up.

“He called me at half past six,” Reid said, tilting his head in mild confusion.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the others silencing him with a look.

“Hey, what’s going on?” you stopped in your tracks, demanding an explanation. “He called me half an hour earlier than the rest of you?”

“You live farther away.”

“We’re practically neighbors, Elle Greenaway.”

“I’m about to drop,” Derek suddenly interjected with theatrical exhaustion. A change of subject. A not-so-subtle change of subject. “If I don’t lie down soon, I’ll fall asleep standing up. See you all tomorrow, folks.”

“You’re absolutely right—sleep well.”

With that, he and Elle headed up the stairs to the third floor, where they’d been assigned rooms. You and, as it turned out, Reid were staying on the second floor.

You turned to him slowly, arms crossed over your chest.

You didn’t even need to say anything—your stern gaze alone made it clear you were waiting for an explanation. Reid looked like he was about to throw his hands up in a defensive gesture, clearly regretting that he’d brought up the topic at all.

“Okay,” he sighed nervously. “What I’m about to say is not meant to offend you in any way, not even the slightest…”

“Offend?” you repeated, furrowing your brow. “Jesus Christ, Reid, don’t look at me like that—I’m not about to punch you in the face…”

“It’s just…” he began, a little calmer now. “All of us, including Hotch, I assume, are aware of the fact that, occasionally—just sometimes—you have a slight tendency to…run a bit late to work.”

He looked at you, and a telling silence fell between you.

"Yesterday, you were fourteen and a half minutes late."

"Fifteen minutes doesn't count as being late. And have you heard of a grace period? It's allowed to arrive within that time frame, without any consequences."

"Fine. What about two days ago, twenty-one minutes and seventeen..."

"Metro malfunction. I had no control over that."

"And six days ago, on Tuesday? Twenty-four minutes and..."

"I don’t remember such a situation, because, Mr. Big Brain, not all of us have such a memory. But I assume there was a reason..."

"Alright, fine," Reid interrupted you calmly. "I’m not saying there wasn’t a reason. But still... it happens quite often, and that's a fact. So it’s no surprise that Hotch, when the situation especially calls for it, prefers to call you a little earlier than the rest. Just out of caution."

You sighed, no longer able to argue about it. Maybe he was right; you did sometimes lose track of time in the mornings or fail to wake up to the sound of your alarm, closing your eyes for an extra five minutes... which resulted in small delays. You had never been directly reprimanded for it, so you were unaware that it had become such a big issue. Slightly embarrassed, you pressed your lips together.

"As usual, I guess you're right. And by the way, I’m heading to my room. I had thirty minutes less sleep than all of you, I’m exhausted," you said in a lighter, joking tone. A brief smile crossed Reid’s face. "Good night, wise guy.”

"Good night. And don’t look under the bed."

"Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it!"

With those words, you both disappeared into rooms directly opposite each other. The sounds of doors closing synchronized. You started your usual evening routine, placing your suitcase in the corner of the room. It was really small, narrow, and rectangular. The walls had that same awful color, the light was too bright, causing a headache. So you decided to just turn on the night lamp on the shabby nightstand next to the single bed.

It turned out that the only bathroom was in the hallway. You almost cried; you didn't want to take all your things with you and then come back with them. You remembered that you'd taken a proper shower that morning, so maybe a repeat wasn’t absolutely necessary. You were too sleepy for it, so you just set the alarm for fifteen minutes earlier to do it in the morning. After changing into comfortable clothes, you immediately lay down on the bed. Following Elle’s advice, and then Reid’s too, you didn’t check what might be hiding under it.

You weren’t hiding it, you were a terrible sleeper. Falling asleep in new places usually wasn’t a problem for you, even if it was a place that looked like a dive where someone could stab you in your sleep. But that night, something was bothering you. After giving it some thought, you realized it was Reid’s words.

Of course, it wasn’t that you held it against him. He was just stating facts; he had no intention of offending you, as he assured. And you didn’t even feel offended. More like unpleasantly confronted with a certain fact. You had only been part of the BAU for a short time. Well, just a week ago Derek stopped calling you the new girl. Although on the outside, you came across as very confident, on the inside, you were preoccupied with the team’s opinion of you and what they might think about you. Mainly because they were all older and more experienced.

You were especially worried about the fact that your tardiness and chaos had drawn the boss’s attention. Being on good terms with your superior was incredibly important, in case something ever happened, in case you made a more serious mistake…those small things could influence how the rest of your career would unfold, and the decisions made about you.

But above all, you wanted everyone to like you. Simply like you. So you wouldn’t walk around every day with your heart in your throat, praying for the day to end, constantly overwhelmed by a sense of misfit and loneliness.

You turned to your side, not sure how long you had been lying there, thinking. Suddenly, you realized you had to pee.

With great reluctance and sleepiness, you reached for the bedside lamp to turn it on and go to the bathroom. However, when you tugged at the cord, it... didn’t turn on. The room remained shrouded in darkness. You tried once more, then blindly made your way to the light switch in the room. You pressed it, and nothing.

What was going on, a power outage?

You shook your head in confusion. Whatever was going on, it didn’t change the fact that you had to go to the bathroom. You remembered the flashlight in your jacket pocket, and in the darkness, it took you a while to find it. When you finally had it in your hand, you felt ready to complete the mission. To pee, that is.

The moment you stepped out into the hallway, a light source flared up right before your eyes. You let out a muffled exclamation, partly from surprise, partly from being almost blinded.

“Damn, sorry…” Reid hissed, equally confused, turning his flashlight downward, away from your face.

You rubbed your eyelids, turning off your flashlight. Two light sources were unnecessary.

“Is there no power for you too?” you asked.

Reid nodded. It was only then that you really looked at him—he was wearing very loose pajama pants and...

“Cute,” you clicked your tongue, pointing at his white sweater with a bear wearing glasses. He had them too, worn very low on his nose. He must have put them on absentmindedly, in the dark, right after getting out of bed.

“I got it from Penelope for my birthday,” he said in a tone as if he were giving a statement. His hand briefly touched the fabric, right at the center of the brown bear’s face. “It’s really comfortable and soft. Perfect for sleeping...Anyway, I was heading to the reception to find out what the issue is and whether anything can be done about it. You too?”

"No, I just really need to pee. Do you really want to go there at this hour?" you asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "I mean, outages happen, and they'll have to fix it, but it's the middle of the night. We don't really need the lights right now, and if you want to go to the bathroom, you have a flashlight, as I can see."

You kept your gaze on him, realizing that since he noticed the lack of light, he must have been either heading somewhere himself or keeping the light on. Or maybe he had been sleeping with the light on. He did seem a bit tense. One of his hands was still resting on the half-open door, nervously gripping it. The other was pressed tightly to his body, his chest rising in an odd rhythm. Not a quickened pace, like with a panic attack, but more unnatural, like he was trying to control it.

"Are you afraid of the dark?" the question slipped out of you directly. After a moment, you realized it might have been a little too blunt. You had asked it carelessly, suspecting there might be another reason behind his behavior. For some reason, fear of the dark didn’t seem to fit his rational character.

Reid quickly shook his head, firmly denying it.

"No. No, of course not. I was just... reading when the light went out."

Oh, you didn’t even need to be a profiler to see right away that he was lying. You crossed your arms, a little amused by how stubbornly he was denying it.

"You were reading? At this hour? When we’re back to the investigation first thing tomorrow morning?"

He shrugged, shaking his head again.

"I couldn’t sleep."

You sighed. In the end, neither his fear nor his shame were your concern, so you didn’t see the point in interrogating him any further. You signaled that you were dropping the subject, and some expression passed across his face. Gratitude. Gratitude for not pushing the issue or mocking him. You felt a bit offended that he had even thought you might do that.

“If you still plan on going to the reception, wait for me, I’ll go with you. I just need to quickly stop by the bathroom.”

Reid opened his mouth, clearly surprised by your suggestion.

“Well, what?” you replied with a shrug. “I can’t let something eat you on the way. A demonic hand emerging from the darkness…”

“Very funny,” he commented, rolling his eyes. However, the corner of his mouth twitched, and his breathing seemed calmer.

“…The ghost of Richard Ramirez haunting the walls of this hotel. Or some other bloodthirsty maniac.“

"Didn't you really have to pee badly?"

"The team wouldn’t recover from losing you, Reid!" You threw that line over your shoulder as you walked toward the bathroom.

Of course, there was no light there either, so you had to use your flashlight. He was waiting for you, and together, in silence, you headed down the stairs toward the reception. Given how small the motel was, it wasn’t open 24/7. You had to wait a while before someone came to assist you.

“That happens sometimes,” the employee shrugged. “We’re not sure where the problem is exactly, but someone’s supposed to come check it out tomorrow…”

“Can’t anything be done about it now?” Reid asked, a trace of frustration in his voice that he was trying to mask—especially when he glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Maybe it’s just a simple overload? Where are the fuse boxes…?”

“Reid,” you said gently, placing a hand on his elbow to draw his full attention. He turned his head toward you, surprised by the tone of your voice. You gave the employee a discreet signal that you didn’t have any further questions and he could leave.

“You’re not fixing the electricity in some rundown motel. That would just be… ridiculous.”

“I’m not talking about fixing it,” he clarified quickly, though it was clear he hadn’t let go of the idea. “But in most cases, it’s just a simple short circuit. I could just take a look—”

“—Or you could just sleep in my room.”

The words left your mouth, surprising not only him but also yourself. Yet, it wasn’t as though you regretted them or wanted to take back the offer. On the contrary, the moment you said it out loud, it felt even more fitting. When you were a little kid—like most children, probably—you’d also been afraid of the dark, and running to someone else’s room always helped. Curling up beside someone, just knowing someone was there, made all the difference.

You watched his reaction, the way he shook his head slightly from side to side, a small frown creasing his forehead.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all. Come on.” You grabbed him by the wrist—the hand not holding the flashlight—and pulled him along. He moved hesitantly, but he seemed too caught off guard to plant his feet and stay put.

He stopped only when you reached the door to your room, pulling his hand free from your grasp.

"How do you even imagine this working? There's... there's only one bed in there."

"If that bothers you, grab the mattress and some bedding from your room. You’ll hardly notice the difference—those beds are unbearably uncomfortable anyway."

He lowered the flashlight slightly, letting the surrounding darkness of the hallway creep over his face. It was barely visible now, but the hesitation etched on it was unmistakable. Standing across from him, you held his gaze without saying a word, silently reinforcing the fact that you weren’t joking.

The thought of him struggling to fall asleep for the rest of the night and then suffering through another day made you feel genuinely sorry for him. Besides, even though you hadn’t known each other long, you already considered him a sort of friend. If there was anything you could do to help, you wanted to do it.

"It's no big deal, Spencer," you reassured him one last time, hoping the words would finally sink in. "Really. And if you want... we don't ever have to talk about this again. Tomorrow, or ever."

His chest rose as he drew in a deep breath.

"Th-thank you," he said at last, cautiously, as though he'd packed so many thoughts into the single word that saying it out loud was an effort.

You smiled gently and understandingly. Before stepping into the room, you briefly placed a hand on his arm.

"Oh God, that sweater really is soft..."

He let out a short laugh, perhaps releasing a bit of the embarrassment he’d been holding back. You both disappeared into your respective rooms, and you lay down in bed, waiting for him to show up. Well, the moment dragged on a little too long.

You were almost certain he’d only agreed to your suggestion to get you off his back and had no intention of actually following through. Propping yourself up on one elbow, you debated whether to go to his room and drag him over or just let it go. They say you shouldn’t force help on others. Maybe there was some truth to that.

Shortly after that thought, your door creaked open slowly. You heard it but couldn’t see much—the room was too dark, and he wasn’t using his flashlight. Perhaps he assumed you were already asleep and didn’t want to risk waking you.

Either way, he moved around your bed to lay down a pillow and blanket on the floor, skipping the effort of hauling over an entire mattress. 

"Your back is going to hurt," you remarked softly, your voice adjusting to the rhythm of the night, blending with the surrounding darkness.

You lay on your side, facing the spot where he had set up his makeshift bed. All you could see was the outline of his figure, his hands clasped loosely over his stomach, head resting on the pillow. You even caught the slight shrug of his shoulders in response to your comment.

"Actually, sleeping on the floor can have health benefits. It helps maintain a neutral spine position," he replied.

“Seriously?” you scoffed. “Do you really have to come up with a counterargument for everything I say?”

“Such a curse of mine. If you don’t like it, well, you invited me here.”

“Annoying bastard. I guess it’s too late to kick you out?” you wondered aloud, of course, rhetorically. But you quickly added, worried that he might take it seriously, “Sleep well. You and your spine.”

An amused sigh escaped him.

 “You… and your spine too.”

Well, you guessed that's enough of the chit-chat. You felt a bit disappointed, but you had brought him here for a reason. To let him sleep, not to entertain you with conversation. To your surprise, you didn’t feel sleepy, even though you had struggled with it earlier. You had been thinking about... hard to even pinpoint what, there were a few things. The little worries typical of the night, suddenly growing to some huge proportions.

You were still lying in the same position, some time had passed. Your cheek was almost touching the edge of the bed, on the same side where Reid slept. Well, actually, he wasn’t sleeping. You could see a faint, barely noticeable gleam of his open eyes. They were cast downward, trying not to stare into the empty blackness above his head.

“Have you always been afraid of the dark?” you decided to ask, with no sarcasm.

“I’m not afraid,” he replied, though he could always pretend to be asleep. But the answer came out automatically.

“Alright, brave guy.” You didn’t even scoff, you just said it calmly and accepting. Maybe later he’ll tell you, when he stops being so embarrassed about it. “So, I guess you came here to get to know me better. And you know, I think you’ve got the chance. Could you... could you tell me something? Just honestly?”

"Me?" he asked, surprised, even sitting up slightly. "I mean... sure. But what?"

You suddenly sighed, regretting even bringing up the topic. God, that was so stupid...

"Just remember, honestly. Do you think the rest of the team likes me?"

Reid was silent, a strange feeling gathered in your stomach. Instead of answering negatively, he propped himself up on both elbows, and you saw a slight movement of his head. A nod.

"Are you asking this completely seriously?"

You shrugged, not sure if he noticed, so you confirmed out loud in a slightly hoarse voice. And then, to your absolute surprise, he just laughed.

"I don’t get it," he confessed after a short moment during which you stared in silence at his silhouette. "How... how could you think it could be any different? You’re always joking with Derek and Elle, and... we get along well too, I hope..."

"You’re right. But... but that’s not what I meant, I just... ugh, seriously, I can’t explain it. Fine, you know what, never mind."

You turned onto your back, as if that would completely sever the conversation. The one you’d stupidly started. You hoped he wouldn’t mention it to anyone. Another stupid thought, after all, he wasn’t like that.

Silence again, broken only by breaths. A new sound joined them, a slight rustle of the sheets. When Reid spoke again, his voice sounded somehow higher, and you were sure he was sitting on the floor as he said it.

"It might be a little surprising, but when I was a kid, I wasn't afraid of the dark," he began, completely changing the tone of his voice. He wasn't surprised like before; it was lower, gentler, despite the topic he was addressing. "I mean, I wasn't afraid of it more than any other kid my age. That... that serious fear, the real fear, started later. I don't want to say it was when I started working for the BAU because that wouldn't be entirely true. But it was around the time I started taking everything seriously. Seeing it with my own eyes, every day."

You didn't even realize when you had turned back onto your side, just to look at him, listening to his words.

"Do you have nightmares?" you asked.

"Sometimes. Actually..." he sighed, swallowing. "All of it, the fear and the nightmares, it's like they don't exist when I'm in a place I know. A place I trust. I can sleep just fine with the lights off in my apartment, the same in a jet. Everything starts in places like this. “

There was silence from your side, and you felt a bit… touched that he decided to tell you this. No beating around the bush, no lying, and, most importantly, no overwhelming embarrassment. It was a normal topic after all; everyone has their fears.

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

In the first few days after starting the job, you did. Then they stopped. That’s just how things go, you suppose.

"Not anymore," you admitted, letting out a small laugh. "But that doesn’t mean I sleep well. Now I just worry at night."

"About whether the team likes you?"

"Okay, I know it sounds childish, but it’s really been bothering me lately. They might… they might seem to like me, but deep down, they might not think that highly of me. I… I'm new, not that experienced, I’m always late, and I don’t think I’m bringing anything new to the table..."

"Of course, you’re bringing something," he interrupted you. You hadn’t noticed when, but you were both sitting up now. Your voices weren’t sleepy whispers anymore, you were having a real conversation. "Each of us brings something different, something characteristic of ourselves. That's how it works in a team. That’s why you’re here. Without you… okay, you might not know this, but since you’ve been here, these last four cases have gone much more smoothly."

"Do you really think so?" 

"Well, you asked me to be honest. Completely honest."

You've always had a bit of imposter syndrome, doubting your abilities, and approaching others' positive comments about you or your achievements with skepticism. 

Something in the way he spoke, his quick words, his engagement in them... made you believe him, somehow.

"Reid," you began, surprised to find that there was less weight in your chest, in your body. "I know, I just know, that you'll refuse, but still, I'll ask. Do you want to lie down with me?"

You didn't even know what exactly prompted the question. Caring about your back, you could answer. But was that really all it was?

For a moment, he was silent, thinking you were joking, but when it dawned on him that you weren't, he scoffed.

"Well, you were right, I'll refuse..."

"Sorry, but I doubt you'll fall asleep any other way. I was watching you, as creepy as that sounds. You were lying there with your eyes open, you were scared."

"I'm an adult man who's afraid of the dark. That's pathetic on its own, without being tucked to sleep by a coworker."

"I never mentioned anything about tucking you in."

He hesitated, embarrassed. 

"You took the least important part of my statement..."

"I took what I wanted. The rest is nonsense. Your age doesn't determine what you can or can't be afraid of. I'm a grown woman, and I'm afraid my colleagues don't like me. Which sounds more pathetic, huh? Fear of the dark or that?"

“I think it’s a point we could argue about for hours.”

“Which we don’t have. It’s late, we should go to sleep. Quick question, are you lying down with me, or are you fooling yourself into thinking you’ll fall asleep without it?”

A heavy, resigned sigh escaped him. Without adding anything else to his words, you turned onto your side, your back to him. You heard the rustling of the sheets, and for a moment, you froze, surprised. But no, he hadn’t joined you. 

You weren’t sure how you felt. Disappointed seemed like too strong a word. It wasn’t as though he had refused some incredibly important request of yours. It was just… perhaps the best explanation would be that, once you had convinced him to sleep in the same room for the sake of helping him, you wanted him to take something comforting from that night. You wanted it to be one of those good nights, like the ones he had in his apartment or in the jet, the ones he had mentioned. Not one of the others, filled with fear.

But then, the mattress beside you dipped, as someone else settled onto it.

You turned to the other side, and suddenly your faces were right across from each other. Reid swallowed, almost nervously. He seemed to be adjusting to the situation, to the sudden closeness, the small space you shared. You propped your hand under your head, observing him discreetly. It hit you that he always had a bit of an issue with contact with others. A doubt crossed your mind: had you made him uncomfortable?

Minutes passed, though, and his body seemed to sink more comfortably into the bed. His arms were no longer stiff, his hands resting freely, no longer clasped tightly across his chest. You could also hear his breath, and the more peaceful it became, the calmer you felt too.

And even though no words seemed necessary anymore, he decided to speak once again.

"Thank you."

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[kathaelipwse]

Soft Drinks & Sharp Tongues | Y. Jeonghan

Pairing: Troublemaker!Yoon Jeonghan × Student Council President!Reader

Word Count: 7,974 words : Reading time: 29-ish mins

Trope: Enemies to lovers | Secret softie × Overworked achiever | Protective bad boy | Poor girl x rich school

Warnings: Bullying, classism, mild violence, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of loss (death of a parent), angst with comfort, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: She was the school’s strict student council president with no time for nonsense—or feelings. He was the academy’s golden boy troublemaker who got under her skin like no one else. But when a cruel comment sparks a brutal fight and her secret life is exposed, she realizes that the boy who always pushed her buttons… was also the only one who ever truly saw her. In a world that judged her for being different, Jeonghan stood between her and the world—and maybe even her own walls.

-

The crisp autumn air of senior year did little to soothe the persistent thrumming behind your temples. "Another day, another disaster waiting to happen," you sighed, the weight of the student council head badge feeling less like an honor and more like a lead weight dragging you down. Just as you managed to organize the stack of permission slips threatening to topple off your desk, a familiar, infuriatingly casual voice echoed from the doorway.

"Well, well, if it isn't the iron-willed Prez in her natural habitat," Jeonghan drawled, leaning against the doorframe with an effortless swagger that somehow never failed to irritate you and make you lose your mind at the name 'prez' altogether. He pushed off the frame, sauntering into your small office with the confident air of someone who paid the university's exorbitant tuition fees ten times over, despite the crumpled pink detention slip dangling from his fingertips.

"Lost again, Han?" you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, the exhaustion from last night's late shift at the café still clinging to you like a persistent shadow.

He chuckled, a light, airy sound that grated on your nerves. "Lost? Never, my dear Prez. Merely… exploring the less-traveled paths of disciplinary action." He flicked the detention slip onto your meticulously arranged desk, the corner bent and smudged. "Though, I must confess, your sanctuary of rules and regulations does possess a certain… stark appeal this morning." His eyes flickered around the small space, lingering for a moment on the wilting potted plant in the corner.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, the familiar headache intensifying. "Han, for the last time, gluing Mr. Kim's prized toupee to the rotating blades of the science lab's ceiling fan is not an act of artistic expression. It's disruptive, disrespectful, and frankly, the third time this month. Do you have a personal vendetta against follicularly challenged educators?"

He feigned an expression of wounded innocence, his usually sharp eyes widening in mock surprise. "A vendetta? My dear Prez, I'm wounded by the accusation! Perhaps the toupee simply yearned for a more… dynamic existence? A chance to experience the thrill of flight?"

"The thrill of flight that resulted in Mr. Kim nearly having a coronary," you countered dryly, already reaching for the detention log. "That earns you a solid hour of supervised detention. With me." The thought of spending an entire hour in forced proximity to him was hardly your idea of a productive afternoon, but rules were rules, even for the infuriatingly charming Jeonghan.

"Ah, but that's where the real intrigue lies, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned closer, resting his hands on the edge of your desk, a disarming smile spreading across his handsome face, a smile that you knew had melted the resolve of many a teacher. "Spending quality time in the hallowed halls of disciplinary action, under the watchful gaze of the student council head? A rare and undoubtedly enlightening experience."

You simply leveled him with a withering stare, the kind you'd perfected over countless student council meetings and rule infractions. "Don't even try, Han. This isn't a negotiation."

-

Later that afternoon, just as you were finally catching up on paperwork, your phone rang. It was a flustered Mrs. Lee, her voice bordering on panic. "He… he's gone, (Y/N)! He's just… vanished!"

You sighed, running a weary hand through your hair. "Let me guess. He charmed his way out of detention again?"

"He… he complimented my new scarf," Mrs. Lee stammered, a strange, almost dreamy quality entering her voice. "And then he offered to help me carry a rather heavy stack of textbooks to the library… I only turned my back for a moment…"

"Of course, he did," you muttered under your breath, hanging up the phone with a frustrated click. It was always the same infuriating pattern. His effortless charm, that disarming smile, the casual flirtation – it was a weapon he wielded with infuriating effectiveness.

What the perfectly coiffed and privileged student body, with their designer clothes and trust funds, remained blissfully unaware of was the quiet battle you fought every single day. The silence in your small, rented apartment after your mother left for her second job echoed the gaping absence left by your father's passing.

"Just trying to make ends meet, sweetheart," your mother would say, her shoulders slumped with a weariness that mirrored your own. To ease her burden, you pulled double shifts at a small, out-of-the-way café, the clatter of cheap cutlery and the pervasive smell of stale coffee a stark and unwelcome contrast to the hushed, hallowed halls of your elite university.

"Another lukewarm latte, another step closer to paying the electricity bill," you'd often think, the meager tips barely making a dent in the ever-growing pile of overdue notices.

Your no-nonsense approach as student council head had already earned you the thinly veiled disdain of those who considered rules mere suggestions. "She thinks she's so high and mighty just because she got in on a scholarship," you'd overheard a group of impeccably dressed girls whisper in the hallway, their eyes flicking over your slightly worn uniform.

"No mercy for anyone. Probably has something to prove." They saw you as rigid, unyielding, someone who had forgotten her place. Little did they know the constant tightrope walk you performed daily, the relentless pressure to maintain your perfect GPA and your scholarship, the gnawing anxiety that one wrong step could send your carefully constructed world crashing down.

Yet, amidst the predictable chaos that Han routinely unleashed upon the school, there were these… strange anomalies. One particularly draining Monday, after a particularly grueling weekend of juggling assignments and café shifts, you arrived at your desk to find a single can of your favorite soda, the obscure brand you rarely indulged in, sitting there as if it had materialized out of thin air.

No note, no explanation, just the cool, familiar weight of the aluminum in your hand. And then there were the days when the familiar, agonizing cramps of your period would leave you pale and trembling. On those mornings, a small, neatly wrapped bar of dark chocolate – the expensive, imported kind you usually only dreamed of – would be placed discreetly beside your planner, as if someone knew exactly what silent battle you were fighting.

One particularly frustrating afternoon, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion and a nagging sense of unease, you finally decided to confront the enigma that was Jeonghan. He was leaning against a sun-drenched wall in the courtyard, effortlessly surrounded by a gaggle of giggling students, his usual magnetic charm in full effect. "Han," you called out, your voice cutting through the laughter, the authority of your position instinctively taking over.

He turned, that familiar, infuriatingly handsome smirk returning to his lips. "To what do I owe this unexpected honor, Prez?" he drawled, the title laced with a playful mockery that usually sent your temper flaring.

You gestured vaguely towards your office. "Those… things. The soda. The chocolate. Why?"

He simply shrugged, that characteristic air of nonchalance returning, his eyes flicking away as if the topic bored him. "Had extras." The casual dismissal was infuriatingly convincing, leaving you with a swirling mix of confusion and a strange, unsettling warmth that you couldn't quite decipher.

--

The fragile peace of the university courtyard, usually a backdrop for idle chatter, hurried footsteps, and the occasional strumming of a guitar, shattered with a sudden, brutal sound. A sharp crack, like bone meeting bone, ripped through the lunchtime murmur, silencing the surrounding conversations as abruptly as a slammed door. You, mid-sentence with the perpetually flustered treasurer, Sooyoung, about the logistics of the upcoming charity bake sale and the alarming rate at which the student body consumed red velvet cupcakes, whipped your head around, your meticulously organized clipboard scattering a flurry of sign-up sheets onto the paved ground. The scene that unfolded before you sent a shockwave of cold disbelief, followed by a surge of adrenaline, coursing through your veins.

Jeonghan, the ever-teasing, perpetually laid-back Han, the master of witty remarks and harmless pranks that somehow always skirted the edge of outright rule-breaking, was locked in a vicious, unrestrained fistfight. His usual playful expression, the one that could charm even the most jaded professors, was gone, replaced by a mask of raw, untamed fury that contorted his handsome features into something almost unrecognizable. His knuckles, already reddening, were white against the other student's increasingly bloodied face, his movements jerky and fueled by a rage you had never witnessed in him before. This wasn't the Han of stolen exam answers and strategically placed whoopee cushions; this was something primal, something dangerous, a side of him completely hidden beneath the layers of charm and nonchalance.

Instinct took over, overriding the shock that had momentarily rooted you to the spot. The student council head within you, the one who had to maintain order and uphold the university's (admittedly often ignored) code of conduct, kicked in.

You found yourself pushing through the stunned onlookers, a knot of fear tightening in your stomach, your voice surprisingly sharp and authoritative as you barked orders. "Break it up! Now! What in God's name do you think you're doing? Jeonghan! Stop!" It took the combined efforts of several bewildered students, their initial shock slowly giving way to a hesitant urgency, to finally separate the two combatants.

Han’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his usually bright eyes now dark with a simmering anger, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. The other student, a usually boisterous jock named Minho, captain of the university's baseball team, was a mess of split lips, a rapidly swelling eye already turning a sickly shade of purple, and a trickle of blood snaking down his chin.

Later, the sterile air in your small, often overlooked student council office crackled with an unfamiliar tension. Minho, sporting an impressive ice pack that did little to soothe his bruised ego, had been escorted to the university infirmary by a concerned coach. Han sat opposite you, slumped in the uncomfortable plastic chair, unusually silent. His usual playful demeanor, the easy smile that could disarm even your sternest lectures, was completely absent, replaced by a brooding intensity. The knuckles of his right hand were already starting to swell, a stark and unsettling testament to the brutal violence you had just witnessed. You sat behind your desk, the scattered bake sale sign-up sheets a forgotten mess, your mind still reeling from the unexpected eruption of fury.

"Han," you began, your voice tight with a mixture of disbelief, lingering shock, and a growing sense of unease. "What… what was that? I have never, ever seen you… like that." Your words hung in the air, the silence amplifying the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.

He remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his injured hand, turning it over as if it belonged to someone else. Finally, he looked up, his eyes dark and troubled, a stark contrast to their usual mischievous sparkle. "He deserved it," was all he said, his voice low and rough, devoid of its usual playful lilt.

"Deserved what?" you pressed, leaning forward, your elbows resting on the cluttered surface of your desk. "A brutal beating in the middle of the courtyard? What in God's name could possibly have happened to provoke something like that?"

He hesitated, his jaw clenching and unclenching, the muscle in his cheek twitching. He seemed to be wrestling with himself, his usual easygoing nature battling with the raw anger that still emanated from him. "It's nothing you need to worry about," he finally mumbled, his gaze flicking away from yours.

"Nothing I need to worry about?" you repeated, incredulously, your voice rising slightly. "Han, you just engaged in a full-blown fistfight! This is serious. There will be consequences. And frankly, I need to understand what happened. For the official report, if nothing else."

He finally met your gaze again, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of something beyond his usual teasing or indifference. It was a raw protectiveness, a simmering anger that still seemed to vibrate beneath his skin, a fierce loyalty that surprised you. "He said some… things," he mumbled, his voice still rough, the words seemingly dragged from him.

"What kind of things, Han?" you persisted, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You had a bad feeling about this, a sense that whatever Minho had said had struck a nerve, a deep and volatile one.

He turned away again, his gaze fixed on the peeling paint of the opposite wall, as if the answers were hidden within its imperfections. "Just… garbage. The kind of crap guys like him spout all the time. It's not important."

But the university grapevine, as always, was relentless and remarkably efficient. The whispers started circulating almost immediately, fueled by the stunned witnesses and the sheer unexpectedness of Han's violent outburst. It wasn't long before the unsavory details, twisted and embellished with each retelling, began to reach you. However, the core of the incident remained consistent.

Apparently, Minho, emboldened by his usual entourage of jock friends and a misplaced sense of entitlement that seemed to cling to him like expensive cologne, had cornered you near the library earlier that day. His words, repeated with a sickening accuracy by those who had overheard and were still reeling from the audacity, echoed in your mind, sending a shiver of disgust and a prickle of humiliation down your spine:

"Hey, scholarship princess. Heard you're scrubbing floors at some dive to pay mommy's bills. With a body like yours, you could probably make way more than minimum wage if you actually tried. Maybe drop the goody-two-shoes act and use what you've got, huh?"

The blatant objectification, the crude insinuation about your body and your desperate financial situation, the sheer disrespect in his tone, made your blood run cold. It was a violation, a disgusting intrusion that left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, the carefully constructed walls around your private life crumbling under the weight of his vulgar assumptions.

--

Later that week, the memory of Minho's words still a bitter taste in your mouth, you found yourself alone with Han near the humming vending machines, the awkward silence between you thick and uncomfortable. You hesitated for a moment, the question weighing heavily on your tongue, then decided to broach the subject again. "Han," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper, the humiliation still raw. "I… I heard what Minho said. About… about my body… and… everything." The words felt foreign and shameful, a stark reminder of the vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal.

He flinched, his eyes, which had been idly scanning the snack selection, snapped to yours, hardening into a dangerous glint. "Who told you?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

"It doesn't matter," you said quietly, meeting his intense gaze. "What matters is… why? Why did you…"

He cut you off, his voice surprisingly harsh, the raw protectiveness evident despite his dismissive words. "Why do you wanna know? He spouts shit, and you aren't all that… you know." He trailed off, his usual eloquence failing him, the memory of Minho's disgusting appraisal clearly still fueling his anger, a possessive fury that both surprised and slightly unnerved you.

You stared at him, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. Hurt at his dismissive tone, a flicker of something akin to gratitude for his defense, but also a strange, unsettling warmth blooming in your chest at the fierce, albeit violent, loyalty he had displayed.

The image of his enraged face, the sheer, uncharacteristic fury in his eyes, lingered in your mind, a stark contrast to his usual playful demeanor. It was then, amidst the lingering shock, the uncomfortable tension, and the unsettling protectiveness in his gaze, that the buried feelings you’d tried so diligently to ignore since your first year began to stir, their roots running deeper than you’d ever dared to acknowledge.

The line between irritation and something far more complex was beginning to blur, and the unexpected violence, ignited by those vile words about your body and your circumstances, had somehow shaken it all awake, leaving you questioning everything you thought you knew about Jeonghan.

The relentless rhythm of university life continued, a predictable cycle of lectures, assignments, and the ever-present weight of your responsibilities as student council head.

But beneath this familiar surface, a new layer of anxiety had begun to fester. The memory of Minho's crude words, coupled with the unsettling protectiveness in Han's violent reaction, lingered like a persistent shadow. Adding to this growing unease was the constant, gnawing fear of your carefully guarded secret being exposed.

The chipped mugs and the weary smiles of your colleagues at the café had always been a world apart from the polished veneer of your university. It was a life you kept fiercely compartmentalized, a necessity born of your family's circumstances that you shielded with a quiet desperation from the judgmental eyes of your privileged classmates. The fear of that wall crumbling had always been there, a low hum of anxiety beneath the surface of your daily life.

Then, the inevitable happened. It started with a fleeting notification on your phone, a screenshot shared within a class group chat you rarely engaged with. A grainy, unflattering image flashed across the screen – undeniably you, in your slightly faded café uniform, a tray laden with steaming cups clutched in your hand, your hair pulled back haphazardly beneath a slightly stained hairnet. The caption, crude and mocking, stung more than you cared to admit: "Our esteemed S.C Head slumming it? Guess those scholarships don't cover everything." It had been taken during one of your late-night shifts, capturing a moment of weary concentration that was twisted into something pathetic and demeaning.

In a world where designer labels were practically a birthright and weekend discussions revolved around ski trips and yacht parties, the image was a stark, unwelcome intrusion. It ripped away the carefully constructed facade of the diligent, no-nonsense student council head, revealing the stark reality of your existence: the scholarship student working a dead-end job to keep her family afloat. The digital whispers began almost immediately, a low hum of curiosity quickly escalating into a deafening chorus of judgment and ridicule.

The fact that you had earned your place at this prestigious institution through sheer hard work and unwavering dedication, a testament to your intelligence and resilience, was conveniently ignored.

The narrative swiftly morphed. You, the seemingly unyielding and strict student council head, were now exposed, vulnerable, a target for the casual cruelty of those who had always resented your authority.

The air of respect your position once commanded seemed to evaporate, replaced by a palpable shift in the way people looked at you – a mixture of pity, disdain, and a smug sense of superiority.

Anonymous messages flooded your student council email. One particularly nasty one read: "So, S.C Head, when are you going to start serving coffee during student council meetings? Maybe you can earn some extra tips."

Graffiti, scrawled in hurried marker, appeared on the bathroom stalls. Underneath a crude drawing of someone vaguely resembling you holding a tray, someone had written: "From Council Head to Coffee Maid." The whispers followed you like a persistent shadow, echoing in the hallways. As you walked past a group of impeccably dressed girls, you heard one murmur, just loud enough for you to catch, "Well, look who it is. Fancy seeing her outside of a uniform." Another snickered in response.

You tried to ignore them, to keep your head down, to lose yourself in your studies, but the constant scrutiny, the thinly veiled contempt in the eyes of your peers, began to erode your carefully constructed composure. Even during lectures, you could feel their gazes on you, a silent, collective judgment that made your skin crawl.

One particularly cruel message, slipped into your locker, detailed fabricated stories about the supposed squalor of your "humble abode." "Heard the rats pay more rent than her family," it sneered, the implication clear that you were somehow an imposter, undeserving of being among them. The words, dripping with a disdain for a life you had no choice but to live, hit you with the force of a physical blow. A wave of shame, a feeling you had fought so hard to suppress, washed over you, leaving you feeling exposed and utterly humiliated.

You started avoiding eye contact, your shoulders hunching defensively as you navigated the crowded hallways. The snickers and muttered comments, though often just out of earshot, still stung, each one a tiny pinprick of cruelty chipping away at your carefully maintained stoicism.

The weight of your secret, once a private burden, was now a public spectacle, and the judgment felt suffocating, threatening to crush the very foundations of your hard-won place at the university. The unveiling of your other life had not brought understanding or empathy; it had brought only a fresh, stinging wave of disdain and isolation. You began to dread walking through the campus, the once familiar halls now feeling like a gauntlet of silent condemnation.

The cafeteria, once a bustling hub of student life, had transformed into a minefield for you. The clatter of trays and the boisterous chatter, once mundane background noise, now seemed to carry a sinister undercurrent, each laugh and whispered word potentially directed at you.

You had become a ghost in your own school, navigating the crowded tables with your gaze fixed firmly on the scuffed linoleum floor, a silent plea etched on your face to be rendered invisible. Lunchtime, once a brief respite, had become a daily exercise in forced solitude and silent endurance, each bite of your carefully packed lunch feeling like a leaden weight in your already burdened stomach.

Han’s usual raucous laughter and the easy, often insensitive, banter of his privileged entourage echoed across the vast space, a familiar sound that now struck a jarringly discordant note against the backdrop of your isolation. They seemed untouched by the subtle yet pervasive cruelty that clung to you like a persistent cloud, their world of inherited wealth and effortless comfort continuing its smooth, untroubled trajectory.

Yet, you had observed subtle shifts in Han’s demeanor in recent days. The ever-present smirk, his trademark expression, seemed to flicker less frequently, often replaced by a deep furrow in his brow, a restless energy in his movements, his gaze sweeping across the crowded tables with a searching, almost worried quality.

One particularly difficult afternoon, as you carefully maneuvered through the throng of students, clutching your worn lunch bag and desperately seeking the sanctuary of an unoccupied corner, you couldn't help but overhear fragments of their conversation. Jaehyu, Han’s loud and often tactless friend, was holding court, his voice booming with a cruel, self-satisfied edge.

"Did you see the comments under that photo? 'S.C Head serving the masses!' Hilarious! Looks like our perfect little scholarship student isn't so high and mighty now, wiping down sticky tables for a living." His cronies erupted in a chorus of boisterous laughter, the sound echoing through the cafeteria like a series of sharp, deliberate jabs. You flinched, your grip tightening on the brown paper bag, your cheeks flushing with a potent mix of shame and a simmering, impotent anger. You kept your gaze resolutely down, willing yourself to become one with the peeling paint on the nearby wall.

Finally, your eyes landed on a small, unoccupied table tucked away in a dimly lit corner near the overflowing recycling bins. It wasn't ideal, but it offered a semblance of privacy.

You hurried towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, the whispered judgments feeling like physical shoves. You just wanted to eat your simple sandwich in quiet solitude, to find a brief, precious moment of escape from the suffocating weight of their disdain. But before you could even lower yourself onto the hard plastic chair, Jaehyu’s voice, laced with deliberate malice and amplified by a sudden lull in the surrounding noise, cut through the remaining lunchtime hum like a jagged shard of glass.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his eyes locking onto yours with a smug, cruel satisfaction that made your stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise in your throat. "Look who it is. The queen of rule enforcement, the one who docked points from our club for being five minutes late. Maybe you should focus on clocking in on time at your real job, huh? Wouldn't want to get fired from your oh-so-glamorous career."

A fresh, brutal wave of cruel laughter rippled through his small group, the sound hitting you with the force of a physical shove, each guffaw a fresh wave of humiliation. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively lowered your head further, the familiar sting of tears pricking fiercely at the back of your eyes. You squeezed them shut, fiercely blinking them back. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing you break, of witnessing your pain. You had learned long ago to swallow the hurt, to build an invisible wall against their relentless cruelty.

But before you could retreat completely into your self-imposed invisibility, a sudden, sharp, and undeniably violent sound ripped through the remaining laughter, silencing the entire cafeteria as if an invisible hand had clamped down on the noise. A sickening thud, followed by a collective gasp and a sharp intake of breath from the stunned onlookers.

You looked up in stunned disbelief, your eyes widening in shock. Han stood over Jaehyu, his usually playful face contorted into a mask of thunderous, incandescent fury. Jaehyu lay sprawled on the sticky linoleum floor, clutching his jaw with a look of utter shock and dawning, agonizing pain contorting his features. The entire cafeteria fell into an eerie, absolute silence, the only sounds the scraping of overturned chairs and the hushed, disbelieving whispers rippling through the stunned crowd. A few brave (or perhaps foolishly curious) souls fumbled for their phones, their screens illuminating the unfolding drama with a cold, digital glow, capturing the unbelievable scene.

"Apologize to her," Han’s voice was low, dangerous, each syllable laced with a cold, hard steel you had never heard before, a stark contrast to his usual lighthearted tone. His eyes, blazing with a fierce, protective rage that seemed to emanate from his very core, were fixed on Jaehyu, who was slowly pushing himself up, his face a grotesque tableau of pain and utter bewilderment.

Jaehyu, clearly disoriented and not quite comprehending the sudden, brutal assault, stammered, "W-what? Why the hell would I apologize to her? She's the one who needs to apologize for being such a stuck-up-"

Han’s glare intensified, a silent, lethal threat that brooked no argument. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely suppressed violence. "Apologize. To. Her. Instantly, Jaehyu." His voice was a low growl, promising swift and unpleasant consequences for disobedience.

Jaehyu, despite his confusion and the throbbing agony in his jaw, seemed to recognize the raw, unadulterated fury in Han’s eyes, a primal anger that promised further pain if he dared to defy it. He mumbled a grudging, barely audible, "S-sorry," in your general direction, his gaze darting nervously between your stunned face and Han's menacing glare, his usual bravado completely evaporated, replaced by a palpable fear.

Confusion rippled through Han’s small group of friends. Seokhyun, usually the most jovial and easygoing of the bunch, stared at Han in utter disbelief, his mouth agape. "Yah, Jeonghan! What the actual hell was that? Why would you hit him? He was just joking! She needs to lighten up! She’s always acting like she’s better than everyone, lording her student council position over us."

Han’s head snapped towards Seokhyun, his eyes flashing with a raw, untamed rage that made Seokhyun visibly flinch, taking an involuntary step back, his usual easy smile nowhere to be seen. "Shut your damn mouth, Kim Seokhyun," Han spat, his voice dangerously low, each word dripping with contempt. "Making fun of someone for working hard to support their family isn't a 'joke.' It's pathetic, cruel, and reveals more about your rotten character than hers. Unlike some of us who waltzed in here on daddy's platinum card, she earned her place with a hundred percent scholarship. She's smarter, more hardworking, and possesses more integrity in her little finger than all of you entitled brats combined. And you want to tear her down for helping her mother? You want to make her feel ashamed of her strength and sacrifice? You'll have to go through me first, you understand?"

He turned abruptly, his gaze, still burning with a fierce protectiveness, locking onto yours across the stunned silence of the cafeteria. Without a word, he strode towards your table, his movements rough yet strangely determined, his eyes conveying a silent message of solidarity and unwavering support. He reached you, his hand closing around your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the lingering tension radiating from him. He didn't say a word as he pulled you up from your chair, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn't quite decipher, and began to lead you out of the stunned cafeteria, leaving behind a sea of bewildered faces, dropped trays, and the lingering echo of his unexpected, fierce, and utterly bewildering defense. As he guided you through the stunned crowd, you could hear whispers following in your wake, a mixture of shock, confusion, and a dawning, perhaps grudging, respect.

Han’s grip on your arm, though firm enough to guide you through the stunned and whispering crowd, possessed a surprising gentleness, a stark contrast to the raw fury he had displayed moments before. The whispers followed in your wake, a low, persistent hum of confusion, speculation, and perhaps even a grudging respect, but you barely registered them. Your mind was a whirlwind of disbelief, the unexpected outburst replaying in a loop, the fierce, almost possessive protectiveness Han had exhibited a stark and bewildering contrast to the carefree, infuriating troublemaker you thought you knew.

He didn’t speak as he steered you out of the bustling, judgmental atmosphere of the cafeteria and into the relative quiet and anonymity of a deserted hallway, the echoing silence amplifying the frantic beating of your own heart. The tension between you was thick, a palpable weight of unspoken questions, lingering shock, and a strange, burgeoning sense of… something you couldn't quite name. He finally stopped near a row of cold metal lockers, turning to face you, his hands still resting lightly but possessively on your arms, his touch sending a confusing mix of warmth and unease through you. His usual playful eyes, so often crinkled in amusement or mischief, were now dark, troubled, and filled with an uncharacteristic intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Why?" he finally asked, his voice rough, the earlier, incandescent anger still simmering beneath the surface, a low growl in his tone. "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you just… stand there and take it? Why are you so… ashamed?" The question hung in the air between you, a direct accusation that pierced through the carefully constructed layers of your stoicism.

The dam you had so carefully, so painstakingly constructed over the past few weeks, the fragile barrier you had erected against the constant barrage of judgment, finally cracked. The carefully constructed walls you’d built around your deepest insecurities, your most vulnerable truths, crumbled under the unexpected weight of his fierce defense and his direct, probing question. The words tumbled out of you, a torrent of raw emotion you hadn’t even realized you were holding back, a desperate outpouring of the pain and exhaustion you had carried in silence for so long.

"Because…" your voice trembled, catching in your throat, thick with the unshed tears that had been threatening to spill over for weeks. "Because it's true, isn't it? They're right. I am the scholarship kid working a dead-end job. I do come from nothing. And every single day, I walk through these halls feeling like I don't belong, like I'm an imposter in a world that wasn't built for me. I work my ass off at the café after classes, come home late, help my mom with bills, with rent… I’m tired, Han. So incredibly tired of trying to pretend that I’m just like them, that their cruel words don't cut me to the bone, that their disdain doesn't leave me feeling hollowed out."

Your voice broke completely, the carefully held back tears finally breaching the surface, hot and stinging against your pale cheeks. You hated crying in front of anyone, the ingrained habit of appearing strong, self-sufficient, and in control too deeply ingrained in your very being. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms, trying desperately to regain some semblance of composure, but the floodgates had opened, and the vulnerability was already out in the open, raw and exposed for him to see.

Without a word, Han’s expression underwent a profound shift. The lingering anger in his eyes softened, the hard edges melting away, replaced by a look of something akin to deep understanding, a surprising tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat and your heart clench with a confusing mix of emotions. He gently released your arms, his touch lingering for a fleeting moment, and with a hesitant, almost reverent movement, reached out and cupped your face in his surprisingly warm hands. His touch was a small, unexpected comfort in the overwhelming storm of your emotions, a silent acknowledgment of your pain.

He didn't say anything, just looked at you, his gaze searching, empathetic, as if he were trying to absorb the depth of your hurt. Then, in a move that completely took you by surprise, a gesture both unexpected and strangely comforting, he gently scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing, his strong arms a surprising anchor in your turbulent sea of emotions. You gasped, a startled sound escaping your lips, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support, your face buried in the soft fabric of his expensive-smelling shirt, the familiar scent oddly grounding.

He carried you out of the university building, the surprised and curious glances of the few students you passed in the hallway fading into a blurry, irrelevant background. He didn't say a word, just held you close, his steps steady and sure, his presence a silent promise of safety and understanding. He carefully settled you into the plush leather of the passenger seat of his sleek, impeccably maintained car, his eyes filled with a quiet concern and a depth of emotion you had never associated with the playful, often infuriating, Jeonghan.

"Let it out," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, his hand resting gently but firmly on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin in a small, comforting gesture. "Don't hold back. I won't turn around unless you tell me to." He was about to close the door, giving you the privacy you so desperately needed, when you reached out, your hand gripping his arm tightly, a silent plea for connection. You pulled him towards you, burying your face in his chest again, the sobs you had been fighting back for so long finally wracking your body, each one a release of pent-up pain and humiliation. The tears streamed down your face, hot and unrestrained, soaking into the soft fabric of his shirt, a physical manifestation of the emotional dam finally breaking. And the whole time, he just held you close, his arms a safe and unexpected harbor in the storm of your emotions, his presence a silent, unwavering promise of comfort, understanding, and something that felt suspiciously like… care.

The rhythmic sound of your sobs gradually subsided, each hiccuping breath leaving behind a raw ache in your chest and a damp, slightly embarrassing patch on the front of Han’s expensive-looking shirt. You finally pulled back, your face flushed and tear-streaked, your eyes swollen and red, reflecting the tumultuous emotions that had just poured forth. You felt utterly exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to be in years. The fact that it was Han, the very person who usually exasperated you with his antics and tested your patience to its limits, who had witnessed your complete emotional unraveling felt strangely disorienting, yet also… oddly comforting.

He didn’t say anything, just offered you a small, surprisingly gentle smile, a stark contrast to his usual mischievous grin, and a clean, subtly scented handkerchief from the inner pocket of his jacket. You took it with a shaky hand, dabbing at your wet cheeks and swollen eyelids, avoiding his direct gaze, a wave of self-consciousness washing over you. The silence in the car was thick, no longer charged with the earlier tension and unspoken shock, but with a fragile, almost sacred intimacy, a quiet understanding that had unexpectedly blossomed between you.

After a few moments of awkward but not entirely uncomfortable silence, you finally found your voice, still thick with the remnants of your sobs. "Thank you," you mumbled, your gaze fixed on your hands, which were clasped tightly in your lap, the knuckles white. "For… for everything. For today… and…" you trailed off, unsure how to articulate the confusing mix of gratitude and burgeoning realization swirling within you.

He just nodded slowly, his eyes still filled with that unfamiliar, tender concern that made your heart flutter in a way it never had before. "Are you… okay now?" he asked softly, his voice laced with a genuine worry that surprised you.

You took a deep breath, a shaky exhale that still hitched slightly. "I will be," you said, the words carrying a newfound lightness, as if releasing the pent-up tears had also released some of the immense weight you had been carrying for so long. You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question, a hesitant curiosity, forming in your eyes. "Han… why did you do all that? Back in the cafeteria. And… all those times before? The drinks… the chocolate… you always act like you can’t stand me, like I’m just a constant source of irritation."

Han shifted uncomfortably in his plush leather seat, finally breaking eye contact and staring intently out the front windshield, as if the answers to your questions were etched on the glass. A faint blush, starting at his ears, crept up his neck, a tell-tale sign of his rare discomfort. "I… well, that's not exactly true," he mumbled, his fingers fiddling nervously with the car keys dangling from the ignition.

"What isn't true?" you pressed gently, a hopeful tendril reaching out within you, a hesitant anticipation of something unexpected.

He finally turned back to you, his gaze earnest, almost vulnerable, the usual playful mask completely gone. "I never hated you, (Y/N). Not even a little bit. Annoyed? Maybe sometimes," he admitted with a small, sheepish grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hesitated, then took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for a plunge into unknown waters. "Actually… it's kind of the opposite."

Your eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, your carefully guarded composure momentarily forgotten. "The opposite?" you echoed, a bewildered laugh escaping your lips.

He nodded, his cheeks now flushed a deeper shade of pink, his gaze darting between your eyes and his fidgeting hands. "Yeah. I… I liked being around you. Even when you were scolding me for some ridiculous prank. Your frown… it was kind of cute, actually," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of his usual teasing creeping back in, but tinged with a newfound sincerity. He avoided your gaze again, a nervous energy radiating from him. "And… well, I noticed things. You always looked so tired, those dark circles under your eyes… and I remembered you mentioning once, ages ago, how much you loved that specific brand of overly sweet soda. The chocolate… well, I just… I know how bad period cramps can be. My younger sister… she goes through it too."

Your heart skipped a surprised beat. He noticed? All this time, amidst his chaotic pranks and infuriating teasing, he had actually been paying attention to the small, insignificant details of your life?

"You knew… about my period cramps?" you asked, a surprised, slightly disbelieving laugh bubbling up despite the lingering sadness.

He nodded sheepishly, a small, endearing smile finally gracing his lips. "Yeah, well… you always seemed to reach for dark chocolate those days. It wasn't exactly rocket science, Sherlock." He finally met your eyes again, his gaze surprisingly direct and unwavering. "And I knew about your scholarship, about your family… from the very beginning. You have this quiet strength about you, (Y/N). It's hard not to notice."

Your breath hitched in your throat. He knew? All this time, he had known about your struggles, your carefully guarded secrets, and instead of judging you, he had… he had been leaving you small, anonymous tokens of comfort?

"You always seemed so… together," Han continued, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, the playful teasing completely gone. "So strong, carrying all that responsibility on your own, never asking for help. But I could see it sometimes, the weight you carried, the exhaustion in your eyes. I just… I wanted to do something. Anything small, just to… to let you know someone saw it. So you wouldn't have to carry it all alone." He looked away again, his ears now a delicate shade of pink. "I… I think… I’ve liked you… a lot… since first year." The confession hung in the air between you, fragile and unexpected.

He backed off slightly, a nervous energy radiating from him, his expression a mixture of hope and trepidation, unsure of your reaction, his long-held secret finally laid bare. To his utter surprise, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they tangled in the soft strands of his dark hair. You gently tugged him closer, your eyes searching the depths of his earnest gaze. And then, without thinking, without analyzing, without allowing the years of exasperation and perceived animosity to cloud your judgment, you leaned in and kissed him. It was a tentative kiss at first, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected depth of his feelings, a soft exploration that spoke volumes. But it quickly deepened, a rush of long-suppressed emotions – gratitude, relief, and a powerful, undeniable affection – flooding through you, washing away the years of carefully constructed barriers. Your hands tightened in his hair as he instinctively pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, a silent, comforting embrace that spoke of a connection you had never dared to imagine.

He mumbled a soft, heartfelt, "I love you," against your lips, the words echoing the long-held secret that had finally found its voice within your own heart. "I love you too, Han," you whispered back, the confession a sweet, liberating release, a fragile beginning to something entirely new.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and luminous, reflecting the shock and the burgeoning, almost incandescent joy that had bloomed in his chest. "You… you really do?" he murmured, his voice thick with a raw emotion that mirrored your own, a hopeful tremor running through him like a live wire. The nervous energy that had been radiating off him just moments before seemed to dissipate entirely, replaced by an almost childlike wonder, a sense of disbelief that mingled beautifully with his happiness.

You nodded, a genuine, heartfelt smile finally breaking through the remnants of your tears, a radiant expression that mirrored the pure joy now illuminating his handsome face. The heavy, suffocating weight that had been pressing down on your chest for so long, the burden of your secrets and your struggles, seemed to have miraculously lifted, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t experienced in what felt like an eternity. In the small, intimate sanctuary of his luxurious car, tucked away from the judgmental eyes and cruel whispers of the university, the harsh realities and societal pressures of the world outside seemed to recede into a hazy background, the only tangible reality the unexpected, profound connection you had forged in the crucible of vulnerability and unexpected affection.

Han reached out, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he gently cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a feather-light, almost reverent touch. "So," he said, his voice soft, a tender whisper that resonated deep within you, a hint of his usual playful tone finally returning, but now imbued with a newfound depth of sincerity. "What… what exactly happens now, Head Girl?"

You leaned into his warm touch, a profound sense of peace settling over you, a feeling of finally being seen, truly seen, for the first time in a long time. The weight of your carefully constructed facade had finally been lifted, replaced by the liberating vulnerability of being completely yourself with someone who not only saw you but cherished you, flaws and all. "Now," you whispered, your eyes locking with his, a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a quiet strength blossoming within you. "Now, we start over. Together." The word resonated with a profound sense of rightness, a solid promise of shared burdens, mutual support, and a future you no longer had to face alone.

A wide, unrestrained grin, the genuine, heart-melting kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and lit up his entire face, spread across his features, chasing away the last vestiges of nervousness and uncertainty. A familiar spark of mischief flickered back into his eyes, a hint of the playful troublemaker you knew, but this time, it was different. It was a shared secret, a conspiratorial glint that hinted at future adventures, a promise of unwavering support, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding affection that transcended the superficial barriers of your different worlds. He leaned in for another kiss, a slow, tender exploration that sealed your unexpected beginning, a silent vow to face whatever challenges lay ahead, hand in hand, heart to heart. The road ahead wouldn't be easy; the ingrained prejudices of your classmates wouldn't vanish overnight, and the stark realities of your different socioeconomic backgrounds still loomed. But for the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like you had to shoulder the weight of the world on your own. You had Han, your infuriating, surprisingly perceptive, fiercely protective, and now, undeniably loving Han, by your side. And somehow, in that precious moment, that realization made all the difference in the world, painting a hopeful hue over a future that had previously seemed so daunting. The persistent headache that had been your constant companion throughout the tumultuous senior year seemed to finally recede, replaced by a quiet, burgeoning warmth that spread through your chest, a tangible promise of brighter, shared days to come.

The End

[speedforce-zoomies]

“Favorite hero - go!”

Tim didn’t even look up as he continued to type up his report for the night, “Dick Grayson.”

Jason scoffed, “Way to use your listening ears Timbers, Duke asked who’s your favorite hero, not your favorite brother.”

“I heard and I answered. Dick Grayson. If he’s Robin? Robin is my favorite hero. Now he’s Nightwing? Nightwing is absolutely the coolest hero to ever exist. He’s acting as Batman? Obviously Batman’s the best.”

Dick grinned brightly at Jason, smug in a way only older siblings can be.

“My. Favorite. Hero. Is. Dick. Grayson. From the day I first meet him, to the day I discovered his hero identity, to becoming a part of his legacy, to the first time he called me his brother, to today and till the day we’re both dirt and worms, my big brother will always be my favorite hero. You use your listening ears.”

Several of the others made faces or rolled their eyes at dirt and worms part of his rant but Dick only laughed quietly and hugged Tim so tightly that Tim felt the air being slowly but steadily pushed out of his lungs. Tim made no complaints but did roll his eyes, though no one but Cass could tell if it was at Jason or Dick.

“I can not find fault in your decision,” Damian weighed in, “And obviously, Father is your second favorite, thus your third favorite must also be of equal valor?”

Tim huffed and wiggled his way out of Dick’s loving embrace, “Who said B was my second favorite?”

Everyone blinked at him and he grinned, the exact same expression on his face as had been on Dick’s a few minutes prior, submitted his report, grabbed his Zesti off the ground beside him, and took advantage of Bruce and Alfred entering the cave to escape any more questions.

“Good night!” Dick called after him.

“Night!” Tim waved behind him.

“Well, I think I’m a strong contender for second favorite,” Tim heard Stephanie say and someone’s muffled response before the grandfather clock closed behind him.

[written-and-readen]

The Odds Are Slim But Never Zero

Dan Heng, Luka, Blade x fem!reader (separate)

Part 2 (Jing Yuan, Sunday, Gallagher), Part 3 (Moze, Phainon, Sampo)

Summary: Someone walks in on you two

Warnings: nsfw (18+), established relationship, penetrative sex (Dan Heng, Blade), fingering (Luka), getting caught

Dan Heng

Dan Heng is usually a soft spoken person, keeping to himself in the Express’ archives. So how come his pace is so relentless that your breath is stolen every time he bottoms out?

Who can blame him though? The walls of your pussy grip him viciously and your legs are wrapped around his waist, only pulling him further in. He’s completely lost in you right now. The only thing that would make this better is getting to see the expression you make once he pushes you over the edge, eyes going slightly hazy and mouth falling open.

And the only thing that could completely ruin this moment is March slamming open the door to the archives. The moment she registers you both naked (and probably the fact Dan Heng is balls deep in you), she closes the door just as fast as she arrived before either of you can think of yelling at her.

Mood shattered, you sit up to come face to face with your now beet red boyfriend. Your hands reach up to hold his face, thumbs running across his flushed cheeks.

"We're locking the door next time," he sighs.

Luka

The minute Luka got out of the ring and into the back room of the fight club, he was on you. It was such an easy match that he had lots of energy left over. Once he saw your pretty face, he knew exactly how to spend it.

With your back pressed against the wall, he's sucking marks into your neck as both hands grope your ass. You can feel him smile whenever a whine of his name leaves your mouth, your fingers threading deeper into his hair.

Through your heated haze, you feel his left hand slip down your pants and past your panties. After rubbing a few circles on your clit that have your legs nearly buckling if it weren’t for his metal arm wrapped around your middle, two fingers push into your pussy.

“Luka-” you brokenly moan as his fingers curl against your walls.

“You doing okay?” His pace slows for a moment when your head falls against his shoulder.

“Mmhmm, keep going please.” Your wish is his command as he adds a third finger to the two pleasuring you. Your brain feels like mush at this point, but it’s abruptly cleared by a loud slam.

“Luka!” Seele barges through the door. It’s clear she was going to say more until she sees Luka hastily remove himself from your pants. A faint red rises to her face before she leaves, grumbling a “never mind” as she quickly closes the door again.

There’s a beat of silence where you’re both still breathing heavily from your previous activity. Despite the awkwardness now hanging in the air, Luka speaks up.

“So, did you want to continue?” He asks, rubbing the back of his neck. A laugh leaves you at his efforts to pick up where you left off. You lean over to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Let’s head back to my place first.”

Blade

You haven’t been able to form a coherent thought for a while. Blade just keeps driving his cock into your pussy, fast and deep. The mara must be acting up today.

Your fingers grip the long strands of his hair as you hear him occasionally grunt into your ear. Few words are spoken between you. It’s one of those times where you just let him use you, find what solace he can in the warmth of your body sucking him in.

“B-Blade, I’m close…” You warn him. The only thing you receive in response is a particularly sharp thrust into your sweet spot.

All of a sudden, the door to Blade’s room opens to reveal Kafka. Her eyes take in Blade absolutely ruining you, but she remains standing in the doorway. An embarrassed flush rises to your cheeks at having Kafka’s gaze on you. It’s only increased by Blade’s audacity to not slow down at all.

“What do you want?” He glances none too happily at Kafka.

“Silver Wolf asked me to go get her some snacks. Do you want anything while I’m out?”

“No.” He turns his attention back to you. You’re biting your lip, believing that any whines you let out would only exponentiate your shame, but you’re fighting a losing battle, especially when Blade reaches down to thumb at your clit. A long moan escapes you once he pushes you over the edge, continuing to fuck you through your high.

“Okay, let me know if you need anything.” You hear Kafka’s voice and the door faintly close before all your senses are consumed by Blade.

You feel his calloused hand holding your waist down as his cock still moves in and out of you. You smell the sweat from both of you as you breathe heavily. His fingers swipe up some of the cum that leaks out of your folds, bringing them up to your mouth for you to eagerly taste. His red eyes are intently trained on you as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. When his voice reaches your ears, a shiver runs down your spine.

“You can give me another one, right?”

[khunwriting]

[Flos]

Synopsis: Leona opens his eyes to see you leaning over him with a flower crown in your hands.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Leona wasn’t surprised by the presence next to him when he woke up nor did he need to open his eyes to know it was you. Your scent mixed with the general floral fragrance of the botanical garden filled his nose and he was acutely aware of your thigh brushing against his shoulder. 

But why were you here? Before he drifted off to sleep, the second prince was sure it was just him and Ruggie, actively shooing the hyena away in favor of skipping class again. Judging by how you were sitting next to him, it must be a free period or classes were completely done; you’ve always been a goody-two shoes. 

Leona’s ears swiveled slightly when he caught the lightest vibrations from you. You were humming some random tune to a song he’s never heard before—Probably some song back from your home. The melody was soft and sounded upbeat, lilting in pleasant highs and soothing lows. 

‘It sounds nice’ was Leona’s fleeting thought before smothering it so it could never see the light of day ever again. Instead, he’ll focus on how your hands were constantly shifting, causing the sleeves of your blazer to rustle. You were clearly doing something, but there was no distinct sound of paper or pencil. So you weren’t doing schoolwork, like a studious little herbivore. 

Then what could you be working on? 

“There!” Your voice rang out clearly, snuffing your little song without a second thought. Leona didn’t open his eyes, but he can already picture the wide grin blooming across your face. 

The silence that filled the air in the absence of your song was replaced by fabric shuffling. The pressure of your thigh shifts and disappears from his body. The lion could feel you begin to lean over him, yet he waited. After a moment, he felt your fingers graze against his ears, making them flick instinctively. 

Instantly, Leona’s eyes snapped open and he grasped one of your wrists in a quick and fluid motion. A primal section in his chest rumbled pleasantly at the openly shocked expression on your face. He chuckled lowly while your face twisted in an exasperated scoff, your lips pursing into a pout. Releasing his hold, the third-year lazily sat up fully and eyed the object you’ve been fiddling with for the past several minutes. 

“The hell is this?” Leona grumbled with a voice that was still a tad raspy from his nap. Sitting pretty in your hold was your little project. Stems were entwined together, crossing over one another in a simple yet stable circlet. Purple fans of splayed petals bloomed around the circumference, growing into flecks of white and yellow on the signal portion of the flowers. “What? You ever seen a flower crown before?” There was a light teasing edge in your words that matched your cheeky grin, but Leona brushed it away in favor of raising a finger to lift one of the drooping falls of the flower. 

“I know what it is,” The prince didn’t bother hiding the annoyed tone lacing his sleepy words, earning a giggle from you. At the twinkling sound, Leona just rolled his eyes before dropping his hand in his lap. “I mean, why are you trying to give it to me?”

“Flowers make good gifts. They’re pretty with so many different meanings,” You responded easily with a shrug of your shoulders as if it was the most obvious thing. “I think these suit you,”

“Why?” It was a simple question, or so Leona thought. His green eyes bored into your own hues, and for a moment, you seemed apprehensive. As to why, the lion couldn’t say. Usually, you’d be more than happy to yap in his ears about anything and everything like a little excited dog. Now, though, any words that were on the tip of your tongue were swallowed back up and kept close to your heart. “C’mon, you were so excited to give it to me before. The least you can do is tell me why,” 

“...Don’t wanna say,” You mumbled in a defiant way that had Leona raising an eyebrow at your childish manner. When you met his gaze, your eyes narrowed, probably seeing the curious amusement on his face. “You’ll make fun of me,”

“No, I won’t,” He was lying.

“Yeah, you will,” And you knew him too well.  

Both sat there, not uttering a word and mentally willing the other to concede first. Unfortunately, the two of you were stubborn, and if Ruggie was there, he would definitely bemoan about “how the bull-headed duo is at it again!” The thought of the cunning, little beastman had Leona’s tail sweeping in irritation, already visualizing the mischievous grin the hyena would send his way.

After a long stare down, you spoke again with a faux resigned sigh.

“You know what. Nevermind, I can just give this to Ruggie,” Upon hearing those words, Leona bristled in his spot. The image of Ruggie wearing the flower crown you crafted specifically for him left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

If you noticed the disgruntled expression on the third-year’s face, you didn’t mention it. Rather, you chose to retract your hands away from the grouchy prince. In a swift motion, Leona reached for your hand once more and sent you a glaring chill that would’ve caused shivers up your spine if you weren’t so used to the sight. Instead, you quirked a brow up, matching his leer with an intrigued stare. 

“Ruggie would just eat it,” Leona grumbled out, the words coming out half-heartedly. Sure, the hyena ate dandelions and whatever he could get his little shifty hands on, but it was a pitiful excuse. Both of you knew it. 

“Irises are poisonous,” You countered plainly, giving the prince a look. He just grunted in response and kept his steely glare. And you were caught in a stalemate once more. 

Not wanting to go through another lapse of silence and unnecessary staring, you silently rolled your eyes and shifted your hands higher. The corners of the lion’s lips curled upwards in a smug smirk as he leaned down to let you place the wreath onto his head. 

The weight of the crown was heavier than he expected, but it was welcomed nonetheless. Though Leona had never worn a flower crown before—Sevens know Cheka had tried numerous times—the feeling of your handcrafted one felt familiar, like it returned to its rightful place after being away for so long.

“Well…?” The lion beastman asked, sitting up a tad taller. His eyes bored into yours, and he could faintly see the reflection of himself in your wide eyes. Nothing has changed physically, aside from the silly flower crown you crafted, yet you looked at him as if he was someone to be revered.

“I was right. They do suit you,” You said softly with a syrupy smile. Honesty oozed in between your words, sickeningly sweet and genuine. Just enough to make Leona’s teeth hurt and cause something to stir in his chest, something gentle and heavy that caused warmth to trickle throughout his body. 

Leona quickly recognized what the feeling was, and he was even quicker to stamp it out and disregard it as he always does. 

Again, one half of the bull-headed duo.

Like the lazy lion he was, Leona let out an obnoxious yawn and shifted his body to lean his entire weight against you—something you were accustomed to. As he moved, Leona purposely raised his tail to flick you in the face, causing you to sputter at the appendage. He bit back a chuckle at your indignant huff before resting his head on your shoulder.

Though the prince made sure to be cautious of damaging the iris-covered crown encircling his regal head.

[rafecameronssl4t]

arranged marriage au reader where her postpartum depression is so bad. where she barley picks at her plate, and when the doctors check in on her , they scold her for not keeping healthy for the baby to feed off her. and it’s to the point where rafe has to leave a trip early bc it’s so bad

You know I'll come || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: incase you didn't read it before, make sure you read my important notice!!!

Warnings: ppd, angst, mention of fainting

Word count: 2,114

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

“Y/n, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” James said with a sympathetic sigh, his gaze fixed on the monitor while you sat on the lounge, your eyes glazed over as you stared blankly at the coffee table. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the monitor and the occasional rustle of Anita’s movements as she adjusted the blanket draped over your lap.

“This is the third time you’ve passed out this week. You were lucky Anita was there to catch you before you could have seriously injured yourself.” James exchanged a concerned look with Anita, who stood close by with a worried expression. The gentle, almost maternal way Anita fussed over you spoke volumes about her deep concern.

“You must eat. Your body needs proper nourishment, not just for yourself but for Leo as well.” At the mention of your son, your eyes flickered up from the table, the name ‘Leo’ momentarily pulling you from your daze. “Where is he?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper as you attempted to sit up, only to be gently restrained by James.

“Leo is asleep,” Anita said softly, her tone soothing. She moved closer, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as if to offer reassurance. James continued, his voice gentle but insistent, “Rafe has been informed of your condition and has decided to come home early. He’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, the confusion evident on your face. “Rafe isn’t supposed to be here until Friday,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief as you tried to process the unexpected news. “Rafe is aware of how unwell you are right now. He deemed it necessary to return home early,” James explained, his tone gentle but firm.

Your mouth parted in a silent response, the weight of the news settling heavily on your shoulders. James continued gently, “But for now, you should rest. Take these, they’ll help you sleep.” He extended a small container of medicine towards you. With a grateful nod, you accepted the tablets, feeling their cool, smooth surface against your fingertips.

You placed them in your mouth and swallowed, the slight bitterness leaving a fleeting aftertaste. As the medicine began to take effect, James and Anita exchanged a look of quiet concern. The room felt heavy with the unspoken tension of your fragile state, and the soft rustling of the blanket seemed to amplify the stillness. You leaned back, letting the exhaustion overtake you, the weight of the day’s events and Rafe’s imminent arrival already beginning to blur into the dim haze of impending sleep.

~

"Mr. Cameron, there’s news from Mr. Berkeley concerning your wife," Kate’s voice broke the quiet atmosphere of the plane as she approached Rafe, her iPad in hand. She hesitated for a moment, gauging his mood, knowing that any news related to you could quickly shift his temper. Rafe looked up from his laptop, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, already bracing for the worst.

"What’s happened now?" His tone was clipped, the edge in his voice betraying the unease that simmered beneath his composed exterior. Kate took a breath, her fingers gripping the iPad a little tighter. "Mrs. Cameron fainted for the third time this week while walking down the stairs—" Before she could finish, Rafe’s expression darkened, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Is she injured? Is Leo okay?" His words, though direct, held an unmistakable undertone of worry that he barely managed to suppress. Kate glanced up from her iPad, her eyes meeting his with cautious reassurance. "No, sir. Y/n isn’t injured, and Leo wasn’t with her at the time." A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Rafe as he leaned back in his seat, his hand moving to rub his temples.

The initial wave of panic subsided, but the underlying concern remained, gnawing at him. He closed his laptop with a resounding thud, the noise loud in the otherwise still cabin. "And this is because she isn’t eating well?" he asked, his voice flat but laced with frustration. "Yes, sir. Mr. Berkeley mentioned that Y/n has been struggling to finish her meals," Kate explained, her tone professional yet careful, aware of how delicate the situation had become.

Rafe scoffed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Of course she is," he muttered under his breath, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He stood abruptly, the tension in his body clear as his jaw tightened, hands flexing at his sides. The weight of responsibility, of having to constantly manage his wife’s well-being, pressed down on him. The sound of the plane’s engine hummed softly in the background, creating a quiet that felt too heavy, too filled with thoughts he didn’t want to dwell on.

His thoughts raced, caught between his commitments and the deepening worry that had taken root. Rafe’s decision was swift. "Tell Anthony to turn this plane around. We’re going back to Kildare." Kate blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his command. "But, sir—" she began, her voice hesitant. "Did you not hear what I said?" Rafe snapped, his tone cold and commanding now. His patience, already thin, was gone. "Tell him to turn this plane around. Now." His blue eyes, usually so controlled, flashed with intensity as he stared her down.

Kate swallowed hard, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and making her way to the cockpit without another word. The weight of his anger, his concern for you, and the complicated web of their marriage hung in the air even after she left. Rafe stood there for a moment, alone in the silence. His fists clenched as he stared out the window at the endless expanse of sky, his mind already filled with thoughts of what awaited him back home.

~

"Where is she?" Rafe's voice echoed sharply through the grand foyer as he shrugged off his blazer, his tone tense but controlled. Anita, always efficient and poised, was quick to take his suitcase from his hand. "She’s currently asleep on the sofa. Mr. Berkeley just left a couple of minutes ago," Anita informed him, her voice soft, trying to keep the atmosphere calm.

Rafe nodded, his expression tight as they walked deeper into the house, the weight of the past week’s events evident in his stride. "How is she?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost hesitant tone. His usual composure was cracking, revealing the concern he so rarely let show. Anita glanced up at him, catching the rare flicker of vulnerability in his face.

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips, sensing the subtle change in his demeanor. "She’s doing better. She ate a full meal last night and this morning," she replied, her words laced with reassurance. Rafe’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the news, though only slightly. "Good," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

As they reached the living room, the soft flicker of the TV caught his attention. The sound of cartoon characters filled the room, a stark contrast to the heavy emotions swirling inside him. Rounding the corner of the sofa, his eyes landed on you—fast asleep, curled up with the blanket tucked around you. Your exhaustion was evident, your face peaceful but pale.

However, Leo was wide awake, his small hands reaching out as he lay nestled beside you. Rafe's heart softened at the sight of his son, so innocent and oblivious to the storm brewing around him. Gently, Rafe scooped Leo up into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that few ever saw. He pressed a kiss to Leo’s cheek, the gesture instinctive, as if grounding himself in the quiet moment.

Without a word, he turned off the TV, silencing the cartoons as the room fell into a soft hush. For a moment, Rafe stood there, holding Leo, his eyes drifting back to you, wondering how things had reached this point—his life so far from what he’d imagined, and yet, here he was, tethered to this quiet moment with you and Leo, torn between frustration, duty, and something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Rafe gently pulled the blanket further up your body, his fingers brushing the soft fabric as he ensured you were as comfortable as possible. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze softening as he watched you sleep, the rise and fall of your chest steady and peaceful. There was a quiet vulnerability about you now that tugged at something deep inside him—a feeling he didn’t often allow himself to dwell on.

With a quiet sigh, he turned away, careful not to wake you. As he walked toward the door, he called out, “Anita?” Anita appeared almost instantly, her usual calm and attentive presence filling the room. “Yes, Mr. Cameron?” she asked, her voice respectful but warm. “Have the chef prepare Y/n’s favourite meals,” he instructed, his tone firm yet carrying an unspoken urgency. “I want her to be eating properly, no excuses.”

His gaze flicked back to you for a second, as though making sure you were still resting soundly. Anita nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. “Of course, sir. I’ll take care of it immediately.” Satisfied, Rafe adjusted Leo in his arms, holding him close as he glanced back at you one last time before stepping out of the room. “Leo and I will be outside by the pool,” he added, his voice a little quieter now, as if the tension from earlier had begun to ebb slightly.

Anita nodded again, watching as Rafe walked away, his steps quiet and measured, the sound of Leo’s soft babbling accompanying him as they made their way toward the open terrace. There, Rafe hoped the fresh air and the familiar comfort of home might bring him some clarity as he processed everything—his thoughts still tethered to you even as he tried to focus on his son.

~

Feeling a gentle hand on his shoulder, Rafe looked up, surprised to see you standing beside him. The colour had returned to your cheeks, and there was a small but genuine smile on your face. For a brief moment, relief softened his usually guarded expression. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, careful not to disturb Leo, who was napping peacefully on his chest.

You offered him another soft smile, walking around to sit on the lounge chair beside him. Your eyes lingered on the still waters of the pool, the calm reflection contrasting with the heaviness in the air. “I’m fine,” you replied, though your gaze remained fixed ahead. Rafe’s eyes stayed on you, his expression stern, not easily convinced by your words. “Did you eat?”

His tone was sharp, but there was an undercurrent of concern that you couldn’t ignore. You nodded slowly, though the hesitation in your movement gave away the effort it took. “I’m sorry you had to cut your trip short—” you began, wanting to apologise for the disruption, but Rafe quickly cut you off. “Don’t.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for further apologies.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of Leo’s head, his eyes briefly softening as he did so. “There’s no excuse for you to not eat,” he continued, his voice hardening again, as though the frustration he’d been holding back was finally spilling out. You looked at him, studying his side profile as he avoided your gaze.

His jaw was clenched, tension radiating from him, but it wasn’t the anger that struck you—it was the concern buried beneath it. You knew this dynamic between you, this mixture of obligation and care, was a complicated dance neither of you had perfected. Your fingers absentmindedly twisted the ring on your finger, a physical reminder of the ties that bound you both. “At least Leo is doing okay,” Rafe muttered, his voice softening as he made eye contact with you.

“That’s all that matters.” But the moment the words left his lips, he saw the shift in your expression. There was something in your eyes—an unspoken sadness, a flicker of something deeper that you kept buried. You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Of course,” you replied, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. You stood up slowly, your body feeling heavier than it had a moment ago.

“I’ll head back inside,” you murmured, already turning to leave. Rafe watched you move, the silence between you thick and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Instead, he refocused on Leo’s sleeping form, his hand gently cradling his son’s small body as the feeling of missed opportunity settled heavily around him.

[chimielie]

hockey player!iwaizumi x f!reader, tooth-rotting fluff, like sweeter than cotton candy, slight injury

When Hajime lost his tooth, he hated it.

He’d always privately had a little bit of a complex about his looks. Growing up best friends with Oikawa made it hard not to compare their looks and come up lacking. He tried not to let it get to him, never verbalized it to anyone, knew that he was still fine. Just nothing special.

They both grow up playing hockey—at least he can beat up Oikawa on the ice (and they always laugh about it off of it). Oikawa goes pro, right out of high school, and Hajime spends a little time dicking around playing college hockey in America before he gets drafted.

He had met you at the bars after a game; his first win after being traded to the team Oikawa’s played for for a couple years now.

The memory is clear: It’s great to be back together, but he feels some trepidation in the car the guys rented, some childish part of him reticent about the idea of going out and watching chicks swarm his best friend, just like their teen years.

He doesn’t even really have time to think about that once they’re in, though, because he, the newbie, gets sent up to order. While he’s waiting for the bartender to pour them the first round of shots, you tap him on the shoulder, touch so soft he barely feels it after getting pummeled on the ice. His right shoulder is tender because he’d slammed hard into the railing right after stealing the puck from Ushijima, sending to Tooru, who had pushed it neatly into the net. An assist on the first goal of the night, and he’d gotten a goal in himself by the third period too.

It twinges as he turns to face you, a clear question written all over his face. It’s not like he’s totally oblivious, like he’s never been flirted with. It just somehow always surprises him still.

“You’re fine,” you declare, already a little tipsy, your cheeks warming as he observes you in your night out outfit. He doesn’t notice a single other girl, talking to Oikawa or not, the whole night.

The next morning, you repeat it to him, curled up against his naked chest, eyes unclouded by drink but your words just as genuine.

It was the first time he’d ever thought of being fine as a good thing.

So when the tooth, his right front one, comes out, cracked by a hard high stick to the face, he almost doesn’t want to come home after the game. It probably doesn’t make sense to get it replaced completely—injuries like this are common in his line of work, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more trouble to keep replacing fakes. He opts for a partial denture, something he can take out during games, but the mold takes twenty-four hours to cure.

You attend as many of his games as you can, but he’d insisted that you head home on your own while the doctors checked him out. You’d ceded only on the condition that you’d have dinner waiting when he got back, something soft and good at room temperature so he wouldn’t aggravate the nerves.

He frowns when you see him, crossing the room and hovering your hands over his swollen cheeks and telling him how worried you’d been, how happy you are he’s okay.

“When’s it gonna be technically healed?” You ask, and his heart clenches.

“It’ll probably be sensitive for a few more days, but they’ll have a coverup ready by tomorrow,” he says. Before he can crack a joke like so you don’t have to look at this ugly mug too long, you’re looking at him with a contemplative expression, one he doesn’t know how to read.

“So… will it hurt if I kiss you?” You want to know. “I feel so bad, ‘cause it must have sucked, but you look so cute like this.”

His heart drops straight through the pit of his stomach in relief.

“Yeah, baby, it’ll be fine… Ow! Ow! Okay, little gentler.”

Still, he wears the flipper as often as he can once he gets it. He doesn’t like the way it looks, the gap, he reasons. Just because you say you do doesn’t mean he’s okay with showing up to functions looking even more like a scrub to your perfect ten. And yeah, he’d think you were beautiful with a paper sack over your head, but it’s just different.

He can hear you whispering before he even walks into the kitchen. You beam up at him, as beautiful as that night in the bar, and his face breaks out into a smile before he even registers it.

“Do you wanna…” you nudge your daughter, and she turns to him, smile just as bright as yours. His heart stops.

There’s a big gap in that smile, the right front tooth missing.

“Look, Daddy!” He catches her up in a big hug, hefting her up so he can inspect her face closely. “Now we match!”

It’s all crashing down on him. He’s bubbling up with it, the fizzy feeling you’d given him in the bar, the tears as he vowed until death do us part, the softness as he’d cradled her in his arms for the first time. You stand, leaning your head on his shoulder as your daughter tells him all about the loss of her first tooth, about the importance of being the first in her class to lose one.

“You’re so brave, kiddo.” He kisses her head. “Makes you even cuter. Want some yogurt?”

[humaling]

Two Victors, One Closet.

pairings: finnick odair x victor!reader

summary: you hid in a closet to escape from a fan—but what are the odds of ending up in the same closet with the capitol's darling?

warnings: none!

word count: 3k

author's note: my fav piece so far. i love forced proximity guys

You’d rather be anywhere but here—at another Capitol party, suffocating under the weight of excess and expectation. If your presence weren’t mandatory, if Snow weren’t holding a noose over your loved one’s neck, you’d be in bed, sleeping soundly—something you’ve only managed to do since winning your Games a few years ago.

This party is no different from the others you’ve endured. It’s loud, obnoxious, and mind-numbingly monotonous. People parade around in the most hideous outfits imaginable, calling it fashion simply because it defies normalcy. You can think of a few who would look far better in something simple, yet they insist on prancing around in walrus costumes or altering their features to resemble wild animals—an attempt at beauty that, in your humble opinion, makes them more unsettling than presentable.

If you earned a dollar for every person you’ve avoided tonight, you’d have at least a hundred—enough to buy yourself a decent meal at that small diner on the outskirts of the Capitol, where the people, at the very least, seem a bit more human than the ones inside this party.

You uncomfortably shift in your dress, flattening out the creases that start to form. The fabric, though luxurious, clings to you in a way that feels suffocating, a constant reminder of the expectations woven into every stitch. A pink cocktail sits in your hand, glittering under the dim glow of the chandelier, the ice clinking softly as you tighten your grip around the delicate stem. Your expression remains composed—sweet, practiced, effortless—as a Capitol couple manages to sneak up behind you, their voices dripping with familiarity as they greet you like an old friend.

“My! You would look so much better in my dress than the one you’re wearing,” one of them gushes, grasping your arm with manicured fingers. The scent of artificial roses wafts off her in waves, sickly sweet and overpowering.

You glance at her outfit, taking in the bold choice of material. Classic. A long cocktail dress, its bodice clinging to her frame, the skirt draping in soft, deliberate folds—made entirely of tiger fur, the stripes catching the light with a golden sheen. Authentic, of course. Anything less wouldn’t be worth parading.

“You flatter me,” you reply, forcing a light laugh, though your stomach twists at the thought of slipping into something like that.

“Oh, but I mean it! Just the other day, Vera Juno—you know her, don’t you? The one with the most divine peacock-feather corset—she was saying how dreadfully plain fur looks on me, but I told her, ‘Well, darling, it’s not the fur, it’s the person wearing it!’” She giggles, waving a hand as if dismissing the very idea that she could look anything less than stunning.

Her husband, draped in a garish emerald suit with diamond-studded cuffs, takes a long sip from his flute of champagne before sighing dramatically. “Speaking of Vera, did you hear? She’s on her third face this year. Third! I told her she had to slow down, but she’s obsessed. I mean, honestly, she’s starting to look like a bad painting.”

You hum in amusement, nodding along as if this is the most fascinating conversation you’ve ever been part of, when in reality, you feel like you’re suffocating. The weight of their words, their extravagance, their sheer detachment from anything real—it presses down on you like the bodice of your dress, too tight, too constricting.

“I simply must introduce you to my designer,” the woman continues, taking a sip from a martini glass filled with some unnaturally blue liquid. “She does custom work—one of a kind. None of that tacky, mass-produced nonsense. Oh! And she works with the rarest*materials. I swear, she had a real mockingjay feather last season, but she used it on some nobody—can you imagine?”

You force a gasp, widening your eyes just enough to appear engaged. “A real mockingjay feather? That’s practically a historic artifact.”

The husband scoffs. “And wasted on a girl who doesn’t even appreciate fashion.”

You smile, tilting your head in interest, all while subtly scanning the room. You need an escape. The dance floor? No, too crowded. The bar? No, you’d risk them following you for another round of terribly important Capitol gossip. Your fingers tighten around your glass as you spot an avox disappearing to an empty hallway. Perfect.

“Oh! Is that—excuse me, just one moment,” you say, flashing them an apologetic smile before slipping away, weaving through the sea of elaborately dressed socialites. You exhale softly, relief washing over you as their voices fade into the background.

As you step into the hallway, a voice calls out your name. Your breath catches, and you pick up the pace, scanning your surroundings. Hide. That’s the only thought in your head. You can’t handle another meaningless conversation with another obnoxious Capitolian. You’d rather lock yourself in a dark, windowless room than entertain their exhausting chatter.

Your eyes dart around until they land on a cabinet door, slightly ajar. There’s no time to hesitate. You slip inside, pulling the door shut behind you, swallowing yourself in darkness.

Pressing your ear against the wooden surface, you listen. Muffled footsteps. The sound of your name again. You recognize the voice instantly, and dread coils in your stomach. Him. The man who runs that ridiculous website about you, documenting every move you make as if you’re a spectacle rather than a person. He’s practically built an archive of your life, shoving every scrap of information he can find onto the internet for Capitol citizens to obsess over.

You hold your breath, remaining perfectly still, listening as his footsteps shuffle past. He calls your name once more before, finally, mercifully, they start to fade. You wait a few beats, making sure he’s really gone before exhaling a slow, relieved sigh. Your forehead rests against the wooden door as your grip on the handle loosens.

But the moment of peace is short-lived.

A voice murmurs behind you, low and bemused.

“Uh, sweetheart?”

A yelp escapes your throat as you whirl around, arm swinging wildly to hit whoever’s behind you. But your hand meets nothing but air before it smacks into the wooden wall with a sharp thud.

A soft cry leaves your lips, pain stinging through your knuckles. Before you can recover, there’s a faint click beside you. A dim light flickers on above, casting a warm glow over the cramped space. You squint, your eyes adjusting, and then they land on the bronze-haired man standing at your side, sea-green eyes blown wide in surprise.

You freeze, recognition settling in.

“Finnick?”

His lips twitch before stretching into a slow, easy grin, flashing those infuriatingly perfect teeth. He leans against the wall, one hand still resting on the light switch, head tilting slightly as he peers down at you.

“Fancy meeting you here, sweetheart.” His voice is laced with amusement, a smirk playing on his lips as he extends his free hand toward you in mock politeness.

You glance at it, scoff, and cross your arms instead. “What are you doing here?”

Finnick sighs, slipping his hand back into the pocket of his dress pants. “Hiding. Obviously.” His tone is dry, like the answer should be obvious.

You exhale sharply, pressing your back against the door as you try to compose yourself. Of course, he’s hiding. He’s probably avoiding some desperate Capitol sponsor or an overzealous admirer. People cling to Finnick Odair like moths to a flame, and he plays his role so well.

“Well,” you mutter, shifting slightly, “I was here first.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “So territorial. What, do you want me to step out and expose both of us?”

You narrow your eyes. He has a point. If either of you leaves now, you’ll draw attention, and the last thing you need is to be caught crammed into a cabinet with Finnick Odair. That would be another scandal for the Capitol to sink its teeth into.

You sigh, rubbing your temple before glancing up at him. “Fine. Just—don’t talk.”

Finnick hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure? I think we could have a very productive conversation in here.”

“Finnick.”

“Alright, alright.” He grins, leaning back against the shelves. “Silent as a clam.”

You roll your eyes and shift in place, trying to find a comfortable spot without knocking anything over. The cabinet wasn’t made for two people. Your arm brushes against his chest, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath ghosting against your hair.

“Will you move?” you hiss, trying not to bump into the precariously stacked cans of paint, cleaning supplies, and tools surrounding you.

Finnick lifts a hand in mock innocence. “Well, honey, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s pretty cramped in here with all this stuff.” He gestures lazily to the shelves around you.

You glare at him. “You clearly still have space behind you.” You poke a firm finger against his chest. “Move.”

Finnick glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with an exaggerated frown. “There’s a vacuum.”

You stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“It’s taking up, like, all my space.”

A slow, frustrated breath pushes through your nose as you shift your weight. It’s hot, cramped, and you’re stuck here with Finnick Odair.

He watches your struggle with barely concealed amusement before offering, “Well, I could just step out and—”

“Don’t you dare even think about it!” you whisper-yell, eyes sharp as daggers.

His smirk widens. Infuriating.

Finnick’s smirk deepens, his sea-green eyes glinting in the dim light. “Oh, honey, you wound me,” he drawls, placing a hand over his chest like you’ve personally offended him. “You think I’d sell you out just to stretch my legs?”

You scoff, crossing your arms despite the cramped space. “Yes.”

His lips twitch. “Fair enough.”

You huff, shifting against the wooden door, trying to create some semblance of distance between you and Finnick, but it’s impossible. The small storage cabinet wasn’t designed to hold two people, let alone a six-foot-tall Victor with broad shoulders who takes up way too much space. His arm brushes against yours, and you feel the warmth radiating off him—annoyingly distracting.

Finnick exhales dramatically. “You know, if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked.”

You whip your head up, glaring. “I will knock you out, Odair.”

He grins. “With what? Your tiny fists? Oh, sweetheart, you’re adorable.”

Your nostrils flare. Infuriating. Absolutely insufferable. You have half a mind to elbow him in the ribs, but knowing Finnick, he’d probably enjoy that too. Instead, you sigh sharply, tilting your head back against the door.

Silence settles between you, save for the muffled sounds of the party outside—the distant laughter, the clinking of glasses, the upbeat music that feels worlds away from the stifling little closet.

Then Finnick speaks again, voice quieter this time. “So, who are you hiding from?”

You hesitate. You don’t owe him an answer. But there’s something disarming about Finnick, something that makes people spill their secrets before they even realize they’ve opened their mouths.

Still, you settle for a vague response. “Someone annoying.”

He hums. “So, not me?”

You shoot him a look, and he chuckles, clearly entertained.

“Let me guess.” He taps his chin, pretending to think. “Overzealous sponsor? Jealous socialite? Deranged fan?”

You shift uncomfortably. Close enough.

Finnick notices. His smirk softens into something less performative, more genuine. “C’mon,” he coaxes, tilting his head. “Who was it?”

You exhale through your nose, deciding to humor him. “That guy who runs the website about me.”

Finnick’s brows raise, then his face twists in sympathy. “Oh, him? Yeah, I’ve got one of those too. Talks about me like we braid each other’s hair at sleepovers.”

Despite yourself, a snort escapes your lips. “Right? He acts like he knows everything about me. It’s creepy.”

Finnick grins. “Well, at least you haven’t been shipped with half of Panem. I swear, if I had a coin for every time someone claimed I was secretly in love with some random socialite…” He shakes his head, mock exasperation in his voice.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And who are you secretly in love with, Finnick?”

His smirk falters for half a second—so quick you almost miss it. But then it’s back, all charm and mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetheart?”

Your lips press together, and before you can stop yourself, you mutter, “Not really.”

Finnick places a hand over his heart again, gasping. “You wound me twice in one night? Unbelievable.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. The frustration you felt earlier has dulled into something else. Something lighter.

Still, you don’t let your guard down. “Just don’t get too comfortable,” you warn. “The second I think it’s safe, I’m out of here.”

Finnick smirks, leaning back against the shelves. “And leave me all alone? In this cold, dark closet?” He sighs dramatically. “How cruel.”

“Ugh, shut up.” You groan, lifting a hand to shove Finnick back.

It happens too fast.

You push him a little harder than intended. His legs catch on the vacuum behind him, throwing him off balance. His arms flail as he tries to grab onto something—unfortunately, that something is you.

You barely have time to react before gravity does its job.

A loud thud echoes through the tiny storage room as you crash into Finnick. Your foreheads smack together, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your skull. Finnick, caught in the most ridiculous position imaginable, hangs awkwardly midair—his back pressed against the wall, legs still half-propped on the vacuum. His arms instinctively wrap around your waist, holding you in place.

You wince, lifting your head slightly, your free hand pressing against your now-throbbing forehead. “Ow,” you mumble. His skull might as well be made of steel.

Finnick lets out a breathy chuckle beneath you, though it’s slightly strained. “Y’know, sweetheart, if you wanted to be on top, you could’ve just asked.”

Your hand immediately smacks his shoulder.

Before he can get another word out, the door creaks open.

“Is there someone in h—oh…”

Finnick’s head snaps up—only for your forehead to slam into Finnick’s again.

“Ow!” you both groan in unison.

You don’t even hesitate before slapping his arm again. He muffles a grunt.

Meanwhile, the woman standing in the doorway is frozen, gloved hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with realization. “Oh my! ” she gasps, face flushing. “Are you two all right?”

Her words barely register as you rub your forehead, still disoriented. A gloved hand touches your shoulder, and you glance up to see her looking between you and Finnick, brows raised.

“Yes, we’re fine,” you mutter automatically, nodding mindlessly.

That’s when you see it—the look on her face. The way her eyes flick between you and Finnick, her lips slightly parted as if processing something. Then it clicks.

Oh. Oh no.

Finnick, still beneath you, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking to the side. His tongue pokes at his cheek, barely suppressing a smirk.

The woman’s face shifts from surprise to intrigue.

“Oh,” she says again, but this time, there’s understanding in her tone. As if she knows exactly what she just walked in on.

Your stomach drops as you realize exactly what she is thinking. She doesn’t just assume she walked in on something—she is convinced of it. And worse, she looks absolutely thrilled.

“Oh,” she says again, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “Oh my.”

You scramble to push yourself off Finnick, but in your flustered state, you end up pressing your weight further onto him instead. His breath catches for just a second before he exhales a soft chuckle.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Didn’t know you were so eager.”

You smack his shoulder, but it only makes him grin wider. “Will you shut up and help me?” you whisper harshly, still trying to push yourself up without making the situation worse.

Finnick sighs dramatically, as if this is somehow an inconvenience for him, before placing his hands on your waist and lifting you off with frustrating ease. Once you’re on your feet, you try to brush yourself off and compose yourself, but before you can say anything, the woman gasps and claps her hands together.

“This is so lovely,” she gushes. “And here I thought the rumors were just speculation! But to think I’d witness it firsthand—oh, this is wonderful.”

You frown, not entirely sure you want to know what she’s talking about. “What?”

She gestures between you and Finnick with an almost conspiratorial expression. “Your little secret romance, dear. You don’t have to pretend with me. I won’t tell a soul.”

You open your mouth, then close it again, completely at a loss for words. Meanwhile, Finnick leans casually against the shelf, watching with clear amusement.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says smoothly, flashing his most charming smile. “We’d hate for anyone to get the wrong idea.”

You whip your head toward him, glaring daggers. Do not encourage this.

The woman giggles, as if she is witnessing something out of a Capitol drama. “Oh, don’t worry. I understand. A little forbidden rendezvous? How thrilling!”

You let out a strangled sound of frustration. “It’s not—we’re not—”

She raises a hand, silencing you with a knowing smile. “Say no more, dear. You have my discretion.”

Finnick hums approvingly. “Much appreciated.”

You feel your blood pressure rise. He is enjoying this far too much, and it’s obvious by the way his lips twitch as he glances at you. The woman sighs wistfully as if she is witnessing the most romantic scandal in all of Panem.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, winking before disappearing down the hallway.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty doorway as your brain struggles to catch up. The silence is thick, filled only by the distant hum of the party outside.

Then, slowly, you turn to Finnick.

He is smirking, arms crossed over his chest. “Well,” he drawls, amusement thick in his voice. “That went well.”

You inhale deeply through your nose, trying to rein in the urge to strangle him. “You absolute—”

Finnick chuckles and tilts his head slightly. “Careful, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want people to think our lover’s quarrel is anything serious.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. You can already hear the whispers spreading through the Capitol. By tomorrow morning, there will be headlines, theories, and most likely an entire fan club dedicated to the two of you.

And Finnick Odair, the bane of your existence, is going to love every second of it.

part two

[evamame]

postpartum depression / kuroo testurou

postpartum depression has hit you hard. and it doesn’t take much for kuroo to notice. it’s obvious in the way you tiredly rub your temples when your baby girl starts wailing at the top of her lungs for the third time in one hour, or in the way you sometimes look so exhausted kuroo thinks you might actually cry. he feels so helpless it hurts. he can’t stop her from crying. it’s just how newborn babies are. and he can’t take away your motherly duties either. he would if he could, but it’s too bad he’s not able to make his own milk for your baby. he can try to help you in other ways, though.

you’ve finally gotten your daughter to fall fast asleep in her crib, so you begin to drag your feet out from the bedroom and to the kitchen for a glass of water to cool yourself down. the sight laid before your eyes stops you in your tracks. kuroo is in front of the stove, and you can tell he’s grilling some type of meat on the pan from the soft sizzle. a fresh bouquet replaces the one that was left in the vase dying since you were too busy to bother buying a new one. small candles are lit and scattered across the kitchen island, creating a warm glow that lights up the dimly lit room. flower petals tossed around and oh you might just break down into tears right now.

you must have made a sound because kuroo turns around, a soft and understanding smile appearing on his face when he sees your expression. “i wanted to finally do something for you. i know we can’t go on a date somewhere fancy because of the baby, so i did the best i could,” he explains.

you shake your head. “kuroo. . . this is more than perfect,” you say, hands covering your mouth in awe.

his smile widens and he gives you a small nod before turning back to the meat grilling on the pan, flipping it over using the tongs in his hand with practiced ease. once he’s done he turns off the heat and places the grilled meat onto a plate. that’s when you pay attention to all of the other dishes scattered across the counter. every one of your favorite side dishes fill around a dozen plates to the brim. you breathe in the scent of simmered vegetables and fried croquettes as they hit your nose.

“you finally got our little princess to sleep?” he asks, opening the cabinet where you two keep that one fancy bottle of wine.

“yeah. took me a while, as always.”

he hums in response as he takes the bottle out and finds space to place it on the overflowing countertop. “i know. gave me some more time to get this ready, though.”

“when did you buy these flowers?” you ask, inspecting the beautiful arrangement of colors.

he smiles. “i got them on my way home from work. i saw them and thought of you, since i know they’re your favorite. and then i thought about this idea,” he gestures to the array of dishes as he speaks.

you raise a brow, “i didn’t see you with them when you got home.”

he starts carrying plates to the table, “i hid them behind the shoe rack. you’re not very observant when you’re tired, apparently.”

you let out an airy laugh at that and begin following his movements, grabbing plates to carry. he hears a plate clatter against the countertop as you pick it up and looks over his shoulder. “stop, stop. you’re not supposed to do anything. relax, i’ll handle it.”

you hesitate, and he’s quick to reassure you. “if you’re strong enough to handle our daughter day in and day out, i’m sure i can carry a few plates.”

you sigh, placing the dishes back onto the cold countertop surface. he’s right, as always. and you let him take care of you since there’s no reason for you to not. you take a seat at the table, watching as he makes rounds back and forth from the kitchen to you. he finally returns with just the wine bottle and two wine glasses in hand, placing them down on the table with a soft clink. then he sits in the seat right next to yours, not across, because kuroo is the type of man that absolutely despises it and claims it’s “too far.”

he pops open the cork and pours you two a glass, clinking his rim together with yours when you hold your glass out to him. you two eat, making small talk about how his long day at work was, about your baby girl, and everything in between. you eat slowly, savoring the taste of the food he went out of the way to make. and it tastes so good. nothing about your quick five minute sandwiches and microwave meals could even come close to the tender meat and flavorful sides. it’s been too long since you’ve sat down and had a meal that wasn’t rushed or interrupted by a crying baby. and a meal that was made with love. so, so much love.

“is it good?” kuroo asks in between bites, stabbing his fork into a vegetable.

“you don’t even know. i feel like im gonna cry,” you respond, words muffled from your mouth still stuffed with food. you stare at the small bit of remaining food on your plate, holding back tears.

he smiles softly, albeit a bit sadly, at your watery eyes and contorting features. “sorry i’m always at work. i know how tired you are.”

“it’s okay,” you say, shaking your head. you lean back in your chair, hands on your stomach, a tired but content sigh leaving your lips.

“full?” he asks.

you nod, and he stands up to take away the empty dishes. he returns and takes your hand, pulling you out of your seat. “come. i’ve got another surprise.”

he leads you towards the bathroom hand in hand, excitedly flicking on the lights to reveal the most romantic view you’ve ever seen. a similar sight is bestowed upon you as the one in the kitchen, with candles floating in the water accompanied by rose petals and a pink fizzy bath bomb with a subtle floral smell.

he places his hands on your shoulders from behind, leaning forward and tilting his head to look at your reaction in the dim lighting with an expectant grin. his voice is soft and warm, smoother than velvet. you feel his breath tickle your ear as he speaks, “i thought you might want to retire for the night with me. what do you say?” it’s phrased like a question, but he’s already gently and ever so slowly pulling down the straps of your top. you never would have said no anyways. not even in a million years.

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765

a/n: i keep up loading baby stuff, ig this baby fever is becoming a phase.

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