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hhaechansmoless · 2 days ago

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as the world caves in

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

genre: apocalypse au, angst, happy ending

description: we creep up on extinction, i pull your arms right in

warnings: mentions of injuries, zombies (written as the dead)

w/c: 4k

a/n: i once promised tiya @gyubakeries that the first mingyu fic I write would be for her.(also promised to make sure it would be heartbreaking but today is her birthday and I'd rather not do that so) happy happy birthday tiya!!! I love you very much thank you for listening to me yap abt anything and everything and I hope you have an awesome day and year ahead 💙💙💙 and ofc happy 10th anniversary to svt 🤧🥹!!!!

DAY 256, 20:03 PM

“Hey. It’s just me, checking in. Hope everything is still okay on your end.”

“I’m making stew again tonight. Seokmin and I went out to town to see if there were any stores that had stocked stuff still. Found a heap of heatable food which was surprising, but we’re good for the next week or so… I think. Unless the expiry dates are sooner.”

You hear him shuffle around, hear the rustling of plastic and the distant murmur of the friend he’s made. You can almost see Mingyu, his broad shoulders hunched over the packet, lips pursed in concentration as he figures out what more to do with it.

“There’s not much to report today actually. Our new camp is fairly away from the dead yonder, so please don’t worry. There are nice people here… They were really welcoming—after the first few checks obviously—and are trying to convince us to stay. “

His voice is muffled by the static on the radio for a few seconds.

“—but we’ve told them that we’re both on the way to somewhere else. Seokmin says he has a brother waiting for him near Lindera, and well, I have you.”

“How are things at Fort Worden? Isn’t it getting warmer there? Be careful. They flock to warm places. I heard a message on the radio today—from the camp in Lindera. Seokmin says that Worden is close too. So we leave tomorrow morning.”

You don’t know if he pauses, or if what he says next is swallowed by the satellites and the nature of his worn out HT ham radio that you two have been using.

“Anyway, just wanted to let you know. Please send a message as soon as you can. I love you, I’ll be there soon.”

You sigh quietly before flipping your recording switch on.

DAY 256, 22:47 PM

“Hey Gyu. I’m glad you guys found some food. And people. It’s safer that way.”

You’re a bit surprised at how your voice sounds unused, rough and cracking at the edges.

“I fixed the fence with Vernon today—or well, tried to. One of the posts snapped clean through and I don’t think there’s enough planks left to patch it properly. But it's okay. There are more people on guard duty tonight. We’ll figure something out tomorrow.”

“We had three people join us today. All three came separately, which was funny because we’ve never had so many people who aren’t together. One of them is so young, Mingyu…” You trail off, eyes flitting to your door. “She’s fourteen. Her parents turned yesterday, I think. She’s really on edge and afraid, so I think she’ll be sleeping in my room tonight.”

You grunt softly as you get up to open a window. The air outside isn't as refreshing as you'd want it to be, but it's a relief from the humidity and stickiness that has been hanging over the city recently.

“And you're right—it is getting warmer here. Unbearably, almost. We’ve had more strays from the dead yonder than ever, but thankfully we're all stocked up on ammunition and other equipment. It's nice to be around so many people, Gyu. You'd love it.”

You can't help the guilt that slips into your voice, cutting cleanly into your skin like a sharp, smooth knife.

“Please come back soon, Gyu. Stay safe. I'm sorry, and I love you too.”

You flip the recording switch off, throwing the radio one last glance before you leave your room. Outside, the corridors are bathed in dim orange lights that do nothing to make this place feel like home. Home is not a word you can recognize until Mingyu comes back.

Jeonghan stands outside your door, waiting respectfully with the camp's logbook in hand. He might have heard you, but you've come to realize that no one cares and that everyone understands.

“I've logged in today's activities around the Fort and the newcomers but Soonyoung’s pissed Seungcheol off and I do not want to go to his room to keep this.” He thrusts the hardcover, leather-bound book into your hands. “So you keep it with yourself and I'll take it tomorrow morning and slip it onto his desk. Or you can do it yourself, if you'd like.”

You nod once. “I'll keep it. Aren't you going down for dinner?”

“God, no. I may be hungry, but there's a stack of twinkies on the table and if I see one more, I'm going to throw up. Are you?”

Shaking your head, your mutter, “Nah. Not feeling it.”

Jeonghan hums, eyeing you. “I think your boyfriend wouldn't like that.”

“My boyfriend won't know, because I won't tell him and neither will you.” You scoff, pushing Jeonghan away. He sees the small, upward curve of your lips and backs off as you shut your room door on his face.

You remember to yell out. only when you hear his footsteps disappearing down the corridor. “Send the girl up to my room when she's done eating!”

If he hears you, he doesn't respond.

There's not much to think about, or maybe there's too many things to think about. Either way, you ignore it and plop down onto your bed. It creaks—a familiar sound that still makes you cringe every time you hear it. The thin mattress does nothing to muffle the sound. You flip the book open, turning to the page with the bookmark in it.

FORT WORDEN LOGBOOK

July 7th, 2028.

3 Survivors found. Minor injuries sustained. No infection

Newcomer Info:

Man in 30s, had two guns on him. Woman in her 20s, says she's a medic. 14 y/o girl.

Attacks on camp:

Around 5-6 from the Dead Yonder, near the western gates.

You remember the day you came to Fort Worden all too well. Your log page probably looked like this: Woman in her 20s, cries once every hour, clutches her HT and necklace like someone’s going to snatch it away.

You doubt you can ever forget the day Mingyu left you here, begging you to get out of the car and towards safety. You can feel the ghost of the seat belt cutting into your palms as you hold on tight, trying to convince Mingyu to take you along with him. But Mingyu had always been better than you, better than anyone you know—too good not to do the right thing even when it cost him. He had people waiting for him somewhere out there, promises he couldn’t turn his back on. In retrospect, you’re sure he regrets it too—especially when there was no one to save when he finally got there.

You close the book with a soft thud and set it on the nightstand, letting your head tip back against the wall. It’s still too hot. Sweat clings to the inside of your shirt and you rub a palm over your face, feeling the salty, stickiness that hangs over this place. You should shower, and then sleep. You have to sleep. Morning comes faster than it should around here.

You hear a timid knock on the door.

You’re up before you realize it, dragging the handle open.

The girl stands there, shoulders bunched like she’s trying to disappear inside herself. She’s tiny in a way that makes your heart hurt, all sharp knees and elbows and a second-hand hoodie drowning her. Her fingers fidget with the hem of it, tugging, twisting. She looks like she might bolt if you so much as breathe wrong.

You step aside, keeping your hands loose and visible. “C’mon in,” you say, voice gentler than it was before. You wish it could sound stronger.

She hesitates, then creeps in, hovering awkwardly just inside the door. You shut it behind her, locking it out of habit.

��You can have the bed,” you tell her, nodding toward it. “I’ll take the chair.”

The girl blinks at you. “Thank you.”

You find a blanket in the closet—thin, but clean enough—and toss it over the chair before sinking into it. The springs squeal again and you grimace, curling your legs up, watching her settle onto the edge of the mattress like she’s expecting it to vanish beneath her.

You watch the window instead of her after that. The moon is high, the sky cloudless and uncaring. Somewhere out past the gates, you know the dead are wandering, always moving, always searching.

You let your eyes fall shut, but you don’t let yourself drift until the girl’s breathing evens out. Until the world feels like it’s not caving in for a few more minutes.You’ll send a message to Mingyu again tomorrow.

Maybe he’ll be closer by then.

DAY 262, 11:30 AM

“Baby, I think I told you that I lost the map I had, right? Good news. Seokmin and I found a car with the keys still in it and a state routes map in the glovebox. It’s a real mess, but hey, we’ve got a ride again, and that’s better than what we had yesterday. The engine’s a little rough and the fuel’s kinda low, but it’ll get us where we need to go for now. Guess the next task is to find a fuel station.

We were talking about when this whole thing is over. Seokmin says I should make a list of things

I want to do when we’re back to something close to normal. It sounds impossible, but I’ll play along. I’ve got a few things in mind already. First on the list: take you out for a meal. No canned stuff, no heat-and-serve, just something real. Something we used to do. I miss that.

Anyway, I know it’s not much to go on, but I wanted you to hear from me. Keep yourself safe. I’ll be there before you know it.”

You picture him grinning when he says it — the kind of grin he used to give you across diner tables, late at night after long shifts, the two of you splitting a plate of greasy fries. You picture him teasing you about picking the restaurant, saying he didn’t care as long as you were there.

You picture a hundred small memories that feel more like dreams now — his arm slung around your shoulder in a crowded movie theater, his hand finding yours automatically in the dark.

And then the static swallows him up again.

The camp around you hums with the low noise of survival. Somewhere behind you, Chan is arguing good-naturedly with Jihoon about ration counts. He’s been trying to grow plants in a small patch that he keeps building around. Lee Chan, you’ve found out, was a soil science or agronomy—you don’t remember the details—major before the infection hit.

The days have stretched on in the same pattern of routine: checking the perimeter, organizing supplies, scanning the horizon, and checking in on everyone.

Each morning, you check the radio. Each night, you wonder if this will be the last day you hear him.

You tuck the memory of his voice close to your chest and tell yourself you'll save a seat across from you at whatever restaurant you can find, someday. You tell yourself he’ll make it back to you.

At night, you go to sleep with prayers hoping that he is closer.

DAY 265, 17:45 PM

Word travels fast in situations like this.

Someone caught a signal today. A voice on a different channel, not one of your usual checkpoints. They say they’re from a camp in Leavenworth and give a warning. The camp in Lindera got overrun. No survivors confirmed. The dead move faster in the heat, they say, desperate and decaying faster too.

You’re in the storage room, sorting through ration packs when Jeonghan finds you. His face is grave. His fingers tap the frame of the door, once, twice.

“You heard?” he asks.

You nod without looking at him. Your hands are steady as you snap a box shut, but inside, something is shivering loose. You wonder, absently, if Mingyu was close enough to hear about it too. You wonder if he’s already running again. You haven’t had a message in three days.

Jeonghan steps in closer. “You should rest tonight,” he says. “We’ll take your shift.”

DAY 266, 02:11 AM

You can't sleep. You crack the window open, just enough to let the night air in. It’s sticky, thick, and sour with the scent of bodies and earth.

You turn the radio on, tuning into Mingyu’s frequency. Static crackles, long and sharp. No voice. No message. You press your forehead against the cold metal frame.

You imagine him somewhere out there—driving down broken highways, headlights flickering, Seokmin in the passenger seat clutching another wrinkled map.

You imagine him listening too, waiting for your voice to break through the noise.

So you speak into the radio. You tell him about the small, temperature controlled patch in the garden that Chan has made. You’ve seen the first sprouts of maize today. The entire camp had rejoiced. You tell him about the girl—Suki, about how she smiled today for the first time when Soonyoung made a stupid joke about his ex.

You tell him you miss him, but not that the space he left behind feels like it’s getting bigger every day.

You tell him you’re scared, but not that it’s because you fear he won’t come back.

You tell him you love him, but not that it’s because every time feels like the last.

DAY 267, 6:37 AM

The air feels different today, thicker somehow. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but you can already feel the weight of the day pressing down on you. You lie awake for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, listening to the soft shuffle of feet outside your door and the distant hum of camp activity.

There’s a thud against the wall from next door—Jeonghan, probably already awake, too. You can almost hear the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards, his quiet way of moving, like he’s trying not to disturb anyone.

You reach for the radio, the familiar crackle of static filling the room as you twist the dial, the tension in your chest mounting with every click.

The silence on the other end feels like it’s going to swallow you up, like the seconds drag on forever, unrelenting. Your fingers twitch as you grip the radio, waiting for something—anything.

It takes a few minutes of pure radio static for you to even hear the semblance of a message. You shoot up from your bed, holding the radio closer to your ear.

“...hearing... this... back soon.”

“Mingyu?” you speak into it, your voice groggy and rough. “Mingyu, is that you?”

The static grows louder, a sharp hiss that cuts through the air like a warning. You grip the radio harder, pressing it closer, straining to hear over the noise.

Then, the radio clicks, a low hum filling the void. It’s gone again.

DAY 268, 15:14 PM

Suki approaches you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something off in the way she looks at you. It’s subtle, but you catch it.

“There are new people at the gates,” she says, voice low. “They’re in bad shape. Looks like they’ve been through hell.”

You shrug, not overly concerned. It’s not the first time you’ve seen beaten-up strangers. “I’ll check it out. Are they safe?”

“One of them just says he’s looking for someone who’s here. They haven’t checked for bites yet, I think.”

“I’ll go see what’s going on.” It’s routine, really.

You walk toward the gates, hands loosely at your sides. Your mind drifts, not expecting anything unusual. That is, until the HT radio clipped to your belt suddenly crackles to life.

“Hey… baby, are you there?” Mingyu’s voice, low but urgent, cuts through the quiet.

You stop mid-step, your heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice.

“Mingyu?” you whisper under your breath, barely daring to believe it.

There’s a long pause, just enough to make you second-guess what you heard, before his voice returns, more frantic this time. “It’s me. I’m outside, but they won’t let us in.”

Your stomach lurches. You’re still a few paces from the gates, but the realization hits like a thunderclap.

It is Mingyu.

He’s here.

You barely have a moment to process the relief that floods through you before moving faster, jogging towards the gates.

“I don’t care what’s going on. Open the gate,” you demand as you approach, already pushing through the guards with authority you didn’t even know you had.

The gates groan open slower than they should.

You barely notice the hands that move to stop you, the murmurs of protocol, of safety checks and bite inspections. Someone says something about waiting. Someone else mentions Jeonghan’s name like he might talk some sense into you.

None of it matters.

Because there he is.

Mingyu.

He's thinner than you remember. His clothes hang off him, streaked with dirt and blood and the kind of exhaustion you can’t wash off. There’s a small gash on his forehead, a ripped sleeve, a small limp in his step—but he’s upright. He’s breathing. He’s real.

Seokmin’s beside him, leaning against the wall There are dark shadows under his eyes. He nods at you once, slow and grateful, like he’s holding a breath he's been carrying for days.

But all you can see is Mingyu.

He sees you too.

For a second, neither of you moves. The world slows down to the beat of your heart, beating painfully inside your ribs. And then you’re moving. Not running, exactly—but walking faster than your legs can carry, your chest splitting open with something that doesn’t know if it’s joy or agony. Maybe both.

He meets you halfway.

The collision is silent. No words, no dramatic gasps. Just arms around each other, too tight to be careful. His hands find the back of your neck, your shoulder blades, like he’s checking you’re still real. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard.

Mingyu smells like sweat and gasoline and the end of the world. But under all of that, he smells like home.

“You made it,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat.

His voice is wrecked when he answers. “I told you I would.”

You don't cry. The tears stay lodged somewhere behind your eyes, hot and heavy, waiting for a quieter moment.

Someone clears their throat nearby. You don’t look. Let them wait. Let the whole camp wait.

—

It’s late when he comes back into your room.

You’re already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. You haven’t changed, haven’t moved much since the sun dipped below the horizon. The camp feels different now—buzzing in a new way, like everyone else can feel it too. That something has shifted. That someone made it back.

Mingyu steps in, clean now. Or cleaner than before. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s traded his torn shirt for one of the spares from storage—plain and soft-looking, a little too tight at the shoulders, but he wears it like it fits. You pat the spot next to you and lift the first-aid kit onto your lap.

“You found the clean clothes stash,” you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you expected.

He smiles, tired and crooked. “Seokmin said I smelled like the dead. Figured I should do something about that.”

It’s quiet again after that.

He crosses the room slowly. When he’s close enough, he kneels in front of you, hands resting on his thighs like he’s waiting to be granted something. You look at him—really look—and it guts you. The bags under his eyes. The fading bruise on his jaw, the gash that has been stitched but not bandaged. The way he keeps blinking like he still doesn’t trust what he’s seeing.

“I missed you,” he says, and there’s something cracked open in his voice. “Every day, I thought about turning back. But I kept thinking—if I could just make it a little further, maybe I’d hear you again. Maybe I’d make it back to you.”

You reach out, fingers brushing the side of his face. He leans into it instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut like the warmth of your hand is the first real thing he’s felt in weeks.

“You did,” you whisper. “You made it.”

He closes his eyes, nodding once like the words land somewhere deep. You slide off the bed, kneeling in front of him now. You’re both on the floor, eye to eye, tired bones and pained hearts.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, and this time, your voice cracks.

That’s what finally undoes him.

Mingyu leans in slowly, like he’s asking, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, like a breath caught between two mouths that don’t quite know how to be completely gentle anymore. His hand finds your jaw, tentative and warm.

He kisses you like he’s remembering it as he goes—like the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, was something he’s carried with him in pieces. Your hands find his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer with a desperation that doesn’t need words. Mingyu’s lips taste like soap, like he’s brushed his entire body hard enough to get rid of the past few months. To go back to what it was like with you.

When he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, palm slipping down to intertwine your fingers, you sigh.

Mingyu breaks the silence a few moments later. “Someone named Jeonghan threatened to throw me out if I snore.”

You huff out a laugh, nose brushing his. “He’s next door. He can hear everything.”

“He also told me that you left yesterday’s dishes beside the sink without wetting it.”

Groaning, you let your head fall onto Mingyu’s shoulder. You almost tear up at the way it feels so familiar.

“I panicked! Jihoon was yelling at someone and I just wanted to get out of there.”

You can hear the grin in Mingyu’s voice. “I always told you to soak it.”

“And I always ignored you.”

“True,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Some things never change.”

You sit like that for a bit, your legs going numb, his palm sweeping slow arcs over your back. Outside, someone walks by, humming off-key. Somewhere down the hall, Jeonghan shouts something muffled and vaguely threatening.

But here, it’s still.

“Can you get up so that I can bandage you up and then we can go to sleep?” You mumble, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

He pushes himself up with a grunt, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the stitches along his side. You sit up too, rubbing your face with the heel of your hand before reaching for the first aid kit on your bed.

You didn’t think he’d hurt himself there too, but when he lifts his shirt up, you tend to it wordlessly. You can talk about it later.

When you’re done, you drop the trash into the little bin by the bed, click the kit closed, and set it aside. Then you sit back, legs crossed, watching him pull his shirt down over the fresh bandage.

He climbs in without another word, immediately claiming his old side like it was never up for negotiation. You slide in beside him, and he reaches for you the moment you're under the blanket, his arm winding easily around your waist, his nose nudging the back of your neck.

“I forgot to mention,” You start. “Suki sleeps in my room. She probably won’t come in tonight, but we need to figure something out.”

You turn your head slightly, enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “She was scared. She needed somewhere to feel safe.”

His face softens immediately. “Of course.”

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. She’s been warming up to Jeonghan anyway. Maybe she’ll take the bunk across from him.”

After a few moments, he mumbles, “I’ll sleep wherever you want me to. Just not near Jeonghan.”

“Deal.”

#mingyu x reader #kim mingyu x reader #svthub #kfilms #kflixnet #kstrucknet #mingyu oneshot #mingyu angst #svt x reader #svt angst #mingyu svt #mingyu apocalypse au #apocalypse au #kim mingyu #tracks by calli 💿#.feat tiya

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izzyizumi · 1 year ago

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Digimon Adventure 02 ~ {United States of America Chosen} ~ {Personal} Favorite Supporting Character{s} Steve & Frigimon {+Bonus New York Chosen Children Group} + Daisuke Motomiya + Mimi Tachikawa (+Satoe & Keisuke Tachikawa) & Michael (also technically a U.S. Chosen) "We couldn't have done it without you {Daisuke}." - Steve

Image usage rules + original commentary under the ‘read more’! {Along with another, not Steve specific, but maybe significant "Kizuna spoiler"}

"...That was on December 25th at 3 A.M., local time." (Narrator)

Notes: In the books released post-series production and 02's conclusion, Steve was revealed to be the very first confirmed Jewish American Chosen Child, a significant step forward for the Digimon franchise, as it acknowledged the Jewish community living in real-world America.

Because Steve is Jewish, Steve would have been personally celebrating Hanukkah that year, not Christmas (hence I left out the last subtitle referencing Christmas to prevent confusion).

Chanukah in 2002, when 02 officially takes place, however, was November 29th ~ December 7th, and these scenes took place closer to Dec. 25th (early 3 A.M.). But that doesn't mean Steve, as a Jewish American, wouldn’t have noted Hanukkah (or Chanukah) at all earlier that year, and it’s good to note that when we're discussing potentials of 02′s “real-world based” “timeline”!

(Basically, what Steve is doing here is joining in on, via being invited by being a Chosen Child who is able and willing to help, an Interfaith gathering of individuals that was originally meant to simply send corrupted by virus Digimon back into the Digital World, and was not actually a "holiday" focused gathering initially!) :) {If Steve joins them after the fact is unknown, but either way, Steve would have to be invited and it would have to be acknowledged that Steve as an individual does not celebrate Christmas religiously.}

In the scenes above, Steve is one of only two U.S. Chosen that are also given spoken lines to personally thank and acknowledge Daisuke Motomiya's help (along with the rest, but also specifying Daisuke). {Michael aside, as even Michael doesn't get to comment verbally.}

Gifs by @izzyizumi, {Do Not Repost or Reproduce without my Permission} {Do Not Remove Caption} (Please Ask to Use)

BONUS:

^ Though Steve can't be seen clearly in the shot, in the 'gathering' of Chosen Children including many International ones, a Frigimon can very clearly be seen on left. As other Chosen from the World Tour are included here, it is almost defintely Steve's Frigimon, and either Steve is somewhere in the background but off-screen, or Steve and Frigimon were somehow separated...

{usage may be allowed IF PERMISSION IS ASKED TO USE.} {However, read my about & FAQ pages first. Please do NOT use / ask if you match anything in my “Do Not Interact” sections.}

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#digimon 02 #digimon adventure 02 #frigimon #steve and frigimon #02 frigimon #d02 edit #02 gifs #02 positivity #international digidestined #us digidestined #ny digidestined #international chosen children #us chosen children #ny chosen children #us chosen #ny chosen #izzyizumi gifs #izzyizumi steve #izzyizumi daisuke #izzyizumi 02 #*Gentiles Please Be Respectful if Interacting + RBng!#(I made this set Very Specifically for Myself because)#(when Young Me watched 02 1st times I thought U.S. Chosen were neat to have and then later on I found out Steve was CANON Jewish)#(and Young Me fLIPPED That Year in a Good Way)#(Im still very bummed at the huge lack of lines that they all sans Michael actually got but for me)#(They ALL Exist Very Pointedly in MY Headcanons & in the background of virtually all my fan works & fic verses)#(Was this the absolute best '''rep{resentation}''' of such a chara we could have received? No not by a long shot)#(Was this ultra significant for YOUNG CHILD ME watching for the 1st time and finding out the info after the fact? YES)#(But I seriously wish other 02 fans could begin seriously considering these Facts when speaking on U.S. Chosen Group specifically)#(AKA Yes I know this is a chara probably only I care about but I wanted to compile Steves scenes as gifset anyway since Ive never seen one!

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bruciemilf · 8 months ago

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Need a teen! Bruce au where he’s exactly like Justice League! Batman and Battinson in one. That mf put the fear of every god in Ra’s Al Ghul.

Everytime he’s in a room with someone over 30 “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance plays in the background.

Despite that, in his own way, he’s as gentle as can be with his league. Give me a young Diana who’s getting spat on and ripped apart by the media in a way not one of her male teammates get.

And she’s Wonder Woman. She shouldn’t be affected by it. And she is, anyway. Bruce relates to that in an uncomfortable degree.

“When I first became Batman, weak men tried standing in my way, too. “

“And what did you do?”

“I stepped over them.”

He has a tiny Robin he occasionally has to keep on a leash.

Give me somewhat teen mom Bruce who struggles to wrangle his unruly six year old who likes flipping from rooftop to rooftop and thinks fighting Bane is a piece of cake.

“If Tati can do it, so can I!”

“Dick,” he paused, before handing him a handfull of candy. “Wonderful emotional manipulation. Good job.”

“:D”

#I LOVE HIMMMMM HES SO AWKWARD AND COOL TO ME #give me the league fangirling over him at every turn and he’s just Tired of them. has to call teen Clark who’s Perry White’s intern like.#‘Kal— please write about something other than Batman.’#‘Bruce. I cannot say no to you. Please don’t ask me to do that.’#alfred is extremely tired. also extremely in need of Bruce to stop being self sufficient.#let him take care of you daMN IT—#teen bruce wayne #bruce wayne #batman #batdad #writing #dick grayson #dc comics

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gutsby · 6 months ago

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Stiff

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: At fifty-nine, Joel isn’t sure his dick can keep up with every day it’s going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jackson’s local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.

Or, your old man wants to knock you up. Viagra helps.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (obviously 😵‍💫🤙🏼). Breeding kink. Age gap. Peepaw Joel. Blue Pill Joel. Post-apocalyptic-Viagra-dosage-gone-horribly-wrong-and-now-his-dick-won’t-deflate-for-a-day…but it’s OK!

Note: This is the crackfic counterpart/sequel to ‘Make It Stick’

Word count: 2.9k

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes until his fate was sealed for the night. His pulse would quicken. His head would start to swim, and any last sliver of rational thought would be lost to the ether or the cold, snowy air around him. Joel Miller had to hurry now, because that bite-sized blue pill he’d just taken was in his belly, and if his dick didn’t find its way in you, he was fucked. Or at least huge and swollen and leaking out beads of hot desire the size of golf balls.

Well, maybe that was just his cock.

Joel looked down, scanning his pants.

Yeah…definitely just cock. He walked faster.

At home, he knew he’d find you curled up on the couch, nose in a book. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, if he had to guess. Then, sure enough, you’d lift your eyes and smile—‘Thank goodness you’re back, daddy’—and lift the hem of your night dress just slightly. Spread your legs and beckon him in. It was a nightly routine by now.

You wanted to be knocked up as fast as possible, after all

At almost sixty years old, Joel couldn’t believe he was actually saying these words aloud. But here he was—crawling overtop you on the couch, situating himself between your legs, and pulling his cock out, mumbling:

“Gonna let me put a baby in you tonight?”

You nodded sweetly—eagerly—every time.

Joel knew he could never resist that look. He was as good as finished the first second you let him sink inside your tight, weeping hole, and when he stretched it, he could already tell this was all he would ever want to do. Make you happy, fill you up, give you lots and lots of him.

It was why he’d stopped by the apothecary tonight. Why he’d hesitated only a moment before clearing his throat and asking for a pill like Viagra—Joel knew that the man behind the counter would flash him a wry, knowing grin.

Trouble keepin’ up with that sweet young thing’a yours?

David was a dick.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Ever since agreeing to start trying for a baby, Joel had become acutely aware of his own physical limitations in that department, and one of them was stamina. He could scarcely fuck twice in the same night without needing a long and rest-intensive breather. You were young and could roll over ready to go in five minutes.

It wasn’t fair to deprive you now on account of his age.

If you wanted his cum, you were getting it, no question.

Not just once, but multiple times. Again and again and—

“Again,” Joel grunted once he’d shot off his last spurt.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed since he’d taken that pill. It had fully kicked in, and his dick was still hard, even after finishing inside you with a sticky, white-hot flood.

You blinked dreamily up at him.

“You mean it, old man?” you teased him lightly.

I’ll show you what I mean, Joel thought to himself before flipping you over on the sofa. He had your hips tilted up and his cock driving back inside your freshly-fucked cunt in no time at all. He felt his spend coating your walls; it let him glide right in. Joel groaned and jerked himself back out, then fucked back in again and again and again.

“Again?”

Your word was exhaled in a laugh.

You stood in front of the bathroom sink, trying to tidy up the insides of your legs and push some more of Joel’s load back in, when you felt a presence at your back.

Stabbing your ass.

You started to turn then, puzzled.

“Bend over,” Joel commanded before you could.

You did as you were told because, frankly, you loved getting fucked wherever your old man wanted it—even if he had broken the sink one time he’d pounded you here.

But there was palpable confusion, too. How in the hell had Joel Miller, certified silver fox and owner of a dick old enough to remember Woodstock and the moon landing, managed to get his dick hard in the five minutes since he’d had you face-down, ass-up on the couch?

Or had his dick gotten soft at all?

You wanted to question him about it, or else give a long, hard look at his uncharacteristically long, hard friend, when the next moment had you gripping the counter. Stretching between the legs as Joel pushed back in.

“There she is,” he murmured affectionately.

Really, you’d never been wetter. Or warmer. Or filled to the brim with more sticky-white spend than you could ever hope to hold inside, it felt like. You bent at the waist and let him have his fill. You closed your eyes and rested your head on your forearms while Joel’s hot, bulbous tip grazed your cervix with dizzying alacrity. A smile crept in.

Whatever this was, you wanted more of it.

His dick was still hard.

Four mind-numbing fucks and another forty-five minutes later, Joel’s cock hadn’t deflated the tiniest bit.

The thing had hammered you so thoroughly he’d nearly destroyed the sink again. You’d whimpered, and whined, and warned him quietly, ‘We just fixed the porcelain, baby,’ and right before he’d painted your walls with his seed, you’d cum for him practically shrieking. Shaking.

Letting him turn you around for a kiss, only to mumble against his mouth with a sleepy, cockdrunk sort of lilt:

“I think you gave me twins.”

Then he’d fucked you in the shower to make it triplets.

Now you were laying out on the bed, truly spent, eyes following him in the semi-darkness of your bedroom after you’d toweled off and collapsed among the pillows.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, Miller?” you breathed.

Joel made it over to the dresser, back turned to you. He rifled through a drawer looking for something extra tight.

“Just missed you is all,” he said, shrugging.

What he needed right now was fabric that was very thick to hide the boner he was sporting. Joel could tell from the way you spoke that you were too tired for round five, and he didn’t want you feeling like you had to go again.

He would be fine.

His dick might not deflate until dawn, but that was okay.

“Wish you missed me like this every day,” you giggled.

When Joel turned around, he was shocked to find you sprawled out on the bed—hands between your legs.

There was a shy smile on your face.

“Baby…” he trailed off, watching your fingers flit through that sticky mess where he’d left it. Where you glistened.

Where you slid your index and middle fingers up and down your slit and drew circles on your clit, eyes shining.

“What? I missed you too,” you said, tone all faux protest.

You had no idea what you did to him when you talked like that. Especially when he was drowning in a state like this.

Hard as a rock.

Throbbing.

Needy.

Scarcely even knowing what he was doing, Joel found himself over by the foot of the bed in a second. Watching your every move with a wild, wipe-open stare he still couldn’t believe you found appealing. He swallowed.

He not only looked perverted, but he felt it, too. It rarely ever left his mind, save for the four or five seconds he spent in ecstasy emptying the contents of his balls inside your cunt, that he was his age, and you were yours. That perhaps the rest of Jackson was right, and he was wrong: he had no business being around a girl like you, much less getting off inside you every night. Was this really what you wanted? A bewildering mixture of guilt, lust, and love all circulated through his skull at that moment, and the longer he spent looking at your fingers, ogling the way you teased them through his cum between your legs, the more he felt certain he was bad.

No one corrupted a thing this sweet and got to call themselves good, anyway, he thought to himself idly.

“I keep gettin’ that…feelin’,” you said under your breath.

Joel’s hand tightened in a fist, and it was then that he realized it was wrapped around his cock. Still watching.

“Yeah, baby? What feelin’?” he returned, almost as quiet.

Still stroking himself up and down, up and down, softly.

You had your legs spread open—knees splayed wider than they’d been before. And your eyes had a tender, placid sheen to them, like they just might cry if they didn’t get release of some kind soon. Then you slowed.

Your touch slipped from your clit to the opaque, sticky globs between your thighs, and that look got even softer.

More desperate.

“Can’t…explain it.” You shook your head, as if pained, and then you sank two fingers inside. Joel could hear the tiny schlick from where he stood, and it almost did him in.

You sucked in a breath and added, “It’s a special feelin’.”

Joel’s fist had already worked its way up to a ridiculous speed. Again, he sensed this might be the worst and most pathetic he’d ever looked, but by the glint in your eyes and the way you kept holding him there, he also knew you weren’t asking him to stop, either. You were needing something else—something he could provide.

Thanks to that one stupid pill.

Joel’s smile was strained as he gripped the edge of the bed, like he was trying to assuage you and him at once.

“Try me, baby. Tell me ‘bout that special feelin’.”

Your middle and ring fingers disappeared inside you.

You whined, “Ain’t fair to say it now. You’re tired, daddy.”

Like hell he was. Joel crawled over the footboard and made his way straight to you, where your body was limp.

His breaths were coming in so fast and his pulse was thrumming so hard that he almost couldn’t hear himself talking. But he ventured to speak as gently as he could.

“I’m wide awake, sweet pea. I’m all ears. Talk to me.”

And if his words didn’t communicate as much, surely the look in his eyes would’ve told you all the rest. Quietly, he slipped his torso between your legs, where you’d inserted a third finger and were moving your hips again. You were fingering yourself, breathing shallow and quick.

“It’s a feelin’ like I wanna be…stuffed…a-and full’a you.”

Joel’s whole body could’ve liquified on the spot. His brain, presently, had all the consistency of a plate of scrambled eggs if he’d had to guess. Feeling his cock swell even bigger and his hips sink lower to yours of their own accord, he had only to grit his teeth and nod his head. He felt the tip of him bump your fingers, and the sensation and the expectation nearly drove him insane.

He mumbled quietly, “Then move your hand.”

You did. You winced again. You looked as though you might be ashamed for wanting him to fill you with his spend, and Joel simply wouldn’t allow that any longer.

Without saying another word, he slid back in.

Your cum and his facilitated the slide, and you opened right up for him. You whimpered, while Joel grunted like an animal. He couldn’t help it; it all felt so fucking primal.

How you could ever feel the need to apologize for wanting more of this was more than he could take.

“Every inch of me,” Joel said, rutting deeper, “is yours.”

He withdrew to the tip, and he could feel strings of arousal linking him to you in a sickeningly sweet way.

You could scarcely even nod, just waiting for him again.

When Joel plunged back in, he heard a feral little cry, and he felt your legs wrap around his waist. He went faster. You fisted the pillow behind your head in one hand, while the other laid flat on his chest, like you were checking for a heartbeat. You could probably hear it thudding a million miles per minute right now. Your hips collided in tandem.

“D— Daddy,” you whimpered.

“That’s it, open up for daddy. Good girl. It’s all yours.”

The sounds his thrusts were making were obscene.

“Every inch?” you breathed, “E-Every drop, too?”

“Every fiber of my fucking being, sweet girl.”

That made you smile, at length. Your hand slid from his chest, down his round belly, straight to a groin that was pounding hard and fast against your own. Joel groaned when he felt your touch sweep inside your legs—right in the space where his cum had come trickling out. You slid your fingers through that mess, then whimpered again.

Then you brought your hand up to your mouth.

You wrapped your lips around your cum-soaked fingers like they were the single sweetest thing, and you sucked.

Joel had no say after seeing that: he had to cum again.

It likely stunned you both—you more than him, by the look that crossed your eyes the second you felt him throb and pulse inside your cunt—but then it kept going.

Rather than stop, or slow down in the slightest, Joel found his hips pistoning faster than they had before. The whole bed frame shook, and your body trembled with every thrust, and the noises between your legs grew even louder; the sound of skin slapping skin was only amplified by the addition of Joel’s hot load in the mix.

The man was operating on impulse. You, through sheer awe and an animalistic need to have every crevice filled. You held him and you grit your teeth, and you let him keep using your body, while you used his. You kissed him.

“Go on, then—make me a daddy. Take my cum, baby,” Joel babbled, brainless, “Make your old man a daddy.”

He couldn’t tell if it were the words or the rhythm or the pleasure that had already been blossoming deep in your gut this whole time, but he felt you fall apart. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist than you had all night, and you screamed his name. Begged for more.

“Cum in me, daddy—pleasepleaseplease just cum, ju—”

And there he went. Again. Flooding your insides with his warmth and letting his cock carve a wild, relentless path through your cunt like it was all the man knew how to do. He filled you up. He felt it leaking down his length with every stab of his hips, and frankly, he didn’t care what he looked like now. You were smiling big, drawing him in for more kisses as he panted and grunted and whimpered like he never had before. He kissed back. Slowed down.

Found himself lost in your mouth as your tongue wove delectably through his own and your hands made their way to his wild, greying hair. You tugged, and he moaned.

He fucked his spend deeper without even meaning to.

All instinct again, it seemed he couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, he felt a new, strange urge bubble up.

“I-I-I took a pill tonight,” he blurted out, “Know how badly you want this baby, and I wanna give you one.”

Or two. Or twenty. He was barely capable of speech, let alone rational cognition, so he just spoke whatever came to his mind then, still snug inside your legs and panting.

“A pill?” you whispered back.

Joel’s gaze locked with yours.

He felt stupid for it all at once.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just— I know I’m gettin’ on in years, and I probably can’t fuck the way I used to. And you deserve someone who can…Maybe a guy your age, but that—”

“—is the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me,” you finished for him, eyes narrowing swiftly in a scowl.

When Joel tried talking again, you cut him off.

“I don’t care what any guy my age is doing, or could do. I want babies with you, and that includes every part, OK?”

Your look softened momentarily, seeing his lips twitch down—you could probably see he wasn’t believing you.

Then you cradled his face in your palms. You smiled. You brushed his nose with yours, and you kissed him again, and with what little strength you likely had left in your body, you dug your heels in his ass and pulled him deeper. Both of you let out soft, low grunts at the effort.

“If you fucked like this at twenty-five, my body wouldn’t have survived anyway,” you whispered in reassurance. Biting back a laugh as Joel smiled, too, “I like things just the way they are. Just like how I hope you like me, too.”

“No—I love you.” Joel shook his head, almost plaintive.

And for the first time that night, he felt himself soften.

Whether it was the pill wearing off or that first thread of vulnerability stretching out between your body and his, he didn’t really care. He kissed the tip of your nose and was about to say something more, when you cut back in.

“I love you more. And since we’re being honest tonight,” you started quietly, nipping at your bottom lip a second, “I might…need you back at the apothecary tomorrow.”

Joel’s face fell.

“Wh— is something wrong, baby?” His voice was tight.

He hated seeing David, but, of course, he’d go back there in a heartbeat if it meant getting you the medication you needed. His stomach was starting to churn, when you reached up to hold his face again. You shook your head.

“No, no, Joel, I’m fine. But I may need prenatal vitamins.”

Now his eyes were going wide. His cheeks heated under your palms, and his cock twitched inside you, reflexively.

“You mean…” he murmured, unable to finish. Swallowing.

Beneath him, he saw you smile and nod.

He nearly choked hearing what followed:

“I meant to tell you earlier, but…my period’s a little late.”

#EVEN IN THE MOODBOARD JOEL’S GOT HIS EYES ON THOSE PILLS LIKE MMMMMMMMMM #‘chat should i try this sweet treat?’#and the sweet treat in question is CIALIS #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #the last of us fic

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hainge · 23 days ago

Text

While mama is away...

bllk!dads summary:You’re off on a well-deserved vacation, and it’s Dad’s turn to take care of the morning school/daycare chaos (but not for everyone). But don’t worry, they are trying.

characters: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Shidou Ryusei, Chigiri Hyoma and Isagi Yoichi

Michael Kaiser and Felix (5)

"Your hair looks like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser wakes to the rhythmic sound of tiny fists slapping wood, not his face, thankfully, but his bedroom door. Each knock is punctuated with a little voice that sounds way too calm for this level of passive aggression.

"You forgot to prep my uniform like you promised."

Kaiser groans, dragging a pillow over his face. "That can’t be right. I swear I laid it out." His voice is hoarse. His brain is not yet connected to his limbs.

"You didn’t. Mama always does it the night before. Organized people do that. You are not one of them."

He peeks out from the pillow. Felix is standing there in blue footie pajamas, arms crossed like a tiny HR rep preparing to file a complaint. His hair is somehow perfectly brushed, probably brushed it himself. Probably judged Kaiser in the mirror while doing it.

Kaiser stumbles up and scans the room. There’s no sign of a uniform. Just a mountain of track pants, training jerseys, and a rogue shin guard sitting on a chair like a depressed accessory.

"Okay, okay. We’ll find it. Let me just—"

Felix sighs with the kind of disappointment that ages a man ten years. "This is why I schedule things. Mama says time is a tool, and you're just swinging it around like a sword in the dark."

"You're a kid" Kaiser squints at him.

"And yet, I'm thriving."

Breakfast is chaos, wrapped in good intentions and sealed with failure.

Kaiser, in boxers and one sock, confidently pours chocolate chip cookie cereal into a bowl like it’s a gift to mankind.

"No," Felix says immediately, deadpan.

Kaiser blinks. "What do you mean no?"

"I want the star cereal. With the astronaut bear on the box."

"We don’t have astronaut cereal. I checked."

Felix picks up his dinosaur cup, takes a long, judgmental sip of water, and sets it down like he's a seasoned divorce attorney about to deliver a verdict.

"Then you failed twice."

"Okay, I’m improvising!" Kaiser declares, dramatically. "That’s called flexibility. Champions adapt."

"You made me a bowl of disappointment"

The kid turns on his heel and stomps toward the living room.

"Play Paw Patrol."

Kaiser sighs and flips it on. The theme song blasts while he toasts bread and slices a banana, trying to channel his inner domestic god. Felix sulks under a blanket on the couch, his face barely visible, eyes fixed on Sky like she’s the only creature who gets him.

"Are you mad at Papa?" Kaiser asks, creeping over with the toast like a peace offering.

"disappointed."

Kaiser recoils. "That’s worse!"

In the car, the silence is palpable until Felix decides to reopen the case file.

"Your hair looks weird."

Kaiser glances in the rearview. "It’s bedhead. I didn’t get to do anything to it."

"You look like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser nearly swerves into a dramatic spiral. "You’re still young and vulnerable. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally."

Felix shrugs. "Love doesn’t mean enabling."

Kaiser stares at him for a moment too long at a red light. "Are you sure you’re five?"

"I’m advanced."

He squints. "You don’t have, like, dwarfism or something? Because your tongue is ancient."

Felix tilts his head, unbothered. "Maybe you just need to grow up."

Kaiser exhales. "This is why your mama needs to come home."

Itoshi Rin and Masako (7)

“You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that.”

Rin Itoshi was not ready.

And he’s been in World Cup finals. He’s played in front of millions of people. He’s stared down some of the best strikers in the world. But none of that prepared him for the soft pink battlefield that is Masako’s bedroom at 7 a.m.

He’s standing there, clutching a hairbrush like it personally offended him, staring down his tiny opponent: a seven-year-old in a unicorn nightgown, legs swinging calmly over the edge of her bed, smiling like she’s about to give him performance feedback.

"Morning, Papa," Masako says sweetly, eyes shining with innocence and a hint of dread.

"Hey, baby. Let’s get you dressed, yeah?"

"Okay. Mama usually does it while I tell her about my dreams, and then we do affirmations. But you can do it your way."

Rin pauses. "Affirmations?"

"You know. ‘I am brave, I am strong, I am smart, I am kind.’" She tilts her head. "Mama says it rewires my neurons."

Rin has no idea what that means. He awkwardly clears his throat. "You are… all of those. Very… neuron-y."

Masako beams. "Good try."

He opens the dresser drawer and grabs a blue dress with little daisies on it.

"That’s the Tuesday dress," she says without even looking.

Rin blinks. "It’s… Friday?"

She points. "Mama folds them in day-order. See the little tags?"

There are labels. Actual tiny labeled dividers — "MONDAY," "TUESDAY," "WEDNESDAY" — staring up at him like proof he’s unfit for this mission.

He stares into the drawer like it betrayed him. "I feel lied to by fabric."

Masako pats his arm gently. "It’s okay. I’ll help you. You’re learning."

He finally gets her into the Friday dress after a mild struggle involving backward tights and a missing sock (it was on her hand, pretending to be a puppet named Alice).

Now: the hair.

He lifts the brush, cautiously. Masako gives him a look.

"That’s not the detangle brush."

"It’s a brush," Rin replies flatly.

"The detangle one is the purple one with the soft bristles. And Mama uses the pink spray first. It’s in the cabinet behind the scary face cream."

"My shaving cream?"

"Yes. It’s foamy. I don’t trust it."

He sighs, finds the spray, and squirts half of it into his own eye. Masako blinks politely and hands him a towel like this is routine.

He starts brushing, gently.

"Papa," she says after a few strokes. "You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that."

"I’ve played against international strikers," Rin mutters.

"And now you're brushing the wrong bones."

By some miracle, he gets one (1) braid done. It is crooked. It is struggling. It looks like it just came back from a very windy jog. Masako looks at herself in the mirror, then turns to him with a soft smile.

"You tried. I’ll tell Mama you tried."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. It’s a fashionable tornado. Very abstract. Very… movement."

"You’re so much like your mom, it’s terrifying."

"She said that too."

"Do you do this every morning?" he asks, exhausted, watching her munch on heart-shaped cereal pieces.

"Yup." She chews thoughtfully. "But Mama makes it feel less like a crisis."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

When he ties her shoelaces and gets them both into the car, both dressed, fed, semi-composed, he lets out a breath like he just finished a 90-minute match in overtime.

From the backseat: "You did good, Papa."

He smiles, warmed.

"Except for my braid. I feel like I can hear it."

"Thanks for your support."

"You’re welcome. You tried really hard. But maybe… don’t quit your day job."

Rin glances in the mirror, mock-offended. "Why are you like this?"

Masako shrugs.

Itoshi Sae, Kimiko(6) and Haruki (4)

“Papa: useless.”

Sae wakes up to the sound of war.

Not actual war, just the six-year-old kind.

"GET UP! WE’RE GONNA BE LATE AND I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING IF I HAVE TO PACK MY OWN LUNCH—"

The voice echoes through the apartment with the fury of a kindergarten general. Sae blinks at the ceiling, sighs, and reaches blindly for the mug already on his nightstand. Cold coffee. He knew this would happen.

A door slams. Feet stomp. A high-pitched rant about someone putting the purple lid on the pink cup.

Welcome to morning with Kimiko.

He shuffles into the kitchen where his daughter, dressed in blue pajamas and righteous purpose, is furiously spreading jam onto toast. She’s standing on a stool, her hair already brushed and braided, a sparkly headband angled with extreme precision.

Her little brother Haruki is laid out face-first on the couch like he passed out mid-protest, blanket over his head, legs kicking idly in the air.

Sae sips his coffee. "Is he breathing?"

Kimiko glances over her shoulder. "Barely. He won’t eat the eggs, and I did the smiley face ketchup thing. Just like Mama. I even gave the eggs eyebrows."

Sae leans on the counter. "You’re terrifying."

Haruki lifts his head an inch. His hair is flattened on one side like a soggy croissant. "I want bread."

Kimiko slaps a hand to her forehead like this is the fourth trial she’s endured today. Sae tosses a slice of bread in Haruki’s direction. It lands on his back. He grunts in approval and flops back down like a tranquilized cat.

Kimiko chugs her milk like it’s a stress reliever. "Hair: brushed. Water bottle: filled. Math homework: complete. Papa: useless."

Sae raises an eyebrow. "At least one of us is thriving."

"I did your and Mama’s job today."

"Should I pay you?"

"Yes. A LOL surprise."

Sae thinks about it, nods slowly. "Only if you stop yelling at Haruki."

"Deal."

Ten minutes later, Kimiko is doing a last-minute inspection of her backpack like a TSA agent. Haruki is under the table, still eating his bread one crumb at a time.

Sae walks over and crouches down. "You gonna make it, champ?"

Haruki gives him a slow, sleepy thumbs up. "Papa’s cool."

"Wow. That’s the highest rating I’ve ever gotten from you."

Kimiko calls from the hallway. "He only compliments people once a week."

On the way out the door, Sae looks down at his son, bed-headed, shoeless, still munching.

"You and me are the same, huh?"

Kimiko turns back around, arms crossed. "you’re both boring."

Sae shrugs.

Kimiko lets out a long, exhausted sigh like she’s raising both of them. "I hope Mama never finds out how bad this was."

"Too late," Sae says, unlocking his phone and pointing at the camera. "I recorded everything. Gonna show her you braided your own hair."

Kimiko gasps. "That’s illegal!"

Haruki looks up. "Tell mama I brushed my teeth."

"You didn’t." she yelled.

Sae sighed. "I thought about it." he smiles faintly as they head out, Kimiko already bossing her brother down the hallway.

Sometimes being a dad felt like being on a team where the coach was six, the star player was asleep under the coffee table, and he was just there to drive the van.

But hey. They were dressed, fed (kind of), and on time. That’s a win.

Nagi Seishiro and Shizuku (4)

“You said that three times already.”

Nagi wakes up to a presence.

Not noise. Not shaking. Just…vibes.

He opens one eye and sees Shizuku standing silently at his bedside, holding her bunny and staring like a tiny, polite ghost. Her hair is a waterfall down her back, too smooth to be legal at this hour.

“…You okay?” he mumbles.

She nods once. Then whispers, “It’s wake-up time now.”

Nagi grunts. “Five more minutes.”

“You already said that three times,” she says, barely audible, like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to correct him.

He flops back down dramatically. “Tragic.”

But she climbs into bed beside him and waits like a quiet judge. Two minutes later, she gently pokes his face.

“...mommy said we can’t be late.”

He groans into the pillow.

In the kitchen, he burns the toast again. Shizuku just blinks at it. She picks up a slice, takes one polite bite, and slowly sets it down like it offended her ancestors.

“I like it less when it’s… smoky,” she says, after a pause.

“Same,” Nagi mutters, already Googling “how to not burn toast.”

The apple slices go untouched. He side-eyes her. “You asked for apples.”

She nods shyly. Then whispers, “I meant the crunchy green ones. Not the sad red ones.”

“Noted. I’ll fire the fruit guy.”

But the real boss fight? Her hair.

Nagi stares into the mirror. Shizuku sits on the bathroom counter in her unicorn pajamas, legs swinging. Her long hair spills behind her like it’s mocking him. The brush is already stuck and it’s been ten seconds.

“Okay,” he says. “This is fine. We’ve trained for this.”

They have not trained for this.

He tries to gather it all into one neat ponytail. It slips through his fingers like magic. Her bangs fall into her face again. He brushes them aside. They fall again. He lets out a single defeated sigh.

“You okay, Papa?” she asks quietly.

“Not really.”

She watches as he tries again. The elastic flies off his fingers and hits the mirror. They both freeze.

Shizuku slowly offers him a second hair tie from her lap like she’s handing over a weapon in a movie.

He attempts a braid. It ends up looking like a sad pretzel.

After thirty exhausting minutes, he gives up.

“…Let’s go wild today.”

She nods. Then whispers, “Like a lion?”

He blinks. “Uhh...yes. A little lion"

They head to the front door. Shizuku, bundled up in her puffy coat, stands quietly while Nagi struggles to zip it all the way. The zipper catches twice. He mutters something about the universe being against him.

“Almost got it,” he says.

Shizuku stares at him. Then carefully holds out one mittened hand and says, “You have to push it up first.”

Nagi blinks. Tries it. It works immediately.

“…When did you learn that?”

She shrugs. “Mama does it.”

Of course.

He grabs her tiny backpack. She reaches up for it like a sleepy executive going to an important meeting. Just as he’s opening the door, she suddenly stops.

“Wait,” she says, frowning. “You forgot your kiss.”

Nagi freezes mid-step. “My what?”

She reaches up, stands on tiptoe, and plants a tiny kiss on his cheek.

“For luck,” she whispers.

He melts.

But as he buckles her into the car seat, she turns serious again.

“Papa?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still wearing your bunny slippers.”

He looks down. Loafers: missing. Bunny slippers: present.

He groans.

She just nods, calm and composed.

“I won’t tell Mama,” she says quietly.

Nagi stares at her, utterly amused.

Shidou Ryusei and Shoko (6)

“That’s called fashion, babe.”

Shidou kicks open his daughter’s bedroom door like he’s breaking into a villain’s lair.

“RISE AND SHINE, BABY GREMLIN!”

There’s a silence. Then the blanket rustles. A pillow sails through the air like a missile.

“YOU RISE, LOSER!” comes the response, shrill and feral.

She hurls herself off the bed in a flying tackle. Shidou catches her midair and spins her.

“AHHH—MY BONES! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”

“YOU’RE 28, ACT YOUR AGE!”

“NEVER!”

Their mornings are less "routine" and more "WWE meets glitter daycare." And today is no exception.

The kitchen smells like chaos.

Shidou is flipping neon pink pancakes with a spatula in one hand and mixing syrup with food coloring in the other.

“We feast like royalty today!” he declares, sliding a plate onto the table with the flourish of a man who’s proud of his crimes.

“Royalty who eats sugar for breakfast and cries at the dentist,” Shoko mutters, unimpressed but already loading up on whipped cream.

“This is called culinary art, thank you very much.”

“You put candy eyes on everything.”

“Because everything should have a soul.”

She snorts, kicking her feet under the table. Her purple unicorn onesie is still half-zipped, and her hair looks like she fought a wind god. Which means—

“Hair time,” Shidou announces ominously.

In the bathroom, she climbs onto the counter while he gets to work. And this is where Shidou actually shines.

You wouldn’t know it by the rest of his lifestyle, but when it comes to his daughter’s hair? He’s a machine.

He sections, detangles, and smooths with laser focus. He could probably braid blindfolded. The final style includes two delicate braids, glitter strands, two color-matching bows, and, at her request, a tiny butterfly clip "for intimidation purposes."

She stares at herself in the mirror with satisfaction.

“I look like a fairy who could commit war crimes,” she says, hands on hips.

Shidou nods. “Exactly the vibe.”

She leans in closer, turning her head from side to side. “It’s giving… magical girl"

“Ten outta ten.”

Speaking of lunch, that’s a whole other thing.

Shidou’s idea of a balanced meal is… questionable. Today, her bento includes: three mini meatball sliders, heart-shaped cucumber slices, rainbow gummy worms, and a juice pouch labeled “Liquid Victory” in marker.

She peeks into the box.

“You forgot the sparkle jelly.”

He gasps. “Oh my god. I’m a disgrace.”

He literally runs to the fridge, grabs a cup of blue sparkle jelly, and slides it in with a bow like he's handing over a rare gem.

They high-five.

Shoko zips up her jacket while Shidou is still trying to put on sneakers with mismatched socks. The morning sun hits her like a spotlight, her glittery hair practically glowing, lunchbox swinging, war-ready energy at max level.

“Alright, tiny menace,” Shidou says, tossing her backpack over her shoulder. “Go wreak some controlled havoc, yeah?”

She grins.

They do a complicated secret handshake that ends in jazz hands.

Then she squints up at him.

“…uhh"

“Yeah?”

She steps forward and gently tugs the hem of his hoodie. “Your pants are inside out again.”

He looks down. Pauses.

“Intentional,” he says confidently. “That’s called fashion, babe.”

She exhales the way a mother does when her child disappoints her.

“You’re welcome.”

They march to the car like a superhero duo. As they approach the school gate, the teacher sees them and visibly braces herself.

Shoko waves sweetly. Shidou throws finger guns.

Chigiri Hyoma, Mayu and Himari (twins, 6)

“Let’s go, bitch!” The morning had started with harmony.

Chigiri was plating up breakfast like he was filming for a cooking channel, tiny waffles with chocolate syrup swirled into art, strawberries fanned out on the side, and little heart-shaped forks placed neatly on matching plates.

“Breakfast is ready” he called out as the twins marched into the kitchen in matching fuzzy slippers.

Mayu slid into her seat with a soft “thank you, Papa,” immediately picking up a strawberry with delicate fingers. Himari, however, stared at her plate like it had personally insulted her.

“Papa,” she said, squinting. “This syrup is… attacking.”

Chigiri turned from the sink. “Attacking?”

“It’s too much. My waffle is drowning. It looks like chocolate soup.”

“It’s the same amount as always,” Chigiri said, tilting his head. “Maybe the syrup bottle was just feeling generous today.”

Himari poked her waffle with the fork like it might explode. “It’s gross.”

Mayu, ever the diplomat, offered sweetly, “I can trade with you if you want. Mine doesn’t have as much—”

“I DON’T WANT YOURS” Himari snapped, eyes wide and brows scrunched. “Why do you always talk when I’m mad? It makes it worse!”

Mayu blinked. Her lip quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Just put down her fork, slipped off her chair, and walked quietly out of the kitchen.

Chigiri froze, one hand holding the juice jug. “Himari…”

She was still glaring at her plate, mumbling, “I didn’t mean it"

Chigiri sighed. “That was pretty harsh. You okay if I go check on her?”

Himari shrugged, then grabbed her waffle with both hands and took an angry bite. “Fine.”

He found Mayu sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging her stuffed dolphin, blinking very fast.

Chigiri sat beside her, gently brushing her bangs back.

“She didn’t mean it,” he said softly.

Mayu nodded. “I know.”

“But it still hurt,” he added.

Mayu’s chin wobbled. “A little.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That’s okay. You don’t always have to be the nice one, you know. You're allowed to feel things too.”

“I didn’t want her to be more mad,” Mayu whispered. “So I didn’t cry.”

Chigiri smiled and pulled her into a hug. “You’re strong, Mayu. But you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Back in the kitchen, Himari had eaten her entire waffle and was now staring down the empty plate like it was to blame. She looked up guiltily when they returned.

Mayu gave her a tiny smile.

“I saved you a strawberry,” Himari muttered, sliding it across the table without looking up.

“…Thanks,” Mayu replied, quietly taking her seat again.

Chigiri clapped his hands. “Okay, drama queens. Time to get gorgeous.”

Ten minutes later, Chigiri had perfectly braided Mayu's hair and gave Himari her usual high pigtails. “There, perfect,” he said, fluffing them both up.

Mayu beamed at her reflection. “Thanks, Papa!”

Himari gave a little nod. “can you make them bouncier next time?”

“Of course,” Chigiri said with a sigh.

With their outfits on, Chigiri gave a final once-over. “Clothes: 10/10. Hair: flawless. Now, let’s avoid a glitter explosion before school, yeah?”

Himari huffed. “Fine. No glitter.”

They walked out, looking like a Pinterest-perfect family. Chigiri handed them their lunchboxes and led them to the car.

Ready for the day?” Chigiri asked with a smile.

“Ready!” Mayu said calmly.

“Let’s go, bitch!” Himari cheered.

Chigiri froze, eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. “Excuse me?”

Himari looked at him with a judgemental look. “What? I’m just hyped for the day!”

Chigiri blinked, still processing the words. “Where... where did you hear that?”

Himari shrugged, unfazed. “From that film we watched this weekend. You fell asleep halfway through, but I watched the rest.”

Chigiri’s face went a shade paler, his mind racing. “What exactly were they saying?”

“Uh, I don’t know... some stuff,” Himari said nonchalantly. “It was funny.”

Chigiri closed his eyes for a brief second, imagining the chaos. He could already picture your reaction if you find out Himari picked up that word. A small shiver ran down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, mentally preparing for the inevitable fallout. “Just...fantastic.”

Isagi Yoichi and Isamu (7)

“I don’t get school,” Isagi had made a to-do list the night before. He was determined to make this morning perfect.

To-Do:

Wake up by 6:30

Eggs & toast

Soccer uniform ready

Water bottle filled

Motivation speech (brief)

He wakes up at 6:42. Panic hits like a red card.

His son, Isamu, is sprawled out in bed like he’s auditioning for a starfish role in an ocean documentary.

"Isamu, buddy, time to get up," Isagi says, shaking him gently. "Big day ahead!"

"Ugh," Isamu groans, barely opening an eye. "I want to drop out."

"You’re seven."

"Exactly," Isamu says, rolling over and curling into a blanket burrito.

Isagi’s internal monologue screams as he rushes to the kitchen. Breakfast needs to be perfect. The eggs are half-scrambled, and the toast? Slightly burned. He slides it onto a plate like it's the Mona Lisa of breakfast, though it looks more like abstract art.

"Breakfast, Isamu. You’ll need energy for school!" Isagi says, trying to sound motivational.

Isamu eyes the toast like it’s a science experiment. "What is this...? It’s... not pizza."

"Eat it, or no soccer later," Isagi threatens.

Isamu rolls his eyes dramatically and takes a bite. "You’re so dramatic. I still don’t care about school."

"School is important!" Isagi insists, getting flustered. "You need education to—"

"I’m gonna play soccer," Isamu interrupts, chewing with all the intensity of a man who’s just been told he has a free pizza pass. "Who needs school when you’ve got soccer?"

Isagi ignores the comment and rushes to get his son’s clothes. He’s sure he left them right there on the chair. He checks the chair. Nothing. He checks the floor. Nothing. He checks under the bed, under the table, in the laundry basket.

"Where the heck are they?" Isagi mutters, sweating now. "I swear I put them here."

"Maybe the ghosts took them," Isamu offers nonchalantly from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his toast.

Isagi freezes. "Ghosts? Why would—"

Before he can finish, Isamu shrugs, "I don’t know. Could be."

After a few more frantic minutes of searching (and Isamu offering absolutely no help), Isagi finally finds the soccer uniform under the couch.

"Found it!" Isagi declares, holding it up triumphantly like a knight retrieving a sword.

"About time," Isamu says, unbothered, chewing slowly as if he were watching paint dry.

They race to get out the door. Isagi grabs the water bottle, zips the bag, and notices Isamu’s shoes are mismatched. He doesn’t have time to fix it.

"Teeth brushed?" Isagi asks as he grabs his keys.

"Close enough," Isamu replies with a yawn.

“I love you” Isagi says, feeling a mix of exhaustion and love.

"I love soccer," Isamu replies, not even looking up from his phone game.

Once dressed and vaguely clean, Isamu plops into the car seat like it personally offended him. Isagi starts the engine, already five minutes behind schedule.

The car is quiet until Isamu sighs like he’s been carrying emotional weight since birth.

“I don’t get school,” he mutters.

Isagi glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“I sit in a chair for hours while the teacher tells me triangles are important. For what? Triangles have never scored a goal in their lives.”

Isagi stifles a laugh. “Triangles are used in passing formations.”

“Not emotional triangles. That’s different.”

He stares out the window dramatically. “And you know what else? People lie. Yesterday, this kid told me we were best friends. Then he passed the ball to someone else.”

Isagi hums sympathetically. “Harsh.”

“I’m starting to think school is just a government distraction from my true potential.”

“Which is…?”

“Becoming the best striker”

There’s a pause. Then Isamu adds, “Also, I don’t trust teachers who wear shoes indoors. That's villain behavior.”

Isagi parks in front of the school with a slow breath. “Okay. Big day. Deep breaths.”

Isamu opens the door and mutters, “Time to enter the battlefield.”

bllk!dads

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seumyo · 10 months ago

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BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 5:48

Bakugou’s in his third year of high school when he finally invites you over to his house. The reason? To finish a calculus project.

You’d think that after surviving through the hardships of being a hero-in-training together for three years, saving each other’s lives (more often you were the one being saved than doing the saving, really), and whatnot, he would’ve invited you sooner to his home (one could dream).

But this was Bakugou, after all.

And he knew that something was off the moment he left you to share a conversation with his mom while he went to get his books from his room—the greatest mistake he could have ever done because by the time he’s making his way back, Bakugou could hear you snickering to yourself.

Not a good sign.

“I’m not going to lie; you looked hideous when you were a baby,” you say, reading through Bakugou’s baby album.

Bakugou froze. He had absolutely no idea why his mother would cave in and give you the godforsaken album from when he was young, but of course she would’ve agreed with your request to see it if you did so much as mention it.

He dropped the books he’d grabbed from on top of his desk on top of the living room table before whipping his attention towards you, an indignant scoff escaping through his nose before he took a few slow, but heavy stomps over to you—practically snatching the album from your grasp when he’s within reach.

“Stop looking through those stupid pictures.”

“Hey! I wasn’t finished,” you reply with a frown. “You’re lucky my phone’s battery just died, or else I would’ve taken a billion photos.”

Bakugou’s jaw clenched slightly as he grumbled curses under his breath, trying to flip through the album in his hands to make sure you hadn’t managed to sneak a photo out—a small sigh of relief rolling off of his tongue to find that, luckily, it was still how his parents had done it.

He shot a glare over towards you, stuffing the album back into its original spot on one of the bookshelves, his nose crinkling as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t care; tell anyone what you saw, and you’ll drop dead,” he tells you.

“Oh, but how could I not? That photo album’s like hitting the jackpot—so many super ultra rare photocards of you,” you gushed, blatantly disregarding his usual threat. “Come on, I wanna see the rest!”

“Absolutely not.”

Bakugou knew the damn photos were in the back of the album. There were probably a handful of the ones where he was in the bathtub, butt-naked—a common photo in most photo albums he’s seen, at least. Other photos include when he was three years old and wore an All Might onesie for his birthday, pictures of him during his school recital where he was the prince, him with a bald haircut, and so much more blackmail material.

It was humiliating, for goodness sake! And he knew you’d just tease him mercilessly if you saw it.

You’ll never let him live it down, so it’s best to deprive you of it.

“Don’t come at me for saying this, but I was the cutest baby in our village back then,” you told him proudly. “Had the roundest cheeks and brightest smile, trust.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes, a huff of air forcing itself past his lips. That was one thing about you that he couldn’t stand; you were so full of yourself most of the time—you’d always been like that, and he absolutely loathed it. It could be that it reminds him of himself, so the competitive meter on his head just flares whenever he’s around you.

“I doubt you were even 1% of how adorable I was as a baby.”

“Have you seen me?” you gestured to your face with your hands to emphasize your facial features.

“I’m still as cute even now. And no offense, Bakugou,” you giggled, “you looked like a wrinkly raisin on your first few days on this Earth.”

Bakugou’s smirk dropped. He’d almost forgotten that you had seen the stupid pictures already.

“Shut the hell up. It wasn’t that bad.” He muttered quietly, his hands balling into frustrated fists. His parents always assured him that he was a cute kid when he was small—but to hear that YOU of all people, are in disagreement with that is just aggravating.

“Fine, fine. Quits it is,” you hum. “Let’s do that calculus project so I can get home before sunset.”

Bakugou grumbled something inaudible under his breath, reluctantly nodding his head in agreement. There was no point in arguing about something so idiotic—after all, both of you were there to get a project done, not to sit around and bicker about his past.

He took a few steps over to the living room table before plopping down on the polished floor ungracefully, yanking out his notes before he gestured his hand over towards the free space next to him.

“Sit down. Let’s just get this thing done and over with already.”

Bakugou had already started working silently by the time you sat down; his hand was writing almost furiously as he copied equations onto his paper. He kept his attention focused on his notes, trying to stay quiet as he focused completely on completing the project.

He eventually stopped writing for a moment, turning his gaze over to glance at what you were doing before clicking his tongue at the sight. Bakugou could already see a few mistakes you’d made with your work.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says.

“Wait, I’ve barely turned on the calculator, jeez.” You shook your head, solving the equation through your calculator.

“And that’s how I know you’re doing it wrong.” Bakugou huffed, shaking his own head in disappointment.

“Formula first before adding 1.3.”

He pulled out a pen and began scribbling down on his own paper, glancing at yours every once in a while to compare the work. He knew from his experience that you were decent at math (he’d rather die than tell you that), but this was just pitiful even by your standards.

“Have you been dozing off during Ectoplasm’s class?”

“Ouch. Do you have a personal grudge against keeping the not-so-nice stuff from leaving your mouth?” you sigh. “You’re hurting my feelings— I’m devastated.”

He had a feeling you’d say something like that, and he was prepared to ignore your attempts at gaining sympathy from him.

“Unfortunately, you’ll fucking live,” Bakugou says, scribbling down the last of his work before turning it towards you. “And learn how to solve equations too, while you’re at it.”

“I know how to do it; calm down.” You huff, rewriting your solutions.

Bakugou raised a skeptical eyebrow, his head tilting with a hint of disbelief. Even if he knew you were capable of doing math, you had a bad habit of missing even the smallest details, like the operation to be used in your work, leading to the wrong answers.

His eyes scanned over the work you’d written on your paper before letting out a small huff. “Looks right. Are you done with your half?”

“Yep, yep. Are you going to write it down on our answer sheet, or should I do it?” you offered.

Bakugou glanced down at the answer sheet set to the side before picking it up and nodding. He was already holding a pen while you were still using a pencil, so it would make more sense for him to be the one to write it all down.

He began copying down the answers slowly and carefully, each number being written out with ease as his eyes flicked back and forth from the worksheet to the sheet of answers.

With him busy jotting down the answers, you occupied yourself with taking in the interior of his living room. It was beautiful, neat, and just screamed rich—not really what you expected (you really didn’t know what to expect, honestly). “Y’know,” you mention, glancing around. “You have a nice house.”

Bakugou hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes remaining focused on his task. It kind of took him by surprise to hear you say something out of the blue—about his house, no less. He’d fully expected you to talk about something else, like school or that new show you’ve been begging him to watch.

It went against what Bakugou had originally thought, which led him to look over at you from the corner of his eye, silently raising an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a nice house,” he said casually, his pen continuing to move over the paper. His penmanship was neat, and Bakugou hears you in awe.

Bakugou continued to finish writing down the last of the answers, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed you looking around his house. It was obvious what was happening, but he decided to ignore it in favor of just getting the godforsaken project done.

He finished soon enough, his pen rolling back with a click before he leaned back a little and let out a small huff. “We’re done. Finally.”

“Nice, nice.” Glancing at your watch, you concluded, “I should get home.”

Bakugou was silent, rolling his shoulders and neck before glancing out of the nearby window. The sun had already begun to set over the sky, the day quickly slipping away into the night.

“Yeah, whatever. You need me to walk you home or something?” He asks gruffly.

“Nah, I’m good. I need to say goodbye to your parents, too.”

Bakugou watched as you packed up all of your belongings, a scoff rolling off of his tongue. It felt almost weird to be civil with each other, neither of you having taken jabs or making snarky remarks to taunt one another.

“Alright, fine,” he finally said, standing up from his seat and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go find my parents then.”

He led you down the hall and into the kitchen area, his ears vaguely picking up the sounds of his mother and father talking amongst themselves about… something. He couldn’t tell what exactly, and frankly, he barely even cared.

“Mom, Dad.” He spoke up, capturing the attention of his parents.

Mitsuki looked over at him, a smile spreading across her face. Masaru looked in the same direction, a warm smile forming on his face as well.

“Thank you for having me, Mr. and Mrs. Bakugou,” you said in gratitude. “I’ll be going home now before it gets too late.”

His parents shared a hum in acknowledgment, with his mother being the one to speak up first. She had a knowing grin on her face as she clasped her hands together, her eyes flickering over to her son.

“You’re welcome. You should come over more often,” Mitsuki said enthusiastically, her voice taking on a slightly smug tone.

Masaru laughed as he nodded in agreement. He gave a knowing look to his wife before he looked back over at you. “You should join us for dinner; we already made enough for you to join us.”

“I’d love to, sir, but my folks are waiting for me at home,” you answered sheepishly.

Bakugou noticed the glance his parents exchanged and immediately knew what they were thinking. He almost grumbled in frustration, already knowing that they’d ask him about you later after you left.

His mother spoke up once again, her smug grin growing wider. “You’re always welcome here,” she repeated, her eyes flickering over to her son as her voice came out teasing. “After all, Katsuki’s always in a ‘better’ mood when you’re around.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, ma'am. I’m a joy to be around, after all,” you lightly joked, though you still maintained a respectful tone.

His parents were easier to get along with than you thought.

Bakugou’s eye twitched in annoyance at your words, almost making him want to quip back at your cocky behavior. However, it was the sound of his mother’s sudden laughter that stopped him from doing so.

Mitsuki mother put her hand up to her mouth briefly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she continued to chuckle. The expression on her face was elated, and it was pissing him off even more, knowing what’s to come.

“I like this one,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.

Masaru added, “And clearly, so does Ka—“

“All right! They need to get going to catch the shitty train.”

By the time Bakugou accompanied you to the door, he had this obvious scowl on his face. “You’re never comin’ back here again, dipshit.”

“Wha— no fair! Why am I getting banned from the Bakugou residence when this is my first time here?” you replied.

“Shut up,” he grunts. “I could do whatever the hell I want because it’s my house, too.”

“Too bad I have your Mom’s number—“

“Delete that.”

“Hey— wai— no way!”

It was not the last time you were ever invited to the Bakugou residence.

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aberooski · 1 year ago

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Exposing myself with my Spotify wrapped aksksk

#I dunno what it means by movie tunes but okay 😭#but top 0.1% of taylor listeners let's gooooooo #and let me tell you I qas GAGGED by my top songs I thought amalie by gracie abrams would be my number 1 song for SURE #in actuality it's like number 8 ✋😭#but the rest of this doesn't particularly surprise me actually it makes perfect sense #and tied together with a smile JUST missed the top 5 songs it's literally number 6 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭#my favorite taylor song everrrr 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭#actually I lied I'm very surprised noah kahan isn't my number 2 artist and phoebe isn't 3rd like I wouldn't thought they'd be flipped #nobuo and miley being 4 and 5 makes sense tho because obviously nobuo was gonna be there he's always there somewhere #either nobuo or hamauzu is always one of my top artists #and miley has gripped me this year I dunno why #actually I do it's plastic hearts that album took me hostage this year then she put out a new one then i found a bunch of other-#-assorted songs I liked then used to be young came out and man she's killing me in a good way rn #anyway I went on a roller-coaster with this akskska #abby's just rambling don't mind her #abby's in her unhinged era #spotify wrapped 2023 #taylor swift #phoebe bridgers #noah kahan #nobuo uematsu #miley cyrus

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baepsays · 3 months ago

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High School Oblivion ⸻ Gojo Satoru x reader

description ᯓ★ while going through his high school yearbook when helping his mother clean out their storage, Gojo's hands get stuck on a page with a picture of this one particular person. he cannot help but reminisce about the past as now a 30 year old and wonder how things could have turned out if everything went down differently.

cw ᯓ★ fluff, sfw, implicated angst, really mild angst, enemies to friends, one sided love, pining, academic rivals, lowkey bully Gojo, teasing and name calling—nothing really extreme, high school au, frenemies really, usage of fem oriented pronouns, reader is depicted as a fem presenting person, reader is depicted shorter than Gojo, written basically from Gojo's pov, time skips, nosebleed, sorry but use of y/n l/n i know that can be cringy but whatever.

𐙚 Playlist I used while writing this.

Satoru is a good son. In fact, he's kind, diligent, genuine, obedient, and- "Stop trying to slack off and get back to work." Well, his mother might disagree.

"You cannot be asking me to help you and also boss me around mom." Satoru says with a signature pout. Having Gojo Satoru as your son and raising him, doesn't really immunize a person to his pouts. Or maybe his mother is biased because he looks exactly like his father when he's trying to sway her as well and he pulls out what seems to be a Gojo family weapon. But naturally she has her own defenses.

"I'm only making you do this because you left all this behind yourself Sato, why didn't you take some of this or clean it when you moved out?"

"Wow just because I am a grown adult I cannot believe my own mother is treating me like one. Wow, what has the world come to." Satoru exclaimed like the drama queen he is.

"Stop being dramatic and help me properly you know I can't lift up all these boxes you have essentially filled with garbage. Clean out these last 3 boxes piled up in categories of what you need and what to throw out, I'll go check on your father."

It seems his whining doesn't always work on his mother the way it does on his father. Oh well. Though this has been such a nostalgic Sunday, being back in his childhood home, well second one, the neighborhood he grew up in for the better part of his teenage and young adulthood, getting forced into helping out his mother, and the smell of his father's cooking on a weekend. Time might as well revert back.

While cleaning out one of the, what seems never ending, boxes of childhood belongings— Gojo Satoru stumbles upon something he hasn't seen in probably 12 years. His high school yearbook.

It is a natural thing to go into the realm of nostalgia when stumbling upon things like this. Flipping through the pages he really grasps how much he has already forgotten. I mean that is given, it's been 12 years since he graduated. It takes him 12 months to find his lost socks.

Looking through the pictures he realizes how much everything has changed. The length of Suguru's hair has changed, as well as Shoko's. Nanami has gotten more chiseled or tired; he cannot say exactly, Utahime finally has a decent haircut. And look at him! Oh how naive he was, look at those big blue eyes with nothing behind them, covered by those obnoxious pairs of shades. Maybe some things haven't changed, never mind. He's probably never letting go of his obnoxious collection of shades.

As he flips through the pages his fingers get stuck on a particular page. And the memories just come flooding in without any effort.

[BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL, fifteen years ago]

Gojo Satoru saw you for the first time at the school gates on his first day during first year, at a new high school.

He was not very fond of the idea of going to school in a new city, away from the place he grew up in, unfamiliar people, and joining in the middle of the year when everyone has already somewhat settled down, it unnerved him. Unfortunately, throwing a fit about staying in a house his parents already sold and made all the arrangements to move to another place, couldn't help him much.

Some random kid showing up in the middle of the year is just a recipe to be bullied, or at least be prone to such jabs. He had decided prior to his first day, that he would go in with a stone cold face and be brave through this. Or, plan B.

While he was heavily contemplating standing in front of the main gate, the last bell already rang, he was officially late for his first day. Well he arrived a lot earlier, then somehow everyone passed by him and the final bell rang and he just stood there. And he was thinking about making a run for it, that was the plan B, taking a train back to Tokyo, and from there on he will figure it out. His parents will definitely know, find him, maybe this ordeal will finally make them understand how serious he was about not settling in here, even if that came at the cost of being grounded for life.

Satoru almost turned around to walk away from his new high school, his new city— his new home essentially— that is when a breeze of air gushed past him. When he looked forward, past the gates of the school, there was a fluff of hair, in the said school's uniform with a bag in her hands; dangling and teetering to fall on the ground, a key chain bouncing by one of the zippers— cute little orange cat, bouncing on her bag. She was running with all her might to make it, unlike him. That is all he saw of her, but he smelled much more. The lingering smell of her perfume, or soap or just- whatever it may be.

Lemons? Bergamot maybe. Distinctly citrus, not the sour kind, or the room freshener kind— a sweet smell of ripe citrus in the summer sun, kind of citrus. And flowers, peonies to be exact, that was very apparent.

Satoru, to this day, has never smelled that kind of tantalizing fragrance. To this day, he still remembers exactly how he stood there dumb; eyes wide open, mouth agape, and nothing but citrus with peonies haunting his chemoreceptors.

That day he tried to run after you, to put a name and face to the fragrance that in an instant hypnotized him, and to return that orange cat. Unfortunately, the teetering little cat keychain did fall off your bag, and when he ran after you to return it, he couldn't catch up to your haste. And since that day he didn't see you until a whole month passed.

That month he met his lifelong circle of friends, his best of friends. But it wasn't easy for neither of the sides to become acquainted, he was in a broody depressed rage about shifting and had already made up his mind that ‘well everyone must hate me’ — teenagers. Anyway, the first day he sat beside Geto Suguru he barked at Suguru for no reason, poor suguru was just being friendly and kind. So yes that broke into a little kerfuffle, got a lot of scolding from their homeroom teacher, Mr. Yaga. Later Suguru still dragged Satoru with him to eat lunch with his friends.

This is important to the story because, nostalgia and well, Satoru realized you were literally in the class next door, because of Shoko.

One day, when Suguru and him were irritating Kento, with a giggly Haibara, it took him only 2 weeks to drop his ‘you don't understand mom’ & ‘i am above you people’ act.

don't get it wrong, he still thinks he's better than most people, which isn't entirely wrong but god is it annoying. And that is exactly how you felt about Gojo Satoru upon your first impression of him.

On that fateful day you went to look for Shoko, and found her, as usual at the school basketball court with her friends, with an addition of white fluff. You had heard of Gojo Satoru a lot at that point, the girls in your class went to gather out of their class to check him out, from what you heard he picked a fight with Suguru that day. Off the get go you did not think much of him, probably some pretty face with connections and money to spare by getting into unnecessary trouble.

Satoru didn't see you entering the basketball court that day, but he smelled you. In the past month there had been few instances where his nostrils would be randomly engulfed by that citrusy peony smell, and he would halt in his pace to whip his head around to find the source. But alas, by the time he would turn around, you'd be nowhere to be found, and your perfume would slowly fade out.

And here you were, in all your physical tangible glory, for a second Satoru was taken aback seeing you there—somewhere somehow, before your fragrance could reach him, something about you struck him right in his throat. Maybe it was his subconscious, but he halted right where he was, mid match with Kento and Suguru. When was the ball snatched away from him, or when your bergamot and peonies perfume took over his senses; neither could be pinpointed. All he knew was that— it was you.

It was the girl with messed up collars and messy hair. Who smells divine. And the orange cat keychain!�� Which has been sitting on his desk for a month. Satoru couldn't care less about Suguru egging him on about making a basket, nor did he see Kento slowly retire to the audience benches with Haibara— he stood there, staring at you, giving back Shoko some notebook; not important. He needed to go up to you. He needed to introduce himself! He couldn't let you slip away now.

So right before you told Shoko you'd be taking your leave, he rushed over there, and haphazardly blurted out— “you smell.”

“Excuse me!?” you looked at him flabbergasted.

“Satoru, why are you trying to pick a fight?” Shoko had to intervene. Because what a horrible way to introduce two of your friends to each other.

“Listen Gojo, I do not know what your problem is, but I'd advise you to keep yourself and your opinions to yourself.” You warned him before storming out of the basketball court with furrowed eyebrows and red ears.

“Damn dude, do you even know her? Why would you even say that?” Suguru was honestly very entertained by this exchange that day, as he was thoroughly entertained by you two's interactions throughout high school.

Satoru didn't mean to start off on such a contemptuous note with you, he didn't really mean it. I mean- he did mean what he said, it's just his phrasing was poor. He has always been reprimanded about this problem by his mother since he was a kid, his father did find it extremely funny. At times, he too found his poor choice of vocabulary funny, unfortunately it wasn't one of those circumstances.

Later he had explained this to Shoko, telling Suguru anything was useless, he was too preoccupied with reenacting his failed attempt at making a good first impression on you. He then only revealed why he has been looking for the girl who smells like bergamot and peonies—which he didn't use as a descriptor of you, that much detail and all of them are on his neck about being a little obsessed creep. He didn't go into any details, he just told them he met you on his first day, at the school gates and you were late, also about how you dropped your keychain. After all that is why he ran after you that day to find you and give it back to you, but unfortunately he got blind sighted by your perfume, right? Well that is what he is willing to tell others and himself. At least he knew your name now.

And surprisingly you also knew him? Did you also see him at the gates that day? Or did you see him in the hallways? Or with Shoko? Or-Why was he so concerned anyway? All he needed was to return the keychain and get over this whole thing, you didn't seem like a very easygoing person. But maybe that had to do with his poor sentence structuring.

Next time Satoru saw you, you were in your class. It was before the morning bell rang, he showed up at the door by the end of your classroom, to seem more inconspicuous. He was looking around to find you in the midst of the flock of girls gathered around him to enquire about his sudden visit, so much for being inconspicuous. Fortunately, he saw you soon enough at the front of the classroom in a seat by the windows — “Y/N!”

and everyone turned to stare at you, ‘great’—wasn't exactly what you were feeling. When you walked up to Satoru, you couldn't help but narrow your eyes at the guy. “Did not think we were on a first name basis.”

“Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot, i-” Gojo tried to explain.

“I think we got off on exactly the right foot, I mean who just gets all up into someone's face and calls them smelly?” Your voice was already going up quite a bit.

“No, listen, that was a misunderstanding. I mean I did mean what I said, but-” he tried to, horribly, explain himself.

“Seriously, your audacity is immense, not only did you call me smelly, but now you're showing up to my class to pick a fight!?” you definitely lost some cool at that point. Everyone who wasn't already congregated, also gathered around, inside the classroom and outside in the hallway.

“First of all, will you stop cutting me off? I am trying to explain the situation here!” And now Satoru was also losing it.

“Explain? Explain what? Explain how you are above everything and literal incarnation of God or something? Oh did my lowly perfume perhaps irritate your nose hair?” The sarcasm clearly entailed what kind of image you have already built in your head about him. Perhaps it was from all sorts of exaggerated rumours about him. Though you didn't seem like one to fall for such petty rumours, like how he was an undercover actor or prince. But he was sure what kind of a person you thought this guy was—an arrogant asshole.

“Do you even know me?” said Satoru, now starting to become really irritated by your—in his opinion—unnecessary attitude. The last month has been hard enough as is. It took him time to settle down and not let people’s stares or baseless rumors get to him—some of them might have been funny if he was being honest. It was the friends he made in his first week who held him back from getting into more fights than he already did, and had his back against all the whispers.

“Do you know me well enough to shout my first name in front of my entire class!?” Well Satoru didn't have a comeback to that. “Exactly. So why don't you keep yourself and your arrogance out of my sight.” You grimaced.

“Arrogance? Oh please shortcake. You sure have a lot of words to spout with that height of yours.” Now he was just being petty.

“Oh because being a streetlight is so gratifying!”

“At least I don't cut people off mid sentence then talk shit!” and he has completely lost his cool.

“Oh don't put on pretence! Like you are some saint!? For who? The girls who flock you like some shiny stone?”

“Oh don't be salty just because I didn't give you some attention shortcake.” He was trying to get under your skin. He's now losing sight of his actual motive.

“Yes, because I am dying to be acknowledged by your highness, and how my smell is bothering his expensive nose!”

“Listen. That was entirely a misunderstanding, and you're not even trying to hear me out. You are the one picking a fight!”

“Oh I am sorry, I just can't stand pretentious people.” you stab your last quip with a glare, stabbing right through his chest, all while maintaining perfect eye contact.

“You know what. Nevermind shortcake, this was a waste of time.”

“I didn't even ask for your presence in the first place.” Your eyes deadpanned, remained trained on him, bored yet bothered. Both of your faces mere inches away, when did it get there? No idea. He was cranking his head down to glare back into your eyes, losing all motivation to return your keychain. And before he could come up with any further retort, the bell rang. Thankfully.

Word of this interaction spread through the entire school like wildfire.

A few things were instantly established in the passing months since Satoru’s arrival—he was going to be popular, he is good at almost everything, and that he got along with almost everyone; even the people he did not have a good rapport with at the beginning, now he seemingly got along with them perfectly.

But, there was one person who could not stand him. And that person happened to be you. And everyone was aware of this. The students, respective and common friends, the teachers, heck even the principal knew.

Yet in the next 6 months since Satoru joined the school, he found himself crossing paths with you quite often. First he really did just avoid you; he gave up on giving back the keychain, that he did out of pettiness. He really did want to return it, but unless and until you dropped your attitude he was not letting the cat chain go, but he did take good care of it— it sat nicely on his desk, gave it a little bed made out of a soft napkin he got from his mom. Once in a while he would dust it and give it pats, and also speak to it. Yeah, after dinners when he would be studying he would speak to that little guy. He was feeling real friendly with it, which made him feel more bad for it, because at the end of the day it belonged to you.

In the instances where Satoru and you would run into each other; you could be laughing out loud and having a fun time and then, you would see him across the hallway and your face would morph into a scowl. It irked him, in a good way, it made him feel excited that he had such a sway on you. Even if he was convinced it was not that one single—incorrectly interpreted—comment about your perfume, which made you have such a poor opinion of him; there has to have been a deeper reason. From what he has gathered, you are the highest scoring student in the entire year, the teachers have a very good opinion of you, and you are helpful towards your peers— a straight A’s student, and their sophomore student body council secretary, a real model student. Even though you would mostly keep to yourself, you were still pretty well known by others.

Yet when you saw him, you would lose your cool. In fact from what he heard, the biggest takeaway from the fight you two had was that, ‘woah she can be like that?’, because people apparently had never seen you speak over a certain decibel. That stroked his ego. Made him feel sort of special, got him all giddy.

He was yet to realize the gravity of those feelings. The impact of the rush he felt when he smelled your sweet and citrusy fragrance when you passed by him, speeding up to lose sight of him faster. And he would always be left behind, to stand still, taking it all in.

His little teasing remarks, pranks, and fight initiators started soon after the fight you two had that day; started small really. Calling you shortcake constantly, interrupting you when you would go to their class to make some announcement on behalf of the student body. Trying to get better grades than you. Going over to the student body room, using his class president Kento as an excuse, to annoy you. Stealing your spectacles on days you would not put in contacts, trying it on and copying your mannerisms. His personal favorite was to snatch away any books, notebooks, or papers in your hands; to then hold it over his head. The whole thing about you jumping to try and get it out of his hands—which was an impossible task for you—gave him the opportunity to smell your scent much better.

During one of such instances, where he was holding one of the student council papers over his head, prolonging your work, he got a whiff of your shampoo. It smelled like fruits, strawberries and more citrus—it smelled like orange this time. This was fatal. The notes of bergamot and peonies were threatening his sanity as is, and now there were strawberries. He got so trancened by your presence that when his hand lowered involuntarily, you took the chance to grab onto his shoulder, to use him as a support to reach for your papers—he stood there looking into your squinting eyes as you retrieved the papers from his hand, until you walked off muttering curses at him.

And he just stood staring at your back. His eyes lingered on you long enough to see you turn back and throw a glare at him as you made a turn to disappear from his line of sight.

This went on, the teasing and squabbling, the name callings, use of the words shortcake and streetlight became significantly more frequent in your respective lexicons. Satoru loved using his pretty privileges to get the girls in your class to do his bidding, and had them sending you off somewhere without mentioning his name, the naive enchanted girls would abide with no questions asked. And when you would show up, he would throw a fake snake at you, or jumpscare you—though this was a more rare occurrence than his regular teasing, just so you would not get too used to this sort of pranks that it would lose its effect on you.

To him the idea of you was like this puzzling question nagging and straining on his mind, much like your physical self. But you got him excited and riled up. Also a little annoyed at the fact that you do not think of him worthy enough to spare any time. Which is why he came up with these mischievous ideas to elicit reactions out of you.

Nothing was more satisfying than to see you break under his little ventriloquism.

The dynamics took a slight turn when you two became second year students.

On the fateful morning of the day when the results for first year’s finals came out—you found yourself standing dumbfounded, looking at your full name on the bulletin board, in second place.

You came in second.

Which is big! An amazing achievement. But it didn't feel like it. Especially when your name was displayed second to Gojo Satoru. He outdid you, he really did. Getting better grades than you in random tests and what not was one thing, then outranking you and ruining your plan for a perfect streak—was another thing. The horror and embarrassment of standing in front of the huge display of the grades, surrounded by everyone, having your failures announced in broad daylight, hearing everyone whisper about you—had you standing there like a cold unmoving statue.

So when Satoru got around to finally stroll in with ease, way after the results were announced, to come up to stand directly behind you—because as always the first person his eyes wander to find in a crowd is—you. He couldn't figure out why you glared at him differently, there was this underlying somber and a tilting glaze in your eyes. It was as if any moment you were going to break down into tears and his presence was anything but welcomed.

Praise his tongue, because thankfully that day it held itself back. Thankfully his senses caught on to what was happening. Coming in first or second or last did not matter much to him, because what mattered most to him was to simply get under your skin, essentially the very reason why he ended up on the top of the list—but you did not find this funny or amusing. And it wasn't your usual annoyance and dismay of his antics, he really felt like he had done something to actually hurt you.

And which in return hurt him tenfold. Knowingly or unknowingly, Gojo Satoru bled himself a wound that he didn't know how to stitch close.

He didn't know what exactly hurt more, the fact you ran away from there that day after he arrived, without a single word. Or the fact that you've been completely ignoring his existence since that day. It has been really painful for him, because everytime he would get a glimpse of you or a whiff of you—you'd disappear from his sphere, as soon as humanly possible. He made every effort to try to speak to you. The rejoice he felt about being assigned to the same classroom as you this year, was starting to wear off. Especially when you made it explicitly clear through your actions that you had no intention of speaking to him or acknowledging his existence, more than ever. If you were helping out class president Nanami Kento with distributing papers, you would hand over his papers as nonchalantly as possible. In one of such several instances, he gave up on giving you space to get back to your usual self, and grabbed your wrist to explain himself.

“L/n, listen, i am really sorry alright. I don't know how it happened. I swear I did not mean to hurt you like that, I swear! I was just-” he blabbed on without making much sense, whispering as discreetly as possible. Even though the entire school was aware you two were not on even speaking terms anymore. He did not want to put you in a position where everyone made a spectacle out of you.

“I have better things to do, Gojo.” as always you would cut him off, without even sparing him as much as even a glare, then yank your wrist out of his grasp to go on your merry way.

He really did whatever he could, following you around like a kicked puppy, leaving notes on your desk, which was fortunately assigned right before his own desk—he was not sure if it made things a little easier for him, or a hundred times harder. It stung to find those notes crumbled up and sitting on his own desk later. Stung to sit behind you, when you refused to spare a glare or two his way, even some sharp remarks, or curses directed at him. The smell of sweet citrus and peonies did not help. The teachers would call him out more often than not for being distracted in class. Poor guy was really going through it.

The nail in his coffin was, when it had already been three weeks since the new year started. Three weeks and three days of you completely ignoring his pathetic attempts at saying sorry to you. On the fourth day of the fourth week, he found you in the teacher's lounge, speaking to one of your subject teachers;

“Goodness L/n. The year just started and you are already slacking off? Forgetting to submit the student council work on time, then forgetting your class assignments!? Is there something going on? No surprise Gojo surpassed you, do you understand the gravity of that? That careless guy outranked you. And you are making no efforts to rectify that! If things go on like this, next year you might come second from last.” he really crossed a line there.

If it was in Satoru’s capacity, he would’ve probably gone in and punched the man straight square in the jaw. He never really liked him to begin with. It was not about the fact he called Satoru careless, or the fact he always finds the flaws in Satoru—it was entirely about how he treated you. And it was not just in this instance, the guy has always been harsh and judgemental towards you, from what he heard it started since one day you corrected his mistake during class. And he was known to be not tolerant of anyone being better than him, especially students.

Satoru almost broke into the room, when his eyes locked with yours. You stood in front of the guy with your hands tightly gripped by your side, facing the door. Your already glossy eyes started to almost overflow with tears when your gaze fell on him, your body was slightly trembling. How you managed to blink away those tears, is beyond him. In the brief moment where you looked at him and looked away to control your emotions, making an effort to not break down into tears in front of the room full of teachers, the teacher who was scolding you, and your homeroom teacher Mr. Yaga who was giving you pitiful glaces—he knew interrupting will only make things worse for you.

More than anyone, you did not want to cry in front of Satoru. And Satoru was cognizant of that fact better than maybe even yourself.

So, he did the most sensible thing he could in that moment, for once, he simply stood outside with his back to the wall outside of the teacher’s room, and did not dare to look inside. And he just waited while remaining unnoticeable. Waiting for you to come out, he did not care for the looks thrown his way by the students roaming in the hallways, as long as they did not spare a glance towards you and try to snoop. What did he even want to say to you when you came out of there? He had no idea, and he knew he was the last person you would want to see right now, but for him you are the first person he wants to see everyday after he wakes up—so he could not just let you be on your own in this condition. Because he knew better than anyone, you were not one to wear your heart on your sleeves.

Satoru essentially blended in there, to the point you did not even notice him standing there when you left the room in a hurry, and headed the opposite way from your class. Recess was already over, that guy kept you in there for the entire recess period. ‘Goodness did you even eat?’ was something that crossed his mind among various spiteful and angry words he was muttering under his breath directed towards that teacher.

You were never one to miss a class, cutting classes without any valid reason was out of the question. But honestly if you tried to go in the class right now, he would have probably dragged you somewhere else himself. So he did the next best thing—followed you from a distance to wherever you were going. No one is going to care or notice if you two were gone at the same time, right? Well at least he could make up some excuse and take all the blame himself. He was not exactly known for his attendance record anyway, the sole reason why he made sure not to miss school was because you barely ever skipped school.

That is how he found you in the school yard at the back, near the flower patch the students planted, against the big Momiji tree. Where you are found most times during free periods, reading whatever book you may be reading at the moment. This time you were just crying, well it is not that he could see you, but he could tell. You were sitting with your knees to your chest, face buried in your hands, your entire figure was clearly trembling even from afar. Soft sobs jabbed his ears as he got closer and made his chest hurt. He slowly walked up to the tree trying not to scare you.

“Stop lurking like a creep.” You said with your head still down.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.” He said softly, and went to take a seat beside you, unsure if you were going to run away from him again.

You laid your legs flat on the grass and rested your back against the tree when he made his way over to you. When you looked up at him, eyes bloodshot red, glassy with tears, and more tears running down your cheeks, pooling at your chin— with your lips slightly jutted out and eyebrows bunched up in a frown, he just fell on his knees in front of you. Happerhazadly pulled out his handkerchief, and offered to take it.

“Is this funny to you?” you said with a frown. He knew you were upset but he couldn't help but think, and mindlessly said it out loud—

“Cute.”

“Ah so this is cute to you!? You are finding my misery and embarrassment cute. You seriously-” he cuts you off mid sentence.

“Will you ever actually let me speak!?” He takes a second and continues “Goodness shortcake, I meant you are cute. The tongue you've got on you, could wound thousands of soldiers and that brain of yours could beat Usain Bolt in a race.” He let out a short chuckle as he shook his head slightly and wiped your face with his handkerchief.

He gingerly wiped away the tears falling down your cheeks and chin, and the accumulated tears in the corners of your eyes. With utmost gentle touch he cleaned you up, which was characteristically contradictory.

You looked away from him without any retort. Too occupied with the fact he called you cute, to even notice that little gesture. So you further leaned back onto the tree as if it'll engulf you and make you not sit here with him and confront this heavy air hanging between you two. But also, who is stopping you from getting up and walking away?

Things have always been odd when Gojo Satoru was involved. Somehow after everything, time and time again you found yourself breaking down all your walls to let this guy have a peek at your most authentic self—someone who is envious, easily irritable, not the patient and tolerating soft-spoken girl everyone knows. And it irks you. It claws at your skin that he has been nothing but himself since day one; even before entering the gates of the school, he didn't think of the consequences but just turned his back to it and almost walked away. Yet you were rushing to make it on time, to not have any smear on your perfect record. Even if you were late only because you were up studying until late for the midterms looming over, you could not excuse one slip up.

Why didn't he run the opposite direction of the school but instead chased after you?—you couldn't pinpoint the answer. Everything about him just simply made your head scramble, enough so you didn't even realize you lost your beloved cat keychain until later during lunch. Even when you searched around everywhere, traced back your steps, and looked for it on the route back home; it was nowhere to be found. You cried yourself to sleep that night thinking how you lost the keychain, which had a cat who looked exactly like the cat you once loved and cherished. It was unfortunate enough to have lost him at such a young age, but the key chain helped to have his presence as if guiding you through obstacles.

And without him, things have been a mess. The only explanation you could rationalize was that Gojo Satoru was the one to blame for everything. If he hadn't turned back and ran in after you, you would've been more receptive to your keychain dropping instead of this giant guy running behind you, and wouldn't have lost it. If only he didn't become friends with Shoko and the others you wouldn't have to possibly interact with him. And then he wouldn't know of your existence and try to make it his mission to have your life fall apart.

“I'm sorry.”

What surprising words even for him. There have been very few people in his life he has ever genuinely apologized to. He could count them all on all his fingers, but he never expected to be where he was currently.

“I am sorry for saying that you smell, which I did not mean in the way it came off, I am just really bad with my words. I meant you smell really nice.” His face was completely serious and there was no trace of mockery or jest.

“I just- not to be a creep, I saw you on my first day here. At the school gates.” His eyes softened and his body started to fidget. He almost seemed—nervous?

“I almost ran back to Tokyo that day. I wasn't really, well to put it simply, happy about the whole moving thing. And if you hadn't rushed past me that day, I probably would've gone with my plan.” He throws an easy smile in your direction. “If you hadn't dropped this—” He digs around his pockets and encloses something in his fist.

“Maybe it would have been much harder for me and my parents to start off here. I am almost glad you dropped this little guy that day.” When he opened his fist, in the space between you two, there rested your lost keychain with the cat who reminded you of your dead pet cat.

Upon the sight of your beloved cat (keychain), your mouth opened a little with an audible gasp. Your hand went up timidly to touch it on his palm, actively sending shivers down his spine at the brush of your fingertips. All he could focus his eyes on was your hand, not even daring to look up at your face, afraid of the state of his own face.

He was sure the heat he felt rushing up to his cheeks and ears, must have evidently turned his pale skin into a blushing mess. If only he was not so preoccupied with his own emotions, he would have noticed the first speck of tear forming yet again in the corners of your eyes, before it could even fall down. Which he only felt when he saw the droplets of water that landed on the palm of his hand, effectively making him snap his head back up to look at your weeping face.

If he asked you then why were you crying? You would have probably just cried harder. So you were thankful that he did not ask.

He did not bother to ask any questions but simply took you in his arms, burying your face in his chest, actively soaking his shirt in the shivering winds of spring—letting you cry about nothing and everything, in the arms of the guy who has been the source of your annoyance since the day he arrived.

“You make no sense to me” your sobs became muffled through the fabric of his shirt and sweater vest.

“That is a weird way of thanking someone for returning the keychain which you clearly care a lot about.” he let out a soft giggle, trying to put you at ease. You pulled away from him, much to his dismay, looking only at the keychain he returned in the palm of your hands.

“Well you did take over my rank, and eavesdropped on me getting humiliated.” if it was in his power, he would kiss away that frown and pout.

With that one passing thought, Gojo Satoru had the first epiphany of his life that day. The answer to the inclination he felt towards hogging away all your attention.

“Satoru?” He finally heard from the haze of realization and panic that suddenly hit him. What was he supposed to do now? How was he going to ever face you with these confusing feelings?

“Are you alright?” you seemed genuinely concerned for him. Which melted him. Again, if only he was not so preoccupied with the mess in his head and chest, he would have realized much earlier you just called him by his first name. For the first time ever.

“Did you just call me by my first name?” he asked in genuine awe. While you shied away from him a little, which he found more endearing—this is an entirely biased perspective.

“Also! I really did not mean to outdo you! I swear! I didn't even try that hard, and I was sure you were going to do way better than me. Believe me it was just a fluke.” he blabbered on in a frenzy. “Wow, way to show off Gojo.” you said playfully with an eye roll and half smile, just impressed by the lack of imperious tone in his voice.

“No, I swear! Also i mean you have been looking really exhausted these days, maybe that is why, or else how can i ever beat you? I don't know, maybe because I am new. So they were like—’let’s give him this so he does not go around picking fights again’. Also come on you just called me Satoru what happened! No take backs.” you let out a big laugh at his silly rambling. “Goodness. Alright Satoru.”

And he's all smiles with the sound of his own heart beating in his ears.

“I will be taking back my spot from you. Keep it warm until then.” With those final words you stood up and walked away, the hand you used to give him a final pat on his shoulder—dragged off his shoulder with each step enlarging the distance between you two. The agonizingly lingering heat that it left behind, surely left a mark on his skin. It burnt, or perhaps shocked him—he was unclear which was worse.

One thing was clear as he watched you walk back into the building—he is in deep waters. And unfortunately he doesn't know how to swim.

It is truly beyond current Satoru, how teen Satoru's thought processes worked. Because how do you come to the conclusion that ‘i need to do everything in my power other than confront these feelings eating away at me.’

So after the confrontational and very heartfelt conversation with you, Satoru felt more powerless than ever at the mercy of the feelings you provoked within him. His head would feel light, chest would feel heavy, feet would go numb, and every moment he would get a whiff of your scent he could feel a threatening nosebleed.

Actually once during PE you sat beside him after running, sweaty and out of breath. You had simply leaned over him to grab the water bottle by his side—and his nose started bleeding. Until then he never believed in the whole thing about getting a nosebleed because of being overwhelmed, he genuinely believed one needs to be punched real hard in the face or hit something face first with good impact to get a nosebleed.

And now he stands corrected.

He wasn't sure whether it was the citrus, peonies, or the new found smell of your musk and natural odor which triggered the whole thing. Or maybe it was the worry you showed, scrambling to stop the blood dripping down his nose with your sweat soaked towel, tilting his head back with your hands and shouting for your PE teacher to come and help him—if only you knew all of it helped less and less.

The whole thing made him realize that he needs to get a grip!

And how did he execute that— by confiding in his friends? Making an effort to confess to you? No. He decided that it would be a brilliant idea to accept every confession he got and date as many girls as he could—to forget you, of course.

In his defense, he liked what you two got going right now. He gradually grew really close to you; started with simple conversations and jokes to then a fully established friendship. At least he liked the thought of being your friend.

He liked when you’d lean back in your chair to whisper little jokes to him, how the teacher completely fumbled that sentence. Or when you would give him candies, because you always carried some with you, or when you would come to him first before going to anyone else if you did not understand a lesson.

He particularly liked when you would share a rambling synopsis of the books you were currently reading or recently finished, it did not matter how little he cared about the books itself. Mr. ‘could not stop yapping for the love of god’, went completely silent when he stood before you. He loved when you would bring him your latest creation in the kitchen, because you were trying to learn how to cook and it did not matter to him how salty or half cooked and fully burnt the food would be. It was the effort you put into asking him about his favorites and tried making it. Like the effort he put into not letting you get a clue about how much of a digimon guy he was, because he would rather hear you talk about pokemons to him for hours. Did not matter that he thought digimon was superior.

Satoru might have been a popular guy since he joined; being extremely good looking, witty, academically gifted, part of the basketball team and having friends who were equally well known worked in his favor of being probably the most sought after guy in school. But that never made him a ‘player’, as one would assume. Often he would return the gifts he would get or politely decline confessions. So to everyone's surprise when he accepted the first confession, rumors went around—’maybe he was waiting for her to confess this entire time?’ Well, the rumors steered a different direction when she broke up with him within a week, and the next girl also broke up with him within a similar span of time. And when this pattern repeated for the rest of the year, people started labeling him as a cliche popular guy.

Around his sixteenth relationship, you happened to see him getting slapped real hard by the girl he was going out with at the time. They were talking behind the gardening shed, close to the Momiji tree you loved oh so dearly. All that shouting and cursing she did before slapping him, reached your ears, and as a diligent member of the student’s council you could not ignore it. The slap was echoing. She really left a mark on his cheeks, others have slapped him before for being so apathetic about everything, to get a one last satisfactory reaction out of him. But they have all failed at that. But this girl slapped him harder than anyone else had before her— while calling him a piece of shit for leading her on and wasting her time. So he got broken up with again. And he did not seem even a little bothered by this, his face only started contorting in a panic when his eyes landed on you standing the opposite way from the route his ex took to storm off.

Which ended up making him run away from you, a new occurrence for both of you. And this time you had to be the one to chase after him. You found him in the stairwells, where you silently just sat beside him. This must be what they call deja vu.

“So. long day huh?” you dragged each word awkwardly.

“You don’t have to do this Y/n.” he said without even looking at you, just looking down at his hands intertwined with each other, on his lap.

“Unfortunately for you, I want to. We are friends aren’t we?” you asked him expectantly.

And Satoru only ever wished to be your friend. He liked being friends with you. If you called him your friend the day he went to your class to return that keychain he would have been ecstatic, but right now? Being called your friend felt like yet another hit to his heart. He wants to leap out of the bounds of friendship and hold you, tell you how much he loves you. “Yes we are.” Those three words felt like gravel ripping his own skin.

“Then just hear me out won’t you?” and how can he say no to you looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes, and smiling lips. You can ask him for anything and he would not dare to deny. So naturally he nodded a yes wordlessly.

“You don’t seem like yourself these past few months. I am worried about you— we are all worried.” he stared at you as you took a pause to continue, assessing whether or not he was getting pissed off. “I know how much it sucks to hear that you have changed or something like that. But I do not mean it like that—you have been more distant, and just- well, you seem off.”

“You do know that you can tell me anything right? Is there anything bothering you? Are some kids bullying you? Tell me their names, I will take care of them.” you said with squinted eyes and a raised fist like you were ready to beat up some kids for him. And the sheer idea of that image tickled a laugh out of him.

“Sure you will shortcake.” he said in a fit of laughter. And you have never been more glad to hear him call you by that nickname. It has grown on you, similarly as he has grown on you.

“I am fine, at least now that I am sure about something, I am fine.” he said with a sigh, like something heavy lifted off his shoulders. “You sure right?” you enquired again just for confirmation.

“Yesssss, now stop furrowing your eyebrows, you are bound to get wrinkles before you are even thirty.” he was helpless to the smile that grew on his face, “wow way to thank the person who just cheered you up.”

“Stop trying to copy me shortcake.” he bumped his head slightly on yours, causing you to gasp and bump your forehead to his—some sort of retaliation if you will. Cannot let him get away with the last word, can you? “Don’t bump your big head with mine! What if I catch your dummy disease!?” you said with your forehead still on his forehead. Faces mere inches away from one another.

“Uh huh? And what are you gonna do about it?” Satoru has no idea where this was coming from or where this was going. But having you in such close proximity was definitely messing with his head.

“I will-” you cut yourself off, staring back into his eyes, unable to continue whatever you were trying to say—something about his eyes, the shades of blue, lapis and cerulean, making you incapable of continuing. It is as if there dwelled an ocean in his eyes, and unfortunately you never took your swimming lessons seriously. “What are you going to do, shortcake?”

Well, no one found the answer to that question, as the bell rang and made the both of you flinch away from one another. In a moment of awkwardness about whatever that inexplicable tension was, you both did the most expected thing— laughed it off and headed towards the classroom.

Rest of the year passed with Satoru coming to terms with his feelings for you, hyping himself up to confess to you, and spending time with you. And somehow the both of you ended up getting the exact grades at the end of the year, ending up on the first rank together—something that was bound to happen when you are studying together, giggling in class together, eating together, feeding the cats who took a nap behind the school, together. Even when he was more of a dog guy.

And, Satoru really liked the idea of being together with you.

When senior year rolled around and he was determined to make you his by the time you guys graduated high school. Which is easier said than done.

Especially when he is not making any efforts other than just moving his pupils frantically between your lips and eyes, as you go on and on about the student body president’s new dumb mandate. His mind is probably looking at you with heart eyes, lying on its stomach, kicking its feet. Because it keeps repeating,

‘everyday baby, please say you're mine.’

It is a little embarrassing when he has to hide behind the bookshelves when you turn to look his way, because he would be piercing his longing gaze in the back of your head. Why did he not go up to the seat you were occupying at the library? Strike up an easy conversation; and have you offer him a seat with a smile, or get annoyed at him for talking too much and too loud in the library—he does not have the answer himself. All he knew while peeking at you from between the books in a nearby shelf, that his heart was palpitating like it may burst out of his chest any moment, and have the librarian come scold and shush it.

Walking by the hallways near your favorite Momiji tree, to catch a glimpse of you under it, by skipping on practice was the usual at this point. His teammates and coach have given up. Does not mean he doesn’t have to face consequences for these acts of stupidity. Especially on the off chance you visit one of his matches and he goes full statue in the middle of running up to the basket, then as he gains his composure back, he goes full throttle on his opponents. To show off his shots and dribbles during the match. The team and the coach let it pass sometimes, only because it guarantees that they will win the match. But they always make sure to lecture him about abandoning them to push past the hoard of people congratulating him, to only get to you. With groans of collective clamour going, “just confess already.”

Satoru, to this day, still wishes it was that easy. It is not that he never tried.

First time he tried to confess, you two were simply sitting in class, at your desks. Your chair was turned around, so you could sit facing him. He had stayed behind with you after classes ended, to help you with council work. But the yellow, orange and pink hues of the setting sun on your face, was leaving his usual talkative demeanor to be tongue tied. And when you leaned forward on the desk to snap your fingers in face to hopefully get him out of the trance where he was drowning—in those milliseconds between you moving off your seat, looming over him, and looking straight into his eyes; he almost blurted it all out. If only it was not for Kento to walk into the class and enquire about the progress you made on the work, he would have laid it all out for you.

That was not the only time he was teetering over the edge. One time you dragged him to the garden behind school during PE to feed the cats who take naps around there. He actually blurted out “I am in love.”

Which naturally had you snap your head in his direction, your surprise also had the cat lying in your lap surprised, that it also looked in his direction. So he backpedaled, defending his words by rephrasing them, “No! I mean, I am loving this. As in, like, not having to do PE class!” you laughed it off, joking that his poor choices of words and phrasing will definitely get him in deep trouble one day.

There had been so many instances he just almost verbalized his feelings, almost found that serenity in having you know the reason behind the ache in his chest, and the foggy fuzz clouding his judgment around you. But he only wishes he actually followed through with his emotions. Often he found his emotions to be stuck in a battle between his tongue and brain.

After many such (failed) attempts, he finally decided to just lay it all out after the graduation ceremony. As he could not burden you with his feelings when he spent the entirety of the year dilly dallying so much that the finals and entrance exams were near enough to have students lose sleep.

Sometimes in his dreams, Satoru still dreams about the day of his high school graduation ceremony. He dreams of the very events that took place that day, and different possibilities.

He woke up much earlier than usual that morning. He did not want to be late at any cost. Not because he wanted to be there to hear the principal give the same old speech she gives every year or hear the student body president, Kamo Noritoshi, give out yet another speech, he has had enough of his boring speeches as well. He really just wanted to hear your valedictorian speech.

He was glad he did not earn the highest GPA in his year— no, it was not because he did not want to give some stupid speech, though it was part of the reason. He was beyond happy for you, instead of gloating over his own GPA which made him come in second to you, he was more thrilled over you beating him to the first spot. He was so happy that day he literally hugged you so tight, your inner organs almost spilled out from the looks of it, going as far as to lift you up in the air and making a whole show out of it. Honestly from afar it would be confusing to conclude who exactly did better, though anyone who has lingered their eyes a bit too long on Gojo Satoru knew better, which was practically the entire school, it was not surprising to see him act as such. It was rather surprising he did not tie ranks with you, considering his capacity to ace anything and everything, especially academics. But it was ordinary to see him celebrate your wins much more loudly than everyone combined.

When you asked him the question how he did not get a higher GPA than you, later over celebratory ice cream with your friend groups. He just shrugged it off and simply told you that, “Eh. I just goofed around and had a fun senior year, considering these are the most memorable years of one’s life.” with a smug smile stretched across his face, accompanied by his raised shoulders.

“Sure, it was totally not because you were feeling too lazy.” at this point you were all too familiar with Gojo’s pattern. And unlike in the past, you found it more fun to banter with his silliness than getting angry at his conceit. It was still annoying, but not as annoying as it used to be.

“Tch. Tch. Shortcake, you just do not get the concept of fun as well as you get the concept of natural selection. ”

Despite his claims he knew why he did not surpass you, well not because he granted you that position out of pity or his obvious feelings towards you. He respected you too much to one day have you find out your achievements were not well earned, it would eat him up otherwise. Though the reason still was you, or perhaps it was his pathetic attempts at winning you over and expanding the definition of your relationship with him.

Anyway, currently he was sitting unsteady in the back of his father’s car, stuck in a jam, not giving ear to either of his parents reassuring him from the front that they will get there in time. But unfortunately for the Gojos, their son was not the patient kind.

Which is exactly why they didn't object much other than a few shouts when Satoru ran out of the car, with his gown and graduation hat tucked under his armpits. Thankfully they were not stuck too far from the school, but Satoru was unfortunately late for his own graduation ceremony. When he ran inside the auditorium, the hall full of parents, students, teachers, and peers alike, were staring him down— maybe for rudely interrupting the principal's speech, or for looking drop dead gorgeous while sweating buckets; it was unclear.

He silently walked up to where his class was standing and took his place in the empty space left behind for him. The principal resumed with a cough, continuing whatever faux inspirational speech she may have been talking about. His eyes roamed around frantically to land on yours, staring back at him, scrunching and raising your eyebrows in a comical way. While pointing at your watch, silently reprimanding him for his tardiness, all Satoru could do was smile and shrug like a helpless kicked puppy. But as if that has ever worked on you, so you rolled your eyes at him with the shake of your head and mouthed at him to focus on the speech.

After that very boring speech, and handing out the certificates, followed by another boring speech by Kamo Noritoshi, it was finally time for your speech.

When you stood waiting in the left wing of the stage for your cue, he could clearly see you nervously playing with your hands. Fortunately his intense stares had you looking in his direction, so he waved his hand a little to get your focus, and just wished you a silent ‘goodluck, you got this!’ through exaggerated mouth movements.

Was it cute? Or weird? Either way, it made you smile and ease up, and that's all that matters to him. He was probably the one cheering the loudest for you among everyone in there, your parents or friends or anyone, couldn't have dared to match his voice echoing through walls, to the point the teachers had to shut him up by the very end of your speech. Because he kept clapping or whistling really loud in between every pause.

“At the end of the day, these years we've spent here will always stick with us. For better or for worse, and all I want, is to thank those people who made it bearable through all of it. And I hope you all have a future filled with achievements, celebrated alongside those people around you, who make it bearable. Thank you very much.”

Satoru did not cheer the loudest this time around, his silence was drowned out by the loud cheers or the flying caps around him. He was too busy standing there, a hostage to your teary eyes, and a smiling face coming down the stage.

After a few very busy hours of hugs and pictures with family and friends, and some supportive words as well as teasing lectures from the teachers; Satoru went off to find you surrounded by few people.

“Hey!” he came behind you and spoke in a breathy whisper in your right ear.

“Ah! Satoru! Oh my goodness I've been looking for you!” You slapped his arm lightly as he tried to say,

“Listen, I-” “I need to speak to you. Come with me. Sorry, will you excuse us?” You dragged him by his left hand, tangled with your own right hand. It is not that he has never held hands, he's done plenty more than that, but your hands meant more. And he hopes you heard his heart beating through his hands, as you held onto it and dragged him to a random empty hallway.

“I suppose this works, I was gonna drag you away myself.” He lets out a little chuckle as he settles opposite you, facing you, “I wanted to-”

“I am moving away.”

“What?”

“I am moving out of the country. I, um, applied to this university abroad and they accepted me. It was not confirmed until last week, I've told almost everyone but.” You take a pause and stare down at his blank face, rid off the little shy smile and blush adorning him just a second ago, before continuing, “But, I just did not- I mean, I could not just figure out how I was going to tell you.”

Satoru lets out a dry chuckle. “What's so hard about that? Come on shortcake. It's just me.”

“I, I know. I mean-” this time he interjects.

“Are you happy?”

You blink twice and answer, “More than I thought I would be.”

‘Then that's enough for me.’ Is what Satoru meant to say then, instead he said something different.

“I am really happy for you Y/n. Will miss you shortcake.” He cracks a genuine smile, despite the storm waiting to unleash in his chest through the waterworks of his eyes, regardless he was still happy in your happiness.

When you leaped into his arms with a tight grip on his back, mumbling a choked up “I'll actually miss you more dummy.”

“Nope can’t let you have this one too.” with a chuckle he patted your head as you cried in his arms for the second time since you have known him, once was one too many times for you but here you are. Perhaps this was the last time, he thought.

“Also, I want you to have this.” you handed him a keychain, similar to yours, but instead of an orange little cat, there was a white cat attached to it. “When I saw it, it reminded me of you.” You placed the little guy on his palm, and he closed his fist around it with every intention of cherishing it for eternity.

“I’ll see you soon right?” You asked him, as you looked up at him with tear stains on your cheek, matching the stain on his shirt, and he just nodded with a tight grip around the keychain. Maybe he was too scared to verbally give you any promises, otherwise he would start breaking down much harder than you. But one thing he was sure about,

“You'll do great shortcake, you always have.”

‘As I will always love you.’

On days as such, filled with nostalgia. Or on nights spent staring at his ceiling, wide awake, clock ticking closer and closer to the next day— he thinks of you. He thinks about the different possibilities and the most regrettable moments of his life, and thinks, what if?

What if he had chosen a different line of work instead of taking over for his father? What if he went to that pop up shop before they sold out of their limited edition creps? Or what if he chose to go to that school reunion five years ago with Suguru and everyone else. Would he have met you?

What if he had told you he loved you that day? What if he did not wallow in his own self pity and made a better effort at reaching out to you when you suddenly stopped contacting him during second year of University? What if he swallowed down the resentment over your silence and flew across the globe to you? Would not have been the first time he did that. It was the automated voice telling him that the number he dialed does not exist anymore, and the complete refusal from mutual friends to let him know about your whereabouts—that irked him. What did he do so wrong for you to even remove the little pleasure he enjoyed from having you at the very least as a friend.

Maybe if he asked you selfishly to not move away altogether, things would have been different. But how could he, when he never had any concrete dreams of his own other than pursuing in his father's footsteps, to now take over for him. The way your eyes always shined bright with aspirations, and the amount of hard work you put into achieving them, made him try for himself.

Then how could he have been selfish with the one person whom he selflessly gave away his heart to?

“Sato! Come eat! Finish that later!” his mother shouted from inside, breaking the trance of reminiscence. “Yesss mom!” he shouted back to let her know.

And when he set to go inside, he felt something heavy on his legs. While cleaning the boxes, Satoru had gone to sit on the edge of the patio, with his legs hanging from his edge. The height was long enough to have him lose his sight about where his legs were below the knees to his feet comfortably touching the ground.

When he crouched down to look at what was weighing him down, he found a white fluffy cat; clearly well taken care of, lying comfortably, belly up, on top of both of his feet. Set of blue hued pupils peeking out of his blinking eyes. And a smug smile of contentment on his face, either satisfied with his nap or from annoying Satoru. As cute of a look alike this cat may have been to the one on the keychain you gave him—which he still uses everyday to hold all his important keyes—Satoru could tell that this cat was one big menace.

“Meowwww” the feline wailed, when Satoru moved his feet off the ground to take a proper look at the creature. The cat in search of his confiscated comfort, crawled up his legs, up to his lap and made himself comfortable.

Satoru leans back to rest his weight on both of his palms, placed on either side of his torso. He lets out a dry huff “Huh. aren’t you one spoiled little guy?”

“Meow.” the cat quips as if agreeing with Satoru, his eyes were closed, trying to get back his lost sleep.

“And what is your name?” Satoru asked the cat and felt foolish that very next instance. Instead of waiting for the cat’s response—because that will obviously not answer his question—he goes to check the yellow collar adorned on the cat’s neck to check for a nametag.

“ICHIGO!” a loud familiar voice cried behind the hedges that protected the view into his parent’s front yard.

Upon hearing the call, the cat’s ears sprung up and went back, going alert. In a blink of an eye the cat ran off of his lap, out of their main gate— in what seemed like mere seconds. And his parent’s house is pretty huge, the patio to the front gate takes well over thirty seconds to get to when you are in a hurry.

So Satoru ran behind the cat, well after it was gone from his sight, worrying it might run into something or hurt himself. But just as he stepped out of the gate, he saw the cat cuddled up in a person’s arms, who was crouched down in relief, obstructing the view to their face. Though the shade of the hair is much familiar to him just as the voice, but the length now shorter than how he remembers it to be. But that same citrus and peony scent remained, infiltrating his olfactory sense before his eyes could fathom the figure in front of him. Or maybe he did not want to believe the reality of the situation to begin with.

“Never do that again! Do you know how scared I was? Why would you run after a butterfly like that!? I am never letting you off your leash again!” You held the cat out, away from your embrace, finally standing straight. Dangling him in the air by his arms, like some sort of punishment.

“Meowww” the cat whined in a pitiful tone, moving his claws in a way as if asking to be held closer again.

“No Ichi. No amount of whining is getting you out of this mister!” while reprimanding the cat, you forgot to acknowledge the person standing upfront.

“Y/n?”

You look up to see who called you out in the middle of scolding your cat. To only see another ball of familiar white fluffy hair, and cerulean eyes, the ones you’ve once loathed with your entire being, and dreamed of countless nights. Standing a few inches taller than what his previously already behemoth height during teen years used to be.

“Satoru?”

Both of you stood there confused and mesmerized by one another’s presence, to have run into each other under such coincidental circumstances, how fateful. With a more confused Ichigo looking back and forth between you two, now standing on his own four legs on the ground. Probably trying to solve the mystery of the heavy silence and air hanging between you two. From the looks of the mirrored shock, and open mouthed gasps that left your respective mouths—seems like this unanticipated meeting was long overdue.

The beauty of fate truly lies in such oblivious encounters. And those who sneak into your life just as unexpectedly, as they fade out wordlessly.

FIND OUT MORE ABOUT HS!SATORU

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

tag list: @madamechrissy @cuntphoric @moonlitwitchdaisy @rriwyu @naomigojo @aishi-toru @cuntyji @arcanarix @fuwagojo @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @indiewritesxoxo @fushitoru @gojosoups @arcanarix @moonchhu @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @emyyy007 @ineedbetterhobbies0809 @littlemisswitch67

a/n: the above used images are from Pinterest, the Gojo one is from the s2 ending and the other two images, i could not find any exact sources so if you know where they are from please kindly let me know. the dividers are by— @/aquazero, @/kodaswrld @/cafekitsune & @/oldgifs4coding, respectively.

thank you to the pookies for beta reading this <3 really my longest work yet. yes it is a bit cliche but oh well. took a lottt of time to finish, first it was finals, then mental and physical health was at all time low, then literally burnt my hand. the part of the valedictorian speech the reader gave, was part of my own speech i gave at my graduation as the head girl, so if you found it shit i better not hear about it.

named her cat Ichigo, because well he calls her shortcake, and ichigo means strawberry. so strawberry and shortcake :3c

happy to have him out ^^ i hope you had fun reading this!! i have a few drabbles and such related to this i plan on releasing. still not sure if i plan to expand their ending :3c ahhh this was not going to be an open ending, but here we areeee

anywayyyy hope your enjoyed your stay ^^ make sure to share your thoughts in the ask box and comments.

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awrkive · 5 months ago

Text

tlp xmas special — jjk (m.)

hello awrkive nation!!! its late but merry christmas to those who celebrate!! sorry for being ia but heres a christmas gift from me to you 🫣 first of all i genuinely forgot abt the car s*x drabble that won that poll i made a few weeks ago which i promised you guys ISHDJDJ but here it is!! this drabble combines all of these three recurring requests for the tlp couple and this might also be the last drabble im doing for them (for now??) so do enjoy!!

pairing: tlp!jungkook x tlp!oc (main story)

summary: in which jungkook looks way too good carrying your sister's three-year old at her christmas eve party and you can't help but let your mind wander

w/c: 6k (ctfu)

warning/s: explicit sexual content (p in v s*x, car s*x, unprotected s*x, cre*mpie), oc having baby fever lol. genuinely not proofread sorry for any errors!

You find babies mesmerizing. They’re charming, they can be a handful, they’re irresistibly cute; so tiny, yet so loud. But to the core, they somehow manage to be a pure embodiment of joy.

Before Nayeon got pregnant, she shared something about having a “baby fever”. Of course you knew what it meant – but you never really felt it yourself. She said it was something about Minhyuk being such a good husband that she couldn’t wait for him to be a father. Well, you related to that specific part, at least; about your own husband being such a good husband. However, for the past year you’ve become a married couple, you never really thought about having babies. Or him being a father. Or you being a mother.

It’s not like you don’t want to become a mother, like ever, or have a family with him. It’s just you thought you’re still way too young to be having babies. So you kind of just… gloss or skip over that idea – and for the record, Jungkook’s never brought it up, either.

It’s not until your sister got pregnant for the second time, though, that you got yourself thinking. Seokjin and her had babies almost four years into their marriage, but it’s not very long until they decided to try again after Nari and now your sister is carrying her baby boy for seven months.

It brings you here, gathered at their house for Christmas Eve. Your families haven’t arrived yet, but you and Jungkook decided to go earlier than the agreed time to help out with the – admittedly, big preparation. And currently, Jungkook’s got Nari – Seokjin and your sister’s 3-year-old – in his arms, asking for raspberries because Jungkook’s her favorite uncle. (Why wouldn’t he be? He spoils her a lot and carries her around when you come over.) He insisted on looking after her so Seokjin can help your sister out in the kitchen while you’re over at the counter island making some charcuterie.

Seokjin’s helping your sister take out the pies they’ve both prepared, with him guarding her and being extra with it because “my wife is pregnant and I’m growing white hairs because she wouldn’t just let me do everything”. Your sister is just so done chastising him for his overbearing antics, but you guess it’s cute, at the core of it all. You’ve always looked up to their relationship all these years. In fact, you kind of see Seokjin in Jungkook sometimes. Seokjin loves your sister the way Jungkook loves you.

And then, the thought passes over your head like some form of looming possibility, unsettling yet intriguing. It lingers for a moment, uninvited but persistent, as if life is quietly hinting at something you’ve never truly considered before. The idea of a baby, of parenthood, feels distant but somehow more tangible now—like a door you never saw, now standing slightly ajar, waiting for you to decide whether to step through.

Would Jungkook be just as (lovingly) overbearing if you were pregnant? You imagine he’d be even more annoying about it. It’s rare for you to get sick, but when you do, Jungkook practically flips the house upside down just to make sure you don’t have to lift a finger. Takes care of you so seriously, as if the illness would never go away on its own in a few days. So what would it be like if you were carrying his child? Would he act like Seokjin does now, always hovering with a hand on your back, supporting your every move, scolding you if you try to do anything that requires even a little bit of effort?

The thought makes your lips curl. Because he probably would. You know he will.

And as you look at him from across the room, carrying Nari around effortlessly against his body with one arm, with his red long-sleeve polo shirt pushed up to his forearms, white slacks, and freshly cut hair slicked to perfection for tonight’s occasion, he looks… delectable.

Like a DILF.

Except he isn’t a dad.

But god, would you really, really like to fuck him.

(And would he look way hotter if he – say – gave you a child?)

“Is it done?” Your sister interrupts your thoughts – thankfully, might you add. Because it’s going in a direction that’s way too inappropriate for a family occasion like this, and you need to be family friendly tonight for this Christmas party.

When you turn around to see if she was talking to you, you find her looking at her husband instead, and with her stance and the tone of her voice, you know it doesn’t sound good.

“Yeah. I think I just need to add a little more—”

“Jin,” she says, sounding a little distressed. “Hurry. And make sure it’s perfect, okay? Everyone’s arriving in fifteen, and this is the first time I’m hosting Christmas and I really, really don’t want to disappoint your family and Jungkook’s parents and mom and—”

“Hey,” You see Seokjin put a hand on the lower part of your sister’s back, effectively cutting her off. Gently, he tells her, “Everything’s perfect, alright?”

Soft tunes of Christmas songs are playing all over the huge open space of their house, and you know you’re not supposed to listen in to the conversation given that they’re spoken in an almost hushed manner as some sort of discretion, but you can’t help but notice when she turns to Seokjin to give him a downturned smile.

“I just really want to give this my all…”

He smiles down at her reassuringly. “You have, honey. Let’s not stress, okay? Not good for baby, remember?” Then, he begins to rub her protruding belly, and you see her visibly relaxing to his touch.

You turn around quickly to not get caught watching, only to be welcomed with Jungkook making a beeline towards you, with Nari still in his arms.

“Hi, baby,” Your sister automatically greets Nari, cooing at her, mood immediately picking up. The bright-eyed little girl lights up at the sight of her mommy, making grabby hands instantly. Laughing, Jungkook hands her to Seokjin, who receives his daughter and kisses her chubby cheeks with a smack.

“What were you up to with uncle JK, little missy?” Seokjin says, swaying her side to side.

Jungkook leans his elbow on the island while looking at the pair, smiling widely.

“Uncle JK said he’s giving me three presents! Three! I wanna open them!” She holds up three fingers, and you giggle at her cuteness.

Your sister softly laughs in response. “Your uncle likes to spoil you, sweetie. But we’ll open them later, okay?”

“Why not now?” She whines, and you smile at how seriously she takes it. “I want three presents!”

“Don’t worry,” Seokjin laughs, “You’ll have lots of surprises when the grandmas and grandpas get here. But we need to change into your dress first.”

Nari giggles. “You? You’re gonna wear a dress too?”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, why not?”

She shakes her head, still giggling, her pigtails swaying as she does so. God, she looks like a combination of Seokjin and your sister that it’s so uncanny sometimes.

“You’re so silly, daddy.”

Seokjin feigns shock. “Silly? Just wait, Uncle JK and I are going to be Ariel and Belle for New Year’s! Right, Jungkook?” He looks over at Jungkook, who widens his eyes comically.

You laugh, and Jungkook adds, “Well, I wanted to be Cinderella, but sure, I’ll be Belle.”

Nari gasps dramatically, putting her hand over her mouth. “But she’s my favorite, Uncle JK! You can’t be her!”

She’s such a cute kid – and you know everybody in the room agrees. No doubt her mom and dad think so, but when you look over at Jungkook, he’s cheesing really hard – with his nose scrunched into that expression of cute aggression.

“These two boys are silly.” Your sister interrupts with a playful roll of her eyes. She looks at her husband Nari, “Honey, take Nari upstairs and dress her up, please.”

“I can wear my new dress now?!” Nari shrieks, excitement showing with the way she wiggles in her father’s hold.

“Absolutely, baby, and the sparkly white shoes, too,” Seokjin nods. You all coo when Nari lets out an adorable, delighted “yay!” at the words, already leaning towards the direction of the stairs and telling her father to hurry. With a chuckle, Seojin turns to you. “Alright. And Jungkook, please help her with the food.” Seokjin’s gaze falls to your sister, a reminder before he goes completely.

“She’s so cute, I can’t.” Jungkook chuckles.

“Right… my sister was definitely not that cute when we were younger.” you tease, earning an arched brow to your way from your sister.

“I was the cuter one between us, it’s an established fact,” she rolls her eyes. “When you two get a kid, it better look like Jungkook.”

Maybe the remark sounded like such a throw-away comment that Jungkook just laughs it off as if it isn’t the first time somebody hinted at you two starting a family. Or maybe he just thinks it isn’t a big deal. Or maybe… maybe he likes the idea?

You’re about to say something when your sister turns to you.

“You,” she takes you by the shoulders and you look back at her. “You might want to retouch your make-up. Party’s starting soon. And this charcuterie looks—” she looks to the side as if to check if Nari is still around, and when she deems she isn’t at all, she continues to say, “fucking perfect. I love you.”

“Duh.” you reply, cockily showing off the board to her and to Jungkook who intriguingly looks at your work.

“I knew you should have been a chef.” Jungkook comments proudly, grinning at you.

“Alright, man,” your sister says in a flat tone, making Jungkook and you laugh. “Jungkook, can help me transfer these to the dining table, please?” She points to the trays of food and Jungkook rounds the counter so he can do just as she requested.

Before you can head to the powder room, Jungkook brushes past your waist – just one of the candid things he does to have some sort of physical contact with you when you’re not necessarily talking together or close to each other.

It puts a smile on your face as you enter the powder room.

Inside, you make quick work of putting another layer of lipstick and pressing powder on your face, checking your hair before you stand upright and look at your reflection in the mirror.

You step backwards enough to see half of your body, and from there, you can see how beautiful you look in the outfit you’ve chosen for tonight. It’s a satin red dress with a halter neckline, the gathered drape cascading gracefully around your neck, exposing your shoulders. The silhouette fits at the waist and flows into a straight skirt that stops inches below your knees, and Jungkook may have had a hard time letting you go in your bedroom before you drove to your sister’s place – but you promised him a good time when you get back home so in the end, he had to tuck in a semi on the way from here.

Poor Jungkook.

Though… you’re beginning to think poor you, instead.

Because you’re thinking about it again. Him in his outfit tonight; the silk polo so he can match yours, and the way he looked so good with a baby girl in his strong arms.

You can already picture how good he'd look with his own child. He’d be the type of dad who looks effortlessly hot with a baby carrier, showers his kids with gifts because he can’t help himself, and simply excels at being a wonderful father because he’s Jeon Jungkook and he excels in everything he sets his mind to.

Now your brain’s going on a haywire.

Because now it’s just Jungkook. Hot Jungkook. Jungkook with a baby. Jungkook looking smoking hot carrying his own baby – your baby.

And wouldn’t it be nice? To carry a being formed by your mutual love? To have someone as adorable and smart and sassy as Nari? God. You hope she’d look like you, but have Jungkook’s eyes because they are your favorite part of him, and then his nose, maybe? And… and maybe have the mole under his lip too, if that was possible. Jungkook had a lot of hair when he came out of his mom’s womb, would your daughter have a lot of hair as well when you give birth to her?

And why are you already thinking of the gender of your non-existent child?

You think you’ve gone nuts, but the indulgent little devil on your shoulder is insisting that Jungkook would look so good with a baby girl because you know he’d be such a girl dad. There’s just absolutely no doubt about it, given how he treats Nari.

You stare at yourself in the mirror again, and absentmindedly, you turn to the side, noting the very clear absence of a bump on your stomach unlike your sister’s.

Would you carry a baby as gracefully as her? You know her struggles… but… maybe you won’t mind it with a husband like Jungkook… right? Just like she doesn’t mind with a husband like Seokjin. Because Jungkook takes really good care of you. He’d probably panic more than you about certain things. Be extra careful for the both of you. Fetch you your cravings. Love you more than he does now.

You remember Seokjin rubbing a gentle hand over your sister’s bump, and it brings your own to caress the flat of your stomach over the smooth fabric of your dress.

Obviously no baby there. But… just imagine. You with a baby bump.

Hah.

Weird, because it’s the first time the idea’s planted in your head and you kind of like it more than you thought.

You nibble on your bottom lip as you continue to caress your tummy, not noticing the knock that came from outside.

“Oh my—”

“Baby?”

“Jungkook.” Your hands retreat back to your sides. When you look at Jungkook, standing on the doorway, you let one hand clutch at your chest as you tell him, “You scared me.”

The door clicks as he locks it behind him. Your husband arches his brow as he goes over to you. “What are you so jumpy for?”

You ignore the question, looking back to the mirror again to fix your dress. But as you do so, you see his reflection – and you catch how he intently stares at you through the glass as well, walking behind you closer and pressing himself against you. His proximity suddenly makes you nervous.

“You should’ve knocked.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t hear.” When you turn around, Jungkook takes a curled strand of hair over your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“You look beautiful. So gorgeous.” He says before he wraps his arms around your waist and presses a kiss to your lips, one that you welcome fully even though you just reapplied your lipstick. When you break away, you see some remnants on his lips… and realize you picked the wrong lipstick for tonight. You should’ve brought the kiss-proof lippy instead.

You wipe it off and Jungkook smiles before he ducks down, not caring, and kisses your cheek for good measure before he speaks again, “What were you doing in here?” He wiggles his eyebrows, as if he knows you were up to something before he barged in.

You avoid his gaze and turn back around.

“Nothing,” You say, trying to busy yourself with your hair again. But Jungkook can be really annoying when he wants to be, so of course he pushes, quite literally and figuratively.

“What was it? I saw you…” He teases, pushing his nose in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, tightening his hold around you.

“What did you– Jungkook!” You half-snort and scoff when Jungkook bites your neck playfully. You turn around to push him, but he’s insistent on keeping the nonexistent space between you and cages you in his big presence instead, trapping you in between the edge of the sink and the heat of his body.

“This damn dress…” Jungkook whispers as he splays his hand over your stomach, which makes your breath hitch.

Did he really see? See you pretending to have a baby bump at the thought of him impregnating you?

But Jungkook doesn’t really say anything further, just lets an idle finger run over the curve of your hips up to your waist, until it stops at the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“Can’t wait to fuck you in this.” He whispers in your ear, eyes meeting your gaze in the mirror, not subtle in the way he checks out your body after.

You huff out a scoff, giving a little more force into the push that you give him this time. His more relaxed hold on you makes him stumble a little bit backwards, chuckling when you roll your eyes at him once again.

“You’re not even gonna take it off me?” You ask as your turn on the tap, arching your brow at Jungkook’s reflection in the mirror.

A sly smirk makes an appearance on his lips. “I don’t need to take anything off to make you cum, baby.”

You turn around, leaning on the sink. “So you’re saying you’re not interested at all about my very elaborate choice of underwear tonight, then?”

That catches him off guard, his brows furrowed in confusion and then realization.

“You minx.”

You chuckle, swatting his hand away when he tries to touch you. When he whines, you take a step forward and wrap your arms around his neck, and Jungkook’s predictably eager to encircle your waist in his arms back again.

“Later. We have to keep it PG for at least three hours tonight. And you can—” you push at his chest for leverage so you can lean down a little to ride your dress up your thighs. Looking at Jungkook, you watch as he stares at you closely, intently, but oblivious to what you’re doing. He clearly enjoys it, though, judging from the hint of a smile on his lips and the shine in his eyes when more of your skin gets revealed.

Especially when he catches a glimpse of your white lace underwear that he bought for you himself.

He whistles, and you roll your eyes at the predictable reaction. Taking one of his hands off you, you guide it in between your thighs, earning an involuntary moan from you because Jungkook’s palm automatically cups your heat when he gets close.

“Ah…”

“Fuck…” Jungkook looks down where his hand meets your core. “Goddamn,” He says, then you feel him push your panties to the side, dipping the tip of his finger in your pussy. “Why the fuck are you so wet, baby?”

“Y-yeah…” You whine against his chest, gripping his wrist when he attempts to move again. “Kook, don’t.”

Jungkook halts. He looks at you. Then, he nods. “Alright. Alright. Stop this here?”

“Hm.”

He looks down at you with an arched brow. “You started it, though.”

“You were being flirty.” You say as Jungkook brings your underwear back in place, but not without squeezing your ass first. You nibble on your bottom lip as he rides down the dress, letting it dangle on your knees back again, smoothing the front for you to get rid of the wrinkles.

“Not my fault you’re hot,” he snorts. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m kinda hard…” He says, and you both look down to the bump on his white slacks. Certainly not his full potential (like… you’d know), but it’s still apparent in the light color of his trouser.

“Poor baby,” you say, can’t help but pat it a little condescendingly which earns a chuckle from Jungkook, him playfully swatting your hand away.

“You’re so…”

“I’m so what.”

Jungkook’s face is a mixture of frustration and amusement. “You always do this shit.”

You giggle, knowing exactly what he means. But you act like you have no clue. “What?”

“Get me horny then leave.” He shakes his head, then pokes your waist.

Chuckling, you kiss him on the cheek quickly, making a beeline to the door quickly lest he tries to kiss you again (and you’ll have no choice but to make out in your sister’s powder room, during her big Christmas party, mind you) and then give him a wink before you go.

The ride on the way home felt like it took sixty five years, and it might just be true especially when you’re horny as hell and you got a husband behind the steering wheel looking effortlessly hot in his element.

You’ve been hot and bothered for hours, and maybe it’s the champagne – probably has gotten in your brain or whatever – but Jungkook was not even done parking when you made a move to palm him over the console.

“Fuck,” Jungkook hissed, clearly not expecting it at all. He had that wide-eyed look when he frantically turned off the engine, staring at you while your hand grew heavy on his crotch. “Here?” You bit on your bottom lip as you nodded your head. He looked beyond conflicted. “But baby, we’re just ten floors away from our u–”

“Please?”

And what was he supposed to say? No?

Absolutely not. Not when your glassy eyes looked so pleading the way they did.

He just makes your insides churn, especially when you look at him. And for the past few hours, you couldn’t stop thinking about his dick inside you and most especially his cum. (Translation: You can’t stop thinking about him fucking a baby into you).

But… the thing was, you’ve only ever fucked in a car once.

Jungkook’s way too pesky about stuff like that, and somehow, even though he’s already been made aware of your exhibitionist tendencies (cue unprompted sex in public areas like that one time in the beach, window sex at a Ritz hotel back in London and… admittedly many more…) car sex was just… a least favorite. The first and only time you did it was when you were still fresh into dating; at a drive-thru cinema, but it was kind of a whack in both your opinions because it was too cramped up and you bumped your head and you almost got caught which is way too embarrassing of a memory to ever revisit.

But now maybe that really doesn't matter anymore.

Not when your husband looks like that.

And bottomline is: you just really, really want him to cum in you.

Oh god. What is wrong with your head tonight?

“Baby, fuuuck,” Jungkook hisses as you speed up your rhythm up and down his cock. His boxers and slacks are pushed down to the middle of his thighs while his shirt is all but buttoned. Meanwhile, your dress is bunched up in your mid-section.

You’re near tears on his lap at this point, already feeling your thighs straining at the force you’re exerting in every bounce – but you couldn’t care less.

“Oh my god, baby– you feel so good,” you moan, eyes shutting close at the feel of his tip hitting that spot inside you whenever you go down.

For the first few minutes, Jungkook took it upon himself to guide your hips in every movement just like he always does when you ride him like this, pounding into you from underneath, but he eventually let you control the pace, leaning way back to the reclined seat and watches you work instead. He stares at you with hooded eyes as you push yourself up and down on his hardened cock, stiletto heels digging the side of his thighs occasionally.

While you pleasure yourself on him, he slides your dress up further, gets a little frustrated that it’s tight on the waist so he can’t push it past your tits. So he feels for your nape to find the zipper because he knows it’s there – he zipped you up in this dress before you drove to your sister’s place – and he delights when he finds the small, cold material, pulling it down blindly until you noticed and help him get yourself out of it.

Jungkook sighs when the top comes down, snapping the clip of your sleeveless bra and getting it out of the way before he greedily fondles your now bare breasts in his huge palms.

“Ohh,” you moan when Jungkook flicks your nipples, getting them even harder. You push yourself back, leaning into one elbow on the steering wheel as you begin to rock against him in a back and forth motion,

“Fuck—” Jungkook lets out a guttural groan, squeezing your tits tighter that makes you keen in want. “So fucking sexy, baby. Shit – damn – l-love you.”

“I-I love you too,” you say, more like a whine, chasing a high he knows is impending.

Jungkook looks up at you with hooded eyes. Your hair that was once tidy and neat three hours ago is now all over the place, the high bun loosening and some strands falling off your pretty face. Your lipstick smudged and he’s sure the remnants are on his lips, and with your mouth agaped in that erotic o-shape while you pleasure yourself on his cock, Jungkook feels like exploding.

“Ah– shit,” he groans, feeling the warm crevice of your wet pussy swallow him whole. When you climbed over his lap a while ago after he fingered you, he was gonna take out a condom from the glove compartment but you insisted to not use it, and the picture of you looking down while he pushed your panties to the side and looked into each other’s eyes as you sank down on him is still playing in his head like a broken record.

God fuck damn, you’re just so unreal. The love of his life. His wife.

He wipes your tear-stained cheeks, torn because he doesn’t like seeing you cry but he does like it when it’s because you’re so eager to bounce on his cock that even though you know you’re pushing it, you continue to do so.

Jungkook lets his hand travel from a boob to linger on your cheek, and he keens on the way you purr when you lean into his touch, smiling slightly when you open your mouth as his thumb nears it.

You eagerly suck it as if verbally prompted, opening your eyes just so you can stare at his as you lewdly slobber over his finger while you expertly move against his cock, breasts jiggling up and down right in front of his face – the obscene squelches of your lovemaking filling the air of his cramped up benz.

“You’re so perfect, baby,” Jungkook whispers. “Perfect girl. You love bouncing on my cock, love? Just couldn’t wait until we get home? Hm?” His tone is a bit condescending and cocky.

When Jungkook takes out his finger from your mouth, you bite your lip as you nod, resuming your up and down motion again. Slamming down on his dick, your hands come up to grip his shoulders tight.

“We are home.”

Jungkook chuckles, a rich and dark sound that sends shivers down your spine. A snarky remark gets buried in your throat when you feel a certain zap of electricity coming from your toes to your spine, the hot coil in your stomach edging to burst.

“I’m cumming– oh my god, Jungkook– baby I’m cumming—” You say, speeding up your pace once again.

With your breasts bouncing in front of his face like that, he couldn’t help but dive right into it, wrapping his lips around one nipple, nipping and sucking and licking, while he busies one hand with fondling the other. He alternated in between both tits, groaning and grunting when your pussy tightens around him, and one more slam on his cock gets you spiraling as you finally cum.

Jungkook closes his eyes when he feels you gush around him, and he really wishes that he could lay you down, spread you out, and eat the slick right out of you just like how he likes it.

“That’s it, baby – fuck. Good girl, good girl.”

A long, drawl-out moan slips past your lips, and Jungkook takes it upon himself to keep you bouncing on his cock when your energy dwindles down, rocking his hips upwards, just as eager to reach his high as well.

You try to pick up your pace to help him, planting your palms on his bare chest to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck baby, I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” Jungkook says in a hushed whisper, groaning, squeezing your ass tight that you know will leave marks the next day.

“I know, baby – cum for me,” You lean down to capture his lips, whimpering when you feel yourself still coming down from your high.

“Ohh fuuck—” Jungkook moans, a tell-tale sign of his orgasm. “Fuck, I’m cumming—”

It’s almost second nature the way he looks down on your crotch, hand going over to where you meet – and you almost panic when you realize what he’s about to do.

“Jungkook, no,” you stop his hand, and he looks at you with utter confusion, rightfully so. Biting your lip, you stare into his eyes as you say, “I want you to come inside me.”

You watch as his eyes widen, then, “You sure?” He says with furrowed brows.

You nod your head frantically. “Please come in me. I want your come in me. Please, please—”

“Jesus fuck—” Jungkook’s hips stutter, his grip on yours tightening, gaze darkening as he processes your words. “Fuck. Okay, baby. No need to beg, okay? Fuck. I’ll come inside you.”

You speed up your pace and you can feel yourself getting there for a second time, and maybe it’s the heat of the moment, but your next words fall from your lips without much thought: “Yeah, yeah –give it to me, Kook. Want your– ah– want your babies.”

“Shit.” Jungkook hisses, taken aback by your words. “Fuuuck…” He looks up at you, grabs your waist and makes you lean closer. “You mean that?”

You nod your head, jumping on his cock up and down like your life depends on it. “Want your babies. Want you to cum in me.”

“Shiiitt,” Jungkook sighs, and you feel him getting harder by the second. “Gonna– gonna fuck a baby in you, baby. Fuck. You don’t know what you do to me– shit, I’m cumming.”

You both moan in unison when Jungkook finally releases inside you the same time you do so, his cock hardening in your walls, throbbing when you settle down on his lap with him still buried inside you. When the seconds pass, you feel the exhaustion wrapping around you, and you let Jungkook trail kisses up your shoulders and neck at the post-coital momentum.

“Fuck, that was so hot.” He whispers against your lips, kissing your parted mouth. You sigh against it, all sweaty and fucked out.

“Oh, baby…” You moan when Jungkook lifts you up and you feel yourself dripping from your cum.

“Fucking hell, so beautiful baby...” Jungkook trails off, squeezing your breasts before pushing you gently to lean back on the steering wheel. You look down as you watch with a gasp when he slides his cock out from your heat, covered in white and slick, moaning lewdly when he pumps it out for more.

Some of it spurts on your pussy, and you stare in awe when Jungkook inserts the tip once again in your heat, your eyes rolling to the back of your head at the blurred lines between pleasure and overstimulation.

“Goddammit.” Jungkook sighs, gratified, tapping his cock on your pussy a few times before he grabs your hips again so he can kiss you on the mouth. It almost gives you whiplash when he looks at you with such sincere and genuine eyes as he says, “I love you.”

“Love you,” you say, closing your eyes when his kisses trail to your jaw and his hands come up to fondle your tits again. His favorite fixation – his words, not yours. “Kook.”

“Hm.”

“Sticky.”

He hums again. You keep your position like that for a few more seconds before Jungkook helps put your panties and dress back in place, picking you up slightly as you climb over the passenger seat.

You watch as he pulls his boxers and pants back up, buckling his belt around the waist. He hasn’t fixed the unbuttoned state of his shirt yet before he looks at you again with a smile.

“Come here, you,” He says, beckoning you to come closer with his arm around your seat. You grin, crossing the console again to meet the kiss he gives your mouth. Then, Jungkook breaks the contact, caressing your cheek as he speaks. “Babies, huh?” He brings up, eyes so bright; delighted, excited. He has that unshakeable grin.

And you can’t help but mirror it.

“Do you want to?” You ask instead. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously wait for his answer that doesn’t really take that long.

“Fuck, yeah. If you want to, then I want to,” he responds. Then, he adds, “And I really, really want to.”

“Okay…” you say, biting your lip to keep yourself from smiling too much. “But it doesn’t have to be now. Or I don’t know. I know it’s only been a year since we got married and all that—”

“Baby, stop,” Jungkook says before you can finish your thought. “Doesn’t matter if we were one month into the marriage. As long as you’re ready, then I’m ready. Are you ready?”

A few beats.

It was your horny-adled brain that got you in this position in the first place – but you think about how life with Jungkook would be like with kids added in the equation in the near future.

It would be so far from bad.

The past year had been nothing short of bliss since you married him, and as you watched Jungkook, a thought warmed your heart: he’d be an incredible dad. The way he loves you, so deeply and selflessly, leaves no doubt in your mind that he’d go above and beyond for your child—or children. You’re certain he’d love them as much as he loves you, perhaps even more.

A smile spreads across your face, and you nod to his question.

“I want a family with you, Kook.”

Jungkook’s face lights up with a delighted smile, mirroring yours. “So, we’re doing this?”

You nod again, biting your lip to temper your excitement.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

You blink at him in surprise. “Why are you thanking me?”

He shakes his head with a gentle smile and leans in to kiss you again. “Just… thank you.”

You furrow your brows, squinting at him in playful confusion. Before you can say more, he leans forward and nips the tip of your nose.

“Ow!” you exclaim, laughing.

“You’re cute,” Jungkook teases. “But we’ve gotta clean up and head home. Then, we can keep practicing putting my baby in you—on a nice, comfortable bed this time.” He winks, pecking your cheek as he buttons his shirt and unbuckles his seatbelt.

You snort, rolling your eyes as you do the same. “Admit it, you like car sex.”

Jungkook hums nonchalantly, his cheeky grin giving him away. You chuckle, shaking your head at him, love radiating in every moment between you.

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenarios #p; drabbles #tlp drabbles #fic: tlp

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ssa-dado · 5 months ago

Note

I could totally see Aaron being jealous. Maybe a oneshot of her meeting Sean Hotchner for the first time.

Covering Up - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff Summary: You’re late, and while Gideon’s passive-aggressive remarks are expected, it’s Hotch who really has you on edge. But it’s not just his authority; it’s the way you inadvertently caught the attention of Hotch’s brother, Sean. Warnings: None, just wanted to clarify the story is set around late 1998 or early 1999, before Hotch became Unit Chief (Gideon was in charge instead). Word Count: 3k Dado's Corner: You didn't see this coming, did you? Something cute to celebrate the end of the year. Sorry it took so much to respond, I totally forgot about this ask... hope you like itttttt. Again, HOTCH IN LOOOOOOOVE but doesn't want to admit hahaha what a fool.

masterlist

You were late today. Remarkably late.

For the first time ever in your life.

And while the idea of Gideon giving you one of his passive-aggressive “I’m not mad, just disappointed” speeches wasn’t exactly fun, there was one person who truly terrified you in this situation.

Hotch.

How ironic: it wasn’t your boss you were afraid of - it was your fussy coworker. The same coworker whose desk, unfortunately, happened to sit right in front of yours.

Perfect.

You were still trying to salvage your dignity in the elevator, jabbing at the elevator button, fumbling with your hair as the doors closed. Maybe an updo would make you look less… late. But by the time you reached your floor, the mess you’d made felt more “distressed damsel” than “competent federal agent.”

So, naturally, you made the split-second decision to undo the whole thing, pulling your hair loose halfway to your desk.

You winced.

Not because anyone was watching - everyone seemed too absorbed in their own work - but because if someone had been looking, you’d have perfectly executed that clichéd, overly dramatic hair flip straight out of a low-budget action movie.

The kind made by men, for men.

The ones where the femme fatale struts into the room, stiletto heels clicking, hair whipping in slow motion, cleavage doing all the talking, her entire existence engineered for the male gaze.

And here you were. No stilettos. No slow motion. Just… the hair flip.

Fantastic.

You shook it off, hoping to slink to your desk unnoticed, now more focused to brace yourself for the silent judgement of-

A man.

Not the man you expected - Hotch.

An actual man, a somehow handsome man.

Oh God. He’d definitely seen you do the dramatic hair flip.

His smirk confirmed it - no need for a profiler to figure that one out.

A man, sitting comfortably in Hotch’s chair. And, notably, no Hotch in sight.

“Are you here for a consultation with Agent Hotchner?” you asked, doing your best to sound at least professional as you set your bag down.

He chuckled – like you were the punchline of some inside joke you weren’t in on. “Actually, yes.”

Though you couldn’t help but study him... it was in your nature afterall.

He was about Hotch’s height, blond, blue-eyed, and generically good-looking in a way that probably gave him the nerve to sit at an agent’s desk without any kind of second thought.

But what really stood out? He looked about your age.

Very early twenties - which, mathematically speaking, made him way too young to be here asking for a consultation.

Not that you were one to talk. You were constantly reminded you were “too young” to be working for the FBI. So, at least you had that in common.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he read from your badge, dragging out the syllables for some of his twisted reasons you chose to ignore. Then he smirked. “You’re young.”

“She is.” Hotch’s voice cut through the air before you could form a response, making you startle slightly. He was suddenly there, right behind you, like he’d materialized out of thin air.

“Sean,” he said, his tone clipped in that uniquely Hotch way that made you feel guilty even if you’d done nothing wrong, “I told you to wait for me outside.”

“And why are you so late?” Hotch added, his focus snapping to you with laser precision, his brows drawing together in that way that made your stomach twist in both irritation and… something else.

Classic Aaron Hotchner.

Two seconds on the scene, already cataloging what annoyed him. Efficiency at its finest.

“Damn, Aaron, relax. It’s barely been a minute,” Sean said, standing up finally, though not without flinching slightly under the weight of Hotch’s glare.

He stepped closer to you, extending a hand like he wasn’t about to be vaporized by the man’s disapproval. “I’m Sean, by the way. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

Before you could decide whether to shake his hand or politely tell him to run for cover, Hotch’s voice sliced through the air, as sharp and unyielding as ever. “No, you haven’t. Y/N, this is Sean, my brother. Sean, this is Agent Y/L/N, my partner.”

It took approximately two seconds after those words left his mouth for Hotch to realize he’d made not one but two rookie mistakes.

The first? The fact that, for some reason, you got to be “Y/N” while Sean - his brother - was firmly stuck with Agent Y/L/N.

A seemingly innocuous choice, but an interesting one.

Almost as if Hotch didn’t want Sean to forget who you were. Or worse, as if he wanted to keep that small, intimate privilege - using your first name - exclusively for himself.

And why?

Perhaps because, whether he admitted it or not, you’d managed to take up residence in his overworked brain. You weren’t just his colleague - you were his very own walking, talking paradox.

Equal parts intellect and quick wit, you could quote anything from your beloved dead philosophers as easily as you could dismantle someone’s argument with a single sarcastic comment.

You lingered, persistently, in his thoughts - too vividly, too often - so much so that you’d even started showing up in his dreams.

That might explain why his tongue betrayed him now - a slip you would undoubtedly label as ‘textbook Freudian.’

Somehow, through the cracks in the armor of the man who prided himself on control and precision, a truth he had no business acknowledging had leaked out.

Because, inexplicably and irreversibly, he’d just let his younger brother - of all people - catch the faintest glimpse of something he refused to admit even to himself: that he wasn’t entirely indifferent to you.

Not that Sean picked up on it - yet.

No, Sean’s focus was already drifting toward his second mistake, the one Hotch really hoped would keep Sean too distracted to notice the first. And, to Hotch’s silent horror, it worked like a charm.

“Partner?” Sean repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Are the two of you…?” He let the insinuation hang, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.

Because here’s the thing - thanks to the way Hotch had worded it, Sean wasn’t just thinking that his big brother was casually sleeping with you. Oh no, this was way bigger.

This was Sean, standing here wide-eyed and completely convinced that his older, emotionally constipated, miserably single brother - who’d spent years brooding after his breakup Haley - had somehow not only managed to get a girlfriend but had kept it a secret.

And worse? That this whole scenario meant Hotch was maybe, just maybe, a little happy these days.

That alone was enough to blow Sean’s mind.

But before his imagination could run too far, you stepped in, your voice sharp and immediate. “God, no,” you blurted, practically recoiling from the suggestion.

“No,” Hotch said at the same time, though in stark contrast to your reaction, his was flat and unbothered.

Sean chuckled at your synchronized denial, which only prompted Hotch to fix you with one of his looks - the kind that felt like it could peel layers off your soul. Judgy, silent, but impossibly loud at the same time.

The kind of look that made you curious.

“Was he like this as a kid,” you asked Sean, “or was he ever actually a normal person?”

Sean’s smirk widened. “The only difference between then and now is that now they pay him to act like this.”

You laughed, loud and genuine, and Sean joined in - a perfect snapshot of solidarity between two survivors of Hotch’s relentless Hotch-ness. “Though I have to wonder… maybe he misunderstood the government’s contributions as a green light to act this way. It’s kind of like when you teach a dog to stand on two legs for a treat, and then he just keeps doing it.” You commented.

You and Sean burst into laughter, your voices echoing through the bullpen, while Hotch just stood there.

Watching. Seething.

But not entirely for the reasons he’d expect.

Sure, he was irritated that you had the audacity to make fun of him within perfect earshot - a clear, deliberate payback for all the grief and micromanagement he’d put you through.

But there was something deeper beneath his discomfort, something far more unsettling.

It wasn’t just that you were laughing at him - it was that you were laughing with Sean.

That easy, effortless kind of laughter, the kind he so rarely managed to coax out of you. Sean, his little brother, was already pulling it out of you like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like he’d cracked some code Hotch didn’t even know existed.

And that stung. More than it should’ve.

Because as much as he told himself it was ridiculous - childish, even - he couldn’t shake the flicker of jealousy curling in his chest.

A low, unwelcome burn.

It wasn’t just about the laughter. It was the way you looked at Sean. The way you seemed curious, intrigued by him in a way that made Hotch feel like an outsider in his own space. Like he was standing just outside the circle, close enough to see but not close enough to touch.

And he hated that.

He hated how much it bothered him.

Hated that he cared at all.

Hated the fact that, for all his discipline and carefully crafted walls, you always managed to slip through the cracks.

Unnoticed until it was too late.

Though you weren’t quite as unnoticed by everyone else.

Standing on the mezzanine, there was Gideon, watching you with that unshakeable calm of his. His eyes locked onto yours, and before you could even catch your breath, he called you over to his office.

It was probably for showing up two full hours late, but who could say?

Panic was all over you, though you were certain you kept it well-hidden - at least, you hoped so.

But before you could second-guess yourself, Hotch, who had been silently observing everything, grabbed a file from his desk and walked toward you at a precise angle that turned his back to Gideon.

Then, in a blur of words, he started speaking faster than you thought possible.

“I covered for you,” he said, voice low and hurried. “Tell him you went to see your mom yesterday. You took the 5:07 a.m. train. It broke down in Baltimore - stuck for an hour and forty-two minutes. That’s why you’re late. It’s all fact checked. If he asks - and he probably won’t - you don’t have the ticket because after a 90-minute delay, the company offers a full reimbursement if you send in the original.”

Before you could process what he was saying, he thrust the file into your hands.

“I filled out all the interrogatory statements for the Arlington case. If he asks why I had them, say I’m an idiot and that you cracked the unsub before I did, so the paperwork fell to me.” His dark eyes bore into yours, and for the first time since you’d met him, he sounded almost…desperate. “Don’t panic.”

Your brain short-circuited. The only thing you managed was a breathless, “Thanks.”

He watched you go, tracking every step you took until you disappeared into Gideon’s office. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his side like he was bracing himself to pull you out of trouble if it came to that.

Though Sean, ever the opportunist, broke the silence. “Since when do you cover for people?” he asked.

Hotch didn’t bother looking at him, his focus firmly fixed on the files in his hands, though his grip had tightened ever so slightly. “Since her boss called her in for something unfair. She’s the first - well, second - person to arrive every day and the last to leave. She works harder than anyone here, including me, and she never complains about it. It’s not fair to punish her for being late once when she’s the one who picks up everyone else’s slack. This is a one-time thing, and frankly, it’s probably for the best - at least she got some sleep for once.”

Was that an over-articulated answer to what was likely more of an exclamation than an actual question? Yes. But better to be thorough than shallow - or at least, that’s what Hotch told himself.

Sean, on the other hand, had no qualms about being a bit shallow.

“You’re sure that’s the reason she was late?” Sean asked, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “Not because she, you know…” He trailed off, tilting his head, the mischievous grin practically begging Hotch to take the bait.

No. Of course not.

Not that there would’ve been anything wrong with it. Not because he wanted to come off as paternalistic or prudish about it.

Hell, if you really did, he hoped it was… fine.

Great, even.

But then, there was that annoying, traitorous part of him whispering - shouting, really - that he hoped it wasn’t too good.

Or serious.

Or anything worth bringing up more than once.

Damn it, Hotchner, could he not just be a normal, well-adjusted adult and be happy for someone else’s happiness without making it weird? Apparently not.

Still, he needed to give an actual response. Out of the 600,000 words available in the English language, what did he choose? The most original, expressive, and earth-shattering one of all: “No.”

Of course, it probably came out sounding way too sharp, betraying every tightly-coiled emotion he was trying to keep hidden.

Luckily - or unluckily - Sean was too busy zeroing in on something else to even notice.

“So,” Sean began, dragging out the word, “she’s single.”

…it wasn’t even a question.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, his patience already wearing thin. “Yes.” He admitted. “But don’t think about it.” He stopped him, already knowing where this conversation would eventually go.

“Why not?” Sean asked, his smirk practically carved into his face now. “You like her?” The teasing lilt in his voice was impossible to miss, but beneath it, there was a flicker of genuine curiosity.

Yes. Absolutely.

More than liked.

Liked in a way that he thought about you far too often, in places he shouldn’t, and at times he didn’t have the luxury of indulging.

Liked in a way that made him occasionally catch himself smiling in the middle of a meeting because some stray thought of you had slipped past his defenses.

Liked in a way that he imagined you during his early-morning runs, wondering if you’d find the sunrise as breathtaking as he did - or if you’d roll your eyes at his choice of music.

You probably would, because it was either the original cast recording of whatever Broadway musical he’d recently become obsessed with, or something from The Beatles.

Not just their classics, but the deeper cuts - the kind his mom had played on repeat during her own Beatlemania phase back in the ’60s, which was, admittedly, a phenomenon he’d inherited in his own way.

He liked you in a way that felt ridiculous, really.

Like the time he caught himself wondering if you’d like the tie he was wearing, not that he’d ever admit he chose it with you in mind.

Or when he stayed up too late re-reading one of your old case reports, pretending it was for work when it was really just to admire how sharp and thoughtful your insights were.

But admitting that? Out loud?

To Sean, of all people?

He’d rather reorganize the mountain of case files sitting on your desk alphabetically and chronologically - twice.

“No,” Hotch said instead, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “I work with her, Sean.”

Sean wasn’t one to let things go easily - especially when he sensed he was onto something. “Okay, so you work with her,” he said, dragging out the words like they were some kind of weak excuse. “But that doesn’t explain why I can’t take a shot. What’s stopping me?”

Hotch’s jaw clenched as he shifted his attention back to the windows of Gideon’s office. He didn’t want to say it, but he also didn’t trust his brother to let the subject drop without some kind of deflection. “You’re not her type,” he said flatly.

Sean blinked, caught off guard for a moment before recovering with an incredulous laugh. “Not her type? How do you know what her type is?”

Hotch didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

The deadpan look he shot Sean over his shoulder was enough to say ‘I know her type because I know her’.

Sean, however, wasn’t deterred. “Okay, genius, enlighten me. What exactly is her type, then? Because I’m charming, good-looking, and - let’s not forget - single.” He motioned to himself like he was presenting the world’s greatest catch.

Hotch sighed. “Her type,” he began almost whispering, now suddenly afraid that someone would hear him, “is someone more serious. Someone who knows how to respect her work ethic, her intelligence, and the fact that she’s earned her place here. Someone who doesn’t think he can waltz in and-” He cut himself off, realizing he was veering dangerously close to sounding personal.

Too personal.

Too bad he stopped talking before he could drop the one crucial piece of information Sean probably needed to know: as far as Hotch knew, you only dated older... much older.

And him being the same age as you? Yeah, that definitely didn’t work in his favor.

Sean tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So… basically, someone who isn’t me. But someone who is… maybe a little more like you?” He watched the way Hotch’s shoulders stiffened at the suggestion.

Hotch turned fully to face his brother, his expression dark. “Sean,” he warned, his voice a low rumble.

But Sean wasn’t fazed. “I’m just saying, Aaron. You’re standing here, going on about how she deserves someone serious and respectful and all that, but you’re practically describing yourself. So maybe the reason you don’t want me going after her is because-”

“That’s enough,” Hotch interrupted, his tone sharp enough to cut through any further teasing. “It’s not appropriate, and it’s not happening. End of discussion.”

Sean held up his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk stayed firmly in place. “Alright, alright. But for the record, you didn’t deny it.”

Hotch didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he turned back toward the windows of Gideon’s office, his gaze locking on your profile once more.

Sean followed his brother’s line of sight, leaning closer “She really does have you all twisted up, doesn’t she?”

Hotch ignored him.

But as much as he wanted to pretend Sean was wrong, the burn in his chest told him otherwise.

Because 'twisted up' was probably an understatement for what you were doing to him.

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#aaron hotchner #hotch #symposiumff #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #1k notes wooooooooooooooo

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the-cimmerians · 1 year ago

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It's 2024. I have been participating in fandom for 40 years. This is a ramble commemorating some history I've experienced along the way.

In 1984, I attended my first convention, and made a beeline for the one long row of covered tables in the Dealer's Room that was, according to the whispered lore of my friends, 'the one'. "um", I said, very suavely and coherently, except for how it was totally the opposite of those things, "I'm here for the... for the, uh. For-"

"Come around here," the man behind the table said with exhausted ennui, so I went around, and he lifted up the table skirt next to him and pointed to rows and rows of boxes underneath the line of tables. "It's all under here."

It was all under there. Along with about five older ladies with glasses, graying hair, cardigans. Flipping through slash zines and chatting in whispered voices like old friends (which of course they were). I noticed one of them had the good sense to be wearing kneepads. I was still too young and ablebodied to need kneepads when crawling on a carpeted floor, but I immediately found her preparedness skills to be both impressive and hot. "You're new," one of the ladies whispered to me--a bit warily, which made sense. "Are you sure you're in the right place?"

In the faint light (the kneepads lady had also come prepared with a flashlight, additional practicality hotness points for her) I grabbed a comb-bound book with a heavy line art piece on the cover, featuring a musclebound Captain Kirk getting righteously and enthusiastically plowed by a stern-yet-ebullient Spock. "This," I said, pointing helpfully at the cover, like I was trying to make myself understood in a language I had only the vaguest knowledge of. "I'm here for this."

Outside at the convention, most of the attendees were wearing large homemade circular pins that shrieked 'K/S is BS!!!'1. But underneath the table, we reveled in the forbidden.

***

In 1985, I fell very hard for Starsky & Hutch fandom. Which was simply referred to at the time as 'the other fandom', because there were only two. We were upstarts. Many fannish elders predicted that it was just a phase.

***

The 'circulating library' was a massive stack of barely-legible pages that smelled strongly of mimeograph ink. When you were on the list, you would write stories while you waited for your turn, and when the big box was mailed to you, you would read everything (new finds, old favorites), add your own sloppily-typed or hastily-mimeographed stories, and then mail the whole thing to the next person. For me, at the time, it was an extremely expensive indulgence--but my favorite one.

***

By 1990, slash fandom had grown enough that I no longer knew everyone in it, which was both thrilling and a bit daunting. A young woman at a convention waited for me after a panel I was part of (I think it was 'writing impactful smut' or something like that), and said she had a question she didn't want to ask in a group setting. I'd heard that before. I said that's fine, go ahead and ask; and she came out with: "Why do you have to be gay?"

I blinked. "Is... that a problem?"

She looked annoyed. "Yes, because your stories are on all the recommendation lists and in all the top zines, but if you're gay and I read something you wrote and I get hot from it that makes me gay, and I'm not gay."

"Wow." I grinned, I couldn't help it. It probably made me look very predatory-dyke-about-to-score-a-toaster. Whatever, it was enough to make her back away from me fast.

When I thought about it later that night, I wondered what it would be like not to be the only queer person in slash fandom.

***

By 1997, slash started appearing on the internet. Many fannish elders claimed it was the death knell of slash fandom, or dismissed it as 'just a phase'.

***

Anyway, I wrote all this for myself as a commemoration of sorts, but if you took the time to read it--thank you. Love you, fandom. I always will.

1 In those days, m/m fandom was known as 'slash', which grew from the fannish shorthand where 'K&S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock having adventures or tribulations or what have you, and 'K/S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock getting it on (Kirk divided by Spock or Spock into Kirk--it was mathy fannish humor and I was into it then and I still am now). Slash was decidedly unpopular in the fannish world in 1984, and there was a concerted effort to force slash authors, artists, and fans out of 'mainstream' fannish public life. Hence, under the table.

#fannish shenanigans #fandom history #rare ass personal post

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roseandxanderfics · 2 months ago

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“Stay With Me” — Tim Bradford x Single Mom Reader

Summary: A routine call turns personal when Tim responds to a terrified 4-year-old reporting their mom collapsed. He finds you barely conscious—and realizes you’ve been fighting alone far too long.

————————

The 911 call came in just after seven. Late enough that most emergencies were winding down, but not so late that anyone relaxed. Tim Bradford had been running paperwork, thinking about grabbing dinner, when the dispatcher’s voice clipped through the radio.

“Child caller. Four years old. Mother unresponsive. Possible medical.”

That was all it took. One word—“four”—and Tim’s blood turned cold. He barely heard the rest before snatching up his radio.

“1-Adam-07, patch me through. I’m on it.”

⸻

The kid’s voice was barely a whisper when it crackled through.

“H-hello?”

Tim inhaled sharply. “Hey, buddy… This is Officer Tim. Can you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.”

That tiny sound hit him harder than it should’ve. “Good job, Eli. I’m coming to help you and your mom right now, okay? Real fast. Can you tell me… is she breathing?”

“I dunno… I scared.”

Tim forced his voice steady. “It’s okay to be scared, kid. You’re really brave. Can you touch her? Tell me if she feels warm or cold?”

Rustling. Sniffles. Then a small, broken sound. “Cold… Tim, s’cold.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he flipped the sirens on. God, please…

“I’m almost there, Eli. Can you unlock the door for me?”

“I try.”

⸻

By the time he screeched to the curb, his heart was hammering. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. Dim porch lights. Empty driveways.

The front door creaked open a sliver. A tiny face peeked out—tears streaked, cheeks blotchy.

“There you are, buddy,” Tim murmured, crouching low. “You did so good. Where’s Mom?”

Eli didn’t answer. Just… pointed.

Tim pushed the door wide and stepped inside—one hand instinctively hovering over his holster, the other reaching back for the kid. “Stay close, okay?”

The house was small. Lived-in. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge, a stuffed bunny abandoned on the couch. And there—on the kitchen tile—was you.

You were pale. Too still.

“Shit,” Tim breathed, rushing forward. He pressed two fingers to your neck, searching—there—a faint, thready pulse.

He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got the subject. Female, early thirties. Pulse is weak. Roll EMS, now.”

“Copy, 1-Adam-07. EMS en route.”

Eli whimpered behind him. “Mommy?”

Tim glanced back, softening. “Hey, buddy. She’s okay. She’s breathing. I need you to be my big helper now, alright?”

The kid nodded, lip trembling.

“Can you grab me that blanket?” Tim pointed. Eli scrambled, dragging it over with tiny hands. Tim tucked it around you, jaw tight.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured—half to you, half to the kid. “Just stay with me.”

⸻

Minutes felt like hours. Tim didn’t leave your side, one hand checking your pulse over and over, the other resting protectively over Eli’s shoulder.

EMS burst through the door—young, efficient. They worked fast, lifting you onto the stretcher. Tim stayed kneeling until they moved past.

Eli’s eyes filled again. “I come?”

Tim didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. You’re with me.”

⸻

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Eli sat curled in Tim’s lap, face buried in his chest, fists gripping the dark fabric of his uniform.

“She okay?” the little voice finally asked.

Tim swallowed hard. “She’s gonna be. You did good, Eli. You saved your mom.”

⸻

The ER was bright. Too bright. Tim hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise. But he stayed. Watched as nurses buzzed around you, checked monitors, whispered words like “dehydration” and “exhaustion” like they were medical diagnoses and not just proof that life had beaten you down.

⸻

You woke slowly. Blinking against the light, brow furrowing.

“Easy,” a deep voice murmured. “You’re okay.”

You turned your head—and saw him.

The cop. Tall. Broad. Blue eyes way too gentle for a man who probably carried a gun for a living.

“Your son’s right here,” he added, voice soft. “He’s… he’s been really brave.”

Eli popped his head up, face blotchy. “Mommy!”

Your eyes welled instantly. “Eli… oh god…”

Tim helped him onto the bed, watching as tiny arms wrapped around your neck.

“I… I’m sorry,” you rasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tim cut in. “You’ve been running on empty. Doc says exhaustion, dehydration… You’ve been doing too much on your own.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t… even know your name.”

“Tim.” He smiled faintly. “Tim Bradford.”

A beat of silence.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Didn’t feel right to leave.”

⸻

They discharged you hours later. Tim was still there—Eli wouldn’t let go of him.

“I’ll drive you,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a question. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

⸻

Your house felt colder when you returned. Tim helped you in, set Eli on the couch, and knelt in front of you one last time.

“I meant what I said. You’ve been doing too much alone.”

You stared at him, exhausted tears threatening. “That’s… just how it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he muttered. “I’ll… check in tomorrow. Groceries. Whatever you need.”

You tried to argue—but Eli’s head flopped onto Tim’s shoulder mid-yawn.

Tim smiled, slow and soft. “You good if I hang around until he’s out?”

You nodded, too tired to fight it.

⸻

And just like that… Tim Bradford became the first safe thing you’d known in a long, long time

#tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #comfort #hurt/comfort #the rookie x reader

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importantpuppystarfish · 1 month ago

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A filthy wild night with my Cousin and her bestie

Male reader or Y/N x Minji and Hanni

!Minji as your cousin and Hanni as Minji's lesbian partner.

Kinks: Incest (Cousin!Minji x you), shy!Y/N, Threesome, Lots of kissing, armpit licking, facesitting, romantic, squirt & pissing, lesbian.

Minji and Hanni are openly a lesbian couple. They live together (not so always, here Hanni stays in Minji's room for most of the times as shes her best friend. They sleep together), they have fun, and their intimacy is deep.

Y/N, his uncle married a Korean woman, which makes Minji his cousin on that side of the family. It's a beautiful day, and Y/N + his family is traveling with his family to South Korea to visit Minji’s parents. The last time Y/N and Minji met was during their childhood, when they were around 9 or 10 years old. Now, both of them are 18.

The humid Seoul air clung to Y/N’s skin as he stepped off the plane, his heart thumping with a mix of jet lag and nervous excitement.

It had been nearly a decade since he last saw his cousin Minji, back when they were scrawny kids chasing each other around their uncle’s backyard. Now, at 18, Y/N was a lanky, awkward dude with a mop of dark hair and a tendency to blush at the slightest provocation. Minji, though? She was a fucking K-pop goddess—a member of NewJeans, plastered on billboards and TikTok feeds worldwide. The thought of seeing her again, all grown up and probably drop-dead gorgeous, made Y/N’s stomach do flips.

His parents, chatting animatedly about kimchi recipes and old family stories, led the way to Minji’s family home in a sleek Seoul suburb. Y/N trailed behind, fidgeting with his backpack straps, his mind racing. What if she’s, like, too cool for me now? he thought. She’s probably got a million better things to do than hang with her nerdy cousin.

The cab pulled up to a modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, and before Y/N could brace himself, the front door swung open. There she was—Minji, all 5’6” of her, looking like she’d just stepped out of a music video. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her tight crop top and high-waisted shorts showed off a slim, sexy figure that made Y/N’s brain short-circuit. Her face, though, still had that innocent and playful spark.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” Minji chirped, her voice bright and melodic. “Auntie, Uncle, welcome to Korea!” She straightened up, flashing a megawatt smile that could’ve melted a glacier.

Y/N’s mom gasped, clutching her husband’s arm. “Oh, Minji, look at you! You’re such a young lady now, so beautiful!”

Minji’s parents appeared behind her, beaming with pride. Her mom, a petite woman with Minji’s same sharp cheekbones, hugged Y/N’s parents tightly. “Y/N, my goodness, how big you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, eyeing him up and down. “Such a handsome young man!”

Y/N felt his cheeks burn. Handsome? Me? He was skinny as a rail, with zero game and a face that was, at best, “fine.” He mumbled a shy “Thanks, Aunt Soo-jin,” avoiding Minji’s gaze.

Minji’s dad clapped Y/N’s dad on the shoulder. “Can you believe it? Our kids are all grown up! Minji’s out there conquering the world, and Y/N’s… what, heading to college soon?”

“Oh, he’s still figuring it out,” Y/N’s dad said with a chuckle. “But Minji—wow, a K-pop star! We saw your latest music video. That dance move with the…” He mimicked a clumsy hip sway, making everyone laugh.

Minji giggled, covering her mouth. “Uncle, you’re gonna need some practice!” Then, for the first time, her eyes flicked to Y/N, who was standing there like a deer in headlights. She tilted her head, her lips curling into a teasing smirk. “Hi, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice dripping with playful familiarity.

Y/N’s heart did a somersault. “H-hi,” he stammered, giving a dorky wave, his hand flapping like a fish out of water. Fuck, why am I so awkward? he cursed internally.

The parents wandered into the living room, already deep in conversation about old times and Korean barbecue plans. Minji gestured for Y/N to follow her. “C’mon, I’ll show you my room,” she said, her tone casual but with a hint of something… flirty? Nah, she’s just being nice, Y/N told himself, trying to ignore how her hips swayed as she led the way upstairs.

In Minji’s room, Y/N’s jaw nearly hit the floor. It was a K-pop stan’s dream—posters of NewJeans, LED lights casting a pink glow. There was a girl sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She was tiny—5’2” at most—with a heart-shaped face, pouty lips, and a body that, despite her petite frame, curved in all the right places. Her tank top rode up slightly, showing a sliver of toned midriff. "Holy shit", Y/N thought, his teenage brain going into overdrive, " Thats Hanni, isn't it?".

The girl looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Hey, who's this?” Hanni asked Minji, hopping off the bed with a grin. “Oh Hanni, Thats just my cousin brother. Y/N meet my… bestie.. Hanni, you already know her ofcourse, my group mate.”..

Minji plopped onto the bed beside Hanni, patting the space next to her. “Y/N, don’t just stand there like a weirdo. Sit!” she teased, her voice light but commanding.

Y/N hesitated, his palms sweaty. Bestie, huh? he thought, noticing how close Hanni was sitting to Minji, their thighs almost touching. Guess she’s just super tight with her group members. Normal K-pop stuff, right? He perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, trying not to stare at either of them.

“So, Y/N,” Hanni said, leaning forward, her voice playful. “What’s it like seeing your superstar cousin after all these years?”

Minji swatted Hanni’s arm, laughing. “Stop asking him stuff and talking to him Hanni!, you’ll make him blush!” She turned to Y/N, her eyes glinting. “But seriously, Y/N, you’re not a kid anymore. You’re kinda… cute, in a nerdy way.”

Y/N’s face went nuclear. “Uh, th-thanks?” he squeaked, his voice cracking. Cute? Me? From MINJI? His brain was a mess, and his body wasn’t faring much better, hyper-aware of the two insanely attractive girls inches away.

Hanni giggled, nudging Minji. “Look at him, he’s dying! Minji, you’re too much for the poor guy.”

Minji smirked, leaning closer to Y/N, her perfume—a mix of vanilla and something dangerously sweet—hitting him like a truck. “Am I too much for you, Y/N?” she purred, her tone teasing but with an edge that made his pulse race.

Y/N swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “I-I’m fine,” he lied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s head was still spinning from Minji’s teasing and Hanni’s playful energy when his mom’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Y/N! Come down, we’re going to the market with Minji’s parents!”

“Uh, coming!” Y/N called back, scrambling to his feet. He shot Minji and Hanni an awkward smile, his face still flushed. “I’ll, uh, see you guys later?”

Minji grinned, leaning back on her hands, her crop top riding up just enough to show a sliver of her toned stomach. “Sure thing, Y/N. Don’t get lost in Seoul!”

Hanni winked, her voice dripping with mischief. “Yeah, come back soon, nerd boy.”

Y/N practically tripped over his own feet as he bolted out of the room, his heart pounding. Nerd boy? Fuck, they’re gonna eat me alive, he thought, hurrying downstairs to join his parents.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the door clicked shut, the vibe in Minji’s room shifted instantly. Minji and Hanni exchanged a knowing look as they got some privacy. Hanni slid closer, her petite frame pressing against Minji’s side, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Minji’s thigh. “Finally, some privacy Unnie, lets kiss.~” Hanni murmured, her voice low and sultry.

Minji smirked, turning to face Hanni, their lips inches apart. “You’re so impatient,” she teased, before closing the gap. Their mouths crashed together in a deep, passionate French kiss, tongues tangling with practiced ease. The room filled with soft moans as they devoured each other, hands roaming freely. Minji tugged Hanni’s tank top over her head, revealing perky breasts and a slim waist, while Hanni yanked Minji’s shorts down, exposing her smooth, flawless skin.

They collapsed onto the bed, naked in seconds as they open each others clothes, their bodies a tangle of limbs and heat. Minji’s lips trailed down Hanni’s neck, then lower, sucking on her nipples until Hanni gasped, her fingers digging into Minji’s hair. “Fuck, Minji,” Hanni whimpered, her hips bucking as Minji’s tongue found her pussy, licking slow, deliberate circles. Hanni’s moans grew louder, her body trembling as Minji ate her out, her own fingers sliding between her thighs to rub herself.

“God, you taste so good Hanni” Minji purred, her voice muffled against Hanni’s slick folds. Hanni arched her back, squirting with a cry as Minji pushed her over the edge, their bodies slick with sweat and desire. They switched, Hanni diving between Minji’s legs, her tongue working magic as Minji moaned, her hands gripping the sheets.

Panting, they collapsed side by side, still kissing lazily, their lips swollen and wet. Hanni giggled, wiping her mouth. “Your cousin looks so nerdy and shy, lol,” she randomly says, her voice playful but with a wicked edge.

Minji laughed, propping herself up on one elbow, her naked body glistening. “I know, right? When we were kids, we’d play hide-and-seek and shit. Now? I don’t think we’d even be friendly. He’s, like, terrified of me.”

Hanni pouted, her fingers tracing Minji’s collarbone. “Why not? He’s kinda cute, in that awkward way. Like a lost puppy.”

Minji snorted, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Cute, sure, but he’s so out of his depth. Did you see him blushing? I bet he’s never even kissed a girl, let alone fucked one. Not like us with… you know.”

Hanni’s face smiled for a split second, both of them remembering their agency’s CEO—a sleazy, 50-something bastard who’d taken their virginity in exchange for promises of stardom. They’d done what they had to, but it left them jaded, craving control over their desires. Hanni shook it off, her grin returning. “Yeah, well, Y/N’s not like that. He’s… innocent. Bet I could make him cum in, like, two minutes.”

Minji’s eyes widened, a competitive spark igniting. “Oh, you think? I’d have him blowing his load before you even get his pants off. I’d just flash him, and he’d be done.”

Hanni laughed, shoving Minji playfully. “No way, bitch. I’d suck his dick so good he’d see stars. Bet he’s got a decent cock under those baggy jeans.”

Minji raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with challenge. “Haha, bet? I’ll ride him till he’s begging, and he’ll be screaming my name, not yours.”

Hanni leaned in, her lips brushing Minji’s ear. “Okay, but why fight? We could both have him. Imagine him, all flustered, not knowing what to do with two hot girls like us. We’d ruin him.”

Minji’s smirk widened, the idea sinking in. “Fuck, that’s hot. He’s so shy, he’d probably die just seeing us naked. But… he’s my cousin. Isn’t that, like, weird?”

Hanni rolled her eyes, straddling Minji’s lap, her hands cupping Minji’s face. “Unnie, Isn't that even better? You're gonna fuck with someone you trust, your family!. Besides, he’s 18, horny as fuck, and probably jerking off to NewJeans fancams already. Why not give him the real thing?”

Minji bit her lip, her mind racing. “True. He’s probably fantasizing about me right now, the little perv. And with you there? We’d blow his fucking mind.”

Hanni grinned, grinding against Minji, their bodies heating up again. “Exactly. We’ll seduce him, tease him till he’s begging. He won’t know what hit him. Bet he’ll cum so hard he’ll thank us.”

Minji laughed, pulling Hanni into another messy kiss. “Deal. Tomorrow, we’ll play nice, get him alone, and then… we’ll fuck him senseless. Poor boy won’t stand a chance.”

By mid-afternoon, Y/N and his family, along with Minji’s parents, had returned from the bustling Seoul market, arms laden with bags of spicy tteokbokki ingredients and souvenirs. The house buzzed with laughter and the clatter of dishes as both families prepared for a big dinner. Y/N, still reeling from his earlier encounter with Minji and Hanni, kept to himself, his mind replaying Minji’s teasing smirk and Hanni’s flirty wink. They’re just messing with me, he told himself, but the way his heart raced suggested otherwise.

Dinner was a lively affair, the long table packed with steaming plates of bulgogi, kimchi, and japchae. Y/N sat across from Minji, who looked unfairly stunning in a low-cut blouse that hugged her curves, her frame just a tad taller than his when she sat up straight. Her parents and Y/N’s were deep in conversation about old family vacations.

Minji, ever the extrovert, leaned forward, her cleavage on full display as she passed Y/N a bowl of rice. “Here, Y/N, you need to eat more,” she purred, her voice sweet but laced with something dangerous. Her foot grazed his under the table, lingering just long enough to make his breath hitch.

Y/N’s face turned beet red. “Uh, th-thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the bowl and focusing way too hard on his food. Is she doing this on purpose? he wondered, his skinny frame tensing as he tried to ignore the heat pooling in his jeans. Minji’s eyes sparkled with mischief, catching every flustered glance he tried to hide. She “accidentally” dropped her chopsticks, bending forward to pick them up, giving him a clear view down her blouse.

“Oops,” she said, smirking as she sat back up, her lips glossy from a sip of soju. Y/N nearly choked on his kimchi, coughing to cover his panic. She’s my cousin, she’s my sister literally, he chanted internally, but his teenage hormones weren’t listening.

Dinner wrapped up with the parents laughing over old stories, and Y/N was told he’d sleep in the living room since he was “a grown young man now.” As the adults gossiped in the kitchen, Y/N sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone to distract himself.

As he was scrolling tiktok, in the video, there was Minji, center stage, shaking her ass in tight shorts, her moves fluid and fucking mesmerizing. Y/N’s dick hardened instantly, straining against his jeans. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby. Goddamn, she’s hot, he thought, guilt mixing with raw desire. He was so lost in the video he didn’t hear the parents’ conversation winding down.

Eventually, Y/N realized he needed a pillow to sleep. He trudged to the kitchen, where Minji’s mom was washing dishes. “Aunt Soo-jin, do you have an extra pillow?” he asked, scratching his neck awkwardly.

“Oh, just ask Minji, dear,” she said with a smile, nodding toward the stairs. “She’s probably in her room with Hanni.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped. Minji’s room. With Hanni. He climbed the stairs, his heart pounding, trying to psych himself up to knock. But in his nervous haze, he didn’t think—just twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

What the fuck?

The sight hit him like a freight train. Minji and Hanni were stark naked on the bed, THEY ARE LITERALLY IN WORDS HAVING LESBO! a tangle of sweaty, glistening skin. Hanni’s petite 5’2” frame was crouched between Minji’s spread thighs, her tongue buried in Minji’s pussy, licking with sloppy, eager strokes. Minji’s head was thrown back, her full lips parted in a moan, one hand gripping Hanni’s hair, the other pinching her own nipple. The room smelled of sex—musky, sweet, and fucking intoxicating.

Y/N froze, his jaw dropped, his dick throbbing painfully in his jeans. Shock gave way to raw, primal horniness. They’re… holy shit, they’re fucking?. He should’ve turned away, but his feet were glued to the floor, his eyes locked on the scene. It's his first time seeing a girl naked as well.

Minji’s eyes snapped open, catching Y/N in the doorway. “Oh!” she gasped, her face flushing as she scrambled to grab a pillow, pressing it against her chest to cover her perky tits and glistening pussy. Hanni yelped, diving for another pillow to shield her naked body, her cheeks turning pink. For a split second, the room was silent, the three of them frozen in a tableau of embarrassment.

Then Hanni burst out laughing, clutching the pillow tighter. “Oh my God, haha, your cousin boy saw us shit!” she wheezed, her voice a mix of mortification and amusement.

Minji, still red-faced, couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Bitch, he’s just standing there like a deer in headlights!” she said, her eyes flicking to Y/N, who was rooted to the spot, his face burning.

“I-I just came for a pillow,” Y/N stammered, his voice cracking as he gestured weakly, his erection impossible to hide. Fuck, why is this so hot? he thought, torn between bolting and staying glued to the scene.

Minji’s gaze dropped to the bulge in his jeans, and her embarrassed expression shifted, a sly smirk curling her lips. “Oh~” she purred, her voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Looks like you’re bringing more than just a pillow request, Y/N.”

Hanni’s eyes widened, catching on. She stifled another laugh, her pillow slipping slightly as she leaned forward. “Minji, you seeing what I’m seeing? awwww your cousin is hard!!”

Y/N’s heart pounded, his face so hot he thought he’d combust. “I-I should go—” he started, but Minji was already moving. Dropping her pillow, she stood, her 5’6” frame just a hair taller than his, her naked body a vision of slim, sexy curves. Before Y/N could process, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the bed with surprising strength, his skinny frame stumbling forward.

“Oops, too late,” Minji said, her voice dripping with mischief as she locked the door with a decisive click. Hanni tossed her pillow aside, high-fiving Minji with a cackle. “Game on, bitch!” Hanni cheered, both girls dissolving into giggles as they turned their attention to Y/N, who was now sprawled on the bed, his eyes wide with panic and undeniable arousal.

“W-wait, guys, stop!” Y/N protested, his voice shaky, but his body betrayed him, his dick throbbing as Minji straddled his legs, her hands deftly unbuttoning his jeans. Hanni tugged at his underwear, and in one swift motion, they yanked both down, his hard cock springing free, embarrassingly erect.

“Oh my God, it’s so hard!” Hanni squealed, her cute face lighting up with delight. “Nerd boy’s packing!”

Y/N’s hands flew to cover his face, mortified but secretly loving every second. “This is insane, you guys—” he mumbled, but his words dissolved into a gasp as Minji leaned down, her lips crashing into his in a deep, hungry kiss. Her mouth was hot, her tongue sliding against his with a mix of saliva and the faint, tangy taste of Hanni’s pussy from their earlier escapade. Y/N’s brain melted. I’m kissing Minji? My cousin? A K-pop star? What the fuck is happening?

It was heaven—wet, messy, and so fucking real. Minji’s hands cupped his face, her naked body pressed against his chest, her perfume and sweat driving him wild. She pulled back, her lips glossy, a string of saliva connecting them. “Not bad for a nerd,” she teased, her voice husky.

Hanni pouted, crawling up the bed. “My turn,” she whined, nudging Minji aside. She kissed Y/N next, her smaller frame curling against him, her tongue just as eager, carrying the musky sweetness of Minji’s juices. Y/N moaned into her mouth, his hands trembling as he instinctively gripped her waist, her skin soft and warm. The kiss was sloppy, tongues tangling, saliva dripping, and Y/N’s head spun with the surreal pleasure of it all.

As Hanni kissed him, Minji slid down, her eyes locked on Y/N’s throbbing cock. “Fuck, look at this,” she murmured, her fingers wrapping around it, stroking lightly. Hanni broke the kiss, glancing down and grinning. “Oh, we’re gonna have fun with this,” she said, and both girls slid lower, their faces hovering over his dick.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Minji’s tongue flicked out, licking the tip, her lips glossy with spit. Hanni joined in, her smaller mouth sucking the side of his shaft, their tongues brushing against each other as they went to work. They were like animals—licking, sucking, slurping, their moans vibrating against his cock. Minji took him deep, her throat tightening around him, while Hanni lapped at his balls, her giggles muffled by her enthusiasm.

“F-fuck,” Y/N groaned, his hands gripping the sheets, his skinny body trembling. He was losing his mind, the pleasure overwhelming, their wet mouths and eager tongues driving him to the edge. “I-I can’t—” he gasped, his voice breaking as Minji and Hanni worked him like they were starving, their lips and hands relentless.

Minji pulled back, a string of spit connecting her lips to his cock. “He’s gonna cum so fast,” she teased, her eyes glinting as she stroked him.

Hanni grinned, licking her lips. “Told you I’d make him lose it,” she said, before diving back in, her mouth sucking hard.

Y/N’s moans grew louder, his body bucking as the girls devoured him, their laughter and dirty talk pushing him over the edge. He was in heaven.

Y/N was sprawled flat on Minji’s bed, his skinny frame trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Minji and Hanni were relentless, their naked bodies pressed close as they worked him over. Minji’s lips were wrapped around his cock, her tongue swirling around the tip, while Hanni kissed her way up and down his shaft, occasionally leaning up to make out with Minji, their tongues tangling over his throbbing dick. The wet, sloppy sounds of their mouths—sucking, licking, and moaning—filled the room, mingling with the musky scent of sweat and sex. Y/N’s head spun, his brain barely able to process the fact that his K-pop star cousin and her bandmate were devouring him like this.

His cock, harder than it had ever been in his 18 years, pulsed painfully. It was his first time getting sucked, and the sensation was overwhelming. Minji’s warm mouth took him deep, her throat constricting, while Hanni’s petite hands massaged his balls, her tongue flicking against the base. Their eyes met, sparkling with mischief, as they kissed each other over his cock, their lips brushing his sensitive tip in the process. Y/N’s moans grew desperate, his hips bucking involuntarily. “F-fuck, I can’t—” he gasped, his voice breaking.

With a muffled groan, he lost it. His cock twitched violently, and he came hard, a massive load shooting into Minji’s mouth. Minji takes every drop, her eyes fluttering as she swallowed. Pulling back, her lips glistened with cum, a satisfied smirk spreading across her face. “Oh gosh, it’s so delicious,” she purred, licking her lips. She turned to Hanni, her voice teasing. “Want some, babe?”

Hanni’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in, crashing her lips against Minji’s in a nasty, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues swirled, sharing Y/N’s cum, strands of it dripping down their chins. Hanni moaned into the kiss, savoring the taste. Pulling back, she wiped her mouth and laughed. “Damn, it’s way better than that CEO’s old-ass cum, bitch,” she said, her voice dripping with playful disdain. Both girls burst into giggles, their shared history with their sleazy, 50-something agency CEO a dark joke between them.

Y/N, still reeling from his orgasm, lay there panting, his cock still twitching. “G-guys, that was—” he started, but Minji and Hanni ignored him, their laughter cutting him off.

“Oh, oppa, we’re gonna have so much fun with you,” Minji teased as she climbed up the bed. Hanni winked, her petite body bouncing with excitement.

Y/N tried again, his voice weak. “Wait, I—” but they just laughed harder, their giggles drowning him out. They're having a nice time by now.

Minji grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up to a sitting position on the bed.

“Enough talking, cousin,” she said, her tone commanding but playful.

She lifted her arm, exposing her smooth, slightly sweaty armpit, and pressed his face close. “Lick and clean it,” she ordered, her voice a mix of teasing and dominance.

Y/N’s mind reeled. What the fuck? His brain flashed to those NewJeans concert videos he’d secretly watched, zooming in on Minji’s glistening armpits as she danced under stage lights, her sweat-soaked skin glinting.

His mind gets nostagia of the video of Minji's armpit in concert. He’d always found it weirdly hot, a guilty fetish he’d never admitted. And now… I’m actually doing this? His body betrayed him, his cock twitching again despite just cumming. He leaned in, his tongue tentatively flicking against Minji’s armpit, tasting the salty tang of her sweat. It was musky, raw, and insanely intimate. He groaned, losing himself, licking and sucking like a starving man.

Minji laughed, a mix of ticklish delight and pride. “Omg, OPPA, you’re actually licking it!” she squealed, her voice giddy as she held his head closer, her armpit pressed against his mouth. “Such a good boy.”

Hanni, watching with a grin, slid down to Y/N’s lap, her small hands wrapping around his still-hard cock. “Fuck, he’s into it,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. She lowered her mouth, sucking him off with sloppy, eager strokes, her tongue swirling around the tip as she moaned. Her petite frame bobbed as she worked, her lips stretching around him, spit dripping down his shaft.

Y/N’s moans were muffled against Minji’s armpit, his tongue lapping harder as Hanni’s mouth drove him wild. His body shook, caught in a haze of pleasure and disbelief. Minji’s laughter and Hanni’s wet sucking filled his ears, their teasing words blurring together.

Y/N’s tongue worked feverishly, lapping at Minji’s smooth, sweaty armpit, the salty tang driving him wild. His skinny frame trembled, his face buried in her skin as he licked and sucked like it was his life’s mission. Minji, her body arched slightly, moaned softly, her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re so into this,” she giggled, her voice a mix of ticklish delight and raw pleasure. “Do the other one, come on.”

She lifted her other arm, exposing her second armpit, just as sweaty and glistening from the humid Seoul night. Y/N didn’t hesitate, diving in, his tongue tracing long, hungry strokes across her skin. Minji squirmed, laughing as the sensation tickled but loving every second. “Oh my God, cousin brother, you’re nasty,” she teased, her eyes glinting with pride and arousal. “Who knew you’d be this freaky?”

Hanni, still on her knees, sucked Y/N’s cock with sloppy enthusiasm, her petite frame bobbing as she took him deep, spit dripping down her chin. She glanced up, her eyes sparkling at the sight of Y/N devouring Minji’s armpit. “Fuck, this is so hot,” she mumbled around his dick, her words muffled but her excitement clear.

Minji finally pulled Y/N’s face away, her armpits glistening from his tongue. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing heavy. She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheeks, and leaned in, kissing him deeply. It was messy, passionate, their tongues swirling, saliva mixing with the faint taste of her sweat and Hanni’s pussy from earlier. Y/N melted into it, his heart pounding, his hands trembling as they gripped her waist. This was no ordinary kiss—it was raw, intimate, and loaded with years of distance.

Minji pulled back, her forehead resting against his, her voice soft and sincere. “I love you, brother Y/N,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering. “I missed you so much over the years.”

Y/N’s breath caught, his heart swelling. “I… I missed you too, Minji,” he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. For a moment, the room felt still, the air charged with a tender, almost a romantic connection between them.

Hanni, still on her knees, paused her sucking, her lips hovering over Y/N’s cock as she watched, her small hands clutching his thighs. “Oh my God, you guys,” she sniffled, her voice shaky with exaggerated emotion. “This is so fucking romantic, I’m gonna cry! You guys are saying 'I love you' to each other!!” She wiped a fake tear, then burst into giggles, ruining the moment.

Minji laughed, shoving Hanni playfully. “Bitch, shut up, you’re ruining it!”

Hanni grinned, licking her lips. “Fine, fine, but let’s get nasty again. I’m not done with nerd boy.” She crawled up the bed, her petite 5’2” frame dripping with sweat, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Y/N, you ready for the real fun?”

Y/N, still dazed from Minji’s kiss, barely had time to process before Hanni shoved him flat on his back. “W-what—” he started, but Minji was already moving, her smirk returning.

“Time for a treat, cousin,” Minji purred, climbing over him. She positioned herself above his face, her pussy—already soaked from Hanni’s earlier tongue work—hovering inches from his mouth. Her thighs, slick with sweat, framed his vision, and the musky scent of her arousal hit him like a drug. “You’re gonna eat me out,” she said, her voice commanding but playful.

Hanni clapped her hands, straddling Y/N’s waist, her small hands stroking his cock to keep him hard. “Oh, fuck yes, facesitting time!” she cheered, her voice dripping with excitement. “Make it messy, Minji!”

Minji lowered herself, her pussy pressing against Y/N’s mouth, hot and wet. Y/N groaned, his tongue instinctively darting out, tasting her salty sweetness mixed with sweat and traces of Hanni’s spit. He licked hungrily, his hands gripping her thighs as she ground against his face, her moans loud and unfiltered. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re so good at this,” she gasped, her hips rolling, smearing her juices across his lips and chin.

Hanni, watching from her perch on Y/N’s waist, laughed. “Look at him, drowning in your pussy! Nerd boy’s living his best life!” She leaned forward, kissing Minji sloppily, their tongues tangling as Minji rode Y/N’s face. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds—slurping, moaning, and the creak of the bed.

Minji’s body trembled, her pussy gushing as Y/N’s tongue flicked her clit. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna squirt,” she warned, her voice shaky. She didn’t hold back, grinding harder, and with a loud cry, she came, her juices flooding Y/N’s mouth, dripping down his cheeks. He sputtered but kept licking, swallowing what he could, his face a mess of sweat, squirt, and spit.

Minji laughed, lifting herself slightly to let Y/N breathe. “You okay down there, cousin?” she teased, wiping some of her juices off his chin. Y/N, panting, could only nod, his cock throbbing under Hanni’s touch.

But Hanni wasn’t done. “My turn,” she said, shoving Minji aside. Her smaller frame climbed over Y/N’s face, her pussy already dripping from the night’s chaos. “Open wide my besties's oppa~,” she giggled, lowering herself. Her pussy was tighter, her scent sharper, and Y/N’s tongue dove in, licking eagerly. Hanni was messier, her hips bucking wildly, smearing her juices and sweat across his face. “Fuck, yes, eat it!” she moaned, her small hands gripping his hair.

Minji, now at Y/N’s side, leaned down to suck his cock, her lips wrapping around him as Hanni rode his face. The double assault was too much—Y/N’s moans were muffled against Hanni’s pussy, his body shaking. Hanni’s movements grew erratic, and with a high-pitched squeal, she squirted, her juices mixing with a sudden, unexpected gush of piss, soaking Y/N’s face in a hot, messy flood. He coughed, shocked but too turned on to care, his tongue still working as Hanni laughed. “Oops, got a little carried away!” she said, not remotely sorry.

Minji pulled off Y/N’s cock, grinning. “Bitch, you pissed on him? That’s so fucking nasty, I love it!” She kissed Hanni, tasting Y/N’s cum and Hanni’s squirt on her lips. “You’re such a slut.”

Hanni smirked, climbing off Y/N’s face. “Says the girl who made her cousin lick her armpits!” She turned to Y/N, his face drenched and flushed. “You good, nerd boy? Or you tapping out?”

Y/N, gasping for air, his cock rock-hard, could barely speak. “I-I’m… fuck, this is insane,” he rasped, his voice drowned out by their laughter.

Minji straddled his waist, her pussy brushing his cock. “Oh, we’re just getting started,” she teased, her voice dripping with promise. “Ready to fuck your superstar cousin, Y/N?”

Hanni high-fived her, giggling. “Let’s ruin him!” The night was spiraling into pure, filthy chaos, and Y/N was too far gone to care.

the night was far from over. Minji’s eyes glinted with mischief as she pushed Y/N flat on his back again, his cock still rock-hard and twitching. “Time for the main event Oppa,” she said, her voice low and sultry.

Y/N is totally flat, laying in bed. Minji straddled him, her pussy—wet and glistening from earlier—hovering over his dick. She gripped him, guiding her cousin's cock into her pussy, and slowly sank down, his cock sliding into her tight, warm pussy.

Y/N gasped, a sharp mix of pleasure and pain shooting through him. It was his first time, and the sensation was intense—her walls gripped him tightly, almost too much. “F-fuck,” he groaned, his hands clutching the sheets. “It… it hurts a little.”

Minji smirked, her hips starting to move, bouncing slowly at first. “You’ll get used to it, nerd boy,” she teased, her medium tits bouncing with each thrust. “Feels good too, doesn’t it?”

Y/N’s moans grew louder, his body betraying him. Despite the initial pain, the pleasure was unreal—Minji’s pussy was hot, wet, and perfect, her movements driving him wild. His mind screamed, This is a dream, this can’t be real, but his body was in love, his cock throbbing inside her, his heart racing for both Minji and Hanni. I love them both, he thought, lost in the haze. Y/N starts moaning a little bit loud.

Hanni, not waning the people outside the room and not one to be left out, climbed onto Y/N’s face, her petite frame facing Minji as she lowered her pussy onto his mouth. “Eat my pussy, bitch!” she ordered, her voice playful but commanding, her small hands gripping his hair to keep him in place. Y/N’s moans were muffled against her wet folds, his tongue diving in, licking hungrily despite the overwhelming sensations. Hanni’s pussy was messy, dripping with sweat and her earlier squirt, the taste sharp and intoxicating.

“Fuck, he’s screaming down there!” Hanni laughed, grinding harder against his face, her juices smearing across his lips and chin. “Keep moaning, nerd boy, it’s hot!”

Minji’s bounces grew faster, her pussy slamming down on Y/N’s cock, the wet slap-slap of their bodies echoing in the room. “God, his dick feels so good,” she moaned, her hands gripping his chest for balance. “Better than that old CEO’s shriveled cock, huh, Hanni?”

Hanni cackled, her hips rolling as Y/N’s tongue worked her clit. “Fuck yeah, this is way better! Minji, your couson got game!” She leaned forward, kissing Minji sloppily, their tongues tangling as they rode Y/N’s body, their sweat-soaked skin glistening.

Y/N’s mind was a whirlwind. The pain in his cock had melted into pure ecstasy, Minji’s pussy driving him to the edge. Hanni’s pussy on his face was suffocating in the best way, her juices flooding his mouth as he licked and sucked. He didn’t truly like the intensity—it was too much, too fast—but his body loved it, his hips bucking into Minji, his tongue desperate for Hanni. I’m in love with them, he thought, his heart pounding. This is fucking heaven.

Hanni’s moans grew louder, her small body trembling. “Oh, shit, I’m gonna squirt again!” she warned, and with a high-pitched squeal, she did, her juices gushing over Y/N’s face, mixed with a hot, messy stream of piss that he couldn’t escape.

He sputtered, swallowing what he could, his face a drenched mess. Minji laughed, her own orgasm building. “Fuck, Hanni, you’re soaking him!” she gasped, her hips slamming harder. “I’m gonna cum too!”

Y/N’s moans were lost in Hanni’s pussy, as his mouth was fully covered by Hanni's ass and pussy. his cock pulsing as Minji’s pussy clenched around him. He was close, his body betraying him again, loving every second of this filthy, romantic, chaotic night.

Y/N’s body was a trembling mess, pinned to the bed under the relentless onslaught of Minji and Hanni. His skinny frame shook as Minji, her 5’6” body radiating an almost evil confidence, rode his cock with brutal intensity. Her pussy slammed down on him, the slap-slap of their sweaty bodies echoing louder, each thrust rougher than the last. Minji’s medium-sized tits bounced wildly, her face twisted in wicked pleasure, her eyes glinting with a sadistic edge. She was in control, and she loved it.

Y/N’s cock, raw from the pounding, ached with a mix of pain and ecstasy. His moans turned to screams, his voice cracking. “Ahhh, Minji, ahhhh!!” he cried, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sticky remnants of Hanni’s piss and squirt still coating his skin. The tears were half agony, half overwhelming pleasure, his body betraying him as it craved more despite the intensity.

Minji’s lips curled into a triumphant smirk, her voice dripping with pride. “Yes OPPA, scream more!” she taunted, her hips slamming harder, her pussy clenching around his cock like a vice. “Scream my fucking name, Y/N!” She leaned forward, her nails digging into his chest, leaving red marks as she rode him mercilessly, her moans mixing with his cries.

Hanni, still grinding her soaked pussy on Y/N’s face, giggled through her own moans, her petite frame bouncing as she smeared her juices across his lips. “Fuck, Minji, you’re breaking him!” she laughed, her tongue flicking out to tease Y/N’s nose. “Look at him crying, soaked in my piss—such a pathetic little bitch!”

Y/N’s screams grew louder, his body shaking uncontrollably as Minji pushed him past his limits. His cock pulsed inside her, the pleasure overwhelming the pain. Minji’s moans hit a fever pitch, her pussy tightening as she neared her climax. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna cum!” she gasped, her hips slamming one final time. With a shared scream, they came together—Y/N’s cock erupting inside her, his thick load filling her pussy as Minji’s juices gushed around him, dripping down his thighs. Her body trembled, weak from the intensity, her breaths ragged.

Minji collapsed forward, her sweaty body pressed against Y/N’s chest, her pussy still twitching around his softening cock. “Fuck… that was good,” she panted, her voice hoarse but satisfied. She kissed him softly, a stark contrast to her earlier cruelty, her lips lingering with a hint of tenderness. “You did good, brother.”

Hanni, ever the instigator, slid off Y/N’s face, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Time to clean up,” she chirped, crawling down to Minji’s pussy. Her tongue darted out, lapping at the mix of Y/N’s cum and Minji’s juices, sucking greedily as Minji moaned weakly. “Mmm Minji, your cousin's cum tastes so much better than that CEO’s nasty shit,” Hanni said, her voice muffled as she licked Minji clean. She moved to Y/N’s cock next, her small mouth wrapping around his sensitive tip, sucking gently, cleaning every drop. Y/N groaned, his body too weak to resist, his cock twitching painfully.

Next Hanni wasn’t done. With a devilish grin, she climbed up, positioning her tight, dripping pussy over Y/N’s cock, which was somehow still half-hard despite the abuse. “No way you’re tapping out now, nerd boy,” she teased, grabbing his shaft and guiding it to her entrance. “My turn.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, his voice a desperate plea. “Oh, no, Hanni! I can’t—” he started, but as Hanni sank down, her pussy swallowing his cock in one smooth motion, his words melted into a moan. “Oh my God, I love it,” he gasped, his body betraying him again, the pleasure reigniting despite the exhaustion. Hanni’s pussy was tighter, her petite frame bouncing as she rode him with wild abandon, her moans high-pitched and gleeful.

Minji, still catching her breath, laughed weakly from the side, her body slumped but her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Look at him, Hanni,” she said, her voice raspy. “He’s fucking destroyed, and he still loves it.” She crawled closer, her strength returning, and with a wicked smirk, she positioned herself over Y/N’s chest. “Time for a bath, cousin,” she purred, and without warning, she let loose, a hot stream of piss and squirt gushing from her pussy, soaking Y/N’s face, chest, and hair.

Hanni cackled, her hips still grinding on Y/N’s cock. “Yeah, bath and soak your cousin with piss!” she cheered, her own pussy clenching around him as she watched Minji drench him. “Fuck, this is so nasty, I love it!”

Y/N’s mind was a haze of disbelief and ecstasy. The warm, musky flood of Minji’s piss and squirt coated him, the golden shower from his goddess cousin and her bandmate feeling like a divine gift. This is unreal, he thought, his cock throbbing inside Hanni, his body trembling under the weight of their dominance. He felt godly, chosen by these beautiful, filthy queens, even as his tears and their piss mixed on his face. His moans were muffled, his body weak, but his heart screamed, "I love them, I love this."

Hanni’s bounces grew faster, her small tits jiggling as she chased her own orgasm. “Fuck, nerd boy, you’re gonna make me cum!” she squealed, her pussy tightening around him. Minji, now spent, leaned down, kissing Hanni sloppily, their tongues tangling as they laughed over Y/N’s drenched, moaning form.

“Ruin him, Hanni,” Minji whispered, her voice dripping with pride.

Y/N’s body was beyond exhausted, his skinny frame trembling under the relentless assault of Minji and Hanni. His cock, raw and overstimulated, pulsed inside Hanni’s tight, dripping pussy as she rode him with wild abandon, her petite 5’2” frame bouncing with gleeful energy. Her high-pitched moans filled the room, mixing with the wet slap-slap of her hips against his. Minji, still straddling his chest, her own body slick with sweat and the remnants of her earlier piss and squirt, laughed wickedly, her medium-sized tits heaving as she egged Hanni on. “Fuck him up, Hanni,” she teased, her voice hoarse but proud. “Make him cum again!”

Y/N’s moans were incoherent, his voice reduced to desperate whimpers. “H-Hanni, I can’t—oh God!” he gasped, his hands clutching the sheets, his body too weak to resist. But his cock betrayed him, throbbing harder with every thrust, the pleasure drowning out the pain. Hanni’s pussy clenched around him, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she pushed herself closer to climax. “Fuck, nerd boy, give it to me!” she squealed, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Minji leaned down, kissing Hanni sloppily, their tongues tangling over Y/N’s drenched, trembling form. The sight pushed Y/N over the edge.

With a loud, broken scream—“Hanni! Minji!”—he came hard, his cock erupting inside Hanni, a massive load flooding her pussy. His body convulsed, his vision blurring as the orgasm ripped through him, leaving him utterly spent, his limbs limp on the bed.

Hanni moaned, feeling his cum fill her, and quickly slid off, her pussy dripping with his load. “Oh, fuck, look at that! So many white cum loads!” she giggled, crawling to Minji. Both girls dove for Y/N’s cock, their mouths hungry, licking and sucking the last drops of his cum, their tongues brushing against each other. Minji took a long, greedy lick, savoring the taste. “Mmm, so much better than that CEO’s nasty shit,” she purred, her voice teasing. Hanni nodded, her lips glossy with cum. “Fuck yeah, nerd boy’s got the good stuff!”

They turned to each other, crashing their lips together in a filthy, cum-soaked kiss, their tongues swapping Y/N’s load, moaning into each other’s mouths. Strands of cum and spit dripped down their chins, their laughter muffled but gleeful. Y/N, barely conscious, watched through half-lidded eyes, his body too weak to move, his mind a haze of disbelief and raw love. I’m in love with them, he thought faintly, his heart pounding despite his exhaustion.

Finally, the girls collapsed beside him, their naked, sweat-soaked bodies pressing against his. Minji on his left, Hanni on his right, they hugged him tightly, their arms draped over his chest, their legs tangled with his. Y/N was in the middle of the bed, enveloped in their warmth, their skin soft and musky. Even in their exhaustion, Minji and Hanni’s hands lazily stroked his softening cock, their fingers teasing him gently, keeping him on edge even as he drifted toward unconsciousness.

---TO BE CONTINUED :')---

#girl group smut #kpop gg smut #minji smut #newjeans smut #hanni smut #twice smut #izone smut #kpop girl smut #ive smut #karina smut

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spencerreidenjoyer · 8 months ago

Text

we've already done it in my head | spencer reid x reader

You have fantasies about Spencer, and you feel bad about it when you have to see him at work. Thing is, he has fantasies about you too.

wc: 4.8k, rating: explicit

tags/warnings: professor!spencer, post prison!spencer, bau!reader, fem!reader, sexual fantasies, masturbation, daddy kink, getting together, hookups, friends with benefits (?), mentions of public sex/exhibitionism (they don't actually do it), fucking with feelings but neither of them really realise it yet lol...

a/n: i am insane and that's all i'll say about this fic. jk i started this at the top of the month and i'm glad i've finally finished it. this was such a crazy one to work on, aside from being swamped with school work. thank you to my lovely friend from twitter vic who kept encouraging me to work on this hehe. inspired heavily by taylor swift's guilty as sin? (obviously) and chappell roan's picture you just for those horny yearning vibes yknow? please enjoy this insanity!!! (crossposted to ao3)

Spencer rushes in from the university when Emily calls. It’s a serious case, one that Emily decides Spencer needs to be pulled away from his teaching for. She doesn’t feel good doing it – the whole team knows how important teaching is to Spencer, but he understands all the same when he comes into the round table room. Spencer sits down at the last empty seat next to you, his hair a mess as he sets down his things and flips open the case file. He turns to smile at you, before Penelope starts the case brief.

It’s a long, tiring day of work after landing in California, the BAU having been called in to investigate the murders of young moms in the area, and you need a glass of wine and a nice hot bath to even fathom everything you’ve seen today.

You should just turn in for the night, the Bureau being particularly kind with their budget as you all get individual rooms. Your drowsiness should put you fast to sleep, but your mind is racing with thoughts of Spencer.

Spencer’s been in his nice suit all day, filling out his shirt nicely. You’ve noticed his stubble growing in, and his hair is messy and gorgeous. You can’t help yourself for feeling this way, as guilty as you feel about it. You’ve been harbouring your crush on Spencer for way too long, in the couple of years since you joined the BAU. Spencer is a sight for sore eyes for sure, but his kind gentleness despite the horrors of what you all do for work is a welcome reprieve.

While his sweet nature was what had you falling for him in the first place, Spencer could be extremely sexy, even if he didn’t know it.

Today was especially tough for you. You and Spencer were sent in to interrogate a particularly uncooperative suspect, playing into the good cop-bad cop dynamic. Your coaxing wasn’t doing anything, and Spencer had ended up raising his voice in an attempt to intimidate them. He’d slammed his hand on the table, a loud clang against the metal, and his large figure only served to crowd the suspect in to scare them further.

You only got to know Spencer after the mess that was him getting wrongly sent to prison, but Spencer supposedly wasn’t like this before prison. Still, you found Spencer’s quiet intimidation incredibly attractive, and you had to keep your composure in the interrogation room earlier.

And your mind drifts to Spencer from earlier, his rough callousness with the suspect, his glare wild and intimidatingly sexy, you end up thinking about him.

About Spencer, who is so kind and sweet with you and the rest of the team, seeming like he couldn’t hurt a fly.

About Spencer who could also be domineering and intimidating. He seems like he’d only pull it out if you asked, but the duality has you hot under the collar.

Your eyes slip shut, mind swirling with thoughts of Spencer, about having him all to yourself, about him wanting you.

About his large hands on you, making you feel so small under his firm grasp.

About him pinning you down on the hard, cool metal of the table in the interrogation room.

About him caging you in with his arms, the look in his eyes almost crazed and full of lust for you.

“Spencer,” you gasp, before Spencer kisses you fervently. His stubble is rough against your skin, but you don’t care. Spencer kisses you like he’s a starved man and you’re his next meal, with such desperation that you feel weak in the knees.

“You’re gorgeous,” Spencer says. He kisses your jaw, down your neck, and his large hands are all over your body. You feel so secure in his grasp, he feels you up and drinks his fill of you. He gropes your tits, your thighs, your ass, manhandling you into spreading your legs, so he can press the hardness of his cock to your cunt. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper, fully indulging in this wet dream as you slide a hand into your underwear. “Spencer,” you gasp.

“You’re so hot, you make me feel crazy,” Spencer hums, rolling his hips against you. You’re separated between layers of fabric, but Spencer humping you like this turns you on to no end.

You rub at your clit in tight little circles, your wetness aiding the slide as you get yourself off to the thought of Spencer.

“Spence,” you moan, frustrated. While Spencer’s hardness grinding against you is literally a dream, you want to imagine his cock buried inside of you. You’re perfectly capable of moving this along, so you do.

Magically, Spencer’s clothes are off and so are yours, the perks of a fantasy being that you don’t have to awkwardly stumble through taking your clothes off. You have a hazy picture of what he’d look like naked in front of you. You imagine toned muscle, a slight pudge to his tummy from his time in prison, his pecs filled out nicely. You imagine his cock would be pretty, as pretty as he is, veiny and thick and all sorts of perfect.

“You’re too fucking good to me, baby,” Spencer groans, the blunt head of his cock pressed up against you now. He rubs off against you, sliding over your clit, your folds, over the wetness leaking from your whole. “Gonna fuck you so good, just like you deserve.”

Without hesitation, Spencer’s cock slips into you, the perfect thickness to make you feel full as he slides in inch by inch.

You slip your fingers into yourself, aided by how impossibly wet you are just at the thought of Spencer, and your groan weakly. Two fingers aren’t enough, not when you bet Spencer could fill you up, like he’d split you in half on his cock.

He pushes into you until he’s pressed flush against you, buried inside of you to the hilt. He starts to pound into you, like he’s uncaring of what you need, but the way he treats you turns you on impossibly.

Your fingers aren’t enough to satiate you, but you thrust them in and out of you in an effort to mimic how Spencer fucking you might feel. You moan, a little louder than you’d like.

“Spence–” you gasp, in your fantasy. It should be scandalous, Spencer taking you over the table in the interrogation room. You don’t know if the thought of people being behind the one-way mirror turns you on or not – being watched, letting Spencer take you in front of everybody. You like the thought of Spencer being so obsessed with you, so desperate, needing to fuck you right where you work.

The metal table is cool and harsh against your hips, but you don’t care if it hurts as Spencer fucks you relentlessly, quickly taking on a brutal pace. It’s exactly what you need, what you want Spencer to do with you, being rough and frantic enough to make you scream his name.

You whimper his name under your breath, bashful even while in your fantasy.

Spencer has you pinned down, but it’s not like you intend to get away. You want to savour this even if it’s only in your mind, shameful as you’re getting off to the thought of your coworker. You just need this out of your system, need Spencer out of your system, and then tomorrow you can face him like a normal, well-adjusted person.

“Fuck,” you gasp, palm grinding against your clit, fingers pressed inside of yourself. You’re shaking, with the thought of Spencer fucking you until you can’t take it anymore, the ideal of him in your mind too perfect, until you’re moaning into your hand as you orgasm. You sob, clenching tight around your fingers, feeling your slick gush out as you ride your high.

You don’t mean to fall asleep, but after both a long day and a crazy good orgasm, you end up passing out with a tissue clenched in your hand, with your panties and sleep shorts kicked off to the foot of the bed.

---

Spencer can’t stop thinking about you.

He shouldn’t, not when you’re his coworker and also one of the people he’s friendliest with in the unit.

Spencer would say he couldn’t bring himself to trust many, especially after coming out of prison, but you were the one he warmed up to the easiest. A new face in the BAU wasn’t uncommon, but Spencer had found himself drawn to you. You were kind and warm to him fresh out of prison, your tenderness a welcome reprieve as he’d gotten accustomed to being back at the BAU. With your intellect and quick wit, matched with your beauty, Spencer could not help but be attracted to you – but that’s besides the point.

Spencer knows how much your friendship with him means to you, and he’s certain that that’s all you see him as: a friend.

Yet, he can’t stop himself from thinking about you in those pants. Those pants that hug your curves just right. Those pants that make your ass look great – not that he was looking – especially when you’re leaning over an interrogation table, trying to play the good cop with the suspect from earlier.

Spencer had hung back, trying to get a read on the suspect while you spoke to him. Him getting to ogle your figure and stare at how good you looked in those pants was unintentional, but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

Spencer only felt a bit bad wrapping his hand around himself in the shower, mind flooded with thoughts of you. Water, almost scorching, running down his body, his hand moves fast and reckless, exhaling harshly as he gets himself off.

He can’t get you out of his mind, your gorgeous figure, your pretty face, your wide eyes and thick thighs and soft lips – he shouldn’t be thinking of you like this. You were a coworker, a friend, for God’s sake, and yet he can’t stop imagining you under him.

He can’t stop imagining pressing you against the table in the interrogation room – your lithe frame underneath him, making you look so small, making him feel so big.

He presses his growing problem to your perfect ass, watching you writhe underneath him. You keep looking back up at him, with your wide, wet eyes and your flushed cheeks, looking like you need him to give you exactly what you need.

“Please, daddy,” you whine, and Spencer is groaning and undoing his belt before your pants get pushed down too. Stroking his cock quickly, Spencer easily finds his way to your entrance, wet and dripping with your slick. He pushes into you, pressing kisses to your neck as you groan with the intrusion.

“Daddy,” you whimper, “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Spencer coos at you. Spencer feels you press yourself back up against him, pushing his cock deeper, and he loses all sense of control as he starts to fuck you hard. He feels like a madman, unable to hold himself back as he takes and takes and takes, fucking into your tight wetness, his head spinning with how good you feel around him.

You’re whining and moaning under him, your noises music to Spencer’s ears as they echo off the walls. Your cunt is wet and sloppy as Spencer fucks you, wanting to give you everything you need and more.

“Fuck, baby,” Spencer groans, his hand tightly fisted around his cock. The way the tip of his cock leaks is easing the slide, as he pictures in crystal-clear detail how your cunt would draw him in, slick and messy be fucks into your perfect, tight cunt. “You’re too good to me.”

“Daddy,” you sob, your hands clawing down Spencer’s back. Spencer gropes you greedily through your clothes, grabs your tits and feels his fill of your waist, your perfect ass, your thighs as he rocks himself back and forth between them.

“Gonna cum inside of you, love,” Spencer grunts, his pace unrelenting. His hands are on your thighs, gripping you tight, both fucking into you and dragging you onto his cock over and over. “You’re gorgeous. Gonna make a mess of you.”

You’re whining underneath him, making him feel too good, as you clench around him tight and moan even louder. Spencer can’t help himself, thrusting into you hard and fast and eager until he’s cumming.

He spills into his hand, the thick white ropes of his cum washed down the drain with the spray of the shower from above him. Visions of you flash through his mind, your gorgeous frame, your pretty face, your mouth on his.

He’s barely towelled off before he’s knocked out in his bed, too tired to even process feeling guilty about jerking off to you.

---

Sure, perhaps it’s childish to try and avoid Spencer all day, especially when you have an active case all of you need to be working on. You must be a fool to think that getting yourself off to Spencer would help, because all you can think about is your fantasies of him last night, how you imagined him bending you over and taking you– Not helping, you remind yourself.

Emily must secretly be on your side or be able to read your mind or something, because Spencer is relegated to work on geographic profiles and speed-read through case files back at the police precinct, while you get sent out onto the field to chase down your killer.

But you can’t avoid Spencer forever, and you aren’t any good at it either. You feel like Spencer’s eyes are on you the whole day when you and him are in the same room, but you never look up at him to find out. While you could chalk up your nerves to a serial killer still being out on the streets, you don’t have any more excuses at the end of the day when you’ve finally caught him, and the team decides to get dinner to celebrate.

You purposely wedge yourself between JJ and Emily when you sit down at the table, trying to avoid Spencer, and you think you’re successful with getting away with seeming a little out-of-it when you end up slipping away early, claiming you had a rough sleep last night.

You’ve barely settled down in your hotel room for the night, finally feeling like you can relax, when there’s a knock at your door. You have no clue who it could be, but you open the door, and–

There Spencer is.

“Hi,” you say curtly, feeling embarrassment wash over you all of a sudden, because all you can think about is getting off to the thought of him last night. You feel your cheeks warm, but you hope it’s not obvious that you’re blushing. Then, in an attempt to seem somewhat normal and well-adjusted, you add, “What’s up?”

“I should be asking you that,” Spencer says, his eyebrows furrowed slightly. “What’s up with you today?”

You press your lips together in a thin line before you say, “Nothing’s up. I’m fine.”

“Come on,” Spencer prods, his head cocking to the side as he deadpans. “You know I can read you like an open book. Something’s up.”

You frown, Spencer stoking the flames of brattiness in you. “Yeah? Tell me what’s the matter, if you can read me so well.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I- I thought we said no inter-group profiling,” Spencer says, his voice a little weak, and for the first time, you see Spencer look a little helpless. It’s kind of hot.

Do you make him… nervous?

“Yeah, but if you insist on thinking something’s up with me…” You shrug, smiling. Spencer just blinks at you.

No. You couldn’t possibly entertain the thought.

Spencer clears his throat. You watch him fidget with his hands just slightly, before he puts them by his sides to seem confident. “Well, you’ve been avoiding me, on purpose or not – both attest to your desire to avoid me somewhat. You could barely look me in the eye all day, which means you might be embarrassed or guilty of something, likely having to do with me.” Spencer says, his voice even, but he isn’t looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows. His explanation is both specific and vague, and you feel slightly called out and safe from his scrutiny at the same time. But, you can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something more to Spencer’s words, the way he’s looking at you like he hopes you can’t pick his brain apart.

So, you turn it back onto him, “Then, what do you think is the problem? You aren’t looking at me either, and you were fidgeting with your hands. Is something up with you, then? It almost sounds like you’re projecting, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer freezes, like he’s a deer caught in headlights. You can practically see his brain running a mile a minute, overthinking every possible outcome, overly self-aware of himself, his actions, his thoughts.

You try to stop yourself from smiling, because Spencer is kind of cute like this. “You wanna tell me what it is then, Reid?”

“When did this become about me?” Spencer squeaks, his usually cool facade quickly disappearing. There’s a look in Spencer’s eyes, as he nervously looks you up and down, and oh– “I just– Well, I– You–”

“I’m thinking we might be on the same page, here,” you say, smirking. “Wanna tell me what it is?”

Spencer furrows his brows, his mouth agape as he looks up at you, but you’re putting your hand on his chest and trailing it down slowly. “Oh–”

“Tell me, Dr. Reid,” you cock your head, eyeing him up and down lazily. When you look at Spencer’s face, he’s shocked, enamoured and turned-on all in one.

“You’re… attracted to me,” Spencer says, somewhat uncertain. “The same way I’m attracted to you.”

“And what makes you say that?” You hum.

“I thought I heard you last night. Through the walls,” He says timidly, nothing you’ve seen from him before. “Thought I should’ve gone over to help, but I realised you were, um– You were pleasuring yourself. To- To me.”

“The walls are thin, huh?” You laugh, a little sheepish, but you note how Spencer’s becoming shy at the thought. “Did you…?”

His eyes grow wide. “Did I do what?”

You smirk. “That tells me everything I need to know, Reid,” you say, laughing.

“Well, you shouldn’t presume–”

“Shut up and kiss me, Reid,” you huff. You pull Spencer closer to you by his tie and you press your lips to his.

It’s too perfect, when Spencer’s mouth is finally on yours. His hands cupping your face, Spencer kisses you hard and eager, like he can’t believe that he finally gets to have you. He kisses you like he’s starving, desperate for you as his next meal. You moan as his hands reach for your hips, pulling you in closer to him, greedy as he feels you up.

“Did you fantasise about this too? About me, like this?”

“This is better than I could’ve ever imagined,” Spencer says breathily. “You… You’re so attractive.”

“Could say the same about you,” you laugh, reaching to unbutton his shirt. His tie is already loose, hanging around his neck, but you want to see more. You undo the top few buttons, revealing more of his chest. You trail your finger over the exposed skin, letting your nail graze it slightly. You hear Spencer inhale sharply, and grin to yourself, proud of the effect you have on him. “So, do you want to just stand around and talk, or do you want to fuck me?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and you chuckle. As if he hadn’t expected this was how it was going to go. Spencer purses his lips. “I mean, absolutely. I want to fuck you. But, um– We should definitely talk about this though.”

“Later,” you say, waving him off, before you lean in to kiss him again. Spencer grabs your waist again, like he needs to have you close. He lifts you slightly, making you squeak, but the both of you stumble over to the bed, unable to keep your hands off of each other, unable to keep your mouths off each other. You sit down on the bed, Spencer crowding you in with one of his knees on the mattress.

You loosen his tie and take it off, while Spencer moves to unbutton your shirt. HIs hands move deftly, eager to undress you, and he pulls away to marvel at the curve of your breasts in your bra when he pushes the satin shirt off of you. “Wow.”

“Wow yourself,” you say. You appreciate the view: a dishevelled, eager Spencer Reid in your bed, his hands all over you, his shirt half-undone, revealing tanned skin and a gorgeous body. “Need you to fuck me right now.”

Spencer laughs, perhaps a little incredulously, and he instead moves to take his shirt off instead. “I’ll- I’ll do that.”

“Good,” you say, distracted as you admire Spencer’s frame, the lines of his body, the softness of his stomach. He’s so hot you might die. “Very good.”

“I’m glad you like the view,” Spencer says, a little timid, like he’s shy to show off in front of you. He meets your gaze when you look up at him, caught in the middle of ogling him with no shame.

You smile up at him sheepishly. “Please fuck me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles, warm and gentle. He helps you slide your pants and underwear off your legs before you spread them. Spencer’s jaw drops, his eyes focused on the slick mess of your cunt. “Oh, my God.”

“Yeah?” you laugh, thoroughly amused with his reaction. “Show me how much you want me, too.”

Spencer’s hands are quick to push down his bottoms, dress slacks and boxer-briefs on your floor in an instant, wrapping a fist around himself as he works himself up for you. You can’t tear your eyes off of him – “Spencer, you’re… big.”

“Am I?” Spencer asks, and you’d lose your mind if you weren’t expecting Spencer to fuck your brains out.

“You are,” you say calmly, because if you let yourself sound any more excited he might think you were insane. “But I can take you.”

Spencer grins. “Good.”

His fingers press against your cunt after you tell him to do so. His slender digits pick up all the slick that’s leaking from your hole, spreading it around messily as he toys with your clit. You shudder with the sensation, throwing your head back against the pillows. Then, one of his fingers slips into you, and he coaxes you open with a care you haven’t felt from most partners before. “How’s that?”

“So nice,” you groan, getting used to the feeling. He fucks you on his fingers, slow and careful, intent on stretching you out until you’re comfortable. You whimper and whine, feeling embarrassed at how vocal you’re being, but Spencer is kissing your breasts without a care in the world, and then you’re thinking about letting him know that you do feel good. Your next gasp is less ashamed, as Spencer coaxes a second finger in.

You’re panting as Spencer fucks you on his fingers, the repeated motion only working you up even more. The squelch from his fingers fucking you is obscene, and his eyes are wide as he looks at you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers.

“Fuck me, Spence,” you say.

Spencer bites his lip as he sits up and settles between your legs. He’s tugging at his cock as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides his length along your folds, wet with your slick, and you groan at the friction. You grunt, wanting more, “Come on, Spence.”

His hand on your leg, Spencer leans forward so he can press into you, and Spencer is practically folding you in half so he can fuck you. You moan at his thickness deep inside of you, filling you up, and the stretch is so undeniably amazing. Spencer’s length drags against your walls, such a delicious sensation deep in your bones, and you sob a little.

“Does that feel good?” Spencer asks softly, his voice tender.

“So good, Spence,” you gasp. Spencer kisses your cheek, down your neck, and waits patiently for you to give him the go-ahead.

You feel his cock twitching inside of your heat, both your fantasies unable to live up to the real thing. Confident, cocky Spencer in your dreams is just that – a dream. The Spencer right in front of you is perfect, more perfect than what you’ve dreamed: shy but so attentive and sweet. He takes such good care of you. It makes you lose your mind a little bit.

“Fuck me,” you insist, and Spencer puts his hands on your hips as he starts to move. He fucks you deep, just the way you need him, and you cry out as he digs into your soft flesh, holding you tight so he can fuck you hard. The way Spencer pounds into you has your whole body trembling, pleasure coursing through you like electricity, till your mouth has fallen open and your toes are curling.

“You’re so much better than I imagined,” Spencer groans, eyes squeezed shut as he puts all his energy into railing you. “Can’t believe this is real.”

You clench around him just to hear him moan, and you’re proud of yourself when his hips stutter and a groan rips through his throat in his pleasure. He glares at you. You grin, as Spencer keeps fucking you.

“What- Oh, fuck– What did you imagine? With me?” You gasp, as Spencer rolls his hips in a particularly deep thrust.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, before looking down at you, like he’s really contemplating if he should say this. “I– I pictured bending you over the interrogation table. Fucking you, making you scream my name, taking you right there, I–”

You moan as Spencer hits that perfect spot inside of you, your legs trembling as you gasp, “I– Why did we have the same fucking fantasy? Fuck–”

“What? You thought of me that way too?” Spencer sounds incredulous, like he can’t imagine you thinking of him that way– As if he isn’t drilling you into the hotel bed right now.

“Fuck, Spencer– Oh, my God– Yeah, I– You had me pinned down on the table, and you were fucking me in the interrogation room, in front of all of them–”

“God, you’re perfect,” Spencer grunts, burying his head in your shoulder as he uses the leverage to fuck you deeper, harder, faster. You can’t stop moaning Spencer’s name, simply too overwhelmed with the pleasure he’s giving you, the way he’s fucking you into the mattress. This is all you’ve ever wanted. Spencer fucking you like a madman, giving you all the pleasure you need but still being greedy enough to take and take and take.

“Please! Spencer, you– I’m gonna cum, I can’t–” You cry, sobs wracking their way from your throat, so loud but you can’t be bothered to keep yourself quiet. Spencer groans your name, a sweet, sultry sound, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

“Cum for me,” Spencer hums. “You’re so perfect, and you’re laid out like this all for me. You’re so fucking hot. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You’re sobbing as your orgasm hits you, overwhelmed by Spencer’s filthy words and his filthier actions, so intense as he fucks you into next week. It’s too good, and you lose yourself much sooner than you expect. Your pussy clenches tight around Spencer with your orgasm, sending him over the edge as he fills you up, cock twitching as he cums inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, his weight comfortable as you both catch your breath. Your mouth feels dry, but you don’t care when Spencer is leaning over to kiss you again. It feels so right, this wild feeling you only thought existed in your dreams.

The next morning when the team is gathered in the hotel lobby to head to the hangar to fly back to Quantico, Emily gives you a pointed look, and Rossi is clapping Spencer on the back with a knowing grin. You apologise sheepishly, while Spencer grows red, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the team. He only meets your eyes, and the two of you share a smile. You can tell neither of you want this to end here. Maybe you’ll talk about it when you get back home.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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nereidprinc3ss · 10 months ago

Text

just like heaven

in which flirty!reader finally confesses her feelings to a pining spencer reid after a night out. she's slightly buzzed. it's complicated.

fluff (some angst) warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader drinks alcohol, dirty jokes, so much flirting and banter, some arguing kinda, but spencer is such a gentleman, everyone gets flustered at least once, they really wanna kiss, happy ending a/n: gif :D I hope u like this! not bandages reader but like same vibes. like an AU for my AU

“Emily!”

You drawl the ee sound long, the same way you reach across the table and wiggle your fingers at her half-empty glass. Thin dark brows dart up beneath that glossy sweep of reddish-black hair.

“Oh, wow. That’s unsettling. What?”

It’s been at least an hour since you had a drink of your own, but enough alcohol is still flowing through your veins so as to render her offensive comment inoffensive. You love Emily. You love the Tequila Sunrise sweating onto the sticky table in front of her which she’s not going to finish.

“I think she wants your drink,” JJ assists, cheek balanced tipsily on a propped up fist.

“Uh…”

Emily’s doe-sweet eyes flash uncertainly behind you.

“I’m basically sober,” you insist, laying your head on your outstretched arm and letting your hair cascade as you bat your lashes, offering her your sweetest smile. “Please, Em?”

It does not go according to plan. She scoffs.

“Are you flirting with me right now?”

“... Would that work?”

“Oh my god, just… cool it with the fuck-me eyes,” she laughs. “You can have the drink.”

You sit up, turning just barely over your shoulder to address Spencer.

“See? Emily buys me drinks. Basically.”

She slides the drink toward you, with a subtle roll of her eyes that you choose to interpret as affectionate under the dim canned lighting. As you sit back, content and free drink in hand, her eyes slide to Reid in the seat next to you, brows arching.

“Are you sure you can handle her all on your own?”

“Handle me?” You frown deeply as Emily gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, followed shortly thereafter by JJ. “I don’t need handling.”

“Then why do you have a handler?” JJ teases.

You slump against the worn vinyl, stirring what is mostly orange juice.

“He most definitely is not my handler. He’s my science project.”

“I got it,” Spencer assures your friends, with his trademark flattened smile. You can’t help but watch him with a grin of your own, flipping the straw in the drink and nibbling on the end until it’s stained sparkly pink. Goodbyes are issued, and soon it’s just the two of you. Perhaps it’s a tipsy delusion, but you think he seems to relax slightly when you’re alone. His eyes are easy on you. “You know, you’re not actually decreasing the amount of germ transmission by using the other end of the straw.”

“Mm… pretty sure alcohol kills germs, Doctor.”

At that, you giggle.

Doctor.

Soon you’re covering your face and having a full-fledged laugh attack.

“What?” Spencer asks. From between your fingers you can see that he’s smiling guardedly, brows furrowed in a way that reminds you he’s often worried about being the butt of a joke and not knowing it. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you assure him quickly, gathering yourself. “I just… can’t believe you’re a doctor.”

“Why not? What’s so unbelievable about that?”

“You’re so young.”

And handsome.

“I’m not that young. I’m older than you,” he defends. Only by a handful of years, but you know he’s defensive about his age after a lifetime of being told he looks young for—well, everything.

“You’re… 32?”

That’s not right—you know as soon as you say it.

“Thirty three.” He very politely captures a hand—your hand—that had at some point ended up a little too close to his eye. You’re not sure what you planned to do once it got there—you don’t recall moving it at all.

“Sorry.” You take your hand back, choosing to instead fiddle with a button on his coat ponderously. “33 is a good age.”

“Yeah?” Spencer laughs, angling his head as if to regard you from a new angle. It warms you all over. Burns in some places, like a shot of liquor down your throat. Makes you just as dizzy, too. “You have a lot of experience being thirty three?”

“No, I just…” your cheeks heat and you wrestle with a timid smile, averting your gaze and dropping your hand for fear his grin this close up might actually kill you. “I like 33 year old you.”

“So… you didn’t like me when I was thirty two?”

“Stop,” you beg, a self-effacing laugh into the cup of your palm. “I can’t banter. I’m not at peak performance.”

The truth of it hits you, and you sigh, folding your arms on the table and resting your cloudy head. Only then, from this new perspective, do you allow yourself to fully admire Spencer Reid. He is smiling at you, and your heart does skip a beat like you’ve got some school girl crush. These days he wears his hair falling over his face, messy on purpose, and always smells so nice. You wonder when he started caring about that stuff. You want to see what products are in his shower, and learn why he chose that cologne, or how he decides to pair his socks. He probably has some sort of algorithm.

“Spencer,” you begin, the serious quality of your voice diminished by the smush of your cheek against your arm. Still, he tries to respect your tone, zipping the smile and answering with a playfully twitching brow.

“Hm?”

You want to push the hair out of his face. Why is he looking down at you like that? Like he likes you?

“You’re a very good handler.”

His eyes narrow as he considers this, but the glimmer in them could still spark a forest fire. You’re probably grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, I couldn’t handle you. You know this.”

You hum thoughtfully.

“I bet you could. Wanna try?”

Spencer shakes his head, huffing a laugh through his nose. To his credit, your bold-face innuendos don’t always send him into a tailspin these days.

Just sometimes.

“You need a ride home, don’t you?”

You sit back up, stretching your arms out.

“You don’t have to. I could get a cab.”

“I know,” he assures you, still a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. Why. Is. He. Looking. At. You. Like. That?

“Will you let me drive?”

“I would. But, you know, my affairs aren’t in order.”

You roll your eyes as he gets out of the booth and offers you a hand.

“I’m not that drunk.”

Spencer just wiggles his fingers.

“If you can recite the alphabet in reverse you can drive my car.”

You roll your eyes again. Obviously he’s fucking with you, because 1. He’d never let you drive even the slightest bit inebriated, and 2. He knows you can’t say your ABC’s backward when you’re dead sober.

The truth is you’re more buzzed than anything. You could get up and walk fine without any assistance, but he’s offering you his hand, so you take it. After you’re standing, you wonder how many excuses could you possibly dream up to get it back in yours. Should you pretend to fall?

No. Not quite worth your self respect.

“You know…” you muse, reveling in the brief brush of him against your back as he holds open the door for you, “it’s a good thing you didn’t become, like… a medical doctor.”

Now walking side by side on the street, he glances over at you, a poorly veiled smile on his perfect face. Like a trap door brushed over with a few leaves. He wants you to see it.

“Why’s that?”

A breeze ruffles your hair. The brisk cold and the walk seem to be making things crisper already. You shrug, bunching your sleeves in your hands against the increasingly frigid night. The skirt and tights you’d chosen were perfect for a stuffy dive bar. Not so much for an early DC spring.

“Nobody wants a hot doctor.”

He looks down at the sidewalk, hands pocketed, but the curve of his lips doesn’t lessen.

“Hm. You’re drunker than I thought.”

“What? No! I’m—barely!” Again he laughs at you, and again you flush, looking down and counting the cracks in the pavement as you journey slowly under the bath of yellow street lights. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you called me hot.” He sounds almost delighted as he grins sheepishly around the final word.

You snort. You’ve said worse things, more graphic things within the past few hours alone—but you suppose they’ve all been more like dirty jokes than compliments.

“Yeah. You think you aren’t?”

Sandy locks fall side to side as he carefully measures a response. His cologne is warm—sort of smoky. It’s very nice. He doesn’t seem like he’d wear cologne. Have you already thought about his cologne tonight? Once was probably enough.

“I just think sober you wouldn’t have said that.”

“But don’t you prefer it when I’m aggressively flirting with you? I mean, I know I do it sober too, but it's not as good, right?”

A silent stretch begins and shortly ends, and you don’t mind it. Right now, everything is a winding path through the woods. You’re willing to follow any fork off the trail if it means spending more time with him.

“I guess I wasn’t aware that was what you were doing.”

“Oh, bullshit,” you laugh, and it echoes through the canyon of a nearby alley, “I’m not subtle, Reid.”

“I don’t know! You—for all I know that’s just how you are! I mean, what did Emily call them earlier, your—your fuck-me eyes?”

Like he does when he’s flustered, he gets shrill and stuttery. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s still a complete dork on the inside—and the outside, too, as pink stains his cheeks like watercolor. You smirk at him in your periphery, watching him against the darkened city backdrop.

“You noticed those, huh?”

“No,” he denies forcefully, but his brow is pinched like he doesn’t quite believe himself, “I mean, yes, I notice when you look at other people like that, but that’s not what I would call them—I wouldn’t call them anything, I’d just call them your eyes, you know? Not that you always look like you’re soliciting… the implication isn’t there, it’s just—I notice when you flirt with other people! With Emily, and Derek, like, not even half an hour ago. You’re lucky Hotch wasn’t there. You’d probably have given him a heart attack.”

“I’m more concerned with yours, to be honest.”

“My heart is fine,” he laughs. “Worry about my dignity.”

“Hm. I was going for both. Guess I’d better try harder.”

You don’t notice you’ve come to a stop until you’re face to face in front of his vintage Volvo. Spencer is standing closer than usual, hands perpetually stuck in that nice wool coat. He’s all windswept and pretty, smiling crookedly and eyes sparkly with humor. A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss, and you brush it away, tucking it behind your ear and squinting up at him against the chilly breeze. The flush is either from the nip in the air or your brazen flirting.

“Or, you could go easy on me. I’m frail. Like a… sickly Victorian child.”

Again his brow knits and he smiles like he knows what he’s said is ridiculous. But his tone is gentler now. Softer. Invites you to fall in deeper and see what you might find.

“And ruin all my fun? Toughen up, Reid.”

For a long moment, you don’t get a response—only his eyes, soft and thoughtful on you, before you’re distracted by the sweet bow of his lips. If he notices you’re staring, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

But something evidently does, as when he next speaks, it’s troubled. Curiosity straining against a rope that says maybe it’s better if I don’t ask.

“Do… do you actually flirt with me? When you’re sober, I mean.”

He expects to be ridiculed. In his most vulnerable moments, he’s still bracing for rejection—turning his cheek slightly so he’s ready for the stinging blow. It opens a fissure in your chest. You frown, and speak gently.

“Yeah, Spence. More than anyone else. You really don’t notice?”

Sometimes his face is so expressive, in the pull of his brow and tightening of his eyes and the way he wets his lips. But he probably doesn’t know that. And he can’t seem to meet your eyes, instead choosing to study the leather of your heeled boots. Sounds of late-night traffic, of tires on wet asphalt buffer the pauses between sentences.

“I notice… when you talk to Derek and Emily and JJ and Penelope the exact same way you talk to me. I didn’t think…”

Another gap in conversation, filled with the chatter of some group pouring out of a bar somewhere. You realize he’ll need some gentle prompting to bridge it.

“You didn’t think what?”

When his eyes flash back up to meet yours, you have a feeling like he’s shutting the pipes off.

“It’s—uh—” he clears his throat— “it’s not important, we can—we’ll talk about it a different time. We should—”

“Wait.”

He’d been turning away but snaps right back to look at you as if on command, wearing a brand new face that tells you he’d like to wipe the past minute or so completely away.

“Yeah?”

“Spencer. I wanna know what you were going to say.”

“I told you. It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t tell me. You mumbled evasively and walked away. We were in the middle of something and I want to know what you were going to say. Please?”

“Well, you’re drunk,” he finally sighs, and it’s a bit sharp. Stinging.

“I am not drunk,” you defend, and it feels true, with a bitter cold lashing at your cheek and blood heightened from the walk. “You know I’m not too drunk to have a coherent conversation. Why are you being weird?”

“Because I asked you to drop it! We can’t have this conversation right now, all right? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Your stomach flips, and your breath comes a little heavier. Spencer is clearly frustrated with you. Maybe being on the wrong end of this mild vexation, and so suddenly, should make you feel guilty, or some kind of bad—but all you feel is a sort of buzz in the tips of your fingers and the thrum of your heart, something deeper than excitement pooling in your veins at having inspired this sort of passion. It means he feels something. Something for you.

“I’m sorry,” he tries halfheartedly, unable or more likely unwilling to stay angry at you for very long, “you didn’t—”

“What conversation?”

It’s jarring how quickly this has spun on its head. The very air you’re breathing seems to have changed. The metropolitan soundscape is a rife undercurrent of tension and louder from all the words unsaid.

Finally he swallows.

“There’s no conversation. I’m—it was a poor choice of wording. I just meant we should get you home.”

Before he can make it to the driver’s side door, you’re calling out.

“You think I don’t like you. And I just flirt with you ‘cause I flirt with everyone.”

Spencer stops, and turns to face you once more, sighing and head dropped to one side like you’re doing something incredibly inconsiderate. He’s never looked at you like that before, but you don’t let it shake you.

“That’s what this is about, right?”

He says your name, but you don’t let him get further than that.

“No, I think there is a conversation here, and saying I’m not sober enough to have it isn’t fair and you should have said something before and I think you should just say it now.”

You’re pushing his buttons with a heavy hand, though your own voice shakes. He’s feeling it too—you’ve never been so short with each other. His voice is raised.

“What am I supposed to say?”

It boils over.

“That you like me!”

It rings.

Then it’s silent.

His face is mostly blank. A little sorrowful around his eyes.

It’s cold, jumping into the deep end like this.

“We can’t talk about this right now,” he finally says, glancing to the side as if to suggest a situation the size of the whole city.

“Spencer, I—”

“It’s impossible to have a meaningful discussion until your judgement isn’t impaired, otherwise it’s—”

“I am telling you that I flirt with you because I really like you.”

“I—”

It appears you’ve truly thrown him for a loop. For a moment his jaw works at nothing, a soliloquy of words go unspoken, and then he’s stuttering and fumbling for the right thing to say, looking everywhere but at you.

“I can’t—that’s—regardless of whether or not it’s even true—”

“It is true.”

“Could you—stop?” He pleads. “You can’t tell me that. I mean, the power imbalance when you’ve been drinking and I haven’t—it’s—I mean, it's coercive. Because I brought it up, I asked an inappropriate question—or at least started to ask it, and you—not that it was your fault, I’m the responsible party in this instance, but if tomorrow you realize you never wanted to tell me—so I have to take that with a grain of salt. I’m just—I have to pretend I didn’t hear that, alright? And you can’t say it again.”

He’s ridiculous. You shift your weight onto one foot casually.

“That’s not very nice. I just confessed to having a huge crush on you and you’re gonna leave me hanging?”

There is an undeniable sort of pleasure in the bright of his eyes, and you phrased it that way on purpose, just to see him preen and glow—also to see if you could make him trip all over himself some more. Right now, despite the liminal space your relationship may or may not be occupying, you’re teasing him like you always do. Like he’s a friend, because he is. Before anything else.

He tries to glower, barely.

“Were you listening to me at all?”

“It was hard with all the stammering. I thought you might pass out.”

“I might,” he grumbles, and the admission pleases you greatly. Your lips tug as you admire him for a moment—watch his defenses go down and his features ease into something more inviting.

God, maybe you really had been too hard on him. Maybe he really didn’t expect that you would like him back.

You’re struck with the need to reassure.

A dampened clack emits from your shoe where the heel hits the ground as you step down off the curb.

“You know… I do like you. A lot. I mean it. And I’m glad I told you, because... you like me too, right?”

He raises his brows, like don’t do anything stupid, as you approach unhurriedly. It’s good to see that you haven’t broken his spirit completely.

Less than a foot away, you stop. Close enough to be in his space. Too far for him to have the grounds to step back.

His eyes are careful on you, analytical as always, constantly predicting an infinite number of outcomes to any given scenario. That’s how he keeps his footing in the world. But he’s never very good at predicting you. And it helps that his razor sharp intellect is dulled, some, with affection. Attraction.

It shows in his eyes. He’ll let you push boundaries he knows he shouldn’t. More so if you keep speaking to him this softly. Almost whispering.

“Tell me you like me, Spencer.”

Because he hasn’t yet. All the heavy lifting has been done for him, and that just won’t do.

First, he opens his mouth, and you watch the internal debate, a million things he could say, spinning round in his eyes like pinwheels. Rules, and buts, and caveats.

In the end, he just clears his throat. Speaks in the same secretive tone. Low enough to be intimate.

“I like you.”

Such a simple thing has never made you feel so airy before in your life. You steal another glance at his lips.

“So it’s really not that complicated. We could probably just kiss.”

He tinges pink.

“We definitely can’t.”

“You also said we couldn’t talk about it, and yet…”

“Talking is different. As far as I’m concerned, nothing you say to me tonight is binding. Whatever just transpired happened completely off the record. We can… talk about it tomorrow, but right now, you and I are friends.”

You shrug.

“Friends can kiss.”

“No, they can’t,” he says definitively, though not without a healthy dose of sardonic self-awareness and a dark smile. His hand finds your waist, and it’s glancing, if anything a light push, but you’re delighted nonetheless. Almost as pleased as if he really had kissed you. “It’s cold. I’m ready to leave.”

You’ve pushed him enough for one night. And it is cold. So you shuffle around the car with quick steps to the passenger side door, hooking your fingers under the biting metal handle and waiting for him to unlock the vehicle.

You’re shivering as your thighs press against leather upholstery, only the thinnest layer of synthetic material protecting your legs. Spencer is already starting the car, but the engine is too cold to bother turning the heat on yet.

“I think it’s colder in here than outside. Look at my hand.” You hold it up for him, and it is discolored, waxy, as he mindlessly takes it between his own much warmer ones. “I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you warm. Didn’t that chef on the Titanic survive hours in the ocean because he was hammered?”

“That’s a myth. Not the chef—he did survive, but it was a complete anomaly. Alcohol causes vasodilation in the dermis layer of the skin, so you feel warmer, but it draws blood flow away from your internal organs and significantly raises your likelihood of developing hypothermia.”

Does he notice how he’s holding your hand? Carefully pressing his thumbs to the center of your palm and pushing up through your love and life lines, cupping the fingers, before sandwiching them between his own and generating friction the way a child furiously rolls a play-doh worm?

“I guess I’m really not that drunk, then.”

He’s not expecting it, and maybe he doesn’t know what to make of your exceptionally gentle tone at first. It was a mistake, you think, as he relinquishes his hold on your hand, and you curl it to retain the memory of his warmth. But then he tucks hair behind your ear, like he’s done once or twice before, and smiles in a way you don’t quite understand.

“I know.”

You won’t push him. You won’t ask for anything else, and you won’t demand an explanation. Spencer is special. It can all wait, because you have something good with him already. Something important. Something like holding hands.

It comes as a surprise when he leans across the console, and you lean in a trance to meet him, and another surprise when he gently redirects, pressing his lips to your cheek, close enough to match the corners of your mouths and nothing more.

You’d let him do it a hundred times over, but he draws back after a fraction of a lingering second, and finds your hand to stroke the back of it, forgotten in your lap.

“You said no kissing,” you murmur, as if in a dream. If you had the wherewithal to be embarrassed maybe you wouldn’t be ogling so much.

“Compromise.”

If anything, you should be the cheek-kisser. But there will be time to feel slighted about that later. Time to amend. For now, you look ahead robotically.

“Is there a rule against friendly hand-holding?”

“Probably,” he says.

But he lets you hold his hand in your lap the whole drive to your apartment, anyway.

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